Kingdom: The Complete Series (57 page)

“
Because
you'll destroy anything and anyone that refuses to comply.”

“
Yes.”

Mark shakes his head.
“And then after Glasgow; the world, right?”

“
It
would be selfish to restrict my abilities to one small city when the world is
such a big place, Mark.”

“
And
when you have the world... then what? Just sit on your throne all day and
administrate?”

“
I
don't want power for the sake of power,” the King sighs. “Humanity has stalled
– we don't shoot for the stars anymore, we're content to sit in our comfort zone,
to vegetate on our computers and dream, but we never
chase
those
dreams.”

“
You're
talking about inflicting a nightmare on the people.”

“
I'm
talking, Mark, about dragging this entire world into the future whether it
wants to come with me or not. With our minds, our passion and ingenuity, we
should be building hotels on Mars. We shouldn't be relying on oil economies –
hell, we shouldn't even be using paper in this day and age. Where are the cures
for cancer? The pill that stops aging? Why are the masses letting the corrupt
few decide what to spend the money on? We could do so much if only we weren't
afraid
of what we're capable of. Mark: I am going to give humanity its full
potential, and I don't care how reluctant or afraid it is. Is that really a
nightmare? Or are you afraid too?”

“
I'm
not afraid of making the world a better place.”

“
Then
why haven't you done it?”

“
Well
shit,” whispers Mark, turning to the King, “I tried, but somebody bankrupted me
and tried to have me killed for my trouble.”

“
That
was before your power. What good have you really done with your strength?”

“
Well
there was that time I punched a malevolent alien force to death?”

“
And
since? You're so hell-bent on stopping me; you could have rebuilt your Gardens
ten times over with your own bare hands in the time you've wasted.”

Mark looks up into the
rain.

“
Fine.
But if you go ahead with the Kingdom, all of the people in this city are going
to die in a nuclear firestorm. How is that, in any way, good?”

“
A
small sacrifice for the cause. Once the world sees that force is useless
against me, they'll begin to get used to my constant presence. Imagine the
difference; no country would declare war upon another. I would simply walk into
their political centre and kill the leaders. No more war, Mark. I'd have wiped
out one of humanity's most fervent plagues. In a week, I can end world
conflict.”

Mark is staring at him
in the rain. “You tell me I can't punch my problems away, then plan to do the
same. You'd let Glasgow get nuked so you can play god?”

“
Yes.
I'm fairly sure I'd survive the blast, and it would let the world know that I
truly cannot be stopped. The Agency would be accountable for the deaths, not
me. I stand only to benefit.”

“
But
Glasgow is your city,” says Mark. “Your home.”

“
Was.
This city is a husk of what it used to be.”

“
That's
not anybody's fault.”

“
No,
it's not. But if the Agency want to tear it down to spite me, let them. I'll
simply walk to the nearest city, and begin my Kingdom there. Glasgow is just
one of thousands of possible Kingdoms. One day, all cities will be.”

“
And
the people? They don't mean anything to you?”

“
There
are seven billion people on earth, Mark. How many die every day? The universe
won't notice a few thousand deaths. And the end result will be the same; the
world will unite behind me, and we'll push forward into the future. One day,
this will be a bad memory, and they'll thank me.”

“
They'll
never love you, though. Will they?”

“
Is
that
your
plan?” he sneers. “Earn their respect and affection, then
inspire
them to do great things?”

“
Well,
yeah. Lead by example.”

“
And
what about the corrupt? The cruel? They won't give a damn about your 'example'.
I can control them; I can make good men out of criminals.”

“
There'll
always be people like that. You can't just terrify seven billion people into
going against human nature. They'll follow you out of fear – they'll respect
you out of obligation, out of necessity. Love isn't born in a cage, King, it
has to be given freely. And nobody will give you anything freely; you're going
to have to take it.”

“
Then
take it I will.”

Thunder breaks on the
horizon, illuminating the steeples of the churches in the west end. Mark puts
his hands in his pockets and turns to the King one last time.

