With Great Power: White Noise

White Noise

The cursor blinked as Henry Privits clicked his mouse, and the man stared at the screen in silence, watching as the progress bar slowly but surely filled up, representing the successful transfer of three hundred and twelve incident reports from the Brockton Bay PRT field office to the central database elsewhere. It was mesmerizing in a way – a digital flood of paperwork sucked into the server and sent on its merry way with just a few inputs from him.

It was also strangely peaceful. Once upon a time he would have found this kind of work. Monotonous but nowadays it was a much-needed respite from the stress inducing hustle and bustle in his day to day.

The backdrop of clicking keyboards and the dull hum of his cheap computer soother his tired mind and helped him focus. Henry leaned back in his chair, the cheap plastic creaking in protest, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Rough day, Henry?"

The voice came from the cubicle to his left. Sarah, a heavy-set woman who smelled like stale coffee tinged with cheap perfume, leaned over the partition wall. She was holding a mug that read 'I Hate Mondays', even though it was a Thursday. A joke, according to her, but like usual, the humor eluded him.

“Just the usual,” Henry said, offering a weary smile. “The city never sleeps, so neither does the paperwork.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Sarah sighed, taking a sip from her mug. “Though here recently, it really seems like everything around here has gone to hell in a handbasket huh? New capes crawling out of the woodwork and causing all kinds of trouble. Did you hear about that thing down at the Docks a few days ago?

“With the ABB?” Henry asked, keeping his tone perfectly level. He swiveled his chair slightly, feigning interest while keeping one eye on the screen. “I think I saw a memo cross my desk. Something about sonic damage?”

“Yeah. I heard it tore up that area pretty bad,” Sarah smiled, happy to have an audience. “Piggot's still steaming over the damage. If that kid hadn't popped up and handled things, there's no telling how bad it would to or have been. That whole area is still a mess.”

“Widow, right?” Henry asked, his fingers clicking across over the keyboard, already working on the next in the nearly endless stream of emails. “The kid.”

“That’s the one,” Sarah nodded. “I heard she took him down pretty hard. It’s good to have some good news for a change, you know? Instead of just the Empire or the Merchants causing trouble.”

“It's a breath of fresh air. Though unfortunately, the amount of paperwork stays the same regardless.” Henry chuckled.

“Ain't that the truth,” Sarah sighed, pushing herself off the partition with a groan. “Anyway, my break is over so I guess it's back to the grind. I gotta get some files downstairs before Dawson yells at me again. Don't work too hard, Henry.”

“I never do.”

Henry watched her retreat and as she disappeared, he let out a slow breath, the smile sliding off his face the moment she was gone. He liked Sarah; she was a good person, but her chatty demeanor made it a bit harder to maintain his genial facade.

It was exhausting. The effort required to nod at the right times, to complain about the weather, to care about the local sports team — it weighed on him, but it was necessary. It was simple. And simple was good. Simple kept the other thoughts at bay.

He turned his attention back to the monitor. The inbox was refreshingly empty, a clean slate that would last exactly four minutes before the next wave of requests flooded in.

He spent the remainder of the afternoon in a fugue of forms and files. He routed a requisition order for new containment foam sprayers, archived a misdirected complaint from a city councilman about noise pollution, and scheduled a conference room for Director Piggot that he knew would likely be full of shouting for the duration of the meeting.

It was easy. It was so wonderfully, blissfully easy. The awful world outside, the world he had lived for nearly a year, felt millions of miles away. Here, the worst tragedy was a paper jam or a missed deadline.

A few hours later, just as the clock struck four, a soft chime rang out on his computer, breaking him out of his fugue and sending his pulse racing.

Henry paused, his eyes surreptitiously scanning the room to ensure no one was watching, before he tabbed out of his current window and clicked into the much more empty space contained within his private email.

The subject line was innocuous, just a string of random numbers that seemingly held no real meaning. Henry’s eyes rolled over the line again and again, double and triple checking to make sure it was exactly what he thought it was, even though the prospect of it being anything else was borderline laughable.

Once he was sure, he didn't waste any time, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet, extracting a small, folded piece of lined paper he’d taken from a notepad at home. Placing it flat on his desk, he copied what was written into the reply and hit send.

The moment the notification confirmed the message was sent, Henry navigated to his settings and deleted the email, wiping it from existence. Then he deleted his work history, a bit harder thanks to the restrictions put in place but he had long since figured out a way around them.

Finally, he reached under his desk and found the thick, black power cable connected to the back of his computer and yanked it free. The screen went black, and he waited a few seconds before plugging it back in.

Henry sat back in his chair, listening to the raspy whir of the computer fans as the machine struggled back to life. It would be at least five minutes before the login screen reappeared, long enough for the physical disconnection to wipe the cache. It was crude, certainly, and anyone with a forensic science degree would know the machine had been hard-reset, but for a standard PRT sweep, it was enough to look like a simple hardware malfunction.

He checked his watch. 4:05 PM. Perfect timing.

