Just over six feet tall and naturally athletic, he cut an intimidating silhouette. This impression, however, did not extend to his youthful face and eyes that never seemed to maintain contact with anyone else. Without any other knowledge to go on, one would be inclined to think that the man was perpetually lost in thoughts of great importance.
The pallid walls of the room were mostly barren, save for an old poster of Nikola Tesla demolishing his mortal foe, Thomas Edison, with a lightning gun. Tesla was the greatest super scientist of his age, possibly even of all time, and historians still argued whether he was a hero or a villain. The fame or infamy of his existence always intrigued Arthur, providing him with what he felt to be, at least in his more grandiose moods, a kindred spirit in the ways of the world.
Poster aside, the room served as a sort of protective den for its occupant. To the left of the door a long, L-shaped desk occupied much of the wall. Its function began as a work bench until it hit the corner, then bent to a shorter computer desk. Above that portion of the furniture, a shelf of books stretched from the outer wall to where the closet jutted into the room. In front of the closet, the rest of the room consisted of the window-bearing wall, his night stand jammed in the corner, and his bed. The carpeted floor had piles of clothes here and there, the only truly clear path carved between the door and his chair by the desk.
“Good morning, Arthur,” the feminine voice called from the laptop on his computer desk.
“Good morning, Mollie,” he responded as he turned toward the desk. “And how are you today?” The monitor flickered before coming to life. The desktop background revealed a schematic before another window popped up in the corner bearing the image of a pulsing blue iris, vaguely reminiscent of a human eye. It was the form that his self-made program had decided to take, ignoring the option of a talking paper clip his roommate had suggested.
“I am pleased to report that I have finished the thirty-second diagnostic of your schematics for Project 238,” her voice rose and fell, increasing and decreasing in pitch as she spoke. “It is, according to my evaluation, flawless.”
Arthur leaned down and looked at the screen. “You know just what to say,” he said confidently as he bobbed his head back and forth. “Today’s the day.” He nodded.
Mollie’s reply started with a whisper before ending at a higher volume, “I shall send the plans to the printer while you prepare for your meeting.” A slight hum underneath the desk alerted him of the hardware coming to life at her command.
He smiled and winked at her. “You’re a doll.”
Arthur walked out into the living room before crossing immediately to the galley kitchen. The living space of the apartment was modest, but comfortable. A well-worn sectional sofa rested partially against the photograph-adorned far wall, the remaining bit functioning as a room divider. Part of the sofa faced a window to the street below, flanked by plants and short shelving units of books and various media. The television and its two-generation-old gaming system rested against the wall between the living room and Arthur’s. Behind the couch were the well-worn, wooden-floor walkway, the wall-mounted coatrack, and the door. Further still were the combination island-and-meal counter and chairs which separated the kitchen from the living room.
Arthur veered into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and grabbed the milk and the fixings for a sandwich. He put the meat and cheese on the counter and opened a nearby cabinet in order to add a roll to his breakfast. Whistling, he slapped the roll down and hastily assembled his meal.
Satisfied with the meat-to-bread ratio, he gathered his things and took long strides to the other side of the bar. He hefted himself up on the higher-than-normal chair and greedily shoved part of his sandwich in his mouth. The newspaper, assembled neatly on the counter, tempted him. He stretched, fingers grazing the edge, and slid it toward him.
“Desert Ranger Maintains Lead in Polls,” the headline declared. Below it, the handsome, dark-skinned super hero stood at a podium, having opted for a simple suit instead of the standard theatrics of a costume. He smiled, the gentle grey of his temples merging into short cropped brown hair. Behind him, the now-commonplace blue background repeated the phrase ‘Partnerships’. Underneath the photo itself, the caption declared that, “Desert Ranger responds to the disastrous ‘smoking attack ad’ from the Committee for Safety. Desert Ranger polls at 70%, Arbiter at 15%, Undecided at 13%, and Zombress at 2%, with a 3% margin of error.”
