Submitted by Slaywraith t3_10mrve2 in WritingPrompts
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MostED13 t1_j64y8ee wrote
EDIT: Sadly, did not realise the 3rd element of the prompt, where the "I" is me in the supermarket, and ended up writing it from the point of view of the hero/villain.
It was a sunny afternoon, the leaves rustled under my feet as I walked through the park, just having beat up another of the Villains. I figured he was one of those insect types. His face was almost exactly like a disco ball texture covering the entirety of his cranial shape and he smelled like feces all the time whenever I encountered him. I also smelled filthy. Fighting in the sewers is my least favorite task. Anyhow, I continued my stroll until I reached The Skyscraper. It’s our office, we clock in and out here, but we never really leave our suits even off duty, we’re almost always on call, and I get paid very well for my overtime and on-call time so I can’t complain.
I walked in, scanned my ID on the elevator control panel and it took me to the changing rooms. There I took a very good steamy shower. I could feel myself becoming a clean man once again. In my element. At my most powerful. While I was at it, I got hungry. Fighting really tires me out and I need to eat afterwards. So after the shower, and after getting dressed in one of my pristinely clean back up suits. I was a happy soaper. Sparkling white and squeaky clean. So squeaky in fact, that I could feel it when I moved around.
I opened my locker to check my snacks and I found that there was absolutely nothing left. Just a few crumbs from the last time I had an emergency snack. I realized that I would have to go to the shops again. So I got out of the changing room and went to the office to clock out for a lunch break. As I walked I would relish in the fact that everything seemed to become much more squeaky and shiny from me walking past it. However, I noticed that something was off, I guess being hungry, reduces the effectiveness of this aura.
I went outside and walked to the nearest convenience store and walked past all of the fresh bagels and produce. I wanted a good bar of soap, and a nice detergent to wash it down with. I looked through the isles of soap and couldn’t decide if I wanted aloe vera or something more fruity, although all of those were the best tasting ones, those brown ugly soap bars were usually the most fulfilling. I guess it’s what the regular people compare tasty junk-food to something healthy they all seem to hate like asparagus or steamed bologna or something alike that they say tastes bad.
In my indecision, I settled on the classic old brown soap and waltzed on over to the detergent isle. There I deliberated for a while, I opened a few lids to check on the smells of some of the detergents. Mr. Proper window cleaner was very delicious, but I wanted something with a little bit more oomph today. I’d say Ajax would be perfect for that. With my bare necessities with me, I got in line at the cashier. I observed a few regular folks in line as I was walking, but once I reached the end of the line, I smelled it again. That same fecal smell from earlier in the day. It was him, the Flyman. Still smelling awfully. He was just a few people ahead of me, but unlike me he had changed into regular clothes. A hobos fit. Raggedy clothes, torn jeans, shoes with holes in them, and you could see his toes even. Nasty look if I’m being honest. I’ve never seen him outside his suit though, which looks pristine in comparison.
“Do they really pay you that shit?” I asked him.
“Oh no, not you again,” Flyman responded. “I’ve had enough janitor encounters for today man, can you guys just leave me alone?”
“Man, I’m just here to get a snack,” I replied as I showed him the bar of soap and Ajax in my hands.
“You eat that?” he said, “What kind of snack is that?”
“After our fight, I was taking a shower at the HQ, and I got a bit hungry, turned out that I ran out of my snacks while I was there. Clocked off for lunch.”
“Ah I see, yeah so did I, but I don’t actually eat shit for a living man. I might smell like crap, and live in the sewers, but this is just an off-the-clock look. I don’t mind it too much, my nose is used to it.” He replied as he gave the cashier his things and paid for them.
“But the rest of ours isn’t. Look, Flyman, I ain’t gonna do anything to you, but you really did get the crappiest job out of all of us,” I smirked. “Can’t believe the guy who had his head dunked into the toilet turned out to be the master of literal shit.” I said as I waited for my turn.
“Man, you don’t have to bring the ‘good old days’ into it. You fucking consume soap. The Authority conducted experiments on you and made you a soap junkie. Catch you later, you cleaning menace,” he said as he walked through the entrance backwards.