“
Look,
I've tried to talk you out of doing this, but we both know that you're not
going to listen.”

“
Would
you?”

“
Of
course not. So I'm just going to level with you, then I'm going to leave.”

“
Ok.
Go for it.”

The King meets his
gaze, and Mark takes a deep breath.

“
I've
figured out how to beat you. I can't tell you in case you find a way to
counteract it, but I can assure you: it's doable.”

“
You'll
do what a nuclear detonation can't, eh?”

“
Yeah,”
says Mark, staring the King in his bottomless eyes. “I'm telling you now –
begging you – to stop this madness, before I have to follow through with it.”

“
Sounds
like an empty threat, Mark.”

“
I
wish it was. You've got three days to stand down and hand yourself over to the
Agency.”

The King laughs. “Or
what? You can't hurt me, Mark. There's nothing you can do to stop me.”

Mark steps in close,
till his forehead is almost touching the King's.

“
If
you don't comply,” he whispers through the rain, “then I will inflict upon you
a fate so severe, so horrifying, that I am
begging
you not to make me do
it. Consider that for a moment. I don't want to do it. But I will. If you make
me: I will.”

The King holds his
burning gaze.

“
What
if I don't believe you?”

“
Then
you're going to feel like an idiot in three days.”

The King smirks. Mark
shakes his head and walks away, lifting his soaking jacket from the ground.
Holding it in one hand, he stalks off into the rain.

“
I
love our little philosophy debates, Mark,” shouts the King.

“
Three
days,” shouts Mark. “Counting from sunrise.”

There's a deep boom as
Mark leaps into the air, leaving the King alone at the solitary grave.

When Mark returns to
the safehouse, the entire squad is gathered around Chloe's computer bank,
watching something.

“
Mark,”
says Stacy as she looks up. “You're home. How did it go?”

“
You
weren't listening over the phone-thing?”

“
Well,
yeah.”

“
Then
you know how it went.” He takes off his soaking t-shirt and tosses it onto his
camp bed, pulling on a fresh one as he ruffles the rain out of his hair. “The
King doesn't believe me.”

“
So
what now?” asks Jamie.

“
Now
I've got three days to learn how to fly.”

Trespasser One looks
up. “What?”

“
Can't
tell you in case the King gets to one of us. All part of the plan.” Mark points
at the computer screens. “What are we watching?”

“
Come
see,” says Chloe, and the squad shuffles around in silence to let Mark in.

The screens show him
scenes from across the world whilst a reporter talks over the top of the
images. He sees demonstrations in London, clashes between people calling for
military action against the King and those already throwing in their lot with
his vision. Crowds are gathered before the White House, demanding action. Every
screen brings a new picture, leaders of various nations urging the people to
stay strong, to unite in the face of this danger, whilst the people on the street
fight over whether to destroy or appease the King.

“
They're
afraid,” says the Trespasser. “Everyone is terrified. The Destroyer brought us
close to Armageddon – this is worse. You know the Pope called him the
anti-christ?”

“
Really?”

“
Yeah.
There's already riots in European cities; they're so terrified of what the King
might do to them in the coming years that they want to nuke Scotland.”

“
What,
all of it?”

“
Yeah.
Just to be sure.”

“
Idiots.”

“
There's
something else.”

“
What?”

“
Chloe,
show him.”

Chloe taps the keyboard
a few times and it jumps to a different channel. On this one, in the middle of
Edinburgh in the pouring rain, march a few quiet protesters holding placards
and signs.

The one at the front,
the most prominent by far, is a picture of Mark taken straight from the
internet. In bright white letters on the front are the words:

Where are you,
superman?

Mark does a double
take.

“
Wait,
do they think -”

Stacy puts a hand on
his shoulder. “You went on national news once and told the King you'd stop him.
You're maybe the only person left that's not afraid of him.”

“
I
am
afraid of him. He's nearly killed me twice – three -
how many
times
now?”

