How to Defeat a Hero

by J Bennett

  My mind reels. I’d assumed that with The Professor’s name and reputation we’d have a little more leeway, a little more goodwill. But no, we live by RoS just like every other show.

  Ratings or Swiped.

  That’s the hard justice of the Fame Game.

  “So, my elements, it seems we need to learn to work together,” The Professor says. He paces again. His anger is palpable in each hard strike of the cane. “Perhaps I can assist you all in this worthy endeavor.”

  A small smile curls on his lips. It’s never a good thing when a villain smiles.

  ***

  Ten mins later, the cam drones hover around us on the other side of the lair as we scrub a huge tub of scientific beakers that Sequoia used to practice his concoctions for our heist. This part of the lair includes tables, an ancient chalkboard, and shelves stuffed with random pieces of tech and vials filled with glowing compounds.

  Sequoia is at the start of our little cleaning train. He dunks a beaker in a sudsy solution then hands it to me. I stick a little brush down the tube and wiggle it around before handing it off to Gold, who dunks it in another cleansing solution. Mermaid is our caboose, drying the beaker and setting it in a long rack to dry. I could have easily programmed Kitty to do this work for us, but of course that’s not the point. The sexbot hums softly to herself as she sweeps the other side of the gym.

  “How’s the shoulder?” Sequoia asks me.

  “Hardy,” I murmur and hold out my hand to accept the new beaker. I keep my arm close to my body; my shoulder aches every time I reach out. Fortunately, Sequoia has long arms and places the beaker right into my hand each time.

  “That whole speech was a rat’s fart,” Gold complains as I pass my beaker to him. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his lab coat to reveal coffee-colored arms and dunks the beaker without looking or swishing it in the solution as The Professor demonstrated. “Maybe, maybe some of us were trying to, you know, amp up the energy of the heist, but that’s only because the whole plan was dregs to begin with. Kidnap the mayor? How many times has that been done?”

  He looks to Mermaid. “You were iconic, by the way.” He subvocalizes a command and his Band illuminates a holographic image of a T-Rex giving two thumbs up with its tiny arms. He wears a glitzy Hawk model Band, but I’ve noticed a few flakes on the edge of the strap. My guess is it’s probs a knockoff—all show, just like its owner.

  Mermaid ignores him. Her face is closed, her hands moving automatically. Even with this simple chore, her tall, powerful body moves with uncommon grace. She jerks her head to toss a long strand of sunshine hair out of her face. I wonder what thoughts swirl inside her cunning mind. Is she planning her next betrayal?

  Gold frowns. Looks like his romance angle is turning into an unrequited love storyline. He tries again. “Iron was looking a little brittle there. She wouldn’t have made it out without you.” He flashes me a grin.

  “I had… the situation under control,” I lie. I hate Gold’s smarmy grin, the way he’s glamming even during our dour punishment. And also that he’s right. Mermaid did save my ass, and I’m still wondering why. My best guess is also the simplest. It made her look good. She was hardy. I was weak. The Professor will see that, and so will all the viewers. She also earned major teamwork points, but if that was her goal how can she be the betrayer?

  Who is the mole? If someone in our organization is feeding info to another producer or sponsor, our next mission is already doomed. Next time we might not even be lucky enough to escape with our freedom and a sexbot.

  If we don’t fig who it is, our show is dead as steering wheels.

  “Iron,” Sequoia says softly. I blink and realize he’s holding a dripping beaker in front of me. Suddenly I’m looking at my friend in a whole new light. Could it be? No, not Sequoia. We’ve been allies since almost the beginning of the henchman tryouts. Trusting someone is always a risky proposition, and it can be doubly dangerous in a semi-reality town where everyone’s looking to get ahead. But I’ve never regretted my decision to unmask myself to Sequoia and reveal my true identity.

  I take the beaker from his hand and shove my little brush inside. Sequoia’s real name is Chauncy-Steward-Rine, and he’s from Chicago. He has lots of money and a wicked right hook. He’s also kind and sensitive and so city soft that I worry about him living in a cut-throat town like Biggie LC.

  Big hearts make easy targets.

