Sam was right about one thing: he’s nowhere near ready to run a Fortune 500 company. But fuck it—he’s gonna do it anyway.
The first thing he does is reinstate Alan as chairman. It, predictably, doesn’t go well; Alan’s burned a lot of bridges in the company since Flynn’s disappearance, and Mackey, while not terribly well-liked as a person, was certainly good at patching up ENCOM’s financial holes in the meantime. From a business standpoint Mackey’s simply a better bet, but if Sam’s gonna be honest, he’s never been much of a gambler.
The second thing he does is slash his own pay by 99%. It’s still more money than the average person will ever see in their lives, but what’s he supposed to do with all those extra billions, anyway? Build a money bin? Lose his humanity? Invite Jeffrey Bezos to a soiree? No, thanks. He’d rather get stuck on the Grid for twenty years.
The third thing he does—tangentially related to the second—is bump the wages of every non-professional employee on ENCOM’s payroll by a comfortable 200%. Janitors, warehouse workers, security—he figures that, if other corporations look to ENCOM as an example, then he might as well set a good one. And, well, it’s not like he really cares if the other shareholders balk and complain.
The fourth thing he does is throw a party.
It’s just a small gathering that spans the entire top floor. Sam had Mackey make a run to the gas station down the street, so the conference table is absolutely loaded with chips, Gatorades, and beers. (He probably shouldn’t try to antagonize Mackey so fast and so early, but he’s never had good impulse control. Like father, like son.) He mixes a Bud Light into his blue Gatorade and drinks the concoction, grinning at the looks of shock his new employees give him.
“Pretty good,” he tells them.
When the party finally ramps up—Daft Punk vibrating through the floor and everyone splitting into comfortable groups, couples, lonesomes—he finds Alan by the conference table, eating out of an open bag of Tostitos, and approaches him with a smile.
“So what do you think?” he asks.
“It’s… something,” Alan replies. Sam reads between the lines: I hope to God these parties don’t become a regular thing.
Sam’s grin becomes fond, even as he rolls his eyes. “I meant about the company. The direction I’m taking it in…? Any of it, all of it.”
“Oh. Yes.” And Alan’s smile becomes less tentative, more genuine, as he regards him. “It’s risky—extremely so. But… I think it’s the right thing to do.” He clasps Sam’s shoulder, a rare moment of physical affection, and gives it a paternal squeeze. “Your dad would be proud.”
Sam’s not sure how to respond. He keeps his grin on, fluctuates between joy, pride, sadness, grief. What he’s done here—what he plans to do next—wasn’t something he did just to keep Kevin Flynn’s memory alive. And yet…
“I hope so, too,” he finally says.