The next morning, the Los Angeles sun was a brilliant, blinding gold.
I stood in my driveway, wearing a fitted white t-shirt and dark jeans, the sleeves rolled up to expose my forearms. The microbot swarm was still dormant in the basement. The Aegis ring was still sitting on the kitchen counter.
I was currently leaning over the open hood of the Mustang, using a standard steel wrench to adjust the tension on the hard-light holographic projector that masked the zero-point reactor. It was a mundane, dirty task. A smear of dark grease marked my left knuckle.
'Grounding,' I thought, feeling the satisfying, mechanical click of the wrench.
"Arthur! Arthur, thank god you're outside!"
I paused, pulling my head out from under the hood.
Claire Dunphy was jogging across the street, carrying what looked like the mangled remains of a high-end espresso machine. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, and she had a smear of coffee grounds across her cheek. She looked like she had been awake since 4 AM and had fought a minor war in her kitchen.
"Morning, Claire," I said, wiping my greasy hand on a red shop rag and resting my hip against the fender of the car. "Casualties in the Dunphy household?"
"Phil," Claire gasped, coming to a halt at the edge of my driveway, holding the machine out like a peace offering. "He watched a documentary on artisanal coffee roasting last night. He decided our machine wasn't 'extracting the soul of the bean.' He took it apart with a screwdriver, couldn't put it back together, and now I have the PTA coming over in an hour and no way to make coffee.
Tell me you know how to fix this. Please. I will name my next child after you."
I looked at the disassembled machine in her hands. Wires were sticking out, the pressure valve was backward, and the water reservoir was completely detached.
I let out a soft chuckle, stepping forward and taking the heavy machine from her hands effortlessly.
"You don't need to name any children after me, Claire. I've got it."
I didn't invite her inside to the sterile fortress. I just set the espresso machine down on the clean concrete edge of my garage floor, crouched down, and went to work.
Claire hovered over my shoulder, the frantic, high-strung energy radiating off her in waves. I could smell the cortisol, the sharp tang of stress sweat, and the underlying scent of her vanilla shampoo.
"I just don't understand why he can't leave things alone," Claire muttered, crossing her arms and pacing a tight circle on the driveway. "It worked perfectly fine! But no, it has to be an 'experience.' Everything has to be a magic trick or a science experiment. And I'm the one who has to clean up the mess when the smoke clears."
"He just wants to make things special," I said smoothly, my bare hands moving with blinding, superhuman precision.
I didn't use tools. I simply pressed the misaligned copper pressure valve back into place, using a fraction of my enhanced strength to perfectly reseat the threading without stripping the metal. I reconnected the wiring harness, pushing the pins together with a satisfying snap.
"I know he does," Claire sighed, the anger draining out of her, leaving behind pure exhaustion.
She stopped pacing and stepped closer, looking down at me as I worked.
She paused.
Her gaze dropped from the espresso machine to the dense, corded muscles of my forearms shifting under the skin as I easily manipulated the heavy metal parts. I could hear the sudden, microscopic shift in her breathing. The frantic pacing stopped completely.
"You're very... calm," Claire murmured, her voice losing its neurotic edge, dropping into something softer, something incredibly vulnerable. "Whenever I come over here, it's just... quiet. Nothing is breaking. Nothing is on fire."
"I like to keep my environment controlled," I said, snapping the outer casing of the machine back into place and locking the water reservoir down. I stood up in one smooth, fluid motion, lifting the fully assembled, perfectly repaired machine and handing it back to her.
"It's done," I told her, holding her gaze. "The pressure valve was backward. It'll brew perfectly now."
Claire took the machine, but she didn't immediately step back. She stood there on my driveway, the morning sun catching the gold in her hair. She looked at the grease on my knuckle, then up at my face. The absolute, towering security I projected wrapped around her like a heavy, weighted blanket. Her heart rate slowed down, settling into a deep, rhythmic thud.
She felt safe.
"Thank you, Arthur," she whispered, her eyes lingering on mine for a second too long before she blinked, suddenly remembering herself. She took a step back, her cheeks flushing a light shade of pink. "I... I should get back. The PTA. The coffee."
"Breathe, Claire," I offered a warm, grounding smile. "You've got this."
She let out a shaky, genuine laugh, looking significantly lighter. "Yeah. I do. Thanks again."
I watched her walk back across the street, shaking my head with a quiet smile.
'Comfort after the conflict,' I mused, turning back to the Mustang.
Before I could pick up my wrench, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out.
Incoming Call: Richard Hendricks
I swiped the screen and brought the phone to my ear.
"Arthur Hastings," I answered, my tone shifting instantly from the warm neighbor to the apex predator of the corporate world.
"Arthur! Hi! Oh god, it's Richard. Richard Hendricks. From Pied Piper?" His voice was a frantic, hyperventilating squeak through the speaker. "Listen, we have a massive problem. Hooli just sent us a cease and desist. Gavin Belson is claiming he owns the underlying architecture of my compression algorithm because I used a Hooli-issued laptop to write three lines of code two years ago! He's going to sue us into the ground. He's going to take everything!"
Richard was spiraling, the panic completely overtaking his logic.
I didn't raise my voice. I didn't match his panic. I just leaned against the vibranium chassis of my car, looking out over the quiet, sunlit suburban street.
"Richard," I said, my voice an absolute, impenetrable wall of ice.
He stopped mid-hyperventilation. "Y-yes?"
"Breathe." I commanded softly. "You don't work in a garage anymore. You belong to Hastings Innovations now. Gavin Belson isn't going to take your code. He isn't going to take your company. By noon today, my lawyers are going to make him wish he never learned how to read."
"You... you can do that?" Richard asked, the sheer relief in his voice palpable.
"I can do whatever I want," I replied smoothly. "Go back to writing your code, Richard. I'll handle the rest."
I hung up the phone.
I looked down at my bare hands. I didn't need nanites to fight this war. I had an empire.
"Atlas," I said aloud to the empty driveway, the phone still in my hand.
"Yes, Arthur?" The AI's voice chimed perfectly through the phone's speaker.
"Call Harvey Specter. Tell him Gavin Belson just declared war on my property. Tell Harvey to take him apart."