A Conduit Fate Had Chosen

When Katherine Branson looked for a phone number, she couldn't find one. Since there hadn't been time to create fresh phone books after the impact, only a small number of numbers were known to the general public. She would need to look it up online. So she did.

She started finding helpful information about the Wiltons after searching through pointless websites. She finally located what she was looking for: a residential address. All she needed to do now was convince the family to talk to her, if she could.

When Katherine Branson got close to the Wiltons' home's security gate, a guard quickly stopped her.

"What brings you here? Do you and the Wiltons do business together?

"Yes, I must talk to them."

"Have you set up a meeting or made an appointment?"

"No, I didn't have time to make any arrangements, and this is urgent."

"Are you familiar with the Wiltons?"

"They don't, but I need to tell them something."

"I'll give them a call so you can talk to them. I'll let you in if they agree to meet with you. Is that appropriate?

"It will work." The security guy answered the phone and called the residence. He spoke to someone on the other end for a few seconds before giving Katherine Branson the receiver.

This is Timothy Wilton, indeed. Who wants to talk to me?

Katherine Branson is my name. I know something about a man named Martin Wilton.

"Our son has passed away."

Both of us are aware that's untrue. I have to speak with you.

"No, I'm grateful. Enjoy your day.

"Hold on, it's crucial."

"I'm not interested. I would rather you never return here.

Ignoring the protests on the other end, Timothy Wilton hung up. He shook his head disapprovingly and turned to face his wife. It appears that someone has discovered the truth about our son. He and this Katherine Branson will have to be eliminated.

"You understand my feelings on that," Jacqueline Wilton answered. "You should never have hurt Martin."

Now, it's inevitable. There is nothing else we can do to keep ourselves safe.

"Just keep me out of it. I hope we don't have to do this, but I won't be involved.

As the interrogation room's power went out, Carlton Scythe grinned. Since everything had gone as planned, there was no longer any electricity in the makeshift Ivory Tower. The detective couldn't comprehend how such a thing could be done, and it left him stunned. He was terribly innocent.

"What... Who... How did you accomplish that? The tremor of anxiety in his voice was accentuated by the darkness of the room.

I didn't, do you recall? This building could not be broken into. I was just another idiot, another failure, unable to reach the president.

"If you don't tell me how or why you did it, I'll have you killed."

"In the dark? Get a flashlight, please. I have something to show you.

"Why? How long will the power outage last?

"No, all I want is for you to go so I can get away."

"I believed so. A guard will get a flashlight for me. The electricity flickered back on about ten seconds after the investigator sent a guard to get a flashlight. Carlton Scythe could now see the man's face was scarred with fear. He was really scared.

"Look, you didn't get very far with your little stunt." "The man is not confident," Carlton Scythe thought. It's time to further agitate him.

"I realize it was more for fun than anything else—aside from the money, of course."

"Who is paying you? If necessary, we will torture it out of you.

"That is not necessary. I've got his card here. Anticipating the response, Carlton Scythe handed over a business card. After giving it a quick inspection, the investigator became pale. The man was really scared now.

"Where... Where did you purchase this?

"From the man paying me, I told you." He doesn't know what's going on, and this guy is losing it.

"Are you familiar with this man?"

"Well, since he is in charge of the Presidential Guard, I assume he is your boss, and the Presidential Guard would be interrogating me."

"Do you mean that my boss is no longer on our side?"

"No, the exact opposite. Would you mind asking him?

"He is ill and at home."

"I don't think so. Give him a call; he will undoubtedly make everything obvious.

The investigator went to a phone and turned away from Carlton Scythe. He came back a minute later, confused and lost. "You mean to tell me that you violated the Ivory Tower in order to see if it could be infiltrated?"

"Yes, that is what I do."

"Is the pay good?"

"I got caught at the end, so this one won't, but it's still not bad."

"It's undoubtedly an intriguing line of work."

It's actually a lot of fun. Can I leave now, please?

"Yes, that is acceptable."

"Perhaps we'll cross paths someday."

"Perhaps." Feeling disappointed by his luck and pleased of his inventiveness, Carlton Scythe left the first job where he had been caught.

Martin Wilkerson didn't anticipate guests, particularly not strangers. He was therefore taken aback when he was told that two persons had come to meet him. He let them in warily but quickly felt remorse. It was his parents, who had just discovered who they were and had come to see him for no apparent reason. The coincidence was too great.

He said, "You've come here to kill me."

His father answered defensively, "What are you talking about, son?"

"He's insane and paranoid, honey. Jacqueline Wilton, believing Martin Wilkerson couldn't hear her, whispered into Timothy's ear, "He believes that everyone is trying to kill him." Yes, he did.

"Look, go now. I'd rather not know you. You obviously don't deserve to be regarded as wonderful parents if you would leave me in a mental hospital when I was a youngster and say I passed away.