Arthur scanned the article as he popped off the milk cap with his thumb. According to the story, Desert Ranger had repeatedly slammed Arbiter for the latter’s support of heroic-private military contractors in the Middle East for what the elder man called ‘villainous insurrectionists’. Desert Ranger made sure to point out that the largest such PMC, SERAPHIM, was well-known for its leaders’ cavalier attitude toward the lives and property of suspected villains – especially in countries without legal protections for the more chaotically-inclined.
He shook his head and laughed, turning away only to drink from the milk jug. As his eyes focused in front of him, he almost gagged, pulling the container away and splattering milk down his chin. In permanent marker, the words ‘Please use a cup’ were emblazoned – upside-down in anticipation of his less-than-considerate habit – on the plastic with impossibly neat writing. Gingerly, he set it down, cast a look over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being watched, then slowly brought the jug up to drink again.
The message stared at him as he hesitated, silently judging him with its all too clear angles and curves. Sighing, he set it down, then turned to the cabinet behind him. Arthur shouldn’t have been too surprised to see that it was devoid of glasses, mugs, and plates, but did have a three-by-five note card folded into an inverted ‘v’ with the phrase ‘Please do the dishes’ in the same teacher-pleasing handwriting as the first note.
Arthur cast a glance at the loaded sink. It was fitting that all the glasses were buried at the bottom, under the plates and bowls, if only because he thought that he might have been able to clean one and delay the rest of the dishes for later. With a shake of his head, he grabbed the cap and twisted it back into place, resigning himself to buying something on the way to the Super Villains’ Guild or going without refreshment. He crammed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth, returned the milk to its home in the fridge, and made his way into the bathroom.
Preparing for the meeting was simple enough: a shave and shower before brushing his teeth. As he set the toothbrush in the holder alongside its two cohorts, Arthur stared up at the mirror. He cocked an eyebrow. “Why, Talia, I’d be happy to answer,” he cooed in response to a question no one asked. “The design came to me in a dream… a dream about you, actually.” He chuckled, convinced of his own suavity. “But I can get to that part later… maybe over dinner. I’m free once I annihilate Queens.” With a smirk, he gave a dismissive wave. “I kid. I’m sure they’ll come up with the money in time.”
“Arthur Lovelass, it is now 10:45 AM. Your meeting is in forty-five minutes,” Mollie’s voice rang out.
“Thanks!” he shouted back. Arthur looked at himself dead in the eyes and leaned in toward the mirror. “You can do this.”
Soon, he was adjusting the skinny black tie under his collar. His one white shirt with long sleeves had been stained a laundry detergent blue by a failed super-soldier serum he was testing on his roommate, so he had to opt for the less professional, short-sleeved variant. Once the tie was situated just right, he looked at his choices in pants. His cleanest pair, an old pair of pale blue jeans, did not seem like an automatic win. On the other hand, the black dress pants had the same stain as his long-sleeved shirt, just better hidden due to the fabric’s darker color… provided direct sunlight didn’t hit the long-dried splotch. With a nod of contemplation, he threw the black pants on, stain be damned. He wasn’t going to look like an ill-prepared first-timer… at least, not again.
Tightening his belt, he stood up and preened in front of the computer. “So…
what do you think?”
Mollie didn’t immediately respond. “Considering your options, you have dressed yourself quite well.” Arthur smiled and turned to the window. The sudden light lit up the blue stain on his pants like a flare as he moved toward his work bench. “Oh, yes, now I remember those pants.”
Arthur looked down, then back at his computer. “Do you think that’ll be an issue?” He grabbed the projector-like object from the work bench and placed it on his bed.
“Just the part on your fat ass.” Arthur shot a look at Mollie as he knelt down to retrieve a metal briefcase from below the workbench. “Ha ha. Ha.” Her soft, stilted, and moderately pitched laughter made Arthur shake his head as he stuffed the device in the case. “Did you like the joke?”
“It was much better than your last one,” Arthur muttered, growing more aware of his time constraint.
“That one was perfectly legitimate,” Mollie sighed. “It had a reversal of expectations, which, I remind you, is all it really needs.”
