Getting A System In A Modern World

"This can't be real, right?"

The man seated at his desk asked, his voice tinged with a mixture of anger and frustration as he slammed a thick document onto the polished wood. His broad shoulders hunched, and the veins on his forehead bulged slightly, a testament to the stress boiling beneath the surface.

Turning his chair with a heavy sigh, he fixed his piercing gaze on the young man standing before him.

"It is what it is, boss," the young man said with a shrug, his tone casual but tinged with resignation. He scratched his head in a gesture of frustration before dropping into one of the empty chairs in the office. "We did everything we could, but nothing's working out. Nothing's coming together."

The older man leaned back, his leather chair creaking under his weight. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes briefly, trying to suppress the headache building within him.

The younger man, oblivious to the growing tension, leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I don't get it, boss. This guy… this Silas guy… what's so special about him? I mean, yeah, he's strange and all, running around the streets like some kind of speedster, but isn't that all there is to it?"

He scratched his head again, his expression a mixture of curiosity and bewilderment. "I mean, we've seen weird before, right? People doing crazy stunts, adrenaline junkies, even that one guy who thought he could teleport. How's Silas any different?"

The older man sighed heavily, his eyes meeting the young man's with a solemn look. For a moment, the weight of his years on the job seemed to settle on his shoulders, making him appear older than he was.

"Sebastian," he began, his voice low but firm, "there's something I need you to understand. The two of us here were tasked with investigating this guy—just investigating—and nothing more."

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, his hands clasped together. "I know you're curious about him, about what he can do, and I don't blame you. But you need to realize something: this… this isn't the kind of thing we're equipped to handle. This is federal stuff, way above our pay grade. We're private contractors, not spooks or superheroes."

Sebastian frowned, leaning back in his chair. "So, what are you saying? We just sit back and do the bare minimum? That doesn't sound like you, boss. You've always been the guy to dig deeper, to find the truth no matter what."

The older man shook his head, a weary smile playing on his lips. "I'm saying we do our job. We gather information, write our reports, and get paid. No heroics, no stepping on toes. And most importantly, no one gets hurt."

He paused, his eyes locking onto Sebastian's. "At least, I don't want to get hurt. And I know you feel the same way."

Sebastian exhaled sharply, crossing his arms. "Yeah, I get that. But still… there's something about this guy that doesn't add up. He doesn't fit the mold. One minute, he's a nobody, and the next, he's running faster than anyone should be able to. Then there's the way people talk about him—like he's some kind of ghost or legend."

The older man nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "You're right about one thing: Silas doesn't fit the mold. But that's exactly why we need to tread carefully. People like him… they draw attention, the kind of attention we don't want."

Sebastian furrowed his brow. "You mean the Phenomenals, don't you? I've heard whispers. People like Silas, doing things that shouldn't be possible. Some call them miracles, others call them monsters."

The older man's jaw tightened. "And that's why we don't ask questions we don't want answers to. You think the government, or whoever's really in charge of this, wants us poking around? Hell, they probably already know we're looking into him. We step out of line, and we're as good as gone."

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling over them. The sound of the clock ticking on the wall seemed unusually loud, each second stretching into eternity.

Sebastian finally broke the silence, his voice quieter now. "So what do we do, boss? Just file our report and move on?"

The older man leaned back in his chair again, his gaze distant. "We finish what we were hired to do. Gather the facts, stick to the basics, and leave the big questions to the people who get paid to answer them. And we stay out of Silas's way."

Sebastian nodded slowly, though his curiosity remained unsatisfied. "Fair enough. But I can't shake the feeling that this guy's more than just some speedster. There's something… bigger at play here. Something we're not seeing."

The older man didn't respond immediately. Instead, he turned his chair to face the window behind him, staring out at the city skyline. The office was perched high above the bustling streets, offering a view that was both awe-inspiring and humbling.

"I know, Sebastian," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "I feel it too."

.....

The office was empty now, the faint hum of fluorescent lights the only sound. The older man sat alone at his desk, the document from earlier still lying there, its contents haunting him.

He reached for a glass of whiskey on the corner of the desk, taking a long sip before setting it down with a soft clink. His thoughts were a storm of questions and doubts, all centered around one name: Silas.

Flipping open the document, he scanned its contents again, his eyes narrowing at the details.

The man rubbed his temples, the stress of the situation weighing heavily on him. "What the hell are you, Silas?" he muttered under his breath.

He pulled out his laptop, opening a secure file he'd compiled during their investigation. It contained everything they'd learned about Silas so far, though it wasn't much. No known criminal record, no history of mental illness, and no connections to any known organizations.

