“Zelda!” I put a placating hand on her arm. Attacking our Trope’s most ardent defender doesn’t seem like a sound strategic move, especially if we still want to use her to get to George. “Maybe we should give Nebraska the benefit of the doubt.”
But Zelda pulls roughly out of my grasp. “No, Riley. There’s no doubt here. Nebraska is a liar and murderer.”
Nebraska smirks like she’s actually enjoying Zelda’s outburst. “You have such an active imagination, dear. I’ve always appreciated that about you.”
Zelda visibly deflates. She must realize that no amount of censure will penetrate Nebraska’s sunny veneer of denial. It’s simply not worth it to engage her.
With Zelda neutralized, Nebraska fixes her attention back on me. “You believe me, don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I do know that a Legacy could get in a lot of trouble if the Council found out she had told a regular Trope about this. We’re willing to keep this information to ourselves—instead of reporting you—if you’ll get us into the Villain Zone to see George. Right, Zelda?”
“Unlike you,” Zelda says evenly, “we aren’t backstabbers, so we’ll actually keep our word.”
Nebraska shrugs off this insult and considers us for a moment. “Since you seem determined to see George, I’ll take you. But it’s not because I feel threatened by you. You still need me.”
“But only until after the Pixie-Off,” I remind her.
“Fair enough,” she concedes. Her viselike fingers clamp down both on my forearm and Zelda’s wrist. She pulls us apart. “Let’s go right now, then.”
Nebraska leads us down the hallway toward the front of the house. After a few twists and turns we emerge in her foyer. Nebraska stops to retrieve an intricately woven shawl from a coat closet, and we continue on our way.
She flags down a bicycle taxi at the guard station and directs the driver to the southern gate. At first, the driver refuses to take all three of us, but Nebraska insists we’ll assume all liability for overfilling the cab. Zelda sits on my lap, which I’d enjoy more under less stressful circumstances.
I’m still thinking about our conversation in the hatbox room. It’s completely plausible that as a Legacy, Nebraska has been entrusted with details of how to get to Reader World. Finn might still be alive. The possibility of seeing my friend again is so tantalizing that I can barely focus on how we are going to pull off actually rescuing George once we get to the VZ.
“If the Termination Train really leads to Reader World,” I address Nebraska, “why didn’t you take it too?”
Nebraska sighs. “The truth is, Reader World scares me, and it should scare you, too. What makes you think a Trope could even survive living in a complex, undirected environment like that? We aren’t built for it.”
“I’d like to think we could rise to the challenge,” I say. “Haven’t you always wanted to live life on your own terms?”
“Sure I have, Riley. But I’m being pragmatic. In TropeTown, everything is taken care of for us. Out there in Reader World, we’d have to fend for ourselves. Are you willing to endure hardship and hunger and aging just to be able to make all your own decisions? I’m not.”
I don’t reply because Nebraska has a point. As fictional characters, we do come with our own set of advantages. While I personally don’t think these advantages outweigh the right to self-determination, I’m willing to concede the view looks different from a Legacy perch. After all, Nebraska has a lot more to give up than I do.
Our journey reverses the one I took with Angela, up until we hit the Administration District. South of that, we enter the Wrong Side of the Tracks.
The buildings here press and lean against one another as though they might collapse given a gusty wind. Many of them appear abandoned or condemned, boarded up and sprouting mold. Threadbare towels and stained garments hang from sagging windows. The air stinks of decay and curdled milk.
Why does the Council waste their time on trying to eliminate our comparatively innocuous Trope when far more pressing issues abound?
Beggars lift their bowls half-heartedly as we breeze by, and that same troop of Plucky Street Urchins chases us down, still trying to offload their roses. Nebraska tosses a few coins at the Urchins, and they blow kisses and sing a song of gratitude.
“They’re adorable, aren’t they?” she says. “I want to pinch their chubby cheeks.”
“Yeah, except you’d get your hands dirty.” My comment is sardonic, but Nebraska doesn’t take it that way.
“Which is exactly why I keep my distance.”