I thought to myself, well no matter these experiments, I have become the cleanest man there is on this planet. I knew that if I could wash off all of the crap of him, maybe I’d have the chance of having a promotion once I am done with that. Never liked the guy, in school, still don’t like him now. Although I was the one to dunk his face in that toilet, years ago. This filth was the one sleeping around with my girlfriend at the time.
Ray_The_Weirdo t1_j67p52z wrote
Beep
Beep
Beep
The man watched as Rowen scanned the items he brought, going greener and greener around the gills. "That's 379.85 sir. Cash or credit?" she tilted her head, looking amused as the man continuously checking his phone.
"Is something wrong, sir?" the man looked up, paling. "no-no! Everything's fine! just, er, waiting for my pay to come in..." he said, his voice getting quieter. "All good!" Rowan said, putting on a fake smile that seemed to actually reassure him.
She scanned his attire, a light blue one-piece suit with accents of yellow, torn and showing bruised or crusted, bleeding skin. "First day on the job?" She asked nodding at the char marks scattered among the other damages.
"yes ma'am" He said, "Heatwave doesn't mess around..." Rowan chuckled at his feeble answer. "I would recommend checking out the shop across the street. they love new supers. You get pretty good deals for suits there too."
a man she instantly recognized popped in line behind the other, in a crisp black suit and tie. "You talking about Cape-mania? love that place" he grinned, placing a hand on the now shaking man in front. "e-evening, Mr. Heatwave..." he said, and the suited man placed a shopping border in front of where he would put his groceries.
"Lovely so see you so soon, Clear Skies! Though you can call me Gabe" Heatwave winked, seemingly unnerving Skies more. "Alrighty Mr. Gabe." he held out a hand with amusing cautiousness. "Luke"
As they shook hands Rowan laughed. "What a lovely reunion. Now, Luke, how's your pay coming along?" she added impatiently, desperate to keep the now growing line of supers and villains coming at a smoother pace.
Luke, as if just remembering that Rowan was there, quickly grabbed his phone and scrolled though it, his face brightening after a few more anxious frowns. "Yes! I'm so sorry Miss-" he looked at her nametag, "-Rowan. I must be holding up one dozy of a line..."
He quickly payed, shuffled his bags in his trolly, and whisked out of the checkout. Gabe laughed as he piled his things on the counter. "He needs to get a new job. I would go easy on him, but money aint falling from the sky" Rowen nodded.
"Couldn't agree more. now be snappy, the shop may be open 24/7 but my own pay says i got until twelve am." the villain, with a total of only $14.96- including the 10c bag- walked out of the shop, waving to a few of his friends.
The line of costumers slowly thinned out as the night went on, and Rowan left the supermarket at last, glancing at the sky scattered with stars. The moon was bright that night, and she could see at least ten figures in the air, fighting or talking or anything in-between.
What a strange world I live in... Though I can't imagine a world any different now. Rowan thought, heading off into the night.
===========================
Please let me know what you think! this is my second story here haha :D
Slaywraith OP t1_j69a1vt wrote
I think you did wonderfully! This is what I was thinking when I put up the prompt. Please, I'd love for you to try and continue the story! I wanna see where you take it! 🙂
Ray_The_Weirdo t1_j69qf9u wrote
Thank you so much!!! I will certainly try to add more to the story :D
No-Gene-1955 t1_j6b0f3l wrote
Lady Lightning has never struck me as the kind of person who would shop at the 99-Cent Mart. I had always pictured her as more of a PriceCo member, real sophisticated-like, picking up organic protein bars by the crate-full and nodding contemplatively over samples of gourmet cheese alongside the other big names: Captain Justice, Silver Eagle, that kind of crowd. But the night she showed up in my checkout line, I realized that perhaps her resplendent televised image was a bit deceiving.
Up close and personal, I could see that her armor was scuffed in places, her cape growing threadbare. Her right eye had been blacked in whatever fight she’d just come out of, and a few curls of her honey-blonde hair were falling out of her trademark chignon.