“
Did
it once too,” says Jamie.

“
Well,
yeah. In another timeline, he actually did it. I'm terrified of the guy.”

“
Yeah,”
says Stacy. “But the world doesn't know that. They're all waiting for someone
to do something.”

Gary laughs. “This
might
actually
be a job for Beerman.”

Mark lets out a
shuddering breath and folds his arms. “I'm not a superhero.”

“
We've
saved the world once before,” says Jamie. “We might not be superheroes, but
we're the closest thing the world has. That's got to count for something.”

Mark puts his hand on
his chin.

“
Beerman's
thinking,” laughs Gary. “Someone get the whiskey before he gets us all killed.”

“
What
are you thinking?” asks Stacy.

“
I'm
thinking that if people are willing to throw in with the King due to his power,
then they need an alternative. They need an example to follow, the opposite of
whatever bleak dystopian bullshit he's selling them.”

“
Desperation,”
says the Trespasser. “That's what I see on that screen. Desperate, frightened
people.”

Mark looks up at him.
“Well what's the opposite of fear?”

Trespasser One rolls
his eyes.

“
Hope,
I guess?”

Mark smiles.

“
I
can get behind that,” he says, nodding. “Yeah: we need to get some good fabric
and someone who can sew.”

Donald raises his hand.
“I can sew.”

“
Good,
because I'm going to need a costume; and a cape.”

Gary grins. “About
bloody time.”

Episode
8

Prometheus

The sun rises over
Glasgow's city centre: a mesa of half-broken buildings and steeples, with
tenements lining the streets like onlookers at a funeral. Puddles by the
roadside catch the morning light as the mist pulls back, and everything is
still.

A single man walks the
street in blue suit trousers, with a pressed white shirt and a dark navy
waistcoat keeping his gold tie in place. His face has a look of contentment to
it, the smile that a man might have if he were proud of his children. Sunlight
catches his eyes, and those few brave souls looking out their windows see the
darkness in his pupils swallow the light whole. There's something in his eyes,
some unspoken shadow that lurks beneath his skin, in his veins, curdling and
festering under the mask that he wears as a face.

The King waves to his
subjects in their windows, and they wave back, forcing smiles before they close
their curtains. Autumn sun bathes the Kingdom, and as the King strolls down
Argyle Street he looks on with a barely concealed pity at the boarded-up shops
and shattered windows that were once one of Glasgow's main attractions.

Silence rules the day.

With a smile, the King
begins the long, leisurely walk to his offices, swaggering with the confidence
of a man who cannot be hurt.

Mark wakes up to the
same silence, rolling out of the camp bed and knocking over two empty bottles
of beer. The clatter of empty glass on the concrete floor stirs some of the
squad – except Jamie, who is already sitting up at the computer desk with
Chloe, deep in conversation.

He looks over as Mark
rises, and lifts his hand.

“
We
were just talking about you,” says Jamie.

Mark rubs the sleep
from his eyes and grimaces at the taste in his mouth.

“
Nothing
too bad I hope.”

“
You
need a name.”

“
Mark.”

“
A
superhero name,” says Chloe, leaning out from behind Jamie.

Jamie shrugs. “I like
Beerman.”

Mark trudges over to
them in his shorts as the rest of the squad pull their covers up and try to go
back to sleep.

“
I
can't call myself Beerman.”

Chloe scratches her
lip. “What about Gary's suggestion? A colour and an animal? What's your
favourite colour and animal, Mark?”

“
Beige
Capybara. Can't see it.”

Jamie frowns. “What the
shit is a capybara?”

“
Giant
hamster,” says Chloe, patting his knee. “Who honestly says beige is their
favourite colour?”

“
He
said it was brown last time,” whispers Jamie.

“
What
about...” Mark thinks for a moment. “Like. I don't know. What do I
do?
Punch bad guys?”

Jamie nods. “Punch-man
has a decent ring to it.”