Finally, we reach the Great Southern Wall. I’ve never been to visit in person. It’s so high, I crimp my neck looking up at the barbed wire that lines the top.
Our driver stops in front of the iron gate. “I don’t go any farther than this, miss.”
“I’m aware of that. Thank you.” Nebraska draws her shawl tighter around her shoulders, perhaps to ward off the chill in her voice. “Wait here for us.”
He doesn’t answer until we disembark, but as soon as we’re clear, he says “Sorry, miss,” and peddles back north.
Nebraska merely sighs as if she expected nothing less. “Well, then. Welcome to the Villain Zone.”
Chapter 50
At the gate, Nebraska hands her Legacy ID to the Surly Security Guards and announces that we’re her guests. The guards subject us to an invasive pat-down. They even make us take off our shoes, and they wave a metal detector wand over us.
We don’t carry any bags, but they search our pockets. They ignore Finn’s letter in my pocket but pull out a silver flask from the oversized right front pocket of Nebraska’s butterfly-printed romper.
“No liquids over 100 milliliters in the VZ,” a guard says, shaking the flask so that its contents slosh within. “You’ll have to dispose of it if you want to enter.”
Nebraska liberates her flask, twists open the cap, and downs her libation in one continuous swallow.
She probably has the tolerance of a team of oxen, so I don’t worry that she’ll cause a drunken scene. A Manic Pixie scene, maybe, but those are so delightful.
At least we don’t have to wait in a ginormous line. We’re the only people requesting entry, and the approximately forty-seven guards look extremely bored.
Customs officials issue us VZ visitor passes with our names and Trope designations to wear on lanyards around our necks. Because she’s Legacy, Nebraska gets a gold rope lanyard while Zelda and I have to slum it with standard-issue white string.
Once we clear the screening process, a guard leads us to the visitor’s walkway. The enclosed steel catwalk loops around the inside of the wall with an intricate system of ladders that leads down to ground level and up to guard towers. From this vantage point, we have a bird’s-eye view of the entire Villain Zone, which, aside from its preponderance of bunkers, appears to be a fairly normal town.
“Your pass unlocks any gate to which you have access,” the guard explains. He’s young and tough with a buzz cut and an angry pink scar across his neck. Excellent grammar though.
“I know my way around,” Nebraska says by way of dismissal. He salutes her and retreats back into the guard station.
As we walk, Nebraska points out various villainous landmarks—the Bounty Hunter Bar, the High-Roller Casino, the Inn of No Return, and the Wax Museum Morgue.
I shiver. We don’t need to extend our sightseeing to include any of those venues. “Where’s the jail?” I ask Nebraska.
“All in good time. First there’s something else I want to show you.”
I’d like to demand that she take us directly to George, but Zelda and I are pretty much at Nebraska’s mercy. Maybe this blackmail plan wasn’t as clever as we thought it was.
Finally, she unlocks the sixth gate we come to (yes, I’m counting—in case we need to make a quick escape), and we take the ladder down, Nebraska ahead of us. When we get to the bottom, Nebraska turns and knocks on the door.
Zelda takes advanta
ge of this distraction to mouth, “What is happening?”
I shake my head to indicate I have no idea.
A tall man in a linen suit and Panama hat opens up and flashes us a genuine smile. “Welcome to the Trope Museum,” he says in a vaguely European accent. “I am Milton, and I will be your guide today.”
Purely on the basis of where he works, I know he has to be some sort of criminal type, and judging from his dapper style and cultured bearing, I’m going to guess Art Thief or Con Man.
He retrieves a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses from his shirt pocket and examines our passes. “Ah, Manic Pixies. Your visit cannot be a coincidence.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Nebraska asks.
“If I followed the rules, I would not tell you. But luckily for you three, I have anarchist tendencies.” He twirls his mustache. “The Council sent a memo about you. The Trope Museum is preparing your exhibit—the final resting place for the Manic Pixie Dream Girl Trope.”