And as I swiped her card after ringing up her plain, utilitarian shampoo, generic brand oatmeal, browning bananas, and three cans of HydroCut Energy–you know, the ones that were pulled from shelves by the FDA for being the beverage equivalent of meth, but of course, remained in circulation at seedy chains with scummy CEOs–the machine declined it with a low, groaning BEEP of disapproval.
Her eyes widened, her small grin fading to reveal just how hollow her cheeks had grown–had she looked that drawn and sickly the last time she’d appeared in the paper?
“Terribly sorry…”
"It’s alright,” I told her, welling with a strange cocktail of sympathy and confusion. “Do you have another one?”
“O-of course…give me just a moment…” She began to dig in her handbag, easily the most well-kept part of her ensemble, and designer, to boot, though it was one of the ones from several seasons ago.
At last, she found another credit card. She sighed, handing it over…but her relief was short lived.
BEEP.
“It’s probably a mistake on the bank’s end,” I figured. “I’m sure if you just call them–”
“Wow,” she said, beginning to choke up. “I knew my husband had a good publicist, but I didn’t realize what a thorough cover-up he’s orchestrated…”
She broke down in tears then, and after she spilled her tale of woe, I could hardly blame her.
It all started when Lightning Rod ran out on her to hook up with Seismic Siren–you’ve seen her in the papers. Barely legal, and not the brightest of upstart superheroines, but that doesn’t matter when you can rely on the power to command the ground below your feet itself. That, and a DDD rack. On her own, Lady Lightning was struggling to afford her mortgage, and she was having trouble picking up shifts: according to her supervisors at the Heroics Division, as she approached her 40s, she no longer excited and delighted audiences like her newer, younger colleagues.
So I took out my own card to pay for her meager haul of groceries. It was the least I could do.
“No…I couldn’t accept your charity like that,” she insisted.
"It's no trouble." I reminded her of the time fifteen years ago when she stopped a subway bombing on the west side of town, and let her know she was the reason I got to grow up with a dad.
After that, I refused to take no for an answer, even once she told me that whole incident had been staged as part of an ad campaign to prove our heroes were superior to China’s.
On her way out, she took a job application from the display table by the automatic doors.
No-Gene-1955 t1_j6b0hbe wrote
PART 2:
I checked out a handful of other people–exactly how many escapes me now–before another costumed figure approached my counter. It was a man this time–more of a boy, really. I was sure he couldn’t have been older than nineteen. But was I really going to card him for his shopping basket full of beers when he was pointing the business end of a flamethrower at my face?
He wore a black wifebeater tucked into tight black jeans that looked like an uncomfortably tight squeeze around a roll of puppy fat that he’d never quite managed to lose, and he was strapped from the neck down with dynamite, grenades, and ammunition. The grin on his round, youthful face managed to be both carefree and devilish. His dark mop of hair was mussed, but not inelegantly so, and he reeked of gasoline. Why did I like that?
“You know how this goes, hombre. Money in the bag!” he said, tossing burlap sack onto the conveyor belt. I nodded vigorously.
The lost profits were going to come out of my check, as my cheapskate boss was unwilling to spring for villain insurance, but my life was worth more than a couple hundred bucks.
“I, uh…” I winced. “I do need to scan one item to open the register.”
He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Whaaaaatever.” He took a bag of chips out of his basket and tossed it irreverently in my direction. I caught it, grateful he hadn’t chosen to throw a beer at me, and rung it up, hit the ‘cash’ button, and began to empty the register.
“Any chance your shift will be over in the next few minutes?” I asked him. “It would be nice, not having to pay for this out of pocket.”
“Oh, I’ve been off,” he explained. “But the Villains Association doesn’t mind if we get up to a little extracurricular mayhem.”
That was news to me; as high-profile as the Heroics Division had always been in the press, the Villains Association had always been more nebulous, more elusive.
And clearly, the Heroics Division didn’t take care of its employees the way they made the public believe.
“So how does it work?” I asked. “Working for the VA?”
