“And what we’re telling them is that ultra is better than ultimate.”
“Guys?” I cut in, holding up my hands as a warning to shut up. I had a feeling if I didn’t, they’d continue their pointless argument all day and I was already getting an Ultra-Ultimate headache. “Can we skip this? A signature attack is a really stupid idea for a villain.”
In unison, they both went from wide-eyed shock to narrow-eyed indignation.
“Is that so?”
“I wouldn’t have said it if it wasn’t,” I said with an exasperated sigh.
“Well then,” Ronny said with a sarcastic sweeping gesture. “Do go on. Tell us why you, a novice villain who can’t take criticism, seem to think you know better than our combined fifty years of brand marketing experience. This ought to be interesting.”
“Well, for one, I’m going to ignore the dig about my name from a guy who didn’t have the manners to at least tell me his before insulting me,” I snapped, unable to hold back. “But as to the matter we’re currently discussing, a signature move gives the enemy a clear advantage.” I figured this should have been obvious, but their blank looks said otherwise, so I continued. “Good grief! A signature move can be studied, analyzed, found to have weaknesses, and most of all, can easily be predicted and countered. Why do you think so many fights end in a stalemate? It’s because the big names all know and can easily anticipate the next move of their rivals.”
“Obviously,” Ronny said with a dramatic yawn.
“Uh, yeah, obviously,” I emphasized, hoping they would get how stupid that was.
“Ms. Raskin,” Harold cut in with a placating smile that made me wonder if they were trying to play me with the good cop bad cop routine. “It may not have occurred to you, but a good number of these stalemates are by design.”
“Are you kidding me?” I started, but shook my head. All things considered, I should have known better. “No, no, you’re right. I should have known. However, that doesn’t make it any less idiotic and pointless.”
“Which is why we are the experts and you are just the talent.”
I could actually feel the waves of smug coming off these fools. Let me tell you, it wasn’t doing anything to assure their continued existence.
“And as the talent, I’m nixing the idea of a signature move. I’m also keeping my name. Both of them,” I emphasized. “Argue with me, and you’ll find out exactly why you don’t piss off talent. Now,” I said, keeping my anger in check, but just barely. “Is that all? Because I’ve got a lot of—”
“No that’s not all!” Ronny sputtered. “We’ve barely scratched the surface. You have given us nothing with which we can work. You’ll fall flat on your face before you’ve even had a chance. How are you supposed to call yourself a Coalition member when you don’t even have a brand?”
“Look, for the last time, I don’t care about branding. I’m not a ‘Fig. I’m not in this for the money. All I want is vengeance.”
“Yes, yes, we’ve heard it all before.” Harold made a dismissive gesture. “Everyone wants vengeance, but no one ever stops to think about the bottom line. Exactly how do you plan to finance this vengeance?”
“Finance? Look, I know how some of the older guys got their kicks, but I’m a little more direct than that. I’m not looking to build a tank full of sharks or a volcano lair or anything outrageous. I just want to see Magnificent Man get what he deserves.”
“And you think Magnificent Man is going to come out for just any old heist?” Harold asked. The gameshow host façade was slipping and he was becoming just as flustered as Ronny. “You’re going to have to lay traps, destroy monuments, wreak havoc on Maxima City’s unsuspecting citizenry. Who do you think is going to foot the bill here?”
“Honestly? The ‘Figs,” I answered with a shrug. “Every time I’ve run up against them, they were the ones causing mass destruction, not me. I don’t expect that to change much.”
They gave each other a glance that seemed to relay their superiority over my line of thinking. Big surprise. Finally, after an entire nonverbal conversation in which I was probably called every name in the book and then some, Harold put the smiling gameshow host mask back on.
“Lisa, we certainly understand where you are coming from. Everyone who comes up the ranks has a transition to deal with. We’re willing to make some considerations, but you need to work with us.”
“What considerations?”