Chapter 51
“But we’re not dead yet,” Nebraska protests, looking genuinely shocked now. “We still have our hearing, and I’m confident we will prevail. Or, at least I will.” Classic Nebraska. But I’m so shaken, I can only summon the briefest flash of outrage at her selfishness.
“I do hope so, milady.” Milton tips his hat. “Your Trope enchants me. It would be a shame to have you all flattened to microfilm.”
A tremor runs through me. I try to imagine what it feels like to no longer exist—if it’ll just be nothingness or, more frightening still, if my awareness of myself will still be there but without form or function.
“It’s not fair,” I protest. My chest tightens. The low ceiling seems to press down on me.
Milton chuckles. “Life is not fair. Do you expect fiction to be any different?”
“Shouldn’t fiction satisfy at least?” I ask. “Like, shouldn’t the Reader turn the last page with a feeling of triumph over incredible odds?”
“Ah, it is refreshing to encounter an idealist in these parts. I, too, was once a true believer in the Happily Ever After.”
I don’t know if I should take this as a compliment, considering the source. “And then what happened?”
“The Council lent me out to too many hack writers who did so little research and had so little grasp of the art of nuance that they twisted me into a string of terrible stereotypes, each time ripping out a piece of my soul. Finally, I begged to be transferred, and now I work here, which is perhaps even more depressing as I am confronted daily by Authorial abuses of Tropes.” He waves his arm, beckoning us to follow. “Which is a perfect segue into my tour.”
We stand in front of a dim alcove containing several dark-skinned mannequins dressed in ill-fitting clothing. The pant legs, collars, and suit sleeves are all too short, too long, or too baggy.
A steel arch frames the exhibit. It turns out to be a microfilm storage system made up of dozens of drawers. Milton picks one seemingly at random, pulls it out, and rifles through the plastic cases until he comes to one labeled Jerome.
I come to understand that these drawers contain hundreds or even thousands of individuals from a discontinued Trope. Each one had hopes and dreams cruelly cut short. Each one once had the freedom to walk the streets of TropeTown.
They were once like me, and I may soon be like them.
Milton loads Jerome into a projector. His image bursts onto the wall. I have to look away, and Zelda flinches beside me. Jerome crosses his eyes, sticks out his tongue and wears a clown hat. “Can any of you tell me which Trope Jerome is?”
“I’d guess Uncle Tomfoolery,” Nebraska says, only slightly less aghast than I feel.
“Exactly.” Milton turns off the projector. “Authors used him as comic relief and to make the other characters seem competent in comparison. The Trope is no longer sanctioned due to racism.”
“Because the other characters were white,” Nebraska states.
“Actually, it’s because the Uncle Tomfoolery Tropes comprise the most offensive stereotypical slanders of black men handed down from the time of slavery in Reader World. Authors portrayed them as superstitious, easily frightened, incompetent, and worse.”
We slide over to the next alcove. More mannequins. More drawers. More dreams forever suspended in time.
Milton selects a plastic case labeled Porter and loads him into the projector.
“Porter exemplifies the outdated and offensive Magical Negro Trope,” Milton explains. “His purpose was to show the protagonist how to save the day or provide an awakening of some sort. This Trope also lost its sanction due to racism, despite embodying positive characteristics such as wisdom, patience, and selflessness.”
“Because the other characters were white,” Nebraska states for the second time, but this time she seems less sure of herself.
“The protagonist was almost universally white,” Milton confirms. “Which is indeed problematic, but there’s much more to it. As white Readers and Authors have become more socially and culturally aware, demand has grown for diverse characters to be portrayed sensitively and authentically. This means Authors strive to create more Developeds instead of relying so heavily on Tropes.”
Nebraska harrumphs. “What these enlightened Readers seem to be missing is that not all characters can be developed in a story. It would weigh down the narrative. Tropes exist for a good reason.”
I’m not surprised to hear her say this. As a Legacy, Nebraska benefits from the status quo. Of course she doesn’t welcome social progress with open jazz hands.