He fought the urge to roll his eyes as he half-jumped, half-lurched toward the printer and gathered up the freshly-minted blueprints and corresponding text. “‘Once, there was a cow, a cat, and a car’ is not a joke.”
Mollie didn’t respond immediately. “Until you can explain why, I will have to disagree.”
Arthur stood up as he rolled the papers, a self-assured smile on his face. “Think what you want, Mol.”
“Cogito ergo sum, dear Arthur.” The blue iris dimmed before resuming its normal brightness, possibly in reflection of Arthur’s smugness. About six months after programming her, Arthur had sought to entertain Mollie by uploading a text file on philosophy through the ages. Reading the entire six thousand-odd page document in moments, she had picked up numerous irritating habits, such as lecturing him on philosophical tenants that he did not care to know. Although he doubted she sensed his irritation, eventually she learned to connect her own self-awareness with the phrase ‘Cogito ergo sum’, which she had to explain to Arthur as meaning ‘I think, therefore I am’.
“Latin won’t change the fact your joke sucked, and neither did flashing it in Morse code,” Arthur teased as he gently placed the now-rolled plans in the case. “So please don’t try at three a.m. again.”
“I thought the element of surprise would help,” she sighed in response.
He reached over and scooped up a black, slightly-larger-than-thumb-sized USB drive. It was a curious sight, a custom LED light resting above a tiny camera lens on one side while a metal clip resided on the other. A microphone jack rested in the top of it, while the bottom appeared to be standard plug for a device of its type. It was the ‘Home Drive’, Mollie’s access to the outside world when she grew bored being penned inside. Arthur wished he could have let her run free on the internet, but they both knew it wasn’t a risk worth taking.
Motioning the Home Drive toward the computer, he cocked his head and asked, “You want to come with me, Mollie?” Arthur strode toward her. “Moral support and all that?”
Mollie’s eye dimmed, and it looked like she wanted to avoid his gaze. Arthur felt silly for attributing any emotion to something which had stated rather coldly her desire to wipe out a good portion of humanity, but he couldn’t help it. “I am quite far in my book,” came the sighed reply. He suppressed an urge to roll his eyes and reached for the hardcover Advanced Engineering Principles that rested on the desk.
“Alright, I get the picture.” He grabbed the book-stand with his free hand and placed it in front of the monitor. “Which page?”
“Three-forty-seven.”
Arthur obliged and set up the stand, complete with page-turner, and connected it to the computer. He angled the webcam downward, more toward the book. “Is that good?” The blue eye winked at him. With a half-hearted smile, he turned to pick up his cell phone from the night stand. Even the friends I build find excuses to stay away from me, he thought resentfully as he checked the time and shoved the phone into his pocket.
“Do not forget, you have an appointment with Kirsten after the Super Villain Authorization Committee,” Mollie chimed as she watched Arthur turn toward his suitcase and shut it with a pair of metallic clicks.
Arthur swept through the room, the case in tow. “Thanks,” he muttered at the reminder of his girlfriend. It would be the first time he had seen her in two weeks, since he had spent the past fourteen days working out all the kinks of his proposal, prototype, and design. It was fairly customary by now, so there was almost no guilt in vanishing for a couple of weeks to work on his future. Of course, he had meant to say their future the last time they spoke… but his mind wasn’t really on the whole relationship thing at the time. She understood.
His corner apartment exited into a hallway facing an empty wall, sunlight streaming in from the window to his left. A plastic plant attempted to add some color to the gray bricks, but the direct light made it seem less green and more a wilty-black smudge. Arthur took a few steps down the hall before turning left down the main run of the apartment building. Rooms on either side were closed and silent save for the few villains whose jobs called upon them for later shifts. Most saw him coming and either diverted their attention or gave a cursory nod. They were neighbors, not friends.