  Unless he’s been playing me this whole time. I look at him, at those powerful shoulders and that mop of curly orange hair on his head. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his green lab coat, showcasing a constellation of pale brown freckles up and down his arms. He smiles at me. “Wanna practice after we finish cleaning up?”

  I sigh and return his smile. We’ve come this far together, and I’ve only just gotten Sequoia to stop apologizing for knocking my lights out in our matchup during the final tryout. I can’t start doubting him now.

  “Sure. Just go easy on the shoulder,” I say.

  “Arsenic, how about we sneak in a practice sesh?” Gold suggests to Mermaid. “There’s so much I can learn from you.”

  She glances at her Band, a sleek silver Falcon model. (My guess is it’s not a fake.) “Maybe another time. I’ve got to go feed our ‘special guest.’” She tosses her towel to Gold, and he catches it against his chest. He frowns as he watches her walk away, whether because his wooing is falling flat or because feeding our “guest” is a prime opportunity for ep time, I’m not sure.

  “I’ll practice with you,” Kitty pipes up. “I especially like to grapple.” She bats her eyelashes.

  Gold grins at her. “Well, at least someone around here appreciates me.”

  ***

  It’s late into the night when I leave the lair. Fortunately, I don’t have far to travel home. It just so happens that my villainous boss is also my landlord. I take the secret elevator up to the sitting room of the mansion, quickly stuffing my tinted goggles, bowtie, and lab coat into my bag before the doors ding open. I manage to shove my lasso into the top of the bag as I slip past the potted plants and quickly push the trick bookshelf back into place. Someone just walking through would never know a secret elevator to a basement lair even existed.

  After The Professor’s show was swiped nine years ago, he converted this mansion into a set of two apartments on the second floor and two penthouses on the top floor. I’ve since learned from his son, Matthew, that he never really needed the rent money. Personally, I think the old man was lonely. He missed being adored and despised in equal parts by the world. It’s the whole reason he fought so hard to finally get this relaunch.

  I drag myself to the stairs. Usually, I walk up them as they churn, but today I just allow them to carry me up to the second floor. It’s easy to spot my butter-yellow door, right across the hall from the gray door of my neighbor’s apartment. That neighbor is Leo.

  Yep, it’s awkward as a turtle-squid hybrid. I try not to glance at the gray door. Try not to imagine him inside, editing footage of me in his office. Try not to wonder what he thinks of me behind those inscrutable amber eyes.

  I try. I fail.

  Just as I turn to my own door, my simple Swan Band vibrates with an incoming message. I glance down and my heart twists. It’s from Alby.

  “Open message,” I subvocalize and hold my breath. My Band produces a holo-screen that washes up my forearm. On screen, a short vid plays. I watch as a gray cartoon cloud slowly churns across the sun. A single ray of sunshine spikes through, lighting up a small patch of grass below. A little red flower unfurls its petals.

  That’s it, the end of the vid. No text, no recorded words from my brother, but the message speaks volumes. It’s been months since Alby’s reached out to me for anything except to plead for money.

  I choke in a short breath. This is small—just a silly little cartoon—but it’s also huge. The sunshine, the flower. Alby’s feeling good, possibly even hopeful. The expensive therapy program I bought for him two weeks ago must be work
ing. Maybe he’s finally getting better, I think. The thought scares me a little because now I’m the one feeling hope.

  No matter what, I’ve got to keep making the monthly payments for his therapy software. That won’t be a problem when I get my first paycheck from the show in a few days. As long as the show survives. Suddenly, I’m not feeling so hopeful anymore. I take one more step forward. My Band syncs with the yellow door, and it swishes open. All I want to do is drag myself to my room, collapse into bed, and play Alby’s message about a thousand times. Unfortunately, something stands in the way of that goal.

  That something wears a glowing white skirt covered in zippers, a lime green bodice cinched tight for optimal cleavage swell, and matching lime green heels. This week, Lysee’s hair is a pile of platinum ringlets swept up and fastened to the crown of her head.

  “Oh, darling,” she cries upon seeing me stagger inside. “Are you badly beaten? Was Candor as tall as he seems on his Stream? What was his breath like on a scale of 1 to 10?” She giggles. “That must have been AMAZE to be so close to him when he was choking you.”

  “Yes, amaze,” I grumble. “I take it the news is out?”

