Chapter 116: The De Havilland Translation

The De Havilland Translation

Early February morning sunlight sliced through the massive industrial windows of the Sovereign Media warehouse, casting long, sharp shadows across the polished concrete floor. The air was thick with the scent of fresh ink, ozone from the humming servers, and the distinct, jittery aroma of stress.

Paul Rudd staggered into the executive suite, looking like a man who had just survived a shipwreck. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair was entirely stripped of its usual Hollywood volume, and his posture mirrored that of a defeated foot soldier. He clutched a yellow pharmacy envelope to his chest.

"Fifteen dollars," Paul croaked, his voice cracking as he practically collapsed into a guest chair opposite Elias’s modular steel desk. "Fifteen dollars for one-hour expedited photo developing. I had to use a fake name at the pharmacy, Elias. I told them my name was ’Gary’. If the FBI raids that CVS, my fingerprints are on the receipt."

Elias van Kempen did not offer a comforting smile. He sat impeccably upright, wearing a fitted charcoal vest over a pristine white shirt, his sleeves rolled up to the forearms to expose the heavy silver links of his vintage watch.

He extended a long, elegant hand. "The intelligence, Paul."

Paul handed over the envelope with a tragic, exhausted whimper.

Elias extracted a thick stack of glossy 35mm photographs. They were slightly grainy, hastily shot under the harsh fluorescent lighting of a corporate utility closet, but the text on the documents was entirely legible. It was the complete, unredacted draft of Tommy Mottola’s ’Lifetime Perpetuity’ contract for Mariah Carey.

Deep within Elias’s cerebral cortex, the digital loan shark aggressively audited the morning’s logistical expenses.

[DEDUCTING -$15.00 USD FOR ESPIONAGE PHOTO DEVELOPMENT.][SYSTEM WARNING: DAILY MAINTENANCE FEE DEDUCTION INITIATED.][DEDUCTING -$50.00 USD FROM LIQUID CASH RESERVE.]

The sixty-five-dollar deduction was a microscopic flesh wound against his vast operational reserves, settling his liquid cash at exactly $3,310,735.00. Elias ignored the phantom pinch. He was hunting a much larger margin.

He meticulously arranged the photographs across the massive expanse of his glass desktop, organizing the pages sequentially. There were over fifty pages of dense, suffocating legal jargon.

"Owen," Elias called out seamlessly, not looking up from the glossy prints. "Procure a highlighter and a legal pad."

Owen Wilson ambled into the office, chewing lazily on a toothpick, completely unbothered by the tense atmosphere. He handed Elias a yellow marker. "You know, man, looking at all those small words... it really misaligns your spiritual center. The corporate world is just, like, a cage made of paper."

"It is only a cage if you do not own the key, Owen," Elias murmured smoothly.

He leaned over the photographs. He didn’t have the time or the patience to manually cross-reference fifty pages of multinational corporate traps with standard California labor laws. He required absolute, clinical efficiency.

He mentally engaged the system, sacrificing his hoarded digital capital to access the highest echelon of corporate warfare.

[SYSTEM SHOP ACCESSED.][ACTIVATING: CORPORATE X-RAY SCAN (DEEP LEGAL AUTOPSY PROTOCOL)][COST: -15 CP][CURRENT BALANCE: 145 CP]

[CHA-CHING!]

Elias’s dark, predatory eyes flared with a sudden, imperceptible golden heat. As he looked down at the photographs, the world around him shifted. The mundane black ink on the glossy paper began to lift, glowing with a harsh, radioactive red hue wherever the system detected a financial anomaly or a lethal corporate snare.

The visual feedback was instantaneous and terrifying.

Sony Music’s legal team had engineered a masterpiece of modern slavery. Elias watched as the X-Ray Scan illuminated the traps:

[DANGER: TOURING EXCLUSIVITY CLAUSE. 100% OF LIVE PERFORMANCE REVENUE RETAINED BY LABEL TO RECOUP MANUFACTURED MARKETING EXPENSES.][DANGER: PUBLISHING ABSORPTION. ARTIST FORFEITS ALL MECHANICAL ROYALTIES ON CO-WRITTEN TRACKS IN PERPETUITY.]