“You can keep your name,” Ronny said begrudgingly, not even looking up from the computer he was still uselessly trying to fix.
“Name or names?” I asked in the sweetest tone I could muster.
Ronny looked like he was about to say something unpleasant, but Harold cut in. “Names,” he said with another smile meant to win me back to his side. “Analysis shows that it’s unique, easy to remember, and double meanings are big right now.”
“Good to know,” I said with a smile that was more teeth than warmth. “And in return?”
“We just ask that you consider a branding strategy.”
“I barely even know what that means,” I confessed.
“What it means is that Ronny and I will do some preliminary analysis and come up with a couple of different ideas for you to consider as a marketing strategy. You can claim frugality all you want, but I assure you, it’s no fluke that the Coalition is made up of entrepreneurs and investment strategists.”
“So what you’re saying is that I’m the charity case member?”
“Hopefully not for long,” he said with another wink that did absolutely nothing to stop me from fantasizing about punching him in the pearly whites.
“Okay, fine,” I conceded. “You come up with some ideas and I promise to look at them, but that’s all. I won’t be forced into anything I’m not comfortable with.”
“You’re hardly in the position to negotiate,” Ronny began but Harold cut him off.
“Now, now. Negotiation is the name of the game.” To me he added, “We’ll do our best to present you with several options that fit the lifestyle you want to project. We’ve got a lunch meeting with another client, but I assure you, we’ll be in touch soon. If you have any input or avenues you’d like to explore, do contact us.”
He handed me a business card that he seemed to pull out of thin air. No doubt he spent hours in front of a mirror practicing that little trick to impress clients. I tucked the card in my pocket and stood aside as he ushered Ronny—who was still futzing with his inoperable computer—out of the room.
Lunch sounded like a good idea. A glance at the clock showed that I’d wasted several hours dealing with those two. I wasn’t sure what else Take had in store for me, but I’d spied a full cafeteria earlier, so it wasn’t like I had to leave the building. But as I was checking to see if I had enough money to buy anything more than a vending machine coffee, a tall, painfully thin, and sharply dressed man carrying an armload of fabric and a giant portfolio made his way blindly into the room. Dropping the whole lot on the recently cleared table, he looked up, appraising with the kind of scrutiny that would have warranted a slap if it weren’t painfully obvious he was the costume designer.
Lunch, it seemed, would have to wait.
Chapter 9
I stood waiting for some sort of acknowledgement from this guy for a good two minutes before deciding that rudeness was a shared trait amongst the behind the scenes guys. The designer—Take told me his name, but I’d already forgotten—flitted about like some kind of hummingbird, laying out tools, arranging and rearranging fabric samples into groups, and generally fussing over his makeshift workspace like he was setting a dinner table for royalty. After another five minutes of the silent treatment, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Uh… I’m gonna run down and grab a quick sandwich. Want anything?”
Apparently that got his attention because his head snapped up and he eyed me as if I’d just suggested we go strangle puppies for fun.
“You certainly will not!”
&nb
sp; “I beg your pardon?”
“Eating before a fitting? Not a good idea when working with unforgiving materials, darling. But by all means, if you want an ill-fitting costume that stretches and sags, then go, gorge yourself on carbohydrates.”
“O… kay then.”
I considered asking if a salad was acceptable, but decided to resign myself to temporary starvation rather than risk an outburst about fat calories in dressing. At least, I noticed as he continued to fuss with his many trappings, I didn’t have to worry about asking his name. Nearly every sketch laid out on the table was stamped with a logo in an overly flourished font.
Kostumes by Klaus.
Great. So I was dealing with this kind of Klassy Kat. Rather, I would be, eventually. Maybe. After the outburst over my audacious hunger, Klaus went back to fussing, arranging, and generally ignoring my existence. Every now and again he would pull a sheet from his portfolio, study it intently for a moment before sniffing indignantly, wadding it up, and tossing it into the trash bin in the corner of the room.