“
That's
awful,” says Chloe. “What about The Puncher.”

“
Jesus,
Chloe.”

“
Yeah,
sorry.”

Stacy appears out of
the gloom, her hair tied in a bun and her eyes heavy from a bad night's sleep.
She has her duvet wrapped around her, leans into Mark, and yawns before giving
her suggestion.

“
What
was the alien that gave us all our powers called? Defender?”

“
Protector,”
says Mark, and his eyes brighten. “Shit, Stacy that's great.”

“
You're
welcome. Anybody for coffee?”

“
Everyone.”
says Jamie, turning to Mark. “So: Protector?”

“
It'll
do. Do I need a symbol?”

“
What
about a beer bottle?”

“
What
about a
shield?”
tries Mark.

“
Definitely
a beer bottle.”

“
Hey,
what about
your
superhero name?”

“
Mark,”
Jamie holds up his hands, laughing. “I am a retired car thief, who used to work
for the psychopath that we're planning to kill. Not to mention my somewhat
heavy handed methods – I'm not jumping around in a cape, mate; that's your
job.”

“
Let's
call you Headshot,” laughs Stacy.

Jamie shakes his head.
“Harsh, Stace, harsh.”

Chloe looks over at
some of the sleeping squad-mates. “Hey, at least Trespasser comes equipped with
his own cool name.”

“
What,
Tony?” asks Jamie.

“
No,
his name
is
Trespasser. You're the one that started with the whole Tony
thing. He hates it.”

“
Oh
yeah.”

Stacy emerges from a
corner of the bunker with mugs of steaming coffee in her hands, placing them
down on the computer desk and managing to spill enough to leave sticky rings on
Chloe's notes.

“
Sorry
love,” she yawns as she shuffles away in her duvet, standing beside Mark and
passing him a coffee. “I put whiskey in yours.”

“
You're
a thoughtful wee thing, Stace.”

“
I
know,” she gives him a sleepy smile. “What are we doing today then? Hiding and
hoping nobody breaks our necks?”

“
I've
got research to do,” says Mark. “I need to work out how feasible my plan is.”

“
If
you want,” says Chloe, leaning forward, “I can get you a list of websites about
how to punch people better?”

“
Thanks
Chloe,” he winks. “But that won't be necessary. When it's dark, I need to
practice too.”

“
Practice
what?” asks Stacy.

“
Flying,
of course.”

The sun is high in the
sky when the King strolls down the Kingston Bridge, and light sparkles in
diamonds off the waves of the River Clyde. The air is fresher than he's ever
smelled it here; no traffic today. No cars; the turn of summer has lit the sky
a chalky blue, only a few fleecy clouds in the distance.

Two men wielding
assault rifles give him a nod of respect as he approaches the crude barrier
they have erected, all sand bags, barbed wire and heavy metal posts. They wear
long black coats and scarves, dressed like businessmen; dressed like the King.

“
Men,”
he smiles, puffing out his chest and lacing his hands behind his back. “You
said you had something for me to turn my attention to?”

“
Aye,
sir,” says the large one with a shaved head. “There are men at the barrier requesting
your presence. They say they're from the government.”

“
About
time,” he says. “I'll talk to them. Wait here.”

The King eases himself
between the barriers and steps out into the road, where two men lean against
the road's divider, clutching briefcases and binders and shivering. Their black
company car is parked a few feet away, the engine off.

“
Is
it cold?” the King asks, by means of making conversation.

The men look up and
freeze as though to answer his question. One of them, clearly the one in charge,
stands up to his full height and adjusts his glasses.

“
Mr.
Paul King?”

“
That's
me; though, I'd prefer just King.”

“
We're
here to open a dialogue; discuss demands, the treatment of civilians within the
city, and so on.”

The King gestures to
the barrier. “Would you like to come in?”

Both men look at each
other, unspoken words passing between them.

“
Of
course,” says the first.