  “Course!” Lysee laughs like I’m a dolt. “It’s everywhere. The Dragon Riders already released clips on their Streams, and Rena Masterson did a promo for a segment on the fight tomorrow morning.” My roommate lowers her voice to the husky tones of our town’s most famous reporter. “Is this new incarnation of The Professor a failed experiment?”

  I sigh. Leo won’t be happy about any of this, especially since my addition to the team was supposed to be the big twist of tomorrow’s ep.

  Lysee looks at me expectantly, and I notice her eyelashes are also lime green. My roommate and I tried out for The Professor’s show together and swore each other to utter secrecy if either of us should make the cut. It’s actually a relief that I don’t have to hide my henchman identity from her.

  “Things didn’t exactly go as expected,” I tell her.

  “Poor thing,” Lysee murmurs. “But what about Candor’s breath? Didn’t you just love it when he said, ‘It doesn’t take a scientist to know that a life of crime doesn’t pay.’ He’s so clever. You really need to work on your lines.”

  “I bet his producer came up with those lines for him,” I snap and slump onto the couch. It’s obvi my roommate isn’t going to let me escape. She carries a lime green purse on her shoulder, which means she’s on her way out, probably to a club to try and catch the eye of anyone who looks like they might secretly be a vil, a cape, or a producer. The town’s three nightclubs are also regular targets for vil attacks, which could lead to ep time for the terrified, scantily clad patrons. I idly wonder how full the clubs are after Shadow’s recent horrific attack. It’s almost brave of Lysee to put herself at risk when he’s still on the loose.

  Lysee totters over to the couch and collapses next to me. “I’m glad you escaped,” she says sincerely. “It looked like a close one.” A gentle citrus aroma wafts from her smooth, pale skin.

  “Yeah, it was,” I admit. “We’ve got some kinks to work out.” Like finding out who’s leaking our missions to the capes.

  “About that, see, I was thinking...” Lysee leans into me, grabbing my hand. I can practically feel her endless currents of energy running through me. “Your show needs a big twist. So, what if I accidentally stumble into the secret lair, right? And then I try to tail it, but you nab me and hold me hostage. Oh no!” She throws an arm across her eyes. “And all the other henchmen are like, 'What do we do with this gorg girl?’ They all want to end me, but you step up and say, ‘No, let’s brainwash her.’ So, The Professor builds this machine thingy with a metal headband with wires sticking out of it. And I’m screaming and crying. No, no, NOOOOOOO!” Lysee thrashes her head from side to side, her silver hair bouncing over her eyes. “But eventually the machine works. I get brainwashed. I am soooo loyal now. Obsessed with The Professor and the mission, and he makes me a henchman too, and we are best friends because you protected me.”

  Lysee smiles, big and bright. Her Band shoots up a holographic image of three teddy bears applauding. “It’s such a canny storyline, right? And maybe my clothes can get torn, you know, with all the struggling. You should just run it by The Professor or by Leo with your endorsement.” She lays her head on my shoulder and looks up at me with her big eyes, tinted green this week. “After all, I helped you become a henchman. You printed your lab coat on my 3D printer and used my goggles and my lasso, and I’m soooooo happy for you, but those were my things, so really this is such a small favor in comparison.”

  I force my aching head to nod. Lysee has been pitching me these brill ideas for the past two weeks, desperate to get on The Professor’s show. If I wasn’t so exhausted, I’d probs feel a little guilty over the irony that I’m living Lysee’s dream. She’s spent the last five years of her life plotting and flouncing, despo to grab eyeballs, get sponsored, and develop into a Persona, capital P. She wants the adoration and praise, the glittering fame, and a Stream following in the eight digits. She’s as striver as they come, and here I am, the roommate who despises everything semi-reality, grabbing a spot on a show.

  “I’ll bring it up to Leo,” I tell her truthfully but don’t mention the part where he’ll give me a curt “no” just like he has to all her previous suggestions.

  Lysee offers me a dazzling smile. I try to duck away, but she grabs my face and gives me a kiss on the lips. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell her I’m not polyamorous; I think she’s still hoping I’ll come around.

