What Good May Come: Chapter 2, Overcast
Title: What Good May Come: Chapter 2, Overcast
Authors: cdiar & flyingrat42
Rating: PG
Characters: Dan Dreiberg (Sam Hollis) & Jonathan Sinclair
Word count: 2500+
Summary: It's 1993 and Adrian has contracted a fatal illness. Dan converses with Adrian's physician about his condition.
Author notes: Sorry it took so long to update. More is coming very soon.
Prequel: Boundaries
Chapter 1: Nightmares Await
Chapter 2: Overcast
Chapter 3: Reunion
Chapter 4: Vicissitude
Chapter 5: Routine
Playlist
True to the doctor's exact description, an undistinguished but well-appointed car pulls up in front of the Hollis household precisely at 5 AM the next morning. The driver, a fresh-faced young man (some kind of Veidt employee, no doubt, or just someone hired for the day) greets Mr. Hollis with a smile and takes his bag to load it, before telling him that they'll be heading to the local airport where there's a plane waiting.
Sam had spent so much of the night tossing and turning that when he's faced with such bright chipperness, it makes his mood plummet even further. He is none too pleased with the circumstances, and opts to keep his mouth shut on the way to the airport. The driver makes few comments, likely having ascertained that Sam isn't in the mood for chit-chat. His passenger at least gives a polite, albeit stiff, thank you before exiting the car.
The plane is a small private jet, also without identifying markings, but the subtle purple threads running through the upholstery leave no doubt as to its ownership. If the jet had been at all over the top, if it had had a stark purple and gold V on the side or had been decked out with his merchandise, Sam might have changed his mind about this whole thing, told them where to stick it, and gone home.
As he comes aboard, the sole occupant of the cabin stands and turns. He's dressed in shirt-sleeves, no tie, and is somewhere in middle-age, a few gray strands in his surprisingly thick brown hair. His expression is keenly appraising and his movements are decisive as he comes forward, a hand outstretched. "Mr. Hollis? I'm Jonathan Sinclair. Thank you again for coming."
That knowing look that Sinclair gives Sam is the most unnerving part of the lot of i, and he almost fails to take his hand. "So, what do you need me for?" Sam asks, getting right down to business, taking his hand away and shoving it into his pocket.
Sinclair hesitates only slightly at this but his no-nonsense manner soon returns as he gestures for Sam to take a seat and resumes his own. Sam sits as he is instructed, arms crossed low over his chest as he stares at the doctor with a blank look. They're interrupted by the query of whether they're ready for takeoff and they buckle in. Sinclair leans back and laces his fingers together, his expression unreadable, while Sam peers out the window as they take off.
"Mr. Hollis, let me tell you about myself. I am a neurologist and I have been working with Mr. Veidt for approximately thirteen years now. My present reason for contacting you is entirely that of a doctor concerned for the well-being of his patient.”
Sam continues to stare out the window as he listens and nods, though he remains silent, waiting for the doctor finish, not wanting to interrupt with his questions and doubts as to how or why he is needed.
“Let me be clear,” Sinclair says with a faint but humorless smile and then he continues, briskly, “that I know very little about you and your acquaintance with Adrian Veidt-- and anything you choose to tell me about that subject is entirely your own business. I will not pry."
Sam looks up at what the doctor believes to be reassuring words concerning his anonymity. Let me be clear that I'm inclined to not believe anything you tell me, he wants to say, but for the sake of keeping his guard up and not being obvious, he ought to his mouth shut. Ought to. "For you to say so makes you out to be dishonest," Sam murmurs, instead, not calling the doctor a liar outright, but to make his distrust known.
Sinclair catches Sam's comment and his eyes narrow for a moment, not as schooled as his employer, evidently, at hiding his reactions. He pauses before reaching down into the document case at his side and withdrawing a legal folder, which he places on the table in front of him. "There are some things that I have been forced to take at face value," he says. "This is one of them." He opens to a page and pushes it towards Sam for him to peruse. He takes it and pulls it into his lap, looking over the documents.