“Honestly? I’m still new, but so far, it’s the best!” confessed the stick-up artist. “It’s almost the complete opposite of working for the Division. You’re totally self-directed. Yeah, you have to meet quotas when it comes to hours and number of crimes, but you get to build your own schedule, you don’t have any trainers and stylists jerking you around and telling you what to do, and best of all, you keep whatever you steal, on top of your hourly rate! And we’re always looking for new talent. In fact, if I refer one more new hire before the end of the month, I get a 30% raise!”
The implication wasn’t lost on me, and the thought occurred that if I was a villain, I could perhaps help Lady Lightning out. I could make myself her target, let her beat me, rinse and repeat…get the public excited about her again. It was a well-known fact that nothing brought about a surge in a hero’s popularity a new nemesis.
One problem remained, though: “I don’t have any powers.”
“Me neither! But I do have this big-ass–”
“Flamethrower, yeah, I see that.”
“The Association is totally willing to set you up with whatever weapons work for you.”
“Do you guys have…like…a website?”
He tossed a business card onto my counter. “When you get to the in-person interview, just be sure and tell the hiring manager Flamethrower sent ya.”
I nodded breathlessly.
And then he was making his way out the door.
Slaywraith OP t1_j6e1rh8 wrote
Oh, this is GOOOOOD!! Keep it going! I'm lovin' it!! 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟
No-Gene-1955 t1_j6h6gvg wrote
Thanks so much! You've inspired me to add a second chapter:
Even though I got off late and applied to the Villains Association on my phone well past midnight, the next morning, my alarm was promptly followed by a phone call from a friendly representative of the hiring department, who asked through a hacking smoker’s cough when I might be available for an interview. I gave the gentleman my next day off and grabbed a pad and paper to scribble down the address at which I was to report for my interview with a Constance Conway.
That Wednesday at 10 PM, I pulled my beat-up Mazda 3 into the parking lot of a small and rickety, but loud, dive bar on the outskirts of town.
The building appeared fragile on its molding wooden supports, the steps to the flimsy front door weathered and spongy beneath my feet. Despite the scant crowd inside, music was blaring blow-out-the-speakers loud, a disco ball dangling precariously, heavily, overhead by a single, struggling wire. OSHA would’ve had a field day.
Up at the bar, a curvy, leather-clad woman with her long, dark hair razored off on one side sat backwards on her swivel stool. She had a clipboard tucked under her left arm and very many tattoos, some professionally done, some stick-and-poke. She scanned the room with her eyes until her penetrating green gaze landed on me. She chucked back what remained of her drink, approached me, and spoke my name like it was a question–more like shouted, truly, over the racket. I nodded.
“Constance Conway, from the VA?” I practically hollered back. The acronym was vague enough that I figured I could get away with dropping it without giving us away, not that there were too many people around to overhear us.
“Just Connie! Come on, let’s get some drinks!”
I was a few months shy of my twenty-first birthday, but I’ve never exactly been a goody two-shoes. Having two working-class parents who were never home on account of our rising bills afforded me plenty of opportunities to supplement my deprived, Spartan childhood with secret indulgences. The only reason why I was so familiar with the layout of the 99-Cent Mart was before I got hired on there, it was my favorite shoplifting haunt. But it’s not really immoral if you’re stealing from a corrupt corporation, is it?
Or applying to work for a criminal organization with the endgame goal of improving someone’s life?
I followed her to the counter–my own steps steady, hers stumbling. “We’ll both have a tall double whiskey and HydroCut!” she shouted to the bartender.
Oof. Dangerous combo. “Can you make mine whiskey and Dr. B Zero?”
“What?” yelled Connie.
I pulled the pen out of my pocket, because of course I’d brought a pen, and wrote my order down on a bar napkin. Our drinks came swiftly, and Connie ushered me out onto the thankfully much quieter back patio.
No-Gene-1955 t1_j6h6qd0 wrote
We took seats on a splintery picnic table under string lights and a tattered canopy. “It’s cool that they let you drink on the job,” I said.
