Click. Clack. Click. Clack.
A blank notepad sits on his desk. So does a still-clinging-to-life plant.
Egill Haukursson rubs his temples as he fruitlessly clicks the pen. It had been a long time since Egill Haukursson could think of a good idea.
He remembered his last stroke of genius about five years ago. He was sitting in the private lounge of Klettastrond City Airport, waiting not-so-patiently for his private jet to Neu Konigstadt. Two pilots sat next to him, and for the next 15 minutes, Haukursson feverishly tried to pick up on every word the two men exchanged about the business. The long times. The inefficiency. The cost-effectiveness. It only meant one thing for the rich man.
Profit.
He had the name Whoa Air before he took off. By the end of the week, he had a board of directors. The first flight left to Drulluhus in two months.
And good lord, did he find that profit. So much. Too much.
After that, the days were brighter, the air pure, and the trees picturesque. The old man even went to the city temple—not to pray, of course, but to tell the world, 'You're welcome.' You're welcome for winning.
But all good things come to an end. What is a budget airline with hidden fees? What is travel for when people get laid off a month before Winter Solstice? After a sluggish winter and a tragic plane crash, nobody thought Whoa Air was so awe-inspiring anymore. They avoided it—and by extension—Haukursson, like the plague. The stock crashed, and the razor-thin profit margins couldn't be coaxed by sleazy accountants. Before he knew it, his mug was all over the newspapers for fraud.
And now here he was. Empty pad. Clicking pen. Wilting plant. He sighed impatiently.
Haukursson needed something he could sell. He needed that thing that people couldn't live without.
But how could he sell? He was a 70-something pudgy Trefjalli miser infamous for making money and nothing else. Every morning in the shower, more hair fell out. His fake tan was getting more noticeable. Dread washed over him. A feeling worse than pondering death.
He wasn't a winner. No. Anything but. He was a loser. Dead in the water, shot twelve times in the chest, and a missing shoe. Whoa Air was gone. His real estate empire was more of a duchy nowadays. Investing never had the same returns.
He shook his head. 'No need to dwell', he chided himself. He glanced over to the rest of the desk, noticing the picture of him and his family years ago, taken before the almighty Kroner rotted his brain. Gods, he almost looked happy. Two-and-a-half kids, a sharp suit, a happy marriage...
There he went, dwelling again.
But how couldn't he? Business or personal, the old man was crashing and burning. His wife, his darling Steffi, gone on long trips and spending stock options on caviar on the Luxlein coasts. His daughter was far away—Drulluhus, the last time he saw her. And what hurt the miser the most was his son, away serving his country, not the Haukursson family business.
He glanced out to the harbor. Colorful roofs reflected light into the office, lighting it up. The sun kissed and danced with the water like a couple dancing to the Luxlein drums. Giant ships of war sat idle in the harbor. Next to them sat dinghies in comparison. To think his son was toiling on Coast Guard missions, returning to harbor, and seeing those three maple leaves flying smugly above his head.
A deep sigh.
Egill was never much of a patriot—his loyalty was in coin—yet he pitied those puny ships. He pitied the insignificant flag that flew above it. He pitied the laborers who manned them. He pitied the office he sat in. He pitied the plant. He pitied himself.
There was one thing in common with him, that harbor, and the plant.
They were losers.
Egill couldn't have that. He had to win.
The pen stopped clicking. The man had an idea.