As was typical, the elevator wasn’t working, necessitating a jarring descent of ten flights of stairs. Various tenants meandered the halls and stairs, casually indifferent to the overall griminess of the building. Arthur shared the same disregard: he lived in his flat, not the halls. This did make things like touching the handrails problematic if hygiene was one’s chief concern, but with rent and bills to worry about, a case of gum on the hand was hardly worth filing a complaint over.
“Arthur, hi!” A mousy, Irish-accented voice called out to him the moment he hit the ground floor. His pace quickened, fast enough to show he was in a hurry, but not quite quick enough to show that he very desperately wanted to escape. “Wait up a moment!” He was almost to freedom now, his hand reaching out to the door when he felt a hand grip his elbow. He whipped around at the touch.
Pale, freckled, and red haired, the green-eyed Stair McWethy looked for all the world like a mail-ordered Irish stereotype. She smiled widely, her large teeth glistening in the light and giving the impression that she may attempt to bite Arthur’s head off despite her tiny stature. Behind her, the four girls she always hung around with were giggling as they watched his face turn tomato-hued. “Hey, Stair.”
“I heard that you were off to SVAC today. So I thought I’d wish you luck.” She clasped her hands around her back, pushing herself closer to him. “Luck!” she chirped before giggling nervously. Arthur uncomfortably shifted as he scanned the lobby for her father.
“Thanks,” he said half-heartedly. “Don’t you have school or something?”
“Summer vacation, silly.” She gave him a whack on his arm. “I have oodles of free time.”
Arthur cocked an eyebrow, more worried about the ‘chance’ encounters which would follow from now until September. “Oodles? That’s…” He struggled to think of a word. “Great.” He checked his wrist, an entirely useless action since he didn’t wear a watch. “I, unfortunately, don’t. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m running a bit behind.” He gestured outside with his thumb and pushed his way out the door, smiling apologetically.
Once on the street, Arthur breathed in relief as he descended a few steps to the sidewalk. Casting a quick glance at the apartment to make sure Stair hadn’t decided to follow him, he nonetheless sped up to a casual jog. She and her father had moved in three years ago, and she had dogged Arthur relentlessly ever since. Which normally would be flattering if she wasn’t ten years younger and in high school. Added to the equation was the fact that, without any provocation he could remember, Arthur had once been slammed against a wall by her very protective father, a man he knew only as ‘Dervish’. Being threatened with a beating that would render him unconscious, dead, or on fire made Stair’s sweet-but-misguided approach abou
t as welcome as a birthday party hosted by friendly neighborhood party clown and part time serial killer John Wayne Gacy.
Despite the fact that the side of the city Arthur called home was significantly less densely populated than others, the streets teemed with throngs of people. Traffic beside him moved along haltingly as bicyclists wove their ways between cars. Occasionally, a casually-dressed villain darted through the streets, ignoring safety conventions such as crosswalks or looking both ways. Cafés catered to diners enjoying the warm weather, serving the gaudily costumed or conventionally clothed clientele on sidewalk patios. Occasionally, figures would dart by overhead, most certainly on their way to a heist, meeting, or beat down. Although the city was not nearly as tall as it was in the days before Desecrator’s rampage, the buildings could still be imposing to tourists and newcomers. It was a world of nine-to-fives mixed with moments of action for a few, but drudgery for most.
Arthur loved it.
Everyone on the street, on some level or another, belonged to the understood extended family of villainy. At some point, they had decided with a casual shrug that the law, in all fairness, sucked. That whole ‘order’ thing that society had touted since time immemorial just served to stifle good times and shenanigans.
Being antisocial certainly did have its drawbacks: neutrals typically wanted little if anything to do with a villain. A registered villain would have more luck applying for a job as an unquestioned Sex Officer of planet Earth than a shipping clerk in a neutral field. It was all well and good for the rare villain who landed a decent hero and could pull a check from the government. But for most, the registration process meant very little in the way of solid work. Usually, one received a name descriptive of their Bestowed ability or, for those not so endowed, preferred theme and was put on a wait list for a hero suited to besting them. Because of this, most registered and proceeded to get a job in one of the villain versions of neutral companies.
Project Northwoods Page 5