It's dated the year previous, a section of what appears to be either a legal document or a detailed series of instructions-- perhaps both, knowing Adrian. Two-thirds of the way down the page is a list of names headed by:
In the event of my incapacitation due to-- and a blank follows-- the following persons, and those whom they designate, are to be allowed access to my person and shall share authority to make decisions on my care:
Then follows a short list of names, the final one familiar-- Mr. Samuel Mason Hollis-- and annotated with a sentence in Adrian's clear, looping handwriting: Mr. Hollis' privacy is to be guaranteed at all costs. The last three words are underlined.
Sam’s mouth pulls into a tight, thin line as he reads it, not certain what he should make of this stake of authority, though his eyes move over it more carefully when he sees his name. He takes a deep breath and then sighs, some of his tension going with it to leave him weary and raw.
He keeps his eyes low, placing the folder back on the table. "I don't know what good you expect me to do, Doctor. Adrian and I..." His voice trails off as he thinks back to the last time he saw Adrian, when Sam had threatened to kill him for coming near his family, and the time before that, Nite Owl turning his back on Ozymandias as he left him behind in the snow.
He looks up after a moment and asks gently, "How bad is he?"
Sinclair has taken off his thin-rimmed glasses, cleaning them as Sam reads, watching him silently the whole time. He folds the glasses and sets them on the table with a faint click. "Physically, he's long out of danger and well on the road to recovery," he says. "However, encephalitis is a funny disease." Another one of those fleeting, ironic smiles. "I mean that it has insidious effects beyond the purely physical: changes in thought processes, emotional response and volatility, the like. All of these take time, patience and rest to resolve."
The doctor sits back in his seat and reaches for a water glass, but his eyes hold Sam's. "Mr. Veidt is having difficulty allowing himself that kind of reprieve and, short of taking drastic measures, I find myself at a loss as to how to get him through this." It's said quietly but with regret-- that of a scientist stumped by a puzzle but tinged unmistakably with actual care.
Sam listens with obvious interest, stroking his chin with the tip of his finger, wincing visibly as Sinclair describes it. "Jesus. Adrian must feel like he's losing his mind."
Sinclair merely gives a small nod, as if confirming Sam's assessment. "Hence why I took the liberty of calling you, at the risk of your privacy. Over the legal advisers' wishes, I might add, although there's nothing to worry about there," he adds with a dismissive shrug.
Sam runs a hand through his hair and sits back, slouching in his seat and looking out the window as he thinks for a long, hard moment. "I... I don't know what to tell you, Doc," he says, almost conversationally, as if they're old acquaintances catching up, reminiscing. "Adrian and I," he begins again, finish what he failed to before, "we're not friends. Quite the opposite, in fact. Seeing me may upset him more than help him. I know it would me, were I in his shoes." He gives Sinclair a sympathetic look, the first crack in the facade.
Sinclair waits and listens, finally exhaling as a fleeting look of disappointment crosses his face. “Ah. I see." He looks out the window himself at the landscape now passing far below, the first time he's looked at a real loss. His fingers twitch as his lips purse in consideration. "I... Don't know how long this particular situation has stood but as you well know, I imagine, Mr. Veidt puts great care into everything he does." Sinclair gestures to the paper, Sam's name plain upon it.
"If you wish, I'll tell the pilot to turn around and once you step off this plane you will never hear from me again." The voice and face are once again closed, unreadable; Sinclair is obviously debating whether or not to order such a thing himself, over whatever mysterious wishes his employer might have expressed. It's clear that he won't tolerate any active malice on Sam's part but he hesitates, the sympathy having made its impression.
Guilt settles deep in Sam's chest and he frowns, frustrated with himself and the changing tide of his emotions. He will not be guilted into this. He can't be. He owes Adrian nothing, his sympathy, his time, nothing. But he’s beginning to think that this is not what he originally thought it was and the good doctor is sincere in his requests and in his failure, he can tell. Sinclair wouldn't have come himself if this wasn't of the utmost urgency, neither would Adrian have included Sam as one of the few who were allowed access to him in such a situation.
Sam stares at the folder on the table between their seats, a dozen conflicting emotions coloring his expression as he considers the various circumstances contributing to his being here. He has made his decision, taken the precautions; his family is no longer in danger, his assets all carefully encrypted and reserved as of last night, and he is already here...
"I said I would come and I've made it this far," Sam says finally, peering over at Sinclair, justifying just as much to himself as the man responsible for his presence. "And I don’t want to waste your time. We may as well see this through. My name is on that list for a reason after all."
