High Frequency

Time and money started a habit of screwing him over. Inflation soared between the countries and his accounts in Africa weren’t the only ones affected. It spanned through Europe, touched Singapore, India, Thailand, Malaysia and carried across the seas. One of his American accounts had to be closed. There’d been an influx of “superheroes” since the Avengers came to light a few years back and the mutant-human war was never specific to one spot. The damn things popped up everywhere. Suppliers couldn’t come up with enough materials to meet his demands to build his weapons. Clients got cold feet, especially the politicians. No one wanted to buy what couldn’t be provided and the crack down on corruption rose. Despite all that, he pushed and pushed hard.

Ulysses Klaue had a way to make people do what he wanted, weather by playing with their heads to make them feel like shit or physically terrifying a person they’d see him in their nightmares. Sometimes things took a while, but as long as he kept up his presence he won in the end. That’s how his business needed to work for him to stay on top. Second chances were a threat; everyone had a weight to pull.  He always did his end, it was everyone else who screwed it up.

There were bodies dropping every week; if they weren’t his let downs, then it was the law. He and his men had two shootouts since Die Senuwee and Johanneseburg was now inhabitable for the time being. His trips were becoming too confined to the continent and even his latest one to Chad was canceled.

Led Zeppelin played low on an old radio perched in the corner. Ulysses sank hard into a worn leather chair and groaned. The desk light was dim and lit only enough to see his desk papers. There were a couple pictures of an attractive woman with dark hair near the lamp. In one she held a gun, cropping a tease towards whoever took the photo. Monitor screens hooked to the wall showed fluctuation of various markets. Another showed cameras overlooking the safehouse property; dogs barked in the distance and night locusts chirped fierce. The heat was nearly suffocating, the long iron fan ticking back and forth to cool off the small space. He left the wooden shutters open and the waning moonlight fell on one small spot in the room.

Must I holler? Must I, must I, must I shake 'em on down?

Ooh, I done been mistreated, baby, I believe I'll shake 'em on down.

Gave my baby twenty dollar bill,

If that don't shake her, Sure my shot, shot, shotgun will.

He stared off into space, right hand in his beard and his left tapping a pen on his desk. There came a breeze by the window, one that wasn’t ordinary. Ulysses stiffened at the site of goldish dust flowing by, coming back and then disappearing again. He glanced at the analog on the wall and straightened up.

“I have front doors, frog.” Ulysses’ voice was low and tired. The dust flowed in through the window and swirled about in a form, eventually materializing into Sevigny. He coughed roughly into a fist, his other hand gripping a bulged leather bag. Ulysses figured the given distance between here and England, he traveled quite a while. By the look on his face, he was ready to drop out.

“I’ve no time for your harrybacks. Two of them are sleeping anyway,” Sevigny shrugged and adjusted his clothing. Klaue scanned his monitors before spotting one of them and barked into his two-way radio. Making sure they stood their guard he looked back at the old man, who dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. Ulysses snorted.

“Surprised you remember this little shithole. Guessing your treatments are working if you’re...the hell you call it, dusting about? Sweeping?”

“Swerving,” Sevigny corrected. He propped up the bag then tossed it to Ulysses. He caught it easily despite its weight and set in his lap, unzipping it. He lifted his chin to see the pale paper slips inside, bounded and crumpled. They were euros.

“I didn’t have time to convert the currency, but it’s all there- remainder plus increased interest.” Sevigny waved at it like it was a burden he was glad to be rid of and crossed his arms. He was willing to wait for Ulysses to count the money, already used to the routine. Ulysses retrieved his money counter and set the coffee table up for stacks. He sat on the couch, shoving aside a thin sheet over the armrest. It half fell to the floor. As he kept feeding the machine Sevigny wondered about the small space, surveying but never touching. The elephant in the room loomed.

“If you want an apology, you’re not getting one,” Ulysses muttered. “Least you lost only one. Waterboy cost me some loyal hires that night on top of lost money.” The machine clicked, he noted the number, piled the bills, ripped a paper bind and filled another stack. Sevigny leaned against the window and shut his eyes.