And yet, there were gaps. Odd inconsistencies in his background, moments where he seemed to disappear off the radar entirely. It was as if Silas existed in the world only when he wanted to, vanishing without a trace the rest of the time.

The man leaned back, exhaling slowly. His gut told him that Silas was far more than they'd been led to believe. But every instinct also screamed at him to let it go, to stop digging before he found something he couldn't unsee.

His phone buzzed on the desk, breaking his train of thought. He glanced at the screen: a message from an unknown number.

"Drop the case. Walk away. This is your only warning."

His blood ran cold.

He stared at the message for a long moment before deleting it and setting the phone down carefully. Whoever sent that message knew exactly what he was doing, and they wanted him to stop.

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But instead of fear, he felt a spark of defiance. If Silas was important enough to warrant a warning like that, then maybe the answers were worth the risk.

For the first time, he allowed himself to consider the possibility that their investigation was about more than just a paycheck.

"Sebastian's right," he muttered to himself, his resolve hardening. "There's more to this. And I'm going to find out what."

He reached for his phone again, scrolling through his contacts until he found Sebastian's name.

"Sebastian, it's me," he said when the younger man answered. "Meet me at the office tomorrow morning. There's something we need to talk about."

He ended the call, his eyes drifting back to the document on the desk. Whatever Silas was, whoever he was, the man was determined to uncover the truth—even if it meant stepping into a world he wasn't prepared for.

Because some mysteries were too big to ignore. And Silas was one of them.

****

The courtroom was stifling, the air heavy with anticipation. The murmurs of the crowd had dwindled to an oppressive silence as all eyes focused on the judge, a stern-faced man with years of experience etched into the lines of his face.

He sat at the high bench, his gavel poised but not yet raised, the weight of what's to come, resting on his shoulders.

In the defendant's seat sat the accused, a young man with a healthy appearance. His hands were cuffed, the chains clinking softly every time he shifted in his chair.

He looked around the room, his gaze darting from the judge to the jury, and finally to the audience behind him. There were no friendly faces, no allies, only a sea of strangers staring back with judgment in their eyes.

The defense attorney, a young woman with tired eyes and a frayed suit, leaned in close to whisper something to her client, but he didn't respond. His gaze was fixed forward, on the judge, who was preparing to speak.

The judge cleared his throat, his deep voice reverberating through the room like a tolling bell.

"Mr. Jonathan Prall," he began, his tone grave, "you have been found guilty of the charges brought against you: first-degree murder, conspiracy to commit terrorism, and multiple counts of attempted mass destruction.

The evidence presented to this court was overwhelming, and the jury has unanimously agreed on your guilt."

The audience stirred slightly, very quiet mumurs were heard. The bailiff shot a sharp glance at the crowd, and the murmurs ceased.

Jonathan sat motionless, a smile on his face and an unknown look in his eyes.

"Do you have any final words before this court delivers its sentence?" the judge asked, his piercing gaze fixed on the accused.

Jonathan hesitated for a moment, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. Then, after a tense pause, he leaned forward slightly, his voice slightly loud and filled with vigor. Something that's not expected of someone in his current situation.

"I've already said everything I needed to during the trial," he said. "But for the record, I still maintain I did what I had to. You call it a crime, but I call it justice."

Gasps erupted from the audience, and a woman in the back shouted, "Murderer!" before being quickly subdued by the bailiff.

The judge's expression didn't falter. He had heard every excuse and justification imaginable in his career, and this one was no different.

"Very well," he said, his voice cold and formal. "By the power vested in me by the state, I hereby sentence you, Jonathan Prall, to death by electric chair. The execution is to be carried out within thirty days. You will be sent to Millhaven Institution."

The gavel came down with a sharp crack, and the sound seemed to echo endlessly in the solemn room.

Jonathan sat back in his chair, his face expressionless as if the weight of the sentence hadn't yet registered. The crowd erupted into a cacophony of reactions—some cheering, others weeping, and a few protesting loudly.

The bailiffs moved in swiftly, securing Jonathan's arms and preparing to escort him out. His attorney placed a hand on his shoulder, her face a mix of resignation and pity.

As Jonathan was led from the courtroom, he turned his head slightly, his gaze lingering on the audience, like he was looking for someone.

Out of the crowd, he saw a young beautiful lady smiling at him and the next was a voice in his head.

"Don't worry, babe. I'm gonna get you out of there in no time."

Jonathan smiled when he heard this. He saw the lady wink at him afterwards and waved flirtily at him before leaving the courtroom.

'I will waiting for you babe. I will waiting. Don't take too long.'