The computer finally sputtered back to life, the BIOS screen flashing briefly before the familiar PRT logo appeared. By the time he could log back in, the clock on the wall read 4:12 PM, but he had no intentions of doing so. Instead, he powered it off normally and began to pack stuff.

“Computer acting up again?” Sarah asked, walking past carrying a stack of files.

“Yeah, it's been doing this all week,” Henry lied smoothly, standing up and smoothing out the front of his shirt. “IT is going to have a field day with it tomorrow.”

“If they'd just give us some equipment that wasn't ten years out of date, they wouldn't have these problems.”

Henry chuckled. “Like that would ever happen. I'll see your tomorrow, Sarah."

“Stay safe, Henry,” she called back, already burying her nose back in a file folder.

Henry headed for the elevators. The ride down was quiet, the soft whir of the motors the only sound in he steel sarcophagus. When the doors slid open on the ground floor, he squinted at ghe harsh, fluorescent glow of the evening security lights.

Henry's shoes squeaking softly against the polished linoleum he approached the security desk, maintaining the casual, rolling gait of a man ready to be done with the day.

Stephen looked up from his crossword puzzle, the burly guard offering a tired grin as he recognized Henry. “Heading out, Privits? A bit early, isn't it?”

“Computer's on the fritz and I'm not usually one to ride the clock,” Henry said, leaning an elbow against the high counter. He reached into his pocket and produced a small, silver flash drive, sliding it across the laminate surface with a casual motion. “Do me a favor and make sure this gets to Kurt? It’s the pictures from that trip up to the mountains last weekend.”

Stephen picked up the drive, turning it over in his fingers with a raised eyebrow. “You guys went without me? I thought we were boys.”

Henry let out a soft chuckle, the sound polite but devoid of any real mirth. “We figured since you complain about the cold every time the thermostat drops below sixty, skiing probably wasn't going to be your idea of a good time.”

“Fair point,” Stephen laughed, popping the drive into his breast pocket. “I prefer my vacations with a lot less frostbite and a lot more beach. Still, next time, warn a guy. I might have wanted to look at the snow from inside a heated lodge. I'll make sure it gets to him.”

“Thank you. I'll make sure to mention your name next time we plan to freeze our asses off in the snow.”

The cool evening air hit Henry as he stepped out of the PRT building, a sharp contrast to the recycled stale air of the office. He buttoned his coat, hunching his shoulders against the wind that whipped off the Bay.

The drive home was a blur as Henry piloted his sedan through the streets with a practiced detachment, signaling turns, braking at stoplights, and merging lanes, all the while his mind was entirely elsewhere.

When he unlocked the front door of his house, the quiet hit him dead in his chest, not peaceful like the office, but empty and almost suffocating.

He hung his coat on the rack by the door, the metal hook clicking softly against the wood, yet sounding all wrong. It used to be that the rack would jostle, a second coat bumping against his, a backpack dropping to the floor with a heavy thud. Now, his was the only thing there.

Henry moved into the kitchen, his footsteps echoing on the linoleum. He didn't bother turning on the overhead light; the glow of the streetlamps filtering through the window was enough. He opened the fridge, staring at the contents. Leftover meatloaf, a yellow head of lettuce, and a jar of pickles stared back at him.

He grabbed the meatloaf, scraped it onto a plate, and shoved it into the microwave. He leaned against the counter as the timer counted down, listening to the low hum fill the silence. It was too quiet. He used to have to shout over the television or the music blasting from the upstairs room to be heard.

These days, couldn't remember the last time he heard a tune that wasn't played on his car radio.

Sat in front of the television, Henry ate mechanically, shoveling the food into his mouth to fill his stomach rather than taste. The television flickered occasionally, interrupting the cheesy sitcom that he couldn't be bothered to pay attention to. His mind was elsewhere. Waiting.

The sharp trill of the landline shattered the quiet, cutting through the canned laughter of the sitcom like a knife. Henry barely reacted despite the sharp intrusion on his silence. He simply set his fork down on the half-empty plate, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and reached for the receiver.

He, of course, already knew who it was before he even lifted the phone from the cradle. The timing was too precise to be anyone else.

“I assume there were no issues,” Henry said by way of greeting.

“Nothing I couldn't handle,” the voice on the other end replied. It was distorted, electronic and grainy, but the tone underneath was casual. “The codes you sent worked perfectly. Traffic wasn't too bad either.”

“Good,” Henry said, his eyes drifting back to the television, though he wasn't really seeing it. “Meet me in the usual place. We have business to discuss.”

“I'll see you there, boss.”

“See you soon.”

Henry ended the call and finished his meal in silence. Once done, he stood up, and goon his plate to the sink, rinsing away the congealed meat sauce and crumbs, watching them spiral down the drain.

He didn't turn the lights on as he walked through the hallway, his feet carrying him by muscle memory to a small wooden table against the far wall. It was a shrine of sorts, cluttered with small things: a dried corsage, a ticket stub to a concert he hadn't attended, and a silver-framed photograph.

Henry stopped, picking up the frame. The glass was cool under his thumb.