"Unbelievable," Elias whispered, a dark, dangerous smile pulling at the corner of his lips. Tommy Mottola wasn’t just trying to extend her contract; he was trying to legally own the very air in her lungs. If Mariah signed this, she would generate billions of dollars over the next two decades and potentially retire with a fraction of a percent of her own worth.

Elias’s eyes scanned rapidly across the final pages, searching for the structural weakness. Every contract, no matter how airtight, possessed a flaw.

Then, on page forty-seven, the system illuminated a massive block of text in blinding, strobe-light red.

[CRITICAL VULNERABILITY DETECTED: JURISDICTIONAL OVERSIGHT.]

Elias zoomed in mentally. The contract mandated a rigid, seven-album delivery schedule, completely ignoring the constraints of calendar time. It was designed to keep the artist under Sony’s heel for ten, fifteen, perhaps twenty years until the quota was met.

Elias leaned back in his chair, tapping the yellow highlighter against his chin. He let out a rich, shameless chuckle of pure intellectual superiority.

"They used New York lawyers to draft a contract for an artist who will predominantly record and reside in California," Elias stated aloud, his baritone voice dripping with lethal satisfaction.

Paul raised his head from the desk, blinking heavily. "What? What does that mean? Does that mean we can call the police?"

"It means, Paul, that Tommy Mottola’s legal team has completely ignored the De Havilland Law," Elias smiled, pointing the highlighter at the photograph. "California Labor Code Section 2855. It strictly prohibits personal service contracts from exceeding seven calendar years, regardless of how many albums remain undelivered. They are attempting to lock an asset into a lifetime cage, and they have accidentally built it on a massive, illegal fault line."

Owen nodded slowly, looking profoundly impressed. "Whoa. That’s heavy, man. You just judo-flipped their whole vibe with one law."

"I hold a nuclear weapon," Elias corrected smoothly, "and I intend to detonate it at the most socially inconvenient moment possible."

Before Elias could elaborate on his psychological warfare strategy, the heavy plastic rotary phone on his desk erupted in a sharp, irritating ring.

Elias picked up the receiver with flawless grace. "Sovereign Media. You are speaking with the architecture."

"Elias, kid, it’s Frank," a gruff, heavily accented voice barked through the speaker. It was one of Los Angeles’s primary wholesale plastics suppliers, the man responsible for providing the raw jewel cases and shrink wrap for the Sovereign Manufacturing CD plant.

"Good morning, Frank," Elias replied politely, his eyes still locked on the De Havilland clause. "I expect the next shipment of fifty thousand ’Creep’ jewel cases to arrive at the pressing plant by tomorrow afternoon. The Tower Records retail velocity is exceeding projections."

"Yeah, about that," Frank sneered, his voice dripping with the arrogant leverage of a supplier who knew his client was desperate. "Demand is too high right now, kid. The petroleum market is shifting. I gotta hike the polymer prices by thirty percent across the board. Take it or leave it. Otherwise, your little factory isn’t going to have any plastic to print your hit record on."

Paul Rudd gasped, instantly grabbing his hair. "Thirty percent?! That wipes out our entire consignment margin! We’re dead! The supply chain is choked!"

Elias van Kempen did not panic. He did not yell at the supplier. He did not exhibit a single ounce of frustration.

Instead, a smile of absolute, terrifying shamelessness spread across his impossibly handsome face.

He reached over and slammed his finger onto the ’Speakerphone’ button, broadcasting Frank’s heavy breathing across the office.

Without breaking eye contact with Paul, Elias picked up the secondary receiver on his desk, his fingers flying across the keypad with mathematical speed.

He pinned the second receiver between his ear and shoulder.

"Begitukah, Frank?" Elias purred into the speakerphone, his voice a silken, manipulative caress that made the air in the room feel instantly ten degrees colder. (Is that so, Frank?) "Sebentar, biarkan aku menyambungkan Mitchell dari perusahaan sainganmu ke panggilan ini." (Hold on a moment, let me patch Mitchell from your direct competitor into this call.)