“I am well aware you’re not one for apologizing, Klaue. That said, I can’t say I’m sorry either. I wanted to be there in person. Found myself scrounging leftover accounts from Italy and the next thing I know, I’m falling thirteen-thousand feet as solid mass and flailing around.” Sevigny shuddered at the memory, but smiled. “It was only for a few seconds, but such a feeling, huh?”

Ulysses paused, thinking back to a similar happening. Sevigny purposely reminded him.

“The treatments have done something though. I have a round before Christmas and then a couple after New Year’s,” Sevigny said and heavily sighed. It didn't sound like relief. Ulysses slowly turned his head to look at the old Frenchman, irritated. The man looked like he was grieving someone; maybe the lanky pale boy that got shot up in the club?

“Holidays are a pain in the ass, but at least you have your health again, ja?” Ulysses said. He stared until his guest felt it and looked him in the eye. Ulysses didn’t want to hear regret about what the two just went through. Ulysses hated waiting for his money, hating loaning out to anyone, so he never did it. This one time he did and it became more complicated than it needed to be. If the Frenchman wanted to regret anything, he needed to keep it to himself. Ulysses warned him from the get go.

“Only reason any of this happened is because you saved my life,” Ulysses spoke slowly and with an expression of disdain.

“If your doctor in America didn’t fix you, I’m not doing this shit again, especially if your little mutants are surfin’ about.” Ulysses pointed at him, but the Frenchman smiled softly in response and chuckled. Another stack clicked through. He became more convinced this was the final payout he deserved about a month ago.

“Slate was the only one, the others were to keep him grounded,” Sevigny said. Ulysses noticed he was being careful with his words, but didn’t know why. He thought back to the three foreigners showing up in the vip lounge. A nervous leached hair little shit and a quiet woman who obviously had to be a buffer for the irritable mutant. The look of shock on her face when things didn’t play through, though, told him she wasn't in the loop of any of this to begin with. He tried to recall her features, but it was dark in that room.

Her hair was a mess, though.

“Die young lady was a little placating,” Ulysses confessed. “She was convinced you’d come through.”

He started bagging the euros back into the bag, glancing at Sevigny as he spoke. The Frenchman tensed when she was brought up; briefly Ulysses wondered why and considered jabbing him to find out. Everything about Sevigny’s body language was blocking the subject. The machine clicked.

“She did make it back, ja? Good; I only wanted one to run back to ya. I was hoping your mutant would’ve dropped dead that night too, but I’ll be prepared for the little shit next time.” He hit some part of Sevigny’s sensitivity, because he straightened up, a cross look on his face. The man was too attached to his lackies.

“I’ll try not to banter with you about bloodshed, because in all honesty I would like not meet with you on any other terms,” Sevigny said. There was a pause as Ulysses processed what he was saying, then raised his eyebrows and scoffed. Sometimes he scared people right out of his way, but Beau was’t a buyer, he was a past and potential employee. He was still on the hiree list in case he was needed in the future. Ulysses had a lot of bad history with clients or workers, but if they had something to offer he needed to make sure they stuck around if he ever needed them again. Now that he no longer had a reason to kill the Frenchman, things could go back to what they were before- just no more damn loans.

“You’re joking,” Ulysses said. Sevigny shook his head slowly. There were things Ulysses didn’t know that drove him to cut ties.

He didn’t know that Sevigny’s team was important to him, that he hid their existence from Klaue during Bangkok.

He didn’t know that Sevigny mentally beat himself up that Slate or Remedy could’ve died that night because of his mistake.

“We should just end it here- no more transactions, no more favors, no more jobs,” Sevigny said, then he held out his hand for a handshake. A final handshake. A laugh slipped from Ulysses lips that he spouted, then cackled with his head back. The old man had to be kidding; with the way things were now? The markets? The crackdowns on people like them?

“I certainly won’t rely on you to pay me back anymore, frog, but you’ll still be the one needing me. Your heisting is plummeting, scattered even. But don’t worry, when something pops up that I can’t readily steal myself, I’ll call you in. Don’t give me that look- your treatments will work when they’re all finished and permanently in your system.” Ulysses gestured out to nothing in particular.