Timothy Wilton remarked, "But we didn't leave you—we believed you had passed away." My father can't be here, Martin Wilkerson thought. If nothing else, he would be a better liar.

That isn't appropriate. First of all, there is no way that I could have crossed your yacht's rail. Furthermore, decent parents would never give up until they located my body. You are aware that you staged my death.

“Well, honey, we had to,” Jacqueline Wilton said. Martin Wilkerson thought, "My mother would say that, of course."

"And what could be causing that? Did you believe that I was flawed, but you were too nice to kill me?

Timothy Wilton retorted, "If people had discovered that you were paranoid and delusional, it would have looked bad politically." Martin Wilkerson, my father, the brilliant politician, thought badly about leaving his own son behind. Excellent work, Dad.

"So image is everything?"

Could you please go outside while I try to explain this to Jackie? Timothy Wilton inquired. Why is my mom looking so appalled? Martin Wilkerson pondered. For her, what does that mean? I will be killed by him.

As soon as his mother opened the door, Martin Wilkerson realized this and hurried to his father. When Timothy Wilton pulled out a silenced pistol, he saw its glitter. The man was tackled by Martin Wilkerson. The gun clattered on the ground as it spun away. Jacqueline Wilton let out a shriek.

Wilton, Timothy, looked at his kid. This was the ideal target, even though he had never thought he would have to kill anyone. He needed to keep his reputation intact. He produced a knife and flipped its blade open. Upon noticing it, Martin Wilkerson retreated and removed one of his institutional slippers to hold in his right hand. That was his sole weapon. With a knife, he could only hope his father was careless.

Martin Wilkerson easily evaded the first attack to the right because it was a feint and not intended to hit. He was unprepared for the quick follow-up slash that lightly cut his arm. He regrouped, retreating in agony. If he wanted to live, he needed to perform better.

Martin Wilkerson was able to utilize the slipper after his father gave him a sharp jab at the chest. The knife went through the rubber sole of the shoe and stopped at the hilt when Martin Wilkerson lifted it. He jerked the slipper down, causing the shoe and knife to come loose from their hold.

Timothy Wilton got the knife and returned with a vengeance as Martin Wilkerson took off his other slipper. Martin Wilkerson knocked the knife away with the second slipper in one seamless move, then swung it back to hit Timothy Wilton in the face. Martin Wilkerson swung two more blows, taking advantage of the moment of surprise and leaving his father's face covered in three crimson welts. The older man got up from the floor with difficulty.

With his knife in hand, Timothy Wilton rushed his son in a fit of wrath. Regretfully, when he fell, he had also retrieved the rifle. The firearm was leveled toward Martin Wilkerson. From the corridor came another scream. Martin Wilkerson came to the conclusion that my mother was the one who wished for my survival. He threw his palm up, dropping his slipper, and knocked the gun away as the silent barrel spit out a barely audible spit. His ear was nicked by the bullet.

Martin Wilkerson struggled with his father, his right hand clutching the silenced weapon, a trickle of blood streaming down his face. With one hand holding a knife and the other straining to stop it, both guys used their left hands. The two battled to kill each other while avoiding death themselves, thrusting and counterthrusting, slicing and dodging.

Driven by demonic fury, they continued, the notion of aching muscles pushed from their consciousness, adrenaline keeping them awake. Then, in a quick move, Martin Wilkerson dived to the ground, dropped the rifle, and rolled to his left, raising his leg just in time to kick his father violently, breaking his kneecap in the process. The elder man slumped, dropping his knife and revolver as he yelled in pain. The mental patient approached the rifle and took it up, desiring no more opposition. He pointed it at the head of his father. Then his senses came back as the adrenaline started to wear off. He heard his mother weeping, his father screaming, and his own labored breathing. He dropped the rifle, unloaded the cartridge, and left the room. He could only pray that they would fail again, even though he knew they would pursue him.

He strode past the attendants and up to the main desk. They protested by yelling, "You cannot go, sir. You continue to be mentally unwell.

My parents recently attempted to murder me. I'm heading out.

"What? The paranoid delusional must be you. Allow me to return you to your room. Your parents didn't actually try to kill you, I'm sure.

He pointed to his bleeding ear and the cut on his arm and said, "Do you see these wounds?" He pulled out the loaded magazine and added, "Do you see this pistol cartridge?" "They made a serious attempt to murder me. My dad has a broken knee and is lying on the ground. He may require assistance. Farewell.

For a minute, the two attendants murmured to one another. While one tried to interview Martin Wilkerson, the other fled in the direction he had come from.

"What prevented us from hearing any noise during the struggle?"

"Have you heard the yelling?"

"Well, that's typical in this area."

"That was the battle." Martin Wilkerson left the building with that, never to be seen again.