He takes pause and his brow furrows, unwavering. "I want it understood, however, that I'm not here out of any favor to him. And that even if things pan out the way you hope, I may very well leave again this evening."
Sinclair considers, then nods, once. "That's fair enough, Mr. Hollis. I do appreciate your willingness to go out on a limb, here."
"I wasn't going to," Sam tells him sternly but his gaze wavers and he looks down, adding quietly, "yet here I am." He can't quite pinpoint why but he'll let it go for now.
Another of those quick flashes of a smile from Sinclair. "I suppose there's the risk that I might be accused of malpractice for something like this or find myself out of a job. Still." Sinclair shrugs, dismissively, and presses the call button to ask for another glass of water.
Sam raises his brow at the doctor’s words. "He's really so bad that you’re losing hope?" That he needed to call him?
The doctor's tone is guarded. "Calling you wasn't my last option but I felt it was better than some of the alternatives." He sighs and shifts, crossing one leg over the other and brushing some invisible dust off his trousers. "I was hoping that he might listen to someone he trusts, before I need to start making other decisions for him."
Someone he trusts... Sam makes a face. "So, what other options are there?" he asks, curious.
"Other options... If his behavior is truly representing a threat to his well-being, I can have him declared temporarily incapacitated and medicated against his will. For many reasons, I prefer not to do that unless absolutely necessary."
Sam winces as the doctor explains, the mere thought being awful enough as it is. That it has to do with Adrian still doesn't soften that particular blow. "Well, we wouldn't want that. The world would practically end without him," he says this last with bitterness on his tongue.
"He certainly thinks so," Sinclair says dryly and looks away, out the window. "He's pushed himself too hard, these past few years, if you ask me.”
He almost smiles at Sinclair's no-nonsense tone, simply imagining how insufferable Adrian must be. "Yeah, he's been pretty busy since..." he gestures mildly, unwilling to finish the sentence. Since everything changed.
“Not that he'd listen to anyone who told him so-- it's all-or-nothing, to him." The doctor sighs, shaking his head.
"Yeah, I know. Trust me."
As they continue through the air, Sinclair goes on to explain, briefly, how he came to know Adrian Veidt, how he met the magnate at a conference on neurolinguistics back in 1979 and how they'd discussed the latest developments. Sinclair had made an off-hand comment about being interested in finding out just how unique Veidt’s brain was. Adrian had looked him up and down for a few moments, then smiled and offered him the chance.
Since then, they met periodically to run tests, discuss research, and generally “keep me ticking along smoothly," as Adrian had put it, although Sinclair chuckles and admits that his testing-- all of which Adrian had passed with flying colors-- has really had very little to do with that.
"And then this happened and it's no longer his cognitive abilities that I'm concerned about."
Sam listens attentively as he peers out the window, growing closer and closer to their destination. He glances up as Sinclair finishes, nods conversationally. "So you and Adrian have been pretty close as associates? He and I never were."
Sinclair eyes Sam keenly, perhaps indicating that he does know, or at least suspects, more than he's let on. He shrugs. "I wouldn't exactly call us close-- Cordial, is more like it." Another shift in his seat, and the neurologist sips from his glass.
Sam holds the doctor’s gaze, recognizing what he sees there, though he finds it comforting that the doctor wont ask him. "We worked together occasionally. But once he retired I rarely saw him." He gives Sinclair a look, daring him to say anything. Sam is still a very large, strong man; he may never have ever been very threatening himself, but his alter ego... Well, that’s another story.
Sinclair looks Sam-- Dan Dreiberg, the former second Nite Owl-- full in the eyes, then, and nods. "Ah," he says softly. "I thought that might have been the case."
Sam smirks, almost enjoying the vagueness of their conversation and calls for a water of his own, his mouth suddenly dry. "You said this will be private. No paparazzi around to see me?" He raises his brows, needing to know. "I've worked very hard to let the world forget about me. My family's safety depends on it."
"No paparazzi." Sinclair matches Sam's smirk with one of his own, replacing his glasses. "We're very serious about security as you can well imagine. We're actually headed to Long Island." It transpires that Adrian owns a small estate out there, which is generally agreed to be a better option right now than Veidt Central in the city. "In any case, you may rest assured that you and your family's privacy will be absolutely respected."
"Good. Thank you." Sam nods appreciatively, finally beginning to feel at ease, then looks out the window. "How long til we land?"