Frank’s voice faltered slightly on the speaker. "Wait, what? Mitchell? You’re calling Mitchell?"

The secondary line clicked, and a crisp, professional voice answered. "Mitchell Plastics, how can I help you?"

"Mitchell?" Elias murmured with devastating, charismatic charm into the receiver, while keeping Frank squarely on the open speaker. "Yes, Elias van Kempen here. I am calling to inform you that Frank has just graciously decided to forfeit his entire logistics quota for Sovereign Manufacturing over to your facilities."

"Hey! I didn’t say that!" Frank shrieked through the speakerphone, sheer panic bleeding into his tone.

Elias ignored him entirely. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his long fingers.

"Frank, terima kasih atas transparansinya," Elias said smoothly into the speakerphone, before seamlessly shifting his velvet tone back to the secondary line. (Frank, thank you for your transparency.) "Mitchell, considering the massive volume of our post-Super Bowl retail surge, we can settle on a ten percent discount from the original baseline price, correct? I assume your delivery trucks are faster than Frank’s."

"Wait! No! Stop!" Frank howled, the sound of dropping clipboards echoing through his side of the line. The supplier was experiencing a complete, real-time psychological breakdown. "Ten percent?! Kid, you’re killing me! Okay, fine! Fifteen! I’ll do fifteen percent below market rate! Just hang up on Mitchell! Hang up the damn phone!"

Paul Rudd and Owen Wilson stood completely paralyzed. Massive, cartoonish sweatdrops rolled down both of their faces.

They were watching their teenage boss flawlessly dissect a fifty-page multinational slavery contract while simultaneously executing a ruthless, live-bidding war to extort a veteran supply-chain vendor. It was a terrifying, mesmerizing display of pure, unapologetic multitasking sociopathy.

Elias smiled. He slowly pulled the secondary receiver from his shoulder and hung it up.

He leaned into the speakerphone.

"Fifteen percent below the original baseline, Frank," Elias whispered, his voice resonating with dictatorial finality. "The trucks arrive at my factory at 6:00 AM tomorrow. If they are late by a single minute, I will buy Mitchell a new warehouse. Are we clear?"

"Crystal clear, Mr. van Kempen. Six A.M. You got it," Frank choked out, his arrogance entirely eradicated.

Elias disconnected the line.

He turned his attention back to the glossy photographs of the Sony Music contract, picking up a sleek black leather portfolio folder. With surgical precision, he slid the damning evidence of the De Havilland violation into the folder, snapping it shut.

The digital loan shark roared its approval in the deepest recesses of his mind.

[CHA-CHING!][SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: THE SUPPLY CHAIN CHOKEHOLD EXECUTED WITH FLAWLESS, MULTITASKING RUTHLESSNESS!][EVALUATION: YOU WEAPONIZED A SPEAKERPHONE TO FORCE TWO GROWN MEN INTO A RACE TO THE BOTTOM, SECURING A MASSIVE PROFIT MARGIN WHILE SIMULTANEOUSLY DISCOVERING A LEGAL NUKE. YOUR SHAMELESSNESS DEFIES THE LAWS OF HUMAN COGNITION.][REWARD: +20 SHAMELESS POINTS (CP) DEPOSITED.]

Elias felt the immense power of the deposited CP flood his system, securing his balance at an armored 165 points. He had successfully manipulated the supply chain and reduced his raw material costs entirely on the strength of his audacity.

He stood up, grabbing his vintage leather jacket. He looked down at his Executive Assistant, who was still staring at the speakerphone in profound, terrified worship.

"Paul," Elias commanded, his dark eyes gleaming with the anticipation of high-society slaughter. "Pesan satu setelan jas khusus." (Order a custom suit.)

Paul blinked, tearing his gaze away from the phone. "A suit? Why? We don’t have any galas scheduled this week."

Elias walked past the desk, his aura radiating absolute, undeniable danger.

"We are going to attend the post-Grammy executive party," Elias announced softly, tapping the black leather folder against his thigh. "It is time to liberate a pop star and formally introduce Tommy Mottola to the California Labor Board."