Chapter 3: The Siege of Vance Residence

Chapter 3: The Siege of Vance Residence

The first Monday of Arthur’s vacation began not with the jarring clang of an alarm clock, but with the gentle morning sun filtering through the floral curtains of his late mother-in-law's guest bedroom. He had packed a single suitcase and driven the twenty minutes across town on Sunday night, leaving his own tidy brick house standing silent and empty.

From the bay window in the living room, he had a perfect, unobstructed view of his own front door. He sat in a comfortable, overstuffed armchair that smelled faintly of lavender and old books, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and the morning crossword in the other. His phone, set to silent, sat on the end table beside him.

For the first three days, the silence was absolute. OmniCorp, in its vast, bureaucratic indifference, didn't notice one man’s absence. The system likely registered him as an anomaly, a rounding error. On Wednesday, the first digital ripples began. A series of automated emails arrived, their subject lines escalating with cold, impersonal precision.

Subject: Unscheduled Absence - Action Required Subject: Second Notification: Unscheduled Absence Subject: FINAL NOTICE: Please Report to Your Supervisor Immediately

Arthur read each one, took a calm sip of coffee, and dragged them to the trash folder. He felt a profound sense of detachment, as if watching a play unfold from a private balcony.

By Friday, the rookies were getting nervous. The Mark IV Resonator was beginning to drift out of calibration, its familiar hum pitching slightly sharp. A call came in from an unknown number. Arthur let it go to voicemail.

"Uh, Mr. Vance? It's Todd. From the training group," the voice was hesitant, the usual cocksure swagger gone. "Yeah, so, we're having a little trouble with the Mark IV's primary modulator. The manual you wrote is… a bit dense. We were hoping you could just… pop in? Or call us back? Give us a pointer?"

Arthur deleted the message. Let them read the manual. It was, after all, exactly what Sterling had demanded: a document so detailed that anyone could do his job. He’d made sure it was a masterpiece of technical accuracy and overwhelming complexity, perfectly following his instructions to the letter.

The second week began, and the tone shifted from confused to annoyed. A call from a line manager named Peterson. Arthur let it ring. The voicemail was clipped.

"Vance, Peterson. Where the hell are you? Your team is useless and line one is running at 70% efficiency. Whatever stunt you're pulling, it's over. Get in here. Now."

Arthur calmly blocked the number. He spent the afternoon helping Eleanor Hayes, Charles’s widow, sort through some of her husband's old schematics. Seeing the grief still etched on her face, but also the flicker of steel in her eyes as he explained his plan, solidified his resolve. This wasn't just for him. It was for Charles. It was for Ben.

It was midway through the third week when the dragon himself finally stirred. The phone buzzed with a blocked number. Arthur knew who it was. He let the call ring out, a small, grim smile playing on his lips. The voicemail that followed was a symphony of restrained fury.

"Vance. It’s Richard Sterling," the voice was silk stretched taut over a blade. "I have your 'vacation request' on my desk. A cute, frankly pathetic, little stunt. Let me be unequivocally clear. You are a salaried employee, critical to operations. This little disappearing act constitutes job abandonment. You have twenty-four hours to present yourself in my office, or I will terminate your employment for cause, and I will personally see to it that you don't receive a single penny of your pension or your severance. The clock is ticking."

Arthur replayed the message twice, savoring the panic hidden beneath the threats. Sterling still thought he was in control. He still believed rules were weapons only he was allowed to wield. Arthur deleted the message and went back to his crossword. Seven down, 'A foolish or arrogant person.' Six letters. Begins with 'S.'

The next day, just before noon, a sleek black Audi sedan screeched to a halt in front of Arthur’s house. Arthur, watching from his perch across the street, adjusted the focus on the pair of binoculars he’d found in his father-in-law’s old study.

Richard Sterling emerged from the driver’s side. He was dressed in another immaculate suit, a stark slash of dark grey against the cheerful suburban backdrop of manicured lawns and picket fences. He strode up the walkway with the arrogant confidence of a conquering general, his polished shoes clicking on the pavement.

He pressed the doorbell, the chime faint but audible from across the street. He waited, tapping his foot impatiently. He pressed it again, holding it down longer this time. Silence. A flicker of annoyance crossed his face. He knocked, three sharp raps.

Nothing.

He knocked again, harder this time, the sound echoing in the quiet street. "Vance! I know you're in there! Open this door!"

A neighbor watering his petunias looked up, startled. Sterling ignored him. He circled the house, peering into the windows, his face contorting into a mask of frustration. He returned to the front porch, his corporate polish cracking under the strain.

"Vance! This is your final chance! Open this door or you're finished!"

He began to bang on the door, his fist thudding against the solid oak. The controlled executive had vanished, replaced by a spoiled child having a tantrum. He was red-faced, his tie slightly askew, shouting at an empty house.

From his armchair, Arthur took a slow, deliberate sip of his now-lukewarm coffee. He felt a cold, clean satisfaction wash over him. Sterling had tried to humiliate him, to strip him of his dignity and his life’s work. Now, here he was, the master of the universe, reduced to bellowing impotently on a suburban doorstep while the man he’d tried to break watched him from a safe, comfortable distance.

Finally, with one last furious kick at the door that accomplished nothing but scuffing his expensive shoe, Sterling stalked back to his car. He slammed the door, revved the engine with a furious roar that made the neighbor’s dog start barking, and sped off down the street.

Arthur lowered the binoculars. The siege was over. The first attack had been repelled without him lifting a finger. He pulled the approved, stamped, and initialed copy of form 734-C from his jacket pocket. It was his shield. He had followed OmniCorp's rules to the letter.

Sterling didn't understand. This wasn't a stunt. This wasn't job abandonment. This was war, waged on his terms, on his timeline. And the first real casualty wouldn't be his career. It would be OmniCorp’s production line. The quiet hum of the factory was about to be replaced by the deafening sound of silence.