Finally, after what could have been days for all I knew since the room was devoid of windows, he pulled out a sketch, slapped it onto the table in front of me and said, “Your current uniform, if I am not mistaken?”
“Uh, yeah, that’s—”
“Wrong. All wrong.”
Like the others, this sketch was crumpled and tossed away.
“I’m glad you think so,” I said, somewhat relieved. I was never a fan of the skin tight leotard look and the one I wore as part of Take’s team had a bad habit of giving me a wicked wedgie. “I’ve got a couple of ideas…” I started but trailed off, seeing his absolute horror at the thought. Okay, I couldn’t get too mad about that. After all, he was the costume… err… kostume designer and I will be the first to admit that fashion isn’t really a high priority in my life.
“Oh no, do go on,” he said, fluttering his hand at me.
“Well… Okay,” I said with a shrug and pretended that I’d somehow missed the sarcasm dripping from his voice. “I was thinking of something that merged form with functionality. Maybe instead of a one piece leotard we could work with some cargo pants and a utility vest.”
“What, what, what?” Klaus’ eyes went so wide that I worried his eyeballs would pop right out of his skull. “No, no, no, no, no, no!”
“Uh, okay, what part?”
“What part what?”
“What part of what I just said killed your parents and set fire to your dog?” I snapped, unable to stop my own biting sarcasm from escaping.
“All of it,” he said, nose held aloft. “Adding coverage, fabric, and bulk? You might as well piss in my soup while you’re at it. What are you thinking?”
“Practicality? Maneuverability? Room to stow my gear?” Honestly, aren’t these the concerns of any talent who doesn’t have the ability to summon? I knew it wasn’t just me because AcroBot was always going on about how useful pockets would be. “I only have the ice thing,” I explained, since my reasons didn’t seem to be registering. “I can’t fly or even run that fast and my utility belt is already overflowing.”
To say that Klaus overreacted would be a gross understatement. The look of abject horror was one thing, but the shade of purple his face took on made me wonder if I should call a medic.
“Okay, never mind,” I said hastily, hoping to avoid some sort of explosion. Verbal or physical, I wasn’t sure. “Maybe just… throw a pocket or two onto whatever you come up with?”
Or not.
What I thought was a compromise and helpful suggestion was apparently the very wrong thing to say. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t imagining the steam that poured from Klaus’ ears as he seethed.
“Pockets?” The word was hissed with so much venom that I took a step back, worried that he was about to grow fangs and literally bite my head off. “You are a woman. What need have you for pockets?”
“Uh, same as men,” I said through the strain of keeping my temper in check. “To put shit in.”
“You have no need for pockets,” he dismissed once again. “I have been a leader in this industry for more years than you have walked this earth. I know, as do my colleagues, that women do not want nor do they need pockets. You have handbags and yet you still feel the need to stuff items in your bras. I will not damage the clean lines of my designs with pockets.”
Temper. Officially. Lost.
“Listen up, Frenchy,” I growled, grabbing a handful of overpriced suit jacket.
“I am German!”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass if you’re the president of San Lorenzo,” I hissed, spitting a little on his face in the process, which was admittedly gross and kind of embarrassing, but I had the rest of my life to suffer shame-nightmares. At that moment, I had bigger issues. “Give me a costume with pockets or you’re going to find yourself with a brand new set of pockets. And by pockets I mean holes. In your body. That I’ll put there by punching you so hard.”
Okay, so maybe my banter isn’t on point when I’m pissed, but I’m pretty sure he got the message.
“Fine, fine, you prima donna! If you need pockets we can add them to the boots, but nothing more! You are the Ice Queen. Your costume needs to reflect this. Here,” he tossed what I first took to be a shear scarf at me. “Try this on.”
I held up the item and to my horror, noted that while it wasn’t a scarf, it wasn’t much more than that. The thin, shear material left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Silver snowflakes provided the barest minimum of modesty.