“That’s why you’re here right? You needed my money to get better so you can work, and now you’re better so you can work.”

“Not for you, specifically,” Sevigny piped, thick brows narrowed. Ulysses chuckled again and stood up, coming near in height to the Frenchman. He smiled when the mutant took a step back. The machine clicked again.

“You’ll be on standby. Just keep that in mind, ja?” Ulysses reached out and slapped a firm hold on the old man’s right shoulder, making sure he wouldn’t move again. He explained that they still needed to stick together to keep the money running despite their differences in what they handled. Ulysses dealt weapons for profit, often paid directly. Sevigny’s only depended on whether he could sell what he stole. Now that he learned their was a team under the man, that meant bigger jobs. Both had connections that interwove their social circles, referencing one or the other and in spite of the recent payment issue, time bound them. Leaving wasn’t a simple option and if anyone called that shot it was Ulysses.

Sevigny patted the hand on his shoulder, annoyed at the gesture.

“I’m not as unemployed as you think I am, Klaue.” It wasn’t entirely true, but it wasn’t a lie either. Ulysses went back to counting and the numbers tallied up on point. The debt was officially paid and they could finally move past this. He considered giving Sevigny a breather anyhow, at least until his last treatment. Acknowledging things were done, but still peeved by their conversation, the older man swirled into a golden cloud and filed out the window, disappearing. The dogs started barking again, eventually yowling into the hot night air.

He had to convert the euros into rands the following week to pay the laborers scrapping junk yards, old airfields, and such. After Sevigny’s visit, things seemed to fly by in a rush that Ulysses preferred. Christmas seemed to drive everyone’s wallets to the hellgate, leaving little for him. It depeneded on the person, but business still slowed for a little bit. Christmas wasn’t something he usually celebrated unless it was in a club with lots of alcohol and people who loved to be entertained by his wild Wakandan stories. Even then, he worked through the night to stay ahead of lowly competitors. New Year’s reminded him he was getting older, not really the start of anything new. It wasn’t like fiscal slates were wiped clean, everything either took a sharp jump or dive. It seemed after the holidays rushed in and out materials were coming back, but it still wasn’t enough.

All the mishaps going about brought on by mutant freak powers or just “gifted” individuals piled up on news stations. Conspiracy theories, high damage value, donations were strained between fixing up one city to another. Homeowners, major chains, investors of property still being built wanted to be paid out, but insurances didn’t exactly offer ‘destruction by freak-of-nature.’ He paid attention to a variety of court hearings about what to do with all the upheaval. NATO, United Nations, a variety of news channels all with their bias; at least Colbert was humorous.

Then as if a switch was flicked, things calmed down. In the back of his head, he knew it would round again. Everything was a cycle- he used this to his advantage with paranoid figures. Even with their voices changers helping them out over the lines, Ulysses always tracked down who he was dealing with. Identities weren’t safe and the finicky ones had to learn.

Can’t protect your people? Your assets? He had something for that. Don't let it be too late.

Who knows when havoc will strike again? No one does, but it still will. You should be prepared.

Some made his job easier having gone down the road with him before. He smiled with the few who rattled off orders like a take-out menu. Part way into the new year money was flowing, yet the materials were still an issue. Scrapping only got so far and mining was tricky; he had to payoff officials for raw material right out of the mines. When officials changed, he had to go through his dominating routine all over again. It took longer to cart things out of the ground than to melt them down from an already processed machine.

One client caught his attention with a collateral he could actually do something with; short range seekers for a British ship that had run its course. He'd been in the military and had access to the old ship. The potential parts to scrounge and melt would be enough to hold him over for a while. Updated designs were already swirling in his brain. The order was put, he flew to one of his warehouses in Mzambique to make sure the missiles were loaded correctly and covered from any scanners. When Ulysses oversaw things himself, workers were much less likely to make mistakes.