“While that’s true,” Milton says, “if we don’t get a range of diverse Developed characters, all Readers ever see are minorities reduced to a very specific set of qualities that then become ingrained stereotypes.”
Zelda shifts her weight from leg to leg, looking like she might be prepping to run. “So what you’re saying is that a Magical Negro is not a person so much as a very narrow idea of a person.”
Milton beams at her. “Right. And that’s dehumanizing and objectifying.”
“It seems to me that most Tropes are not inherently offensive,” I say, thinking of my own Trope and all the wonderful friends I’ve made within it at group therapy. “It’s how Authors use them. Like what if all the characters had been minorities? That would be less racist, would it?”
Milton winks at me. “Much like if a Manic Pixie exists in a novel full of other Manic Pixies, it is less sexist.”
“Exactly! Doesn’t the Council consider that?”
“I have no idea what the Council considers in their deliberations,” Milton says, “but what you’re getting at is Trope subversion. That’s when an Author takes a familiar Trope and does something unusual with it. So instead of Readers’ expectations being fulfilled, Readers are forced to confront the fact that people really are more complex than our labels give them credit for. Unfortunately, Authors don’t rise to this challenge remotely as often as they should.”
I seethe with the unjustness of it all. The Council punished Jerome and Porter and all the others for something they had no control over. Instead of retiring them, the Council could have set them free in Reader World, where they could’ve grown beyond the flaws in their programming, making their own choices and living for themselves.
I bet the offending Authors never paid any penance for their insensitivity.
I’m hit with a horrifying realization—what if my very existence as a Trope gives Authors an excuse to be lazy and propagate negative, objectifying portrayals? Maybe I am toxic despite my best intentions.
“The Manic Pixie Trope is in the same subset of Tropes as the Magical Negro.” Milton urges us onwards. “You are all considered Magical Secondary Characters. There is the Magical Asian . . .” At the next alcove, he gives us a quick glimpse of an older man with a white beard in martial arts attire.
“And the Magical Shaman . . .” We wander over to the next alcove for a brief look at a man in a feathered headdress.
“Magical Secondary C
haracters suffer from being cast in supporting roles instead of as the heroes of their own stories. But the worst part is that they often sacrifice themselves for the benefit of the white male protagonist, which sends the harmful message that the white male is somehow more worthy of survival.”
“You’re a white male,” Nebraska points out to Milton. “Why do you care?”
He blushes and stammers. “It’s my job.”
Nebraska clicks her tongue in judgment. “Are you saying you wouldn’t care otherwise?”
“I’d probably still be ignorant,” Milton admits. “Now I’m aware of my privilege. I know I don’t have all the answers, but I’m committed to learning and supporting the discussion.”
“Such a virtuous villain you are,” Nebraska quips.
His improved posture indicates he doesn’t catch the undercurrent of contempt in her voice. “There are three other Magical Minority Tropes in addition to yours under consideration for the chopping block.” He pulls a few photos from his pocket and shows them to us.
“. . . the Gay Best Friend . . .” The photo here depicts a young man wearing fur legwarmers and a crisp white shirt unbuttoned nearly to the waist.
“. . . the cancer patient child . . .” A little bald girl with enormous eyes in a hospital setting with tubes everywhere.
“. . . and the Rainman.” A childlike man wearing a sailor suit, who seems to be controlling the floating objects surrounding him.
“But those categories are so broad!” Zelda exclaims. “I mean, every gay person must be someone’s best friend, right?”
Milton returns the photos to his pocket. “Admit it—when I say ‘Gay Best Friend,’ a very specific picture comes to mind—much like the one I just showed you. You know this guy from so many stories, and he’s always the same. He’s flamboyant and funny. He gives his gal pals great dating advice and loves to help them pick out flattering clothes. But does he ever get a date of his own? Do his gal pals pick out clothes for him? Not bloody often. A magical Secondary Character shouldn’t be seen as anyone’s servant. They should get some tangible benefits from the protagonist, don’t you think?”
The Manic Pixie Dream Boy Improvement Project Page 16
