Season 1, Episode 4 - The Microwave XXVI - "The Secret Origin of the New York Minute, Part 1"

The borough of Vlissingen, New York City. Five years ago.

Maxwell rubbed his eyes as took up his usual groggy walk down the long staircase of Public Housing Unit #117. It was early morning in March, the city still battered by a winter cold that simply refused to go away.

Maxwell brought a hand to his mouth as he yawned. As he descended the steps, he passed by the Public Housing Unit’s community bulletin on the wall of a landing to a different floor. As his eyes glanced over an old re-election campaign poster for Senator Seamus Murphy - according to the rumor mill, the Secretary of War-turned Senator was now eyeing the presidency - Maxwell smiled at his younger sister’s hand-drawn advertisement for her upcoming lemonade stand this weekend.

She must know it's still winter. He grinned. In Pursuit of the Almighty Dollar.

He supposed that was the New York mindset. Maxwell was just a small child during the American War; he only had vague memories of living in a refugee camp and even vaguer memories of the New England Long-Range Artillery Gun – the Edward Winslow, they called it – that destroyed his entire neighborhood beforehand. His first real memories were helping his older sister decorate their cramped apartment in the Public Housing Unit, one of the thousands built by the government to shelter those the war had left homeless.

Building all those housing units must’ve cost a fortune, but good thing New England’s reparations paid for it.

Money and ambition, that was the name of the game in New York. After an initial post-war slump, the New York economy rebounded by immense proportions, perhaps truly taking up its Golden Age status as a financial capital of the world...okay, maybe only the Eastern Seaboard, but just you wait...

Maxwell’s family did well after the war. His parents were entrepreneurs, with their business booming as the postwar slump settled down. That led to them pulling some strings to get into one of the nicer Public Housing Units, not far off from Whitepot Academy, one of the most prestigious high schools in all of New York. Better there than South Utica Academy, which was rumored to allow those New Englanders remaining in Upstate New York to attend!

His parents’ money and ambition led to him and his sister getting tutors. His sister ended up graduating with high marks and got a job within the growing government bureaucracy; her current project was fieldwork in Fort Edward, studying the entire city and its society, notable for being right on the new border with New England and housing a significant New Englander minority, respectively.

As for Maxwell, that money and ambition, combined with his own interest in philosophy and self-study, led to a different path: the metaphysical. A successful demonstration of his ability to produce Rddhi traps in front of the Whitepot School Board led to his immediate acceptance into that academy.

While Rddhi users were still poorly understood, their reputation had vastly improved thanks to their front-line and behind-the-lines service in the American War (as an aside, Maxwell wondered why those New Englanders always called it the First American War. It’s not like they had the capability to wage a second). New Yorkers currently held the popular conception that the ability to use the Rddhi indicated talent and a well-rounded education; Maxwell wasn’t the type of guy who wanted to ruin that perception, as indicated by his neat, completed homework sheets in his backpack.

Of course, his friend was that type of guy. As Maxwell reached the bottom of the stairwell, he saw his friend Finley leaning against a streetlamp, his arms crossed.

“You’re late,” he simply said. Many people wondered how they could ever be friends; Finley was short and stocky to Maxwell’s long and lanky; messy brown hair to Maxwell’s auburn; never sleeping due to watching television to never sleeping due to finishing homework.

Maxwell walked past him. “And you’re early.”

Finley caught up to him. “I’m one of those people who don't need sleep. I’m like a shark. I just need to rest my eyes for a little bit, then I’m as good as new.”

They rounded the corner of the apartment and ended up on the avenue. “You oughta use some of that free time to do your homework.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Finley nudged Maxwell. “And speaking of homework...”

Maxwell sighed. “I'll let you copy when we’re on the bus.”

Finley pumped his fist.

As they headed down the avenue’s sidewalk, a taxi pulled over to the side of the road up ahead of them. A young woman stepped out, wearing an blue blazer and a black skirt. As she pulled her purse out of the taxi, she saw Maxwell and waved.

“Marissa!” Maxwell yelled out, waving back. Finley offered a wave of his own.

Maxwell’s older sister met them on the sidewalk. “Off to school?” she asked, a breeze picking up her auburn hair, a shade dark than Maxwell’s.

“It’s 6:45 on a Monday morning, where else would we be going?” Maxwell answered.

Finley laughed as Marissa put Maxwell in a headlock and gave him a noogie. “I can still kick your ass, Max. It seems like you forget that because I’m always away on the job.”

Maxwell managed to separate himself, laughing all the while. “Speaking of away on the job, how come you’re still here? I thought you left yesterday.”

The scarlet hue on her cheeks indicated she felt a little embarrassed about it. “Well...when I was on my way to the train, I realized I left some notes at a friend’s place. She convinced me there was enough time to get a drink...let’s just say that by the end, I wasn't in condition to make the train.” She rubbed her head, still feeling the after-effects.

Finley raised a finger. “They say alcohol is both the cause and solution to all of life’s problems.”

This time, Maxwell laughed as Marissa put his friend in a headlock and delivered another noogie. “I can still kick your ass, too. And do your homework once in a while!” Finley tried to squirm away, but Marissa held him tighter. “Otherwise, when Maxwell’s long-gone from this dump of a housing complex, I’ll still see you bumming around here, and your face is the last thing I want to see!”

Finley freed himself, holding his stomach as he laughed. “But what about our marriage promise?”

Marissa rolled her eyes. “You were seven, and I was fifteen! And I told you no!”

Maxwell placed a firm hand on Finley’s shoulder. “I don’t want you part of my family. Friendship is a boundary I’m not prepared to cross.”

Finley sighed and smiled.

