by J Bennett
“No, it’s not.” Adan laughs like I’m some small child. “Remember when Beacon dove off the Buddhist Temple to save that priceless terracotta vase? Her floaters didn’t react quickly enough, and she broke her leg. You think that was planned?”
“That was a tech malfunction,” I point out. “Funny how Beacon and Feline Fatale just happened to be dramatically fighting on a rooftop by accident.”
“Whooooa there,” Professor Hersherwitz says. “That’s as far as you can go.”
I look forward and realize the atoms of my element are bobbing gently in front of me, big as oranges. Each one includes a heavy cluster of protons in the nucleus. I begin counting. It’s got to be one of those slippery-named middle elements.
“Strontium,” Ollie whispers.
“Strontium,” I say loudly.
“Stronti... um… YES!” Professor Hersherwitz says. “Your team is on a roll!” Professor Hersherwitz morphs into a rocking horse and flips off screen.
“It’s not all scripted,” Ollie says as he grabs the last three beakers and dumps them all out. Adan pulls a weird, glowing cloud toward him and begins expanding it. I’m too far down the table to reach the other two, but Ollie seems to have no trouble manipulating them. He doesn’t take his eyes off the elements as he speaks.
“Third-party heroes and villains work for themselves.”
“Freeters?” Adan rolls his eyes. “They’re fame lame. Wannabes.”
“No they’re not. No they’re not.” Ollie looks up and then his eyes flick back to the screen. There’s something off about him. His low follower count is proof enough of that. I study him more closely. Each piece of clothing he wears, from the ribbed black shirt to his riveted jeans and polka dot suspenders is stylish in its own way, but they don’t go together at all — like he doesn’t equate how each piece is supposed to work together with the whole. Then there’s the way he can’t seem to look at us, his blue eyes always darting away.
It downloads.
You don’t meet many people on the autism spectrum these days, not since they identified the genetic markers and developed fetal testing for it.
“There’s The Good Samaritan, Gummy Jim, Diamond Shield,” Ollie is saying. I’ve never heard of any of them. “…and Shadow.”
“Shadow is network sponsored,” I say. “They’re just pretending he’s an unhinged freeter to scare people.” I look at Adan for confirmation. It wouldn’t be the first time some producer got the idea to make it look like a sponsored cape or vil was a freeter to give them some edge.
Adan gives a non-committal shrug.
“He’s gotta be sponsored,” I say, “otherwise they wouldn’t let him run around terrorizing the town.”
“No he’s not.” Ollie says. “No series has been announced. He hasn’t released any episodes.”
“Well, maybe they’re putting together a movie,” I say.
“Fluorine, antimony, and holmium,” Ollie replies.
Professor Hersherwitz pops up on the screen. “Good job, Gleeks,” he says.
Gleeks? Ugh. Professor Hersherwitz is even more fad fade than I am. When was the last time they updated his program?
“Shadow is not sponsored,” Ollie insists. “He is very, very dangerous. You both should stay away from him.”
“Not a problem for me,” I say. “Though I feel bad for any cape who has to go up against him.” I casually let my gaze drift to Adan.
“The hero who takes down Shadow will grab major eyes,” Adan says. His voice is casual, but I can see his shoulders tighten. Is that fear or excitement?
On screen, all the elements Ollie named spin around while happy music plays. Then the screen fades, and my Band vibrates back to life. Adan immediately pops up from his seat. Around us, the students at the other tables are still counting protons. The skinny teaching assistant drifts around the room trying not to seem useless.
“Nice work,” Adan claps a hand on Ollie’s back. Ollie flinches but gives Adan a short nod. Adan turns to me and performs a little bow, strands of black hair falling over his forehead.
“And thank you for that supremely depressing convo. You are just a ray of sunshine, Alice.” He brushes the lock of hair from his eyes.
“Likewise,” I shoot back.
Those green eyes stay on me for a moment longer, and then he’s waving a hand at us and calling, “Ta,” as he walks out the door.
I watch him go, pondering why a cape even needs college. If he really is Shine, then he’s probably swimming in crypto Loons. Maybe it’s just a way for him to get out of the Hidden Lighthouse, Beacon’s headquarters, or to interact with people like a normal human. Then again, some vils and capes enjoy taking on everyday alter-egos. It’s always big news when they retire or get caught and reveal that they’ve been sauntering around under our noses the whole time. Living in Biggie LC means never knowing if the school lunch lady is secretly the town’s greatest hero, its number one baddie, or just a middle-aged woman named Thyam who owns too many lizards.
“It’s not about grabbing eyes and sticking followers,” Ollie says as he pushes his chair back and stands.
I snap my attention to him, confused. What in the world is he talking about? The short, skinny kid looks down at his hands.
“Heroes fight for justice,” he says quietly, before turning and leaving the room.
I can’t decide whether to laugh or groan.
“Have you seen any heroes?” The tentative question comes from a young girl tucked into the booth next to an older woman who must be her mom.
I pause from scribbling down the family’s food order on my pad and give the girl a big smile.