Authors: cdiar & flyingrat42
Rating: PG
Characters: Dan Dreiberg (Sam Hollis) & Jonathan Sinclair
Word count: 2500+
Summary: It's 1993 and Adrian has contracted a fatal illness. Dan converses with Adrian's physician about his condition.
Author notes: Sorry it took so long to update. More is coming very soon.
Prequel: Boundaries
Chapter 1: Nightmares Await
Chapter 2: Overcast
Chapter 3: Reunion
Chapter 4: Vicissitude
Chapter 5: Routine
Playlist
True to the doctor's exact description, an undistinguished but well-appointed car pulls up in front of the Hollis household precisely at 5 AM the next morning. The driver, a fresh-faced young man (some kind of Veidt employee, no doubt, or just someone hired for the day) greets Mr. Hollis with a smile and takes his bag to load it, before telling him that they'll be heading to the local airport where there's a plane waiting.
Sam had spent so much of the night tossing and turning that when he's faced with such bright chipperness, it makes his mood plummet even further. He is none too pleased with the circumstances, and opts to keep his mouth shut on the way to the airport. The driver makes few comments, likely having ascertained that Sam isn't in the mood for chit-chat. His passenger at least gives a polite, albeit stiff, thank you before exiting the car.
The plane is a small private jet, also without identifying markings, but the subtle purple threads running through the upholstery leave no doubt as to its ownership. If the jet had been at all over the top, if it had had a stark purple and gold V on the side or had been decked out with his merchandise, Sam might have changed his mind about this whole thing, told them where to stick it, and gone home.
As he comes aboard, the sole occupant of the cabin stands and turns. He's dressed in shirt-sleeves, no tie, and is somewhere in middle-age, a few gray strands in his surprisingly thick brown hair. His expression is keenly appraising and his movements are decisive as he comes forward, a hand outstretched. "Mr. Hollis? I'm Jonathan Sinclair. Thank you again for coming."
That knowing look that Sinclair gives Sam is the most unnerving part of the lot of i, and he almost fails to take his hand. "So, what do you need me for?" Sam asks, getting right down to business, taking his hand away and shoving it into his pocket.
Sinclair hesitates only slightly at this but his no-nonsense manner soon returns as he gestures for Sam to take a seat and resumes his own. Sam sits as he is instructed, arms crossed low over his chest as he stares at the doctor with a blank look. They're interrupted by the query of whether they're ready for takeoff and they buckle in. Sinclair leans back and laces his fingers together, his expression unreadable, while Sam peers out the window as they take off.
"Mr. Hollis, let me tell you about myself. I am a neurologist and I have been working with Mr. Veidt for approximately thirteen years now. My present reason for contacting you is entirely that of a doctor concerned for the well-being of his patient.”
Sam continues to stare out the window as he listens and nods, though he remains silent, waiting for the doctor finish, not wanting to interrupt with his questions and doubts as to how or why he is needed.
“Let me be clear,” Sinclair says with a faint but humorless smile and then he continues, briskly, “that I know very little about you and your acquaintance with Adrian Veidt-- and anything you choose to tell me about that subject is entirely your own business. I will not pry."
Sam looks up at what the doctor believes to be reassuring words concerning his anonymity. Let me be clear that I'm inclined to not believe anything you tell me, he wants to say, but for the sake of keeping his guard up and not being obvious, he ought to his mouth shut. Ought to. "For you to say so makes you out to be dishonest," Sam murmurs, instead, not calling the doctor a liar outright, but to make his distrust known.
Sinclair catches Sam's comment and his eyes narrow for a moment, not as schooled as his employer, evidently, at hiding his reactions. He pauses before reaching down into the document case at his side and withdrawing a legal folder, which he places on the table in front of him. "There are some things that I have been forced to take at face value," he says. "This is one of them." He opens to a page and pushes it towards Sam for him to peruse. He takes it and pulls it into his lap, looking over the documents.
It's dated the year previous, a section of what appears to be either a legal document or a detailed series of instructions-- perhaps both, knowing Adrian. Two-thirds of the way down the page is a list of names headed by:
In the event of my incapacitation due to-- and a blank follows-- the following persons, and those whom they designate, are to be allowed access to my person and shall share authority to make decisions on my care:
Then follows a short list of names, the final one familiar-- Mr. Samuel Mason Hollis-- and annotated with a sentence in Adrian's clear, looping handwriting: Mr. Hollis' privacy is to be guaranteed at all costs. The last three words are underlined.
