Walking on Sunshine

/I USED TO THINK MAYBE YOU LOVED ME, NOW BABY I'M SURE/

Fingers drumming on the battered steering wheel. Cigarette dangling from his mouth. The GPS chirped, faintly, and Harlan's eyes flicked to it irritably before abruptly swerving to the left. The car behind him honked, and he gave it the finger.

/AND I JUST CAN'T WAIT TILL THE DAY WHEN YOU KNOCK ON MY DOOR/
An imposing Gothic pile loomed before him. It didn't faze Harlan. He'd incorporated Umbrella Corporation in Boston and worked mainly in New England, so he'd seen a lot of these old-money complexes over the past few years. He'd never done business with the Timuryans, though. They were weird, even for rich people.

/AND I JUST CAN'T WAIT TILL THE DAY WHEN YOU KNOCK ON MY DOOR/

The gates were open, and his van stuttered to a stop beside the non-functional fountain. Harlan glanced at it with interest. A voluptuous marble woman held a decorative Roman urn, her blank white eyes fixed on nothing in particular. The spout protruding from the Roman urn had rusted over.

/NOW EVERYTIME I GO FOR THE MAILBOX, GOTTA HOLD MYSELF D-/

Switching off his music player and pasting his domino mask to his face, Harlan dismounted from the van, slammed the door shut, and fiddled with his iPod distractedly. His van was emblazoned with kitschy weather symbols: rudimentary suns, clouds, lightning-bolts, and snowflakes. In huge letters as high as his torso: UMBRELLA CORPORATION - FAIR-WEATHER SOLUTIONS FOR FOUL-WEATHER DAYS! CALL NOW!
The door creaked open. An old, distinguished-looking man stood in the entryway. "Weatherman?"
Harlan nodded, belatedly forgot that he hadn't extinguished his cigarette, and tossed it over his shoulder into his van through the open window. The man's expression did not change. "That's me. Arty -"
"Artyom Grigorian." He was starting to look awfully forbidding. "Yes. Welcome." He didn't sound very welcoming. "Now, you'll forgive me if I don't invite you in. The young masters will be emerging shortly. I suggest that you begin setting the scene for them." His gaze doubled in intensity abruptly. "I would also like to remind you that you signed a confidentiality agreement."
"Of course, Mr Grigorian. I'm, uh, trustworthy."
The door slammed.
"Jeez," Harlan mumbled under his breath. "And not even a drink." He fumbled with his iPod. "At least I'm getting paid for this." Sliding his earbuds into his ears, he dialled up the volume and leaned against his vehicle, staring at the sky, jaw tightening.

/NOW EVERYTIME I GO FOR THE MAILBOX, GOTTA HOLD MYSELF DOWN/

The sky began to darken quickly. Originally a clear blue, white clouds began to scud quickly by, then froze in place, amalgamating together into ever-more ominous shapes. They turned white, then grey, then dark. Thunder rumbled. Harlan set his music to play on repeat and started drumming his fingers on the hood of his van, eyebrows furrowed, still staring up at the sky, back turned to the mansion.

/'CAUSE I JUST CAN'T WAIT TILL YOU WRITE ME YOU'RE COMING AROUND/

The wind picked up as Harlan popped a stick of chewing gum into his mouth. The clouds continued to buffet this way and that, held in check by some invisible force, hovering in place above this lonesome pile of buildings on the outskirts of Brockton Bay. Yet no rain fell. The sun had disappeared here, yet continued to shine down on the Boat Graveyard and the Boardwalk, far to the east. Or was it the south? Harlan hadn't been to Brockton Bay in a while.

/I'M WALKING ON SUNSHINE, WHOAA
I'M WALKING ON SUNSHINE, WHOAAA
I'M WALKING ON SUNSHINE, WHOAAAA
AND DON'T IT FEEL GOOD/

There were a few specks in the clouds. Larger than birds, smaller than airplanes. Harlan squinted, considered digging his binoculars out, and thought better at it. On a whim, he turned around, squinting up at the ornate mountain of the Timuryan mansion, and saw another speck disappear into the sky, a distant whoop drifting to his ears even as he removed his earbuds.
Then he realized that Artyom Grigorian was standing in the door again.
"Mr Grigorian."
"Weatherman." Grigorian smiled at him. It was not a nice smile. "I understand that you work with the PRT. I would also like to remind you that you have a confidentiality agreement." His eyes were piercingly cold. "And that we expect you to uphold it."
"Don't need to tell me twice, mate," Harlan joked. "I guess the young masters are out in the backyard, yeah? Love cloudy days myself. That period right before a storm, nothing else like it."
"In the backyard," Grigorian repeated slowly. "Quite."