Like every new year, you blinked and it was halfway over. It was April’s time to tick by. The constant computer screens and scanning numbers wore him out, but he didn’t want to relax. There was never enough money coming in and he wanted more. Despite his age he was a constant noisy battery, ordering workers about if not retouching his weapons’ designs or conversing trade online or by phone. When Ulysses was finally notified the Churchill was grounded, he felt an excitement for its potential and it overwhelmed him into a rare glee. He packed up the essentials he’d need to bunker down while hauling out the ship; monitors, weapons, back up generators, waste control, and given the time it’d take he might as well stash a large portion of his vibranium. With his men, he rode in armored trucks to their new worksite overnight, watching the red sun rise over the sea. It was his personal belongings that gave him an inner conflict; not his account logs or target files, payroll or a comedic movie or two. The pictures of his last love slowed him down, he knew it. Even for him, it was hard not to bring the few he had left.

Instantaneously when he saw the inside of the ship, he felt a tringe of disappointment. He tried not to let it kill his mood, but it was nothing like he had wanted or was promised to begin with. Workers had already begun cutting into its compartments with a vigorous fear brought on by his current right hand, Yasheen. The tall dark man had an unwavering loyalty that kept through the years and the way he commanded his workers reassured Ulysses the job was done.

But the ship was shit.

His disappointment fell hard into a rage that boiled under his skin. It wasn’t long before there were public outbursts over rusted parts. He shot groups who damaged what could actually be used, accident or not. And for the next several days, he watched from his claimed office, leaning against the window with a crinkled nostril. The more they took out of the ship, the worse it became. Once again he was screwed over.

“Don’t tell me your man swindled you, I sent you six short-range heatseekers and got a boat full of rusted parts. Now, you will make it right or the next missile I send to you, will come very much faster.” He punched the line closed, switched over to a waiting caller and slightly changed his tone. He needed other work to make up for this.

“Now, minister, where were we.”

He hardly uttered the last word when the power cut out.

“Rush to a hospitaal! Gun dit!” Yasheen shouted at Limbani. How Yasheen made it out of the ship was a mystery; he was first to file in to shoot the Avengers. Ulysses stumbled out of his ship after a majority of the confrontation took place, but the tall man came back and he came back bloody. Yasheen took his remaining arm around his shoulders and loaded them both into the truck, now yelling at Limbani. The lurching of the vehicle almost made Ulysses vomit. Limbani sped across the wet sand, jumping banks and rocking their bodies hard from the impacts. Yasheen kept yelling directions in his mother tongue while he raised what was left of Ulysses’ arm to divert blood flow. It was cauterized above where his elbow should be, the very end black from charred skin and muscle. They could still feel the heat radiating from it.

Ulysses was gripping the front passenger seat hard with his remaining hand, face contorted into rage and pain as he fought his body’s screaming instinct to give into the trauma. No one grabbed the severed arm, the goddamn robot was the last to have it. Fucking Tony Stark and his creations and all his meddling comrades. Limbani hit the break hard and they all braced as the truck skid to a loud stop. Rubber burned and smoke flowed as the three stared at the destruction of trees and roads, ground turned up in craters and various other drivers caught up in the destruction.

“The hell?” Limbani muttered.

“Turn on the radio,” Ulysses seethed. Limbani fumbled the buttons until static popped, he corrected it and they listened to a live reporting of a giant green monstrosity tearing through the south-east portion of Africa and into Johannesburg. Limbani wiped his face.

“What do we-”

“FUCK!” Ulysses screamed and punched the passenger seat over and over while cursing until the headrest was bent and broken off out of his fit of rage. Yasheen warned him he’d pass out and Ulysses could feel his head growing heavy with anger and he was ready to explode. If he could it'd be enough to cover all the way back to the ship and take his enemies with him.

“HEAD TO LUDERITZ!” At his screaming Limbani scurried the clutch into reverse and spun back around, changing gears so quick they grinded loud and screeched. If the Hulk was going to destroy the city, hospitals and clinics around it were going to influx from casualties. That thing was more than capable of destroying the entire city.

“Sir...that’s a day’s flight,” Yasheen said wearily. Ulysses shook him off his wounded arm and growled.

“Make it faster.”