In the picture, a young girl was smiling. It was a wide, unguarded grin, the kind he could barely remember apart from in this one photograph. She was wearing a bright blue scarf he’d bought her for her birthday, standing in front of the house he was currently in. The sun was shining, the world was vibrant, and she was alive.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw on the glass. The apology was a hollow thing, heard only by him and accepted by none.

He set the frame back down, ensuring it was perfectly straight and parallel to the edge of the table before stepping away, his heart heavy.

He grabbed his keys and coat, the heavy fabric settling comfortably over his shoulders. The night air was biting when he stepped outside, a sharp contrast to the stale warmth of the house. Henry climbed into his sedan, the engine turning over with a low rumble.

Henry drove carefully but quickly, taking the back streets to avoid the main roads where the police presence was heavier and the prying eyes of the heroes might be wandering.

Slowly, the bright lights of the city gave way to the darkness of the abandoned section of the Docks. Unlike the area closer to town, the buildings here were derelict heaps, hollowed out by economic collapse and years of neglect. He pulled up to a seemingly random factory on the very edge of town, its corrugated steel walls rusting a dull red. The parking lot was cracked and overgrown with weeds, clearly unused for a long time.

He killed the engine and stepped out, the sound of the door closing echoing in the vast emptiness. In front of him, a silhouette stood just inside the entrance to the building, broad and imposing.

Henry walked toward the light, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets. As he drew closer, the features of the man standing in the doorway resolved. He had dark skin and his face was covered in pale scars webbing across his cheeks and brow. A tinkertech suit, primarily people and black, was draped over his body, sections glowing with a pale yellow light

"Right on time," the man said, pushing off the as Henry approached.

“Punctuality is a virtue,” Henry replied, his voice soft against the background whistle of the wind.

The man smirked, a jagged expression that pulled at the scars on his face. Without a word of warning, he reached into a pouch on his belt and tossed something through the air.

Henry caught it with one hand. It was a heavy, matte-black case, seemingly airtight, but he didn't need to open it to know what was inside.

Henry allowed a rare, genuine smile to touch his lips. It was a small thing, lacking warmth, but it was there. “You’ve done excellent work, Marcus. Getting out of the PRT headquarters even with the help I gave you couldn't have been easy.”

“Wasn’t too hard, all things considered,” Marcus said with a shrug, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not with you shutting down the cameras to the cells and unlocking the evidence room. Once I got my gear, I basically just walked right out the front door.”

He paused, glancing back toward the factory interior as if checking for eavesdroppers. “Left a bit of a mess behind me, though. Hope you don’t mind.”

Henry shook his head, dismissive. “Collateral damage was expected and I know you wouldn't do any more than you had to. Perhaps I'll even get a few days off work after this.”

Henry slid the black case into the inner pocket of his coat, ensuring it was secure before reaching into his pocket to retrieve a small box. It looked almost like a cassette player from a distance, though the casing was sleek and translucent, pulsing with a faint blue light.

“Your payment,” Henry said, handing it over.

Marcus took the device, weighing it in his palm. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Just as Marcus turned to leave, Henry held up a hand to stop him.

“A word of caution,” Henry said,. “As I'm sure you're aware given your circumstances, tinkertech like that only functions for a short time. Due to the nature of my specialty, if say you have maybe twenty uses at most before it isn't safe to activate any longer.”

Marcus looked down at the glowing device, a crooked grin spreading across his face. “That won’t be a problem. I don't plan on staying around for much longer anyway. Once I get what I want, I’m out. This little piece is just what I need to make it happen.”

Henry watched him for a moment, studying the man’s posture, the tension in his shoulders and the way his eyes darted toward the dark horizon. It was the look of a man finishing up a game he intended to leave. It was a foreign concept to Henry; he didn't play games anymore, and the only exit he cared about was the one he had been crafting for months.

“I'm glad to hear it,” Henry said softly, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “It is always better to have a defined goal. But… maybe you would be willing to help me one more time before you retire?”

Marcus paused, looking back with a raised eyebrow. “I thought we were square?”

“You have been a great help, Marcus,” Henry said, his voice thankful. “And I could always use another capable pair of hands. You will, of course, be compensated fairly for your efforts.”

Marcus looked at the device in his hand, then back at Henry. He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, weighing the offer.

“I guess a couple more jobs couldn't hurt,” Marcus muttered, eventually looking up with a nod. “Alright, I’m listening.”

Henry smiled. “Excellent, but not here. Allow me to transfer us somewhere more appropriate.”

Reaching into his coat, the man pulled out a small remote and pressed a button. As he did so, the air in front of him seemed to shudder, a low hum vibrating through the soles of their shoes as reality itself groaned under an unknown stress. A line of violent blue light sliced through the darkness of the warehouse, expanding rapidly into a vertical oval that seemed to shake the very world around them. The edges of the portal crackled, shedding sparks of energy that hissed as they struck the concrete floor.

Marcus took a step back as the window appeared but Henry strode forward fearlessly, stepping up to the thrumming gateway before looking back at the man he had employed and smiling.

“After you,” Henry said, gesturing into the swirling gateway