Link to article: Icaran Feathers.
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[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] It was well past 2 AM when [[[arco|Simón Torres]]] returned to his penthouse. The exhausted executive idly crept across the hardwood floor towards a rarely used armchair by the window. Beyond, the skyline of the city below stretched on through urban darkness. Shades of white, grey, and black intermingled with the sharp angles of contemporary interior design. These generic shapes all passed his glazed eyes without registering. Torres set himself down, sighed, and then looked around to remind himself of his surroundings. Save for an occasional piece of abstract art in the same minimalist hues of the rest of the apartment, the open concept kitchen/dining room/living room was without decor. He turned his gaze to the side table beside the chair. Upon it, in a neat pile organized by his PA, was his non-urgent personal mail from the last so many weeks. The technocrat nodded to himself and began to go through them. Torres paused when a hand addressed letter in familiar writing worked its way to the surface. Unlike the rest of the inane print in the pile, the name of the sender refused to abandon his attention. > [[=]] > //Alicia Torres// > [[/=]] Torres gingerly opened the seal and unfolded the letter inside. He found that it too was hand written. The superfluous flowing script brought with it the memories of the slender woman with long brown hair he had grown up with. As he began to read the contents, it took him a moment to remember the specifics of her voice: soft spoken, and typically offering you just enough rope to hang yourself with. > //Simón,// > > //Normally I feel it would be warranted to call someone with bad news. However, your number seems to change each hour. Even then I am relegated to your assistant who promises me to relay the information on to you. Whether the fact you would rarely respond was due to the message getting lost upon the way, or your own neglect, remains to be seen. As such, this is the path you have left me to reach you.// > > //I am writing to inform you that our mother has passed away. Despite the toll the dementia took on her, in the end pneumonia was what claimed her. We plan to bury her in the family plot beside our grandfather. Perhaps if you get this early enough you can be there for the funeral. I've included the details below. You know how to reach me otherwise.// > > //Alicia// Torres stared at the letter in silence. As he glanced at the particulars of his mothers funeral he realized that the occasion had already passed. "Damn you," he said under his breath. He sighed and collected his thoughts. Torres carefully returned the letter to its envelope, and returned it to the stack on the table beside him. The billionaire swiftly produced a cell phone from his person, and within a minimal number of keystrokes was already awaiting his PA's answer. "Mr. Torres?" "I need you to clear my schedule for a few days," he replied, brushing aside the grogginess in the young man's voice who answered. There was no more time to lose. ------ Despite his clothes being well out of date in the typical company he kept, Simón Torres still looked the part of one of the world's movers and shakers as he entered an unassuming cafe in the city he was born. Naturally, his security detail remained nearby, though out of sight. While unlikely to be the case, they remained ever vigilant in case such a display drew the wrong type of attention that Torres so frequently craved. Much to his chagrin, outside of the occasional curious glance, few there seemed to recognize him. Torres scanned the modest restaurant, his eyes eventually falling onto a slender middle aged woman. What once where gorgeous locks of long brown hair were now streaked with grey. The lines and creases of over half a century of worry and caregiving decorated her brow and, in his mind, made her look older than he knew she was. Her gaze fell upon him almost the instant he walked in the door. He offered her a small smile. She returned with a frown that dripped with disappointment. This caused the captain of industry to blink. While he was no stranger to dishing out such looks, it was rare he was on the receiving end. Eventually she gestured for him to take the seat across the table. "One tinto, please," he said to a passing waitress as he took his seat. "You look well, Alicia. It's good to see you again. How are your children?" "My children are grown, Simón," she replied curtly. Torres paused. The images of his rather mediocre niece and nephew flashed through his mind. Infants unto toddlers unto school children unto teenagers. It was when he couldn't remember seeing them beyond that point he realized how long it had been since he had spoken to them in person. "On to bigger and better things then, I suppose?" he asked. "They do alright," Alicia replied. The waitress from before brought Torres his coffee. He graciously accepted the beverage, taking a small sip of the bitter brew before nodding in satisfaction. Modest as the restaurant was, it knew what it was doing. He savored another sip, and finally reached into the interior pocket of his jacket to produce the letter he had received. "Not even an attempt to call?" he asked. "Don't act like it would have brought you here any quicker," Alicia sighed. "Of course it would have," Torres frowned. "This was monstrous of you. I'm deeply hurt." Alicia didn't respond. Instead, she silently maintained her gaze upon her brother, wholly unimpressed with him. Torres eventually broke his gaze away, and looked into his coffee before taking another sip. "How did she die?" he eventually asked. "Scared, and lost in her own mind," she quickly replied. "Crying out for a husband who was dead, and a son who was nowhere to be found in the mansion in which he locked her away." Torres's cup made a clang as he aggressively set it down. The typical veneer of smugness and superiority melted away, and a scowl of true anger took its place. "How dare you," he hissed. "I ensured she had everything she could have possibly have wanted. The finest house, the finest doctors, the finest caregivers! I ensured you had //everything.// You couldn't even begin to imagine the mountains I've moved. The enemies I've made. And this is what you do? Bite the hand that feeds you? Who do you think you are?" A small smile crept upon Alicia's face as she conceded with a nod. "You're right, of course," she said. "You helped provide us all with a life of comfort that few can imagine. I was able to quit my job and guide our mother through her failing health. None of that would have been possible without you. I have no choice but to thank you." The about-face of her words hit Torres like an unexpected slap. "But no matter how much money you throw at a problem," she continued, "you're not above criticism for your methods." "And is that why you agreed to meet with me then," he asked. "To criticise my methods?" "The fanatics you surround yourself with certainly won't," she scoffed. "Then by all means," Torres gestured toward her. "The floor is yours." Alicia offered her brother the same smile he reserved for others when he caught them in a trap. "Very well," she said. "Do you know what the difference between you, our father, and the grandfather you so revere is?" "I suppose you're going to tell me." An intrigued smirk came to Torres's face. "For all their genius," Alicia continued, "for all their faults, and missteps, //they were still there.// And that is a thing I don't think you know how to be. Not when you can elevate yourself on some pedestal somewhere." Torres opened his mouth, a quip already half formed on his tongue. Before the words could leave his mouth, memories of his grandfather came forth. Quiet moments with a man he loved, and who loved him. His mouth slowly closed, and his eyes fell to the floor. Alicia chuckled and stood, placing down a few pesos to cover the bill. "I won't stick around for you to admit you were wrong," she said softly. "I know that's another thing you are incapable of." Torres remained silent. Without another word between the two, his sister took her leave. ------ The Torres family plot was far from the grandest in the cemetery, but it certainly was among the best kept. Simple granite headstones, regularly cleaned of moss and grime by caretakers at the receiving end of Simón Torres's fortune, diligently ensured that. Still, as tech moguls stood there before the mundanity of it all, he couldn't help but feel disappointed. In truth, if he had his way, long ago the monuments to his predecessors would have been replaced with a grand mausoleum. The rest of the family did not share this vision. Torres took a knee, and gingerly placed a bouquet of flowers atop the newest addition to the plot. He lingered there for several moments, his out of date but still expensive suit allowed to become dirty for the first time. He slowly traced his finger across the engraving on the headstone. > [[=]] > //Gabriela Torres// > [[/=]] "Regardless as to what anyone says," he said to himself, "I did what was needed. No one can ask more." His gaze then wandered to the next grave over. > [[=]] > //[[[scp-8002|Anthony Torres]]]// > [[/=]] A shiver ran down his spine despite the climate. Torres shook his head as he worked it out of his system. "Despite what they think, no one can ask for more," he repeated. "I hope you are in a better place." His gaze continued to wander until it landed on the headstone of his grandfather. He frowned briefly, then nodded to the aged granite slab. "I know you'd be proud of me." After several moments of silence, Simón Torres stood and dusted himself off. He turned on the spot and proceeded through the cemetery gates, waiting until he passed the threshold before letting out a final sigh... ... and then swiftly dialed a number into his cell phone. It rang once before his PA answered. "Mr. Torres?" "I'm done here and heading back to the car as we speak," said Torres immediately. "I imagine there are actually important things I missed while I was away? Please fill me in." ------ [[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box-end]]