He passed out once on the way to Namibia and it was during takeoff; he was too lightheaded for the pressure. When they set down later that night Ulysses had a flurry of his men rushing him into a vehicle and speeding to the coastal home where his house call doctor had been waiting for hours. If he wasn’t cursing enough before he was now, as his mind processed that his arm was gone and yet somehow he could still feel it there.

His doctor, a small old man with dark skin, no hair and lentigo worked as fast and as calmly as he could. The remainder of Ulysses’ left arm was inflamed and the burnt portion needed to be cleaned and disinfected. His right was constricted with a couple IV’s; one for a drip and the other for pain killers. They weren’t working. His doctor upped the dosage and while it took away the edge Ulysses still swore he felt his fingers.

“Give him something else!” Yasheen barked. He had yet to clean the blood off his face and it stained his clothes all the way down to his shoes. The small doctor shook his head nervously.

“There is already too much in his system; he will overdose!” It still wasn’t enough and Ulysses growled in pain, his head lolling as he tried to breathe through it. Something wasn’t right about his arm because it wasn’t there anymore. It was like a fire and a hammer all in one; he kept trying to move his fingers that weren’t there. Muscles in his bicep flexed and he jolted. The doctor went to check him again, but to his shock Ulysses grabbed the small man’s neck with his right hand and squeezed. Eyes bloodshot and black curls sticking to his forehead, he tilted his head to one side as he watched the doctor choke. Old hands clasped onto Ulysses’ wrist and one of his needles was rising out of its vein. Blood trickled out in a very thin line.

“I still feel it,” he hissed. “Do something, or...” He squeezed harder. The doctor’s eyes widened and he stared up at the harsh lighting on the ceiling. Ulysses watched until there was just enough awareness in the man's eyes before letting go, watching as the doctor coughed a fit for air.  The small man backed away and asked for Yasheen’s help with the phantom limb.

“Y-you’re nerve endings are s-still sending signals to and from your arm,” he stuttered and looked between the two men. He was rubbing his throat and he strained to talk.

“To stop them, the wound must be impacted, grounded even, with a fist...it's just you’re wound is cauterized. I-it is better to wait until that heals over.” The drugs weren't working. If nerves were the problem, then everything else could heal after. Ulysses and Yasheen looked at one another, pausing. He knew Yasheen would do it, he just wanted permission because this shit was going to hurt. Ulysses couldn’t wait for the burnt site to heal to handle this; that would take at two weeks if not longer. He was doing it now.

The doctor fixed the needle in his arm and a mound of leather was found for Ulysses to bite. There was no definite routine for when the pain would stop, but he was supposed to know when he no longer felt his arm or it lessened to a bearable pain level. The doctor couldn’t say how long it would take, but Ulysses didn’t care. He didn’t want a countdown or a clock. He nodded to Yasheen to start.*

The following days Ulysses wreathed between aching pain and odd sensations. On top of that he kept up with the news and watched with bitterness at the destruction of Sokovia due to Stark and his robot toy. The doctor switched medicines until they had better results to dull his nerves. The site needed to heal from the burn. It was cleaned three times a day and wrapped in petroleum soaked bandages. The grinding somewhat worked; the pain wasn’t as intense. Instead Ulysses felt like his arm was torqued and his palm was itching. He had cramping that woke him up at night even through his drug induced sleep. It irritated the hell out of him and he was constantly cursing between languages, threatening his doctor, or yelling at helpless associates who tried to get him to eat. People started drawing straws to take care of his arm.

On top of the medicine and phantom limb, he struggled with his balance. The first time he stood up to use the bathroom on his own he leaned so far right, he hit the wall and slid down. He still wanted to keep up with his work, but every time he thought about it the rotten ship came to mind and he replayed the whole scene in his head with Ultron. His holdings were the only thing that gave him relief in the night when he lay awake, breathing through the phantom limb. A therapist was brought in to help him rebalance his gait. The old nag kept cautioning him to go slow and take it easy on too bad of a day; he pulled his gun and shot her in the hallway. Another therapist came in unwillingly, rarely spoke but corrected Ulysses where needed very, very timidly.

