Chương 165: Chapter 163 – You’ve Got Mail!

Yes, that's right, part number 37-Luminix Substrate Gamma-Delta-9… Yes, I need the canister and the disbursement mechanism… It's the only one in stock? … Yes, and I need it expedited. Overnight if possible." Elios drummed his fingers impatiently on the polished surface of the desk. He looked at the box on the floor with Hardscrabble written on the side in big bold letters, smiling. Hardscrabble's crap was no longer scattered around HIS office. He looked at the piles and piles of mail he had meticulously sorted.

The scent of lemon-scented cleaner still hung faintly in the air; he had been determined to wash away any trace of the man from HIS workspace. If only he could get someone to remove that damn box!

"Yes, I'm still here… I don't care how much it costs… Yes, I know that the expedited shipping fee is more than the part itself… What part of 'I need it here tomorrow' is unclear? Yes, I'll hold," Elios said, taking in a sharp breath, doing his best not to become annoyed with the most unhelpful customer service representative he had ever encountered.

"I told you, the additional cost is not an issue, just as long as it gets here ASAP," he added, his voice crisp and authoritative.

"Just get it here. Confirmation email? No! Jethro Hardscrabble is not with the company anymore. Use the Elios Tusk one… Yes. E-L-I-O-S dot…" He spelled out his email address slowly, pausing between each part, then ended with a sigh of both exhaustion and satisfaction. He hung up the phone with a decisive click and reached for his notepad and grabbed his red pen. He placed a big check mark next to Luminex Substrate, feeling a sense of overwhelming satisfaction at the process.

"One down, a thousand to go," he muttered to himself, leaning back in his chair. The plush leather conformed to his shape, a far cry from the plastic monstrosity he'd been relegated to during his exile. The throne is mine once again, he thought, feeling a flicker of something akin to pride. He looked at the piles of mail around him. They were meticulously organized, with a sticky note on top of each one.

He had categorized them into "Urgent," "Pending," "Junk," and "Addressed to Jethro" and "probably junk," written underneath in parenthesis. The Jethro pile was rapidly shrinking. He initially debated whether to just throw the entire pile into the garbage, but quickly reconsidered. Who knows what could be hiding in there? Are you that confident, that there is nothing in there that needs immediate attention? Look where Jethro's confidence got him. It got him a one-way trip off tower one…

watch it there buddy, that first step is a doozy. He snickered to himself and picked up the pile and began to skim through it. Upon closer inspection he had found that it was what he had suspected: personal invitations to garden parties, should I RSVP no? Interoffice memos dictating procedural changes, should have maybe glanced at these, Jethro, and then of course there were the standard mass marketing items which lets admit, no one ever reads.

Red lettering on an envelope at the bottom of the pile suddenly caught Elios' attention. He pulled it out and inspected it. It was addressed to the attention of Jethro Hardscrabble, but instead of the usual corporate mailing address, this had his home address. It had not been opened, despite the bright red letters screaming — URGENT — PERSONAL — CONFIDENTIAL MATTER — OPEN IMMEDIATELY. Elios looked at it then at the box of Jethro's belongings. Open it! His mind screamed.

A smaller, not-so-obvious voice, his conscience he presumed whispered, put it in the box, it's not your business. He stood up, envelope in hand, and walked to the box. Bending over to place it on the top of the pile, his mind screamed again, but more insistent this time. Just open it! You're dying to know, see what it is, no one will know the difference. He suddenly straightened up and rushed back to his desk, envelope in hand. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road.

Report any occurrences elsewhere. Elios, how would you feel if someone went snooping… he ignored the voice with a flick of the wrist and the swish of the letter opener. He placed the envelope on the desk.

"No," he whispered.

"It's not right," he said, patting the envelope.

"It's probably a stupid marketing campaign," he mumbled picking up the envelope again. Well then why don't you look at what's inside, you will never know for certain until you look, just a peek, a small peek. You never know, it could be something that you need to address. It was here at the office after all, so it could be work related.

'Dear Mr. Hardscrabble: Enclosed please find any and all items related to your inquiries regarding Doctor Franklin J. Wentworth. Sincerely, Jackson W. Garmin Real Search, Private Investigative Services, LLC'"Well, you cheeky little bastard," Elios muttered as he flipped the page and continued reading.

"Subject: Franklin J. Wentworth," Elios read aloud.

"Blah, blah, blah." He mumbled. His eyes suddenly grew large as he continued.

"Deceased?" He muttered. That can't be right. He picked up the newspaper article and looked at it closely.

'Franklin J. Wentworth, a promising young medical intern with a bright future ahead, died at Regency Medical Center last Tuesday surrounded by his loving parents and siblings.'

"Blah, blah, get to the point, how did he die?" he whispered, searching the article for more details.

'Franklin passed away tragically while doing what he was passionate about, caring for underprivileged children. In his attempts to provide medical care for those without medical insurance during the great wasting pandemic, he himself contracted the virus.'

"Sorry about that," Elios whispered, with a rush of guilt washing over him. He remembered standing by his own children's bedsides, the silent enemy eating them from within. He could feel the tears building, his memories wrought with the pain and helplessness he felt as he watched them slip further and further away. He recalled the contemptuous stare in his wife's eyes as she glared at him with the little energy she could muster. Did she know? Did she put it together before she died?

Had she heard him on the phone with Mordak that day when he begged for a cure? Doesn't matter now, does it? Rehashing the past is not going to bring any of them back! Let the dead rest, Elios! His mind pleaded. Elios shook his thoughts free from his current stream of consciousness before looking back down at the private investigator's report. He skimmed page after page of this Franklin J. Wentworth's life and accomplishments.

"Graduated top of his class at Valloria University. Countless hours volunteering at the shelter, the food pantry, the clinic," he whispered slowly, shaking his head. He pulled out a picture of the real Franklin and looked at it with reverence.

"I'm surprised they didn't make you a saint there, buddy. Look at you all fresh-faced, your eyes filled with hope and promise of a better future. Trust me bub, the hope would have died and the promise was a lie." He stood up from his desk, the picture still in his hand.

"If you are the real Franklin Wentworth…" He paused, looking towards the door, his mind reeling.

"Then who is working downstairs in the medical research lab?" he thought out loud.

"More importantly, why?" Elios began to pace back and forth while questions began racing around one another in his mind. Why did Jethro have you investigated? What did he suspect that no one else ever did? For the first time since Jethro was whisked away, he actually wished he was here. He scoffed.

"Figures, the one time I need answers from him, he's gone." Elios scanned the office and sighed. He looked at the stacks of mail he still needed to go through.

"Now is not the time to play junior detective," he told himself, photo still in his hand, "but I will get to the bottom of it… eventually." He smiled a half smile as he picked up the PI's report and stuffed it back in the envelope with the photo before walking to the far wall. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was coming before rubbing his hand down the side of the large portrait of Mordak that hung on the wall.

"Here, hold on to this for me," he said to the painting as he felt for the small button. The frame pulled away from the wall. He swung it out of the way before punching a series of numbers onto the keypad and opening the small door of the safe. He hurriedly placed the envelope inside, shut the door, and pulled the frame back. He did one last check to make sure the outer office was still empty, then returned to the desk.