“Oh, I’ve seen lots of them,” I tell her. “Let’s see…” I tap my pen against my lip. “Two days ago, I was on my way home, and the Dragon Riders soared overhead on their sky skimmers. Do you know them?”
The girl nods her head, her dark braids bouncing. “Argon, Beyren, and Candor,” she names them. “What are they like?”
Dumb as rocks, I’ve heard, and those sky skimmers are louder than a Mars rocket. Also, Yun told me that Candor leaves a trail of genital warts in his wake.
“They’re so brave and handsome,” I tell her.
The girl giggles. “Have you seen Beacon?”
I shake my head, pretending to be sad. “No, not Beacon.” Blessed be Buddha’s toenail. Beacon only shows for the big, destructive fights. Usually at least a dozen citizens need to be in serious peril before she’ll even put on her glowing gold mask.
“But guess who stopped a bank heist yesterday?” I say to the girl.
“Who?” She grabs at one of the pink bows in her hair and looks at me with wide eyes.
“Shine!”
“He’s probably gunning for his own series,” the mother says. She finally looks up from her holo-screen. Whoa. There’s definitely such a thing as too much facial enhancement. Her eyes have clearly been widened and pigmented, and her tiny nose would be a much better fit for her daughter’s face than on her own. She looks like an anime character come to life.
“What was Shine like?” The girl bounces in the booth. She’s at that good age — excited about life and bubbling with possibility.
“Corinne, don’t bother the nice waitress,” her father says good-naturedly. He drags his eyes up from a seemingly never-ending flow of messages pouring out of the holo-screen projected by his Griffin-model Band. “Is that real paper?”
“Sure is!” I flip the curled pages of my pad to show him. “Let me put this order in with our cooks, and I’ll get those drinks out to you in a jiffy.” I wink at the girl. “And then I’ll tell you more about Shine.”
As I turn and walk toward the back, I hear Corinne whisper to her father. “Is she real?”
“Oh yes,” the father says. “A long time ago, before you were born, real people used to work in all the restaurants.”
Luckily for me and my bank account, the City Council requires all businesses on Iconic Square to employ humans, at least o
n the front end where the cam drones can see them. After all, it wouldn’t exactly make for an exciting ep if a villain tried to stick up a bank filled with chat bot consoles or a restaurant where the patrons just put their order into a Pod on the table. The tourists love it, too. Real people, real banter, just like the good ole days.
As soon as I turn the corner out of sight of the tables, I press the top right of my pad, and the order I just wrote uploads into the kitchen’s database. The fake ink disappears, leaving the top sheet of e-paper blank.
In the kitchen, the machines hum with quiet efficiency as they sizzle thin meat patties and dunk frozen fries into hot oil. The smell of uninspired Americana soaks the air. It never ceases to amaze me that customers are willing to pay our outrageous prices for such bland food. I guess what they’re really paying for is novelty, nostalgia, and the chance for a lucky encounter with a vil or cape.
My pad dings, letting me know the order for Table 9 is up just as a huge metal arm swings from the kitchen and gently places a basket of “Lobo Claws” (aka syntho chicken fingers) on the counter next to a Shine Shake and Beacon Burger combo. I always think of Table 9 as the “Interrogator Table” for the replica of the famous hero’s bionic silver arm that hangs on the wall above it. Every table in our place pays homage to an old-time vil or cape with some kitschy replica attached to the wall. My personal fav is the Map Collector’s wrinkled and singed map hanging above Table 6. X marks the spot where Beacon, after battling robo tigers, eventually dug up the key to the city so she could unlock the mayor’s mansion and release Mayor Wisenberg whom the Map Collector “collected” for her deadly treasure hunt. Some of the older townies still talk about how it took months to round up all the robo tigers.
As I reach to collect the dishes for the Interrogator Table, I catch my reflection in the side of the polished metal industrial cabinets. I wish I hadn’t. My tight red bodice paired and the little silver skirt that barely covers my butt are as uncomfortable as they are embarrassing. The knee-high blue boots squeak when I walk, and my glinting red headband is crooked again. I reach up to adjust it. The rippling scarlet cape completes my humiliation.
I wear the ridic uniform and answer the same tory questions for the dollars. Even with the tuition subsidy offered by the City Council, college still costs money. So do 3D cartridges, nutra-packs, my gym membership, and the occasional bear claw donut from Culprits Coffee. Truth is, with my bottom-feeder Stream score, it’s shining luck I have this job at all.
DeAngelo struts into the kitchen, his cape swishing. If anyone can pull off skin-tight silver pants, it’s this guy. He collects his table’s plates, which have been sitting on deck for a couple minutes. He’s such a big gossiper. The tourists love him, even if they usually get cold food.
“Twenty-two days,” he sings to me.
Shigit. He knows I hate when he keeps track.
“Today’s going to be 23,” I tell him. “The bank was heisted yesterday. I’m all heroed out.”
“Nope, it’s going to happen today. I can feel it,” DeAngelo says with the easy confidence that makