Chapter 138. Finding a Base

“Buying a house?” Mom blinked and adjusted her glasses, studying me with a faint smile. “Maybe I’m missing something, Tom, but why do you need a place of your own right now?”

“Everyone needs somewhere they can close the door and shut out the rest of the world,” I replied, keeping my tone even and matter-of-fact.

“That’s for ordinary people. You’re in a different position now.” She gave me a brief, warm, motherly smile, then quickly returned to her stern, composed expression. “Tom, you’ve got eight departments. Eight! And there’ll be emergency calls, portal expeditions, and a ton of little hassles you haven’t even thought about yet. With a schedule like that, you’ll barely have time to sleep properly. So tell me, why buy a place that’ll sit empty and collect dust for three hundred days a year?”

“What about basic everyday needs?” I folded my arms across my chest, getting into the argument. “Taking a shower, eating a proper meal, getting cleaned up. You need some personal space for that.”

“In your position, that’s an unaffordable luxury.” Maggie folded her arms across her chest too, matching my rhythm. “With your new job, you won’t have time to stand over a stove or sit back in a chair with a cup of tea. Your best-case scenario will be a quick shower in the locker room at a military base and a protein bar while you’re running between briefings. Poor baby.”

There was genuine, carefully hidden sadness in her voice. I didn’t share her pessimistic view of what lay ahead. In thirty-two years of life, I’d worked for more than one company, and I’d learned one simple truth: nobody in any organization works nonstop from clock-in to clock-out. There are always gaps, whether management gets tied up with reports, shifts are changing, or some system decides to freeze. Those windows are more than enough time to eat in peace or catch up on the news. More importantly, I planned to use them to train with S-Power.

I didn’t mention any of that. Nobody was going to let me leave the base for a thirty-minute break anyway. But I had one more practical argument.

“I need somewhere to keep my things. Even my dress uniform needs a decent closet. I can’t exactly keep my personal documents and belongings in a rented storage unit.”

“A room at a good hotel would be plenty,” Maggie said firmly. “You’ve got one suitcase’s worth of stuff. A small closet is more than enough. A quiet little room with few windows, a good bed, and a solid lock would cost next to nothing and cover all your basic needs. You’d only be sleeping there for three hours at a time anyway, and not even every night. Practical, clean, and no unnecessary headaches. Exactly how you like it.”

“I’m not comfortable staying somewhere a stranger keeps a spare key to my room on a rack,” I countered. “Remember that story in the news a couple of months ago? A bellhop at the Hilton used a master key to get into a guest’s room and stole a necklace worth two hundred thousand dollars.”

“Well, I did raise you to be sensible, and you’re not going to leave a two-hundred-thousand-dollar necklace sitting on your nightstand.” Mom gave me a knowing smile. “I think we’re arguing over nothing. If you want to spend your money on four walls you’ll visit a couple of times a month at most, that’s your business. And with what you’re making now, it’s hardly a major expense. You’re earning more than the President of the United States.”

My mental calculator clicked on automatically. The U.S. president makes four hundred thousand dollars a year. Even the most ordinary Awakened person, once assigned, is guaranteed fifty thousand dollars a month. So from the government’s perspective, some guy who can throw fireballs or toughen his skin is worth more than the head of state sitting in the Oval Office. That’s an amusing economic reality of the new era.

“Movie producers and top Wall Street executives make even more.” I gave a slight shake of my head and allowed myself a faint smirk. “But you’re right about one thing. With my current income, there’s no reason to skimp on basic comfort. Let’s see what the internet has to offer in Washington.”

“I’m all for it, but the internet alone won’t cut it.” Maggie adjusted her glasses and gave me a pointedly instructive look. “If you want a realistic picture of the market and don’t want to overpay, you’ll need to pick up a couple of local newspapers with classified ads when you arrive and walk around the neighborhoods, asking people what’s for sale.”

“Classified ads and word of mouth?” I barely managed to keep my face straight, determined not to show the full extent of my skepticism. “Mom, it’s the twenty-first century. Any legitimate deal has been going through major online listing sites for the past fifteen years.”

“You’re young, and you’re used to solving everything in two clicks, but listen to someone who knows the ropes.” Maggie raised one finger in admonishment. “Plenty of older people who own good properties don’t know how to use smartphones or list their homes online. If you search only through apps, you’ll miss some excellent properties that are still being sold the old-fashioned way.”

Her logic was simple, practical, and perfectly sound. There was nothing to argue about. I made a mental note to pick up a fresh copy of the local paper as soon as I arrived in the District of Columbia. After all, I hadn’t brought Mom along as my consultant on everyday life for nothing.

We moved into my room and sat down at the computer. My hand guided the cursor through the capital’s real estate sites on autopilot. The monitor’s glow reflected in Mom’s glasses as she followed every click with close attention.

Once I was on the country’s main real estate listing site, I checked my favorite filter first: Cheapest First. I knew perfectly well it was a deeply ingrained habit from the days when I had counted every cent until payday, but habits built over years do not disappear overnight, no matter how much money is sitting in your bank account.

Real estate prices in the capital district were brutal. The cheapest option was a modest apartment, barely a third the size of our current place in Los Angeles, listed for a staggering four hundred thousand dollars.

“Well, this is exactly your kind of place,” Mom commented as she looked through the photo gallery. “Not much room, but at least you’ll have somewhere to drop your bags. Put a decent lock on the door for security, and you’re set. And look, the listing says that if you pay the full amount in cash with no mortgage, all the paperwork can be completed within fourteen days. Maybe you should contact the agent right now? Two weeks, and you’ll have your own base.”

“An apartment won’t work for me.” I scrolled farther down. “I need space and land of my own. I’m planning to build a full-scale training facility and design the equipment myself to suit my new physical capabilities.”

“There’s your real argument.” Maggie shook her head with a faintly amused edge to her voice. “You’ve become a fitness fanatic. You used to be such a quiet, predictable boy. You sat at your desk working on reports and never gave the gym a second thought. Now I understand your requirements a little better. Too bad you specifically need land in the capital. I read in a magazine that there’s a severe shortage of available lots in Washington right now.”

She was right again. The city was built up as densely as possible. Vacant lots either did not exist at all or were selling for astronomical prices, starting at two hundred thousand dollars an acre. What a shame. Given my current physical abilities and my hyperfocus, I could probably build a house from the ground up by myself, tailored exactly to my needs.

The first detached house that came up in the search was priced at nearly a million dollars. With my current salary, that was hardly a critical expense. Two months of service, at most. Unfortunately, the drawbacks wiped out every advantage. The property was on the outskirts, in an area with an extremely high crime rate, and the photos of the exterior raised serious questions about the building’s structural integrity.

“The listing even says, ‘Price negotiable upward only,’” I remarked dryly after finishing the description. “Some people really have no shame.”

“Tom, don’t even think about touching that piece of junk,” Mom said sternly, studying the photos in detail. “Before you were born, I worked construction for a while. Nothing complicated, but I know enough about structural work to recognize trouble when I see it. Look at that mold around the foundation. And the pipes? They’re completely shot. It would be easier to tear this house down and haul it to the dump than try to restore it. Why pay for junk you’ll just have to throw away?”

Her assessment was completely rational. Unfortunately, the listings only got worse from there.

In decent, safe neighborhoods, prices for detached houses started at three million dollars. And they looked as though they had been built back when the Founding Fathers were still around and had never seen a major renovation since.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. You can’t even tear this wreck down!” Maggie exclaimed after reading the fine print at the bottom of the page. “It’s a historic landmark and part of the district’s cultural heritage!”

“Exactly. The city prohibits any changes to the exterior,” I added. “So I’d be living in a high-tech interior while breathing in centuries-old dampness through the walls.”

After an hour of nonstop searching, we had not found a single reasonable option. Either the location was unsuitable and the property was practically falling apart, or it was some historic relic burdened with a mountain of bureaucratic restrictions. As for paying three times the market value for an empty lot, basic common sense would not let me do that. Having capital was not a reason to spend it inefficiently.

The doorbell rang. A familiar short chime sounded. Stephanie had arrived with Lucky for their evening walk.

“Maggie, oh my God, what did you do to yourself?!” The blue-haired girl said it with such dramatic horror that you would have thought she had just encountered some rare anomaly. “Platinum hair! Glasses! You look just like an old lady now!”

“Your grandmother is relaxing in Argentina and waiting for a letter from her favorite granddaughter,” Maggie shot back without a trace of offense, a faint smirk on her face. “I just brought my appearance in line with my inner status.”

“Tom, tell me. Was this your idea?” Stephanie immediately turned her attention to me, giving me an accusing look. “You’re a bad influence on her!”

“If you’re asking whether I had anything to do with choosing the hair color, then no.” I held her gaze, perfectly calm. “But I think Maggie’s new look is practical and suits her.”

“I knew it. This wouldn’t have happened without your approval.” Stephanie lifted her chin proudly. Then her tone changed abruptly, and a hint of awkwardness crept into her voice. “By the way, Tom... You’re still here? Are you staying long?”

“My vacation ends at the end of the week. I’ll be moving out of the room.”

“Great!” She impulsively thrust a fist into the air, but the moment she caught my eye, she gave an embarrassed cough. “I mean... It’s going to be terribly quiet and boring here without you. You’ll help me move my stuff in, right?”

“Sure.” I answered, and behind Stephanie, Mom gave me a discreet thumbs-up, clearly approving of my willingness to help.

The remaining days flew by in a strict academic and physical routine. I finished my advanced course in the exact sciences, and during the short breaks between classes, Mom and I watched the rest of the CSI season, just like old times. I helped Stephanie get fully settled into the apartment by carrying her heavy boxes, then left her in Mom’s care with a clear conscience.

And now I was back in the District of Columbia. The dry capital air, the familiar noise of the government quarter, and the rigid schedule were all waiting for me. It was time to head to my first full day of work at the Corps.