Our Last Echo

4

Metropolis

Very few private funerals require a police presence, but this one was attended by nearly all of the wealthy and prominent citizens of Metropolis and the surrounding cities. The security presence was discreet, but comprehensive. Both police and private security were there to protect the endless parade of men and women in sombre black.

Bill didn't mind the parade. He knew how important it was to be seen in all the right places and this certainly qualified as an essential event to be noticed attending. What Bill hated was that so many of them wanted to talk to him. They were compelled to express their hypocritical condolences, these vultures who probably wanted his father dead almost as badly as Bill himself. They had to say how very sorry they were, lies spoken through poker faces or barely concealed smiles. They expected him to thank them for their lies and he, like a well-trained puppy, complied...when what he really wanted to do was murder the lot of them.

After this day, Bill vowed, he would never again play the role other people wanted him to play. He would be true to himself, and damn what polite society demanded.

At the graveside, he endured the speeches about what a wonderful man his father had been. Bill Centron sr., now deceased, was a great business man (of course he was, because money and power were the only things that mattered to him). He was a great patron of the sciences (naturally, because patents were worth a fortune; no scientist whose research was funded by BillCorp ever benefited much from their own work) and of the arts (funding opera and theatre let him rub shoulders with the rich and powerful and funding other media was about controlling it: control the entertainment of the masses and you control their thoughts) and a great philanthropist. That last was not true at all: BillCorp under Bill Centron senior donated to endeavours that benefited Bill Centron senior. Generous contributions to causes like the Metropolis Police retirement fund helped encourage some to look the other way when certain shipments came in. Discreet campaign funding served a similar purpose. These brown-nosing hypocrites had no idea who Bill Centron really was.

More interesting, to Bill, were the people who chose not to speak. Familiar faces: BillCorp board members, cronies and henchmen who had plenty to say while his father was alive, but now were silent and watchful, vultures waiting for their chance to pick over the corpse.

Wait your turn, Bill told them silently. This lion will have his share before the vultures move in.

When it was finally over, Bill remained beside the grave as the other "mourners" slowly filed away. It wasn't out of respect, and it certainly wasn't grief. He just wanted to avoid any more conversation. Tomorrow, he would find out what was in his father's will, and would have to deal with that. He wouldn't be shocked if the bastard had left him with nothing. If he had...well, that was a problem for tomorrow.

Footsteps on grass make very little sound, but Bill stiffened as that quiet shuffle interrupted his thoughts. He closed his eyes, feigning grief - he was getting very good at that - but whoever it was didn't leave. He wasn't coming closer, either, just patiently waiting. For what?

Bill turned abruptly, ready tell his unwanted companion to fuck off, but he bit back the words when he saw who was there.

"Are you okay?" James Sutton asked him. Oddly, he actually seemed sincere.

Bill shrugged. "Just peachy," he answered sarcastically.

Sutton gave a quick smile. "Yeah, it's a stupid question. I know you must be sick and tired of hearing it." He gestured toward the road, where most of the cars were rumbling toward the cemetery gate. "Can I offer you a ride home? The paparazzi will be waiting to mob you as soon as you're outside the police cordon. If you ride with me it'll throw them off."