Sam’s mouth pulls into a tight, thin line as he reads it, not certain what he should make of this stake of authority, though his eyes move over it more carefully when he sees his name. He takes a deep breath and then sighs, some of his tension going with it to leave him weary and raw.
He keeps his eyes low, placing the folder back on the table. "I don't know what good you expect me to do, Doctor. Adrian and I..." His voice trails off as he thinks back to the last time he saw Adrian, when Sam had threatened to kill him for coming near his family, and the time before that, Nite Owl turning his back on Ozymandias as he left him behind in the snow.
He looks up after a moment and asks gently, "How bad is he?"
Sinclair has taken off his thin-rimmed glasses, cleaning them as Sam reads, watching him silently the whole time. He folds the glasses and sets them on the table with a faint click. "Physically, he's long out of danger and well on the road to recovery," he says. "However, encephalitis is a funny disease." Another one of those fleeting, ironic smiles. "I mean that it has insidious effects beyond the purely physical: changes in thought processes, emotional response and volatility, the like. All of these take time, patience and rest to resolve."
The doctor sits back in his seat and reaches for a water glass, but his eyes hold Sam's. "Mr. Veidt is having difficulty allowing himself that kind of reprieve and, short of taking drastic measures, I find myself at a loss as to how to get him through this." It's said quietly but with regret-- that of a scientist stumped by a puzzle but tinged unmistakably with actual care.
Sam listens with obvious interest, stroking his chin with the tip of his finger, wincing visibly as Sinclair describes it. "Jesus. Adrian must feel like he's losing his mind."
Sinclair merely gives a small nod, as if confirming Sam's assessment. "Hence why I took the liberty of calling you, at the risk of your privacy. Over the legal advisers' wishes, I might add, although there's nothing to worry about there," he adds with a dismissive shrug.
Sam runs a hand through his hair and sits back, slouching in his seat and looking out the window as he thinks for a long, hard moment. "I... I don't know what to tell you, Doc," he says, almost conversationally, as if they're old acquaintances catching up, reminiscing. "Adrian and I," he begins again, finish what he failed to before, "we're not friends. Quite the opposite, in fact. Seeing me may upset him more than help him. I know it would me, were I in his shoes." He gives Sinclair a sympathetic look, the first crack in the facade.
Sinclair waits and listens, finally exhaling as a fleeting look of disappointment crosses his face. “Ah. I see." He looks out the window himself at the landscape now passing far below, the first time he's looked at a real loss. His fingers twitch as his lips purse in consideration. "I... Don't know how long this particular situation has stood but as you well know, I imagine, Mr. Veidt puts great care into everything he does." Sinclair gestures to the paper, Sam's name plain upon it.
"If you wish, I'll tell the pilot to turn around and once you step off this plane you will never hear from me again." The voice and face are once again closed, unreadable; Sinclair is obviously debating whether or not to order such a thing himself, over whatever mysterious wishes his employer might have expressed. It's clear that he won't tolerate any active malice on Sam's part but he hesitates, the sympathy having made its impression.
Guilt settles deep in Sam's chest and he frowns, frustrated with himself and the changing tide of his emotions. He will not be guilted into this. He can't be. He owes Adrian nothing, his sympathy, his time, nothing. But he’s beginning to think that this is not what he originally thought it was and the good doctor is sincere in his requests and in his failure, he can tell. Sinclair wouldn't have come himself if this wasn't of the utmost urgency, neither would Adrian have included Sam as one of the few who were allowed access to him in such a situation.
Sam stares at the folder on the table between their seats, a dozen conflicting emotions coloring his expression as he considers the various circumstances contributing to his being here. He has made his decision, taken the precautions; his family is no longer in danger, his assets all carefully encrypted and reserved as of last night, and he is already here...
"I said I would come and I've made it this far," Sam says finally, peering over at Sinclair, justifying just as much to himself as the man responsible for his presence. "And I don’t want to waste your time. We may as well see this through. My name is on that list for a reason after all."
He takes pause and his brow furrows, unwavering. "I want it understood, however, that I'm not here out of any favor to him. And that even if things pan out the way you hope, I may very well leave again this evening."