  “Wonderful and waterfalls!” she sings, bouncing up from the couch. She glances at her Band as her hunky and well-behaved Totem, a shirtless genie named Ferdinand, sends her a message.

  “Oh, I’m late!” she squeaks. “My friends are already at the club. Ta, my darling. Wish for a big, messy hostage situ at the club for me.” She sails out the door, zipper-covered skirt bouncing with her steps.

  As soon as the door slides shut, it’s everything I can do not to immediately fall back onto the couch and fuse into its soft material. Instead, I haul myself up and force my legs to carry me to the bathroom and then to the kitchen, where I blindly grab a nutra-pack. I slink to my bedroom, crashing onto the thin mattress like my body was made of rocks.

  I peel the wrapper off the food bar and take a bite. I can’t fig if this is supposed to be banana-apple flavored or the pineapple-raspberry mix. At least it fills my stomach and, thanks to gov subsidies, hardly costs a thing. Nutra-packs are designed by the gov to provide the ideal amount of calories and nutrients for a full meal, and that’s all I really need right now.

  “Thanks, Sage Anders,” I mutter, though I’m pretty sure she and past presidents only subsidize the nutra-packs to prevent widespread protests.

  My body is despo for sleep. I only have six hours until I need to leave for class, and yet my mind still buzzes from all that’s happened today. We have to find the mole. If our next mission falls apart our show could get swiped.

  No job means no paycheck. My universal basic income barely covers my rent, and this is the cheapest place in town, on account of it being in the same building as a villainous lair. If our show goes the way of the glaciers, I won’t have enough money to cover material cartridges for Lysee’s 3D printer and the boxes of tasteless nutra-packs I live on. There’s no way I could afford the extra food I send my mom or Alby’s therapy program. I glance down at my Band, at his message sitting in our private Stream chat.

  There’s one other thing I need this paycheck for. My college tuition. That degree is the only thing I really care about. Once I finished this semester, I’ll only have one more year to go until I earn my bachelor’s degree in public policy. Then comes grad school to get my master’s, which is my ticket out of this lobotomy town. With a master’s degree, I’ll be able to try and join a think tank where I could work with super-smart people to come with ideas and policies to help our fractured society.

  This country ne
eds all the help it can get. Automation has taken so many jobs, stolen so much pride and purpose from people. Towns are dying and shops are shuttered while factories churn with endless robotic parts moving in beautiful harmony without a human in sight.

  It’s no surprise that so many of us breathers have retreated into virtual reality worlds where adventure and meaning still lurk. Others spend their copious time swimming the Streams, building weightless friendships with Personas (capital P), watching shows pumped out from PAGS’s ten media sectors, including over a dozen cape and vil shows that come from Biggie LC here in Sector 8.

  So many in my gen have retreated from society, going Hikikomori. Others burn through life as quickly and brutally as possible with the help of Throttle and alcohol. Many just simply slip away into VRIR– Virtual Reality Is Reality.

  Like Alby.

  My brother, my Twinly One, is deeply damaged and I’m the one who broke him. I can never make that better, but maybe I can fix this world, even just a little. It’s a silly, naïve dream, but it’s the only shot at redemption that I have.

  All of that—the degrees, the think tank—depends on me staying in school, and that requires money. The Professor’s show must go on, and I need to find a way to make that happen.

  And then it hits me.

  Buddha’s belly button! I don’t know who the mole is, but I know someone who does.

  I sit up in bed as thoughts swirl through my mind. This is going to be tricky. I’m the very last person he wants to talk to, but I’ve got to try. I swing my legs around and stand up, all my exhaustion evaporating as my pulse speeds up.

  Time to pay The Professor’s “special guest” a surprise visit.

  Chapter 4

  When you dedicate your life to helping others, you see the good in people. I put my trust in someone, and that wasn’t a good idea. ~ Shine, Interview with J Bennett

  ~

  As I move through The Professor’s lair, the automatic lights flicker on showcasing the empty training area and silent lab. Even The Professor has finally retreated to his penthouse upstairs. I open a door at the back of the main training area and walk down a small hallway, past empty rooms. My best friend, Matthew told me that his place used to be filled with half-made inventions and scuttling media assistants back in the early days of his father’s show. At the end of the hallway, I face three black doors.