Marissa looked at her pocket watch. “I don’t want to hold you guys up. I’m only stopping in to grab a bottle of wine for the office that I forgot at our parent’s place.”

Maxwell chuckled. “You forget a lot of things, don’t you?”

Marissa smiled and spoke from the heart. “The one thing I can never forget is how proud I am of you. I hope you don’t forget that, either.”

She ignored her brother’s protests and gave him a hug. “I probably won’t be back until they give us time off for the Fourth of July, so keep studying, alright?”

Maxwell ended up hugging her back. “Of course.”

After a moment of family solidarity, she separated herself. “Love you, Max.” She eyed his friend. “And stay out of trouble, Finley.”

Marissa waved and headed for the apartment; Max waved back; Finley rolled his eyes, but he did give a warm nod.

The two continued their walk down the avenue.

“You should help me with some of these problems I’m copying,” Finley suggested as they passed under the shade of a tree. “You know, to make up for lost time and all. It was your sister who delayed us, after all.”

“Ah, shut it.”

One week later.

Whitepot Academy was located near a shopping district; rather than take the bus immediately home, Maxwell and Finley decided to wander around and peruse the clothes, watches, candles, food, and anything else a teenage boy could want.

“Candles?” Maxwell questioned.

“Let me guess, your parents use knockoff brands because they’re cheaper, right?” Finley asked, looking through the store window. “But that’s just because you and your family only ever save and never actually live. Look at this.” He jabbed a finger at the window, a candle displayed on the other side. “That’s Appalachian Conifer. You could smell such a rustic scent in the comfort of your own home. You’ll feel like you’re living in an upscale log cabin.”

Maxwell sighed. “Sure.”

With the candle store out of the way, they continued down the sidewalk, cars passing by on the street. Up ahead, they noticed some commotion; a crowd had gathered around a store selling televisions, many of them displayed in its large window.

The two walked toward the crowd. “I wonder what the trouble is,” Maxwell said.

Finley shrugged. “The baseball leagues did just start in Asia.”

“...I don’t think there would be this much commotion over baseball, let alone baseball on a different continent.” Maxwell grew a little antsy. “I heard there’s been some trouble on the New England border.”

Finley shook his head. “Can never give us a break, can they?”

The two students nimbly moved through the crowd until they could catch glimpses of the television, which displayed a news reporter in front of a city's downtown area. Some faces in the crowd watching the television appeared anxious; others tired; all solemn.

Maxwell and Finley finally caught a good look at the black-and-white screen.

“Located along the Hudson River, Fort Edward is a strategic point in the New England-New York border,” reporter Chester Colfax explained. “And as of last night and into this morning, it has been the site of a tragedy not seen on such a scale since the end of the American War.”

Finley raised an eyebrow. Maxwell started to feel a sickness deep in his stomach.

“Fort Edward is home to a sizeable New Englander minority,” Colfax continued. The two boys realized that the grainy downtown behind the reporter depicted rising smoke from fires and the ruins of several buildings. “Two nights ago, one of these New Englanders, a nineteen-year-old man named Erskine, assassinated Mayor Collier of Fort Edward.”

Finley let out a long whistle at that.

Colfax kept his voice neutral. “Erskine immediately committed suicide on the steps right after assassinating the Mayor. When local police forces investigated his home, they found, among other things, a long manifesto detailing the death of his sister in the Tri-Village Massacre at the peak of the Occupation of Naugatuck Valley. While New York has already apologized for the massacre and offered financial compensation for their family members, Erskine felt that this was not enough. Upon learning that Mayor Collier was one of the soldiers involved in the Massacre, he moved to Fort Edward, plotted his crime, and then shot the Mayor right as he left City Hall.”

A few other pedestrians shook their heads. Several others, having no time to spare on their commute home, heading for the bus station. Maxwell had somewhere he needed to be as well, but was that school...or was that Fort Edward?

“Unfortunately, before the police could announce that Erskine acted alone, the New England Quarter of the city saw a terrible night of violence, as the enraged locals took out their rage on Erskine’s brethren.” Colfax seemed to grow anxious. “The local police suggested the number of New Englander fatalities in the riot were around a few dozen...however, that number pales in comparison with what happened last night...”

“Hey, Maxwell, if we don’t hurry up we’re gonna have to stand on the bus ride home.” Maxwell didn’t hear Finley’s warning, his eyes glued to the screen.

“With the justification of protecting the local New England minority, a New England Army battalion seized the bridge over the Hudson and moved into Fort Edward on its own accord.” Colfax’s voice sounded hollow. “And then they exacted a terrible vengeance of their own. By the time a ceasefire was brokered with the New York Army division in the area, by the time us newsmen were allowed inside, several hundred New Yorkers had been shot and buried in a mass grave...”

Finley took notice of his friend’s reaction. “Maxwell...Max?”

“My sister...” Maxwell’s voice was full of fear. “My sister was there...she had a job out there...”

Colfax’s voice broke. “The identities of those deceased still need to be sorted out...my God, I thought we had finally found peace.” Colfax looked at the scene of ruin behind him, swallowing as a squadron of New York soldiers carried several dead civilians in a single stretcher. “Something needs to be done...to finally find the peace we have all been searching for...”

Maxwell took off in the opposite direction, leaving Finley behind.

She must be alive, she wouldn’t just die like that...

Maxwell ignored the stares of others on the sidewalk as he sprinted past them, hot tears flowing down his face.

How can they do something like that? How can we allow something like that to happen?

Determination grew in Maxwell’s heart.

She’s alive, I’ll see her soon enough...and I’ll tell her I’m joining the military, to make sure nothing like this happens again. Because this’ll lead to war, and I won’t stop until I arrive in that dictator’s office down in Narragansett...