The doctor began other treatments to help dull his phantom limb. The injections worked for the stump pain. For the sensations he had to go through desensitization methods along with a mirror box, then fitted stump socks to help with fitting for future prosthetics.

“I don’t want Terminator looking shit,” Ulysses muttered.

“Find the best, find the latest.”

His doctor pulled in options and while they were great for any regular individual they did not last Ulysses’ rage when testing them. Nothing responded right, nothing looked right or felt right. Nothing was an appropriate arm. Nothing made him happy.

It downpoured outside and the rain whacked against the windows. Ulysses flung open the door to his office and slammed it shut, fresh blood on his bdu shirt and pants. He scratched his temple, gun still in hand. He shot the second therapist, finding no more use for him now that the prosthetics were a failure and his body had adjusted to walking. His back muscles ached from the compensation, but this was nothing to him. The room was lit by a couple of matching lamps in a couple corners of the room, bookcases lined the walls with texts. He couldn’t remember the last time he sat here and read just for the hell of it. Leisure was such a far away idea despite his new billionaire status. He couldn’t enjoy any part of it, not now.

Churchill still pissed him off and he wasn’t able to get a hold of the client responsible. Probably smart on their end, because by now instead of just fixing the trade Ulysses wanted him to suffer. He wanted to cause an insurmountable damage against the man; no one got away ripping him off. There were new contacts online that were asking him for supplies ever since Sokovia happened, but there were no materials. There was limited vibranium, not enough for anything significant for a country. He’d been out of the game for almost a month to recover. It felt longer.

He placed the gun on his desk, made himself a drink, and sat in one of the leather chairs near the light. Staring into the darkness he drank, listening to the rain, the ticking of an old clock on one of the bookshelves, and mulled. No one bothered him for a while and utterly alone he allowed a look of grief to sweep across his face gazing at the wrapped stump of his arm. He was tougher than this, he’d seen this happen many times- but it still got to him.

“The fok am I going to do for this shit,” he muttered, setting his glass down to rub his hand over his face. His eyes were glassy.

“Every single one, every single one can’t keep up with me.” He talked to himself gesturing to his arm. Something needed to withstand his force while working with his body, like an actual arm. Useful, not just for the purpose of appearing he wasn't mutilated.

“I’m better off making-” He paused for a while, then stood up quickly. He never designed a prosthetic limb before, but had an idea and it was taking shape, growing. A design or two, prototypes, final draft. Mechanical workings, wires, receptors, a port to connect- a weapon. He yanked his phone out from his back pocket in an odd manner, almost fumbling it. It hardly finished its first ring before being answered.

“Sir?” Limbani answered.

“Pack a bag, we're going to Germany.”

“Yes boss.”

In a hurry, Ulysses changed clothes and grabbed a premade carrier bag and hauled it over his good shoulder. He barked at a few men whilst leaving, some of them lining at the house and others hopping into the truck he was taking. Limbani was at the driver’s seat adjusting the rearview mirror. From the driveway Ulysses directed attention to his doctor, who was in the middle of smoking a cigarette with a shaky hand. He stared nervously at Ulysses, a look that was terrified and expected a kill order.

“Pay that man and send him home,” Ulysses shouted with a smile. His mood had lifted and the timid old guy did treat him after all. What was left over of his condition Ulysses could take care of himself. Limbani drove off the property and through the coastal town, the rain lifting the closer they got to the airfield. This time Ulysses sat in the co-pilot seat with his workman, a couple of his hirees sat in the back. Taking off, Ulysses was giddy with his new idea and couldn’t wait to start his first prototype for his arm. More than an arm, something more useful. Maybe because he was so doped earlier up he couldn’t think clearly, but now cogs were turning and his head was loud.

*I had a psychology professor in college, Dr. Dreary, who had to interview an amputee in a clinic ward about five, maybe six decades ago. The man complained his limb hurt even though it wasn't there- I don't remember if it was the leg or arm. My professor watched in horror as a nurse repeatedly ground her fist into the man's stub despite his agony until he was relieved from the pain. At the time other methods weren't available to him.