“
It's
much nicer on my side of the fence,” says the King, smiling. The two men laugh
politely as though being told a joke. “I trust, of course, that you haven't
come alone?”

“
I'm
sorry?” says the one with the glasses, his tone breaking.

“
Oh
you know,” the King shrugs as he leads the men through the barrier. Assault
rifles are aimed as they step onto the other side of the tarmac. “Snipers. Spy
planes so high I can't see them. That kind of thing.”

The one in the glasses
loses the jovial smile, and straightens his shoulders.

“
You're
not an idiot, Mr. King.”

“
Just
King, please,” he whispers, stopping and turning around. “I've already asked
you to just call me King.”

The King and the man in
the glasses stare at each other, neither blinking.

“
Do
you have an office that we could use?”

“
Everything
past the barrier
is
my office. Everything outside it will be too,
eventually.”

“
No
doubt, no doubt. Let's discuss demands then, hm?”

“
I
don't have any demands,” the King smirks. “This is just how things are. You
can't negotiate with a hurricane.”

“
And
you're the hurricane?”

“
I'm
much worse than any disaster, son.”

“
Ok,”
the suit turns to his colleague, “well this has been fruitful indeed. Let's
go.”

The other one nods, and
the two head for the barrier at a brisk walk. Smirking again, the King moves so
quickly that he leaves a breeze on their faces. They jump as he appears before
them, standing between them and the barrier.

“
In
a rush, gentlemen?” he smiles, stepping forward and forcing them back. “Haven't
you ever met a King before? It's customary to bow.”

Though the smaller one
hesitates, the one in the glasses swallows and fixes his tie.

“
I
will not bow before a terrorist, sir.”

“
Is
that what they're calling me? Just the usual buzzword for whatever enemy of the
state they've dreamt up? Shame. King sounds so much better. I'd have settled
for tyrant.”

“
Tyrant
it is, then.”

“
Well,”
sighs the King. “I can respect a man with strong principles, being one myself.
Tell your superiors you did your best.”

The King extends his
hand, giving the glasses-man an open, honest smile; his shorter colleague is
trembling, clutching his briefcase like a lifeline.

With a wary hesitation,
the leader reaches out and takes the King's hand as if to shake it.

Without any effort, the
King closes his fist and crushes every bone in the man's hand. His scream
splits the air, and the King's strength drives him to his knees, scrabbling
with his free hand against the King's grip, to no effect.

The little one, the
shrew
as the King has come to think of him, is staring, aghast.

“
See?”
the King grins, staring at the shrew. “Apply enough force, my man -” he
squeezes harder, and the scream gets louder, “ - and
everybody
bows.
Tell your superiors: in the end, everybody will bow.”

Mark's sits on the edge
of a tower block as the sun disappears over the horizon. In the far distance
lie the hills and fields near Milngavie, leading out into the wilderness.
Lights sparkle to life in the twilight, and Mark tips the rest of a beer can
down his throat, wiping his beard clean with one grubby sleeve.

He sighs, and smiles as
the breeze picks up, blowing the clouds aside and letting him see the half-moon,
peering through the gap like a giant.

A door clicks shut, and
he glances behind him. Jamie and the Trespasser join him on the roof, sitting
near the edge with him.

“
Nice
evening,” says the Trespasser, hanging his legs off the ledge.

“
Brought
you a present,” says Jamie, sitting a four-pack of beer cans beside Mark with a
clank.

“
You're
so thoughtful. Where did you get beer at a time like this?”

“
There
are shops open, believe it or not. It doesn't really feel like a disaster
zone.”

“
It's
not,” Mark grumbles, and takes one of the cans. It hisses as he cracks it open.
“Either of you want one?” he asks, taking two more cans and offering them up.
The men shrug and take them; the three of them sit on the roof's edge, looking
out over the twilight city and its suburbs, and enjoy the peace.

Trespasser One breaks
the silence. “How did your research go?”

Mark gulps down the
beer, staring into the distance. “Well.”

“
Ready
to let me in on the secret yet?”