“Encourage it, in fact!” she said with a flourish. “You wouldn’t believe what chaos lowered inhibitions can introduce to a heist. Now tell me a little about yourself, if ya don’t mind!” She took a big swig of her drink and propped her clipboard up against the edge of the table.
“Well, I’m a veteran shoplifter and longtime delinquent,” I said, forcing confidence into my tone. “I’ve always dreamed of accomplishing something more impactful, though. More memorable. And when Flamethrower mentioned y’all were hiring–Flamethrower sent me, by the way–I thought to myself, you guys might be my perfect fit.”
She grinned. “Flamethrower! Love that guy. Bit of a wild card, but great in bed!”
More than I needed to know, but duly noted, anyway. “Special skills?” asked Connie.
“Brawling. Never lost a fight.” Granted, the only person I’d ever fought was my bratty little brother when we were kids, but it still counted. “Oh, and marksmanship.” A rich girl from my public school had once invited me to her laser tag party, and I’d hit every target I’d aimed for. I could probably repeat the performance with a more dangerous weapon.
“Good, good.” She took some notes. “Choose an adjective out of the following that best sums up your personality: intelligent, reckless, manipulative, or subservient?”
I considered my options. ‘Manipulative’ was obviously the most villainous trait, but if I gave it as my answer, it might reveal I was only here with an ulterior motive. ‘Subservient’ was the best bet for my life and limb, but could very well land me a position as someone’s trod-on henchperson. ‘Reckless’ was a no-go, unless I wanted dangerous assignments for the duration of my tenure, and as for ‘Intelligent,’ that was a recipe for setting myself up to meet high expectations.
Finally, I settled on, “Versatile?”
“I like your style,” said Connie. “If you were on the clock and saw an elderly woman struggling to cross the street, you would…?”
“Steal her purse and run.” Was that villainous enough?
Connie seemed satisfied, nodding as she checked off a box.
“In order of preference, first being high priority and last being low priority, which of the following villainous activities would you like to engage in? Your options are: criminal mischief, robbery, fraud, damage to public property, assassination, and random acts of manslaughter.”
“Robbery first. Experience, you know?” I said. “Then, I guess, fraud, property damage, criminal mischief…then assassination, but that’s probably something you save for more seasoned villains, yeah? And then manslaughter.”
I certainly wasn’t eager to kill anyone, but if I had to, I’d rather it be some asshole politician.
“Right, right. I noticed under Genetic Deviance, you checked ‘non-applicable’. Is there anything you’d need, gear wise, from the Association, to enable your heists?”
This question, I answered immediately: “I need a weapon I can wield with minimal recoil, a flight device, and a super suit that acts as an insulator.”
“Perfectly doable! Do you have any questions for me?”
“So…would you be my manager?”
She let out a barking laugh. “Oh, no. I’m not a field agent anymore. But don’t worry, you’ll have a partner until you feel comfortable doing solo heists.”
“And payment–”
“Starts at 20 an hour, plus whatever you can snatch!”
“And regarding the Heroics Division…do I get to pick my own nemesis?”
“Who did you have in mind?”
“Lady Lightning.”
Connie whipped out her phone and scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled. Finally, she said, “Bit of a has-been heroine. No one has claimed her right now. She’s all yours, if you want her. When, B-T-dubs, can you start?”
My next day off would be Sunday, so Connie penciled me in then to pick up my gear from the VA HQ.
Thursday morning, I showed up to the store barely able to hide my exhaustion. As I was setting up my checkstand and counting my drawer, Stan, the sleazy floor manager, approached me with a blonde woman at his heels. She was in her late thirties, dressed in a white polo shirt and khaki pants as per regulation, our signature purple apron fastened behind her neck and around her narrow waist. Her cheeks were hollow and gaunt, and her blonde hair hung in a low and elegant bun.
“This is Tessa Turner,” the boss told me. “She’ll be your trainee for the day. Let’s see if you can teach an old dog new tricks, huh?” He smacked her ass and walked off.
I wondered if it was too late to tell the VA I was interested in manslaughter after all.