“I’m a villain, Klaus, not a stripper.”
“Oh, but of course,” he huffed and threw his hands in the air. “Now we have modesty issues!”
“This has nothing to do with modesty,” I protested, although, I was pretty sure there were men on Italian beaches wearing more fabric than the thin scrap I held in my hand. “And apparently you didn’t get the memo. Ice Queen is the name of a ‘Fig. I’m keeping Frostbyte.”
“When was this?” he asked, but whipped out a phone and started thumbing through his emails, so I kept silent. “Those bumbling idiots!” he proclaimed, stuffing the phone back in his pocket. “Do they not realize the importance of my role? I should be the first to hear of new developments, not an afterthought!”
Funny how the revelation that Klaus had an overblown sense of self-importance didn’t come as much of a surprise and I’d known the guy for all of an hour.
“Maybe we can come up with a compromise.”
Even as the words were foolishly falling out of my mouth, I knew I was just getting myself into a bigger mess. Surprisingly, Klaus paused his ranting and actually seemed to consider this. After a drawn out moment of pursed lips, chin stroking, eyebrow gesturing, and finger pointing, he went back to his portfolio and took out a blank sheet of paper, quickly sketching the outline of a feminine form. He then went over to the garbage and plucked out the drawing of my current outfit, smoothed it out and set it on the table.
“These markings,” he said, indicating the logo emblem on the chest. “What even is that?”
“My logo. It’s binary for the number nine,” I explained, pointing out the one, zero, zero, one in turn.
“Nine?” He looked at me in confusion. “You’re an ice talent. Do you also have an affinity for cats?”
“No,” I said with a sigh. No one ever got the reference. I probably shouldn’t have been as disappointed in that as I was, but I thought it was a clever way to convey both my strengths.
“Then lose it,” he said, taking a red pen and drawing a big X over the logo. On the blank, he began to draw jagged lines.
“What is that?”
“A cut out. We’ll use an iridescent stiffener to make it look like shards of ice.”
Again, I found myself wondering why I was surprised by what I should have known would be inevitable. Of course the very first item I was going to have to fight Klaus on was a tit window. No doubt the next would be a bare ass.
“We can’t do that,�
�� I noted, adding before the tantrum began, “My bra will show.”
Instead of turning purple and raging, Klaus just rolled his eyes in disgust.
“All of the support you need will be built into your suit. Now, let’s remove a sleeve and cut away the leggings. You’ll have your boots, so this will not be needed.”
I sat in silence, watching Klaus gleefully drawing jagged lines all over the image, removing so much material that I might as well go out buck naked and call myself the Exhibitionist, and realized that he didn’t have a clue what the word compromise meant. By the time he was done chopping, embellishing, and chopping some more, I was no longer looking at the costume of a formidable supervillain. I was looking at the costume of a professional figure skater who was about to do an interpretive ice dance of Swan Lake.
And I was too tired, headachy, hungover, hungry, and defeated to even think about arguing.
I allowed Klaus to interpret my silence as consent and simply nodded when he told me the suit would be ready in a week. In the meantime, I’d just wear my old suit and figure out something else on my own. It wasn’t like I was contractually obligated to wear his abomination. At least, I sure hoped I wasn’t.
Despite being frustrating and relatively unproductive in every other way, there was a silver lining. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I actually got out of work at five. For a brief moment, I considered running down to my desk to at least check my emails, but luckily, sanity kicked in before I could get stuck dealing with some issue that would keep me there for hours.
Instead I took the elevator down to the lobby and joined the stream of folks who were leaving the building. The sheer number of people who managed to get off work on time was impressive, and admittedly, a little depressing since I wasn’t usually one of them. As I walked out the door and headed in the direction of Lucky’s, I saw Lane headed toward the office, still dressed in his ridiculous getup, and gave a wave.
A Shot at the Big Time Page 8