Sinclair considers, then nods, once. "That's fair enough, Mr. Hollis. I do appreciate your willingness to go out on a limb, here."
"I wasn't going to," Sam tells him sternly but his gaze wavers and he looks down, adding quietly, "yet here I am." He can't quite pinpoint why but he'll let it go for now.
Another of those quick flashes of a smile from Sinclair. "I suppose there's the risk that I might be accused of malpractice for something like this or find myself out of a job. Still." Sinclair shrugs, dismissively, and presses the call button to ask for another glass of water.
Sam raises his brow at the doctor’s words. "He's really so bad that you’re losing hope?" That he needed to call him?
The doctor's tone is guarded. "Calling you wasn't my last option but I felt it was better than some of the alternatives." He sighs and shifts, crossing one leg over the other and brushing some invisible dust off his trousers. "I was hoping that he might listen to someone he trusts, before I need to start making other decisions for him."
Someone he trusts... Sam makes a face. "So, what other options are there?" he asks, curious.
"Other options... If his behavior is truly representing a threat to his well-being, I can have him declared temporarily incapacitated and medicated against his will. For many reasons, I prefer not to do that unless absolutely necessary."
Sam winces as the doctor explains, the mere thought being awful enough as it is. That it has to do with Adrian still doesn't soften that particular blow. "Well, we wouldn't want that. The world would practically end without him," he says this last with bitterness on his tongue.
"He certainly thinks so," Sinclair says dryly and looks away, out the window. "He's pushed himself too hard, these past few years, if you ask me.”
He almost smiles at Sinclair's no-nonsense tone, simply imagining how insufferable Adrian must be. "Yeah, he's been pretty busy since..." he gestures mildly, unwilling to finish the sentence. Since everything changed.
“Not that he'd listen to anyone who told him so-- it's all-or-nothing, to him." The doctor sighs, shaking his head.
"Yeah, I know. Trust me."
As they continue through the air, Sinclair goes on to explain, briefly, how he came to know Adrian Veidt, how he met the magnate at a conference on neurolinguistics back in 1979 and how they'd discussed the latest developments. Sinclair had made an off-hand comment about being interested in finding out just how unique Veidt’s brain was. Adrian had looked him up and down for a few moments, then smiled and offered him the chance.
Since then, they met periodically to run tests, discuss research, and generally “keep me ticking along smoothly," as Adrian had put it, although Sinclair chuckles and admits that his testing-- all of which Adrian had passed with flying colors-- has really had very little to do with that.
"And then this happened and it's no longer his cognitive abilities that I'm concerned about."
Sam listens attentively as he peers out the window, growing closer and closer to their destination. He glances up as Sinclair finishes, nods conversationally. "So you and Adrian have been pretty close as associates? He and I never were."
Sinclair eyes Sam keenly, perhaps indicating that he does know, or at least suspects, more than he's let on. He shrugs. "I wouldn't exactly call us close-- Cordial, is more like it." Another shift in his seat, and the neurologist sips from his glass.
Sam holds the doctor’s gaze, recognizing what he sees there, though he finds it comforting that the doctor wont ask him. "We worked together occasionally. But once he retired I rarely saw him." He gives Sinclair a look, daring him to say anything. Sam is still a very large, strong man; he may never have ever been very threatening himself, but his alter ego... Well, that’s another story.
Sinclair looks Sam-- Dan Dreiberg, the former second Nite Owl-- full in the eyes, then, and nods. "Ah," he says softly. "I thought that might have been the case."
Sam smirks, almost enjoying the vagueness of their conversation and calls for a water of his own, his mouth suddenly dry. "You said this will be private. No paparazzi around to see me?" He raises his brows, needing to know. "I've worked very hard to let the world forget about me. My family's safety depends on it."
"No paparazzi." Sinclair matches Sam's smirk with one of his own, replacing his glasses. "We're very serious about security as you can well imagine. We're actually headed to Long Island." It transpires that Adrian owns a small estate out there, which is generally agreed to be a better option right now than Veidt Central in the city. "In any case, you may rest assured that you and your family's privacy will be absolutely respected."
"Good. Thank you." Sam nods appreciatively, finally beginning to feel at ease, then looks out the window. "How long til we land?"