Slaywraith OP t1_j6kbs5f wrote
Yeah... You *REALLY* need to keep this going!! It's really starting to get good. (And I agree, I'd kill that manager without too many qualms myself! I *HATE* those kind of douchebags!!)
No-Gene-1955 t1_j6l99hz wrote
TYSM! This is a wonderful prompt, thank you for the inspiration! I do have a little more, the next excerpt elaborating a little more on life at the store, but I hope to keep the momentum up and get to the point of a battle scene!
No-Gene-1955 t1_j6l9aym wrote
The cashiering profession is a delicate and precise art lost on the white-collar and best not left to the faint-at-heart. Contrary to popular belief, it’s not simply a matter of running items past a scanner and chucking them in a sack. It takes a quick mind for improvisation to entertain chatty customers, and an incredible mastery of one’s own temper to de-escalate the conflicts that inevitably arise against the most disgruntled of them. It takes a good head for logic, layouts, and categorization to swiftly collect and reshelve items picked up capriciously in aisles, only to be discarded into the shelves beside the checkstand at the last minute by patrons as they anxiously watch their bills rack up on the screen. You must be mindful of the proper handling of perishable food, chemicals, and broken glass–you wouldn’t believe how much stuff people drop and break while they shop. You must appear to move with a sense of urgency that makes your employer deem you worthy of keeping onboard, while never letting your actual productivity level exceed average, lest they get it in their head to bury you under a mountain of extra work. In retrospect, it's just as demanding as vocational villainy, only without the fun.
But I was sure Lady Lightning would be fine.
Not that I had any proof that my new colleague and the electric enigma were one and the same. Could I even count on my own eyesight, when the heroine had been masked from the bridge of her nose upward during our encounter? The resemblance, though, was striking.
After we made brief introductions, I asked her, “Have you ever done this before?”
“Once, when I was a teenager,” she said. “That was before we had all these newfangled screens and gadgets, though.”
“Tell me about it. The world’s gotten too big, too fast,” I agreed. “For now, how about I have you just watch me work the register, and you can do the bagging, until you feel comfortable taking the front? Then, we can switch.”
“I think that would be best.”
I’m not saying it’s rocket science, and I’m not saying it’s any reflection on your quality as a person if you either can’t, or refuse, to be good at bagging other people’s groceries. I get it: who gives a shit? But watching Tessa over my shoulder as she meticulously handled our line’s purchases, gently packing cold items with other cold items, fruits with fruits, meats with meats, large, heavy things double-bagged on their own, and anything fragile wrapped in paper between soft, swift fingers, I became all the more endeared to her. This was a woman who took great care in everything she touched, from a stranger’s avocados to a life in danger. Suddenly, it incensed me all the more to think of her wrung dry by some soulless government agency, milked for all they could squeeze, and then, in her hour of need, finding a door slammed in her face.
“What do you do for fun?” I asked during a lull between rushes.
“Fun?” She laughed nervously. “Moving forward, I barely think I’ll have time for sleep, between this and my other job.”
“Oh? What else do you do?”
She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her purple apron. “A bit of this and that…contract work, mostly. It can get pretty physically demanding, and it’s not as rewarding as people assume it is…but we all must keep the lights on, eh?”
Ringing up on a touchscreen tablet presented a greater challenge to Tessa than bagging, but with me right behind her to guide her to the right buttons, she got the hang of it before the end of the shift. As we made our way to the back of the store together to punch out, I asked her what her plans were for the rest of the evening.
“I was going to try to pick up at my other job,” she said.
“That’s too bad. I was going to try and catch the new Galaxy Wars movie. The only problem is, I don’t have nobody to go with,” I ventured, feeling bold.
She blinked, this stunned, sudden blink that gave way to a doe-eyed expression of surprise. “You can’t be suggesting–but I’m so much older than you are!”
“Who said I was suggesting anything?”
I was totally suggesting something. All I wanted to do was wrap her up in my jacket, protect her from the world, and love her forever.
We took down each others’ numbers on the hood of my car before we left, just in case she ended up free for the evening after all.
When I got home, I had three unread texts, but none of them were from Tessa.
I needed to download the HYST app to network with my fellow villains.
The weapon and flight device I had requisitioned had been acquired.
And as far as the suit was concerned, did I have any preferences when it came to color scheme?
Slaywraith OP t1_j6lv7ap wrote
Yeeeesssssss... YEEEEEEESSSSS!!!!!! MOAR!!! I require MOAR!!!! *said in an over-drawn Vaudvillain-style cackle* ;) :D
No-Gene-1955 t1_j6pcfx3 wrote
I swear you're gonna have me turning this into a full-blown book
xxxxxxxxxx
On the corner of Third and Chartreuse Street, in Blackwater City’s impoverished west side, there stood a drafty and shoddily-maintained poker and gambling hall, atop which sat two or three dozen cheap rooms for rent by the hour. The two businesses claimed not to be affiliated with one another, despite sharing a building, but in truth, they were both fronts for the Villains Association, which maintained its headquarters in the basement with the prep kitchens below.
"Sorry if the base leaves a bit to be desired," called Connie through the locked door of the white-walled and genderless employee restroom in which I changed, for the first time, into my costume. "If we put any real work into the place, we might start to attract a decent crowd, and inevitably, people would ask questions.” Whether by ‘decent,’ she was referring to the quantity or quality of patrons to our fronts, I didn’t know.
Aside, the VA’s orientation video played on my phone, which I had set on top of the toilet tank. I had already watched it; I merely wanted to make sure there was nothing I had missed, but it was shockingly short and simple. The 99-Cent Mart had given me more direction before putting me to work.
“Well then, how’s the fit?”
The ensemble consisted of a fitted shirt made of reflective silver lycra, lined with both rubber and kevlar, tucked into matching pants, belted with a holster at my hip for a sidearm. Bright white pleather gloves, lace-up boots, and a hooded capelet completed the look, with dark tinted goggles both for safety and identity concealment. Against the smoggy, starless night sky, I would be starkly conspicuous, grabbing the undivided attention of crowds below–and of my superheroic crush.
I closed the video, pocketed my phone, and stepped out of the stall to see if my getup had the approval of my new handler. Connie smirked. “You look like a million bucks, rookie. Now, I just hope you can steal as much!” She jerked her head, gesturing for me to follow her. “Shall we go test out your weapons?”
As she led me down the hallway, a number of other villains passed us, many of them clapping me on the back or nudging me in the side with wide grins and words of welcome. “It’s friendlier than I expected.” I pointed out.
“Oh, yeah. Our Christmas parties are incomparable. Well, here we are!”
We stepped into a room with walls stacked with all manner of weapons, gadgets, and gear. All around us stood mannequins, some more battered than others from what I presumed was target practice, each of them painted with a cartoonish expression of agony, some of them with bullseyes on their chests or the backs of their skulls. Connie pulled what looked like a backpack off the hook from which it hung and handed it to me. As I strapped myself in, I realized it featured two protrusions, each bearing a green button, within reach of my grasp. “The left button is your accelerator, and the right button is your brake,” explained Connie. Curiously, I gripped the accelerator, thumbed the button…
And went rocketing, with a wail, into the air.
Suspended by a miniature jet engine, I hovered above the ground, catching my breath.
“Pretty cool, huh?” said a new voice, from behind. I spun around to see Flamethrower standing in the doorway, in full supervillain regalia, leaning against the frame with a casual grin.
Now that we were on the same side, he wasn’t so intimidating. It was actually a comfort to encounter a familiar–and damn, handsome–face on my first day. (I wondered if he was a rare exception, or if I did indeed, contrary to what I had previously believed, enjoy the company of men.) “Show him the gun, Cons!” he said eagerly. Then, to me, “The weapon was my idea. If you don’t like it, you can send it back or whatever and get something else. I just kind of thought we’d look cool back to back. Oh, I hope it’s alright if I volunteered to mentor you. I figured it’s the least I could do to make up for sticking you up.”
“Hey, what’s a little aggro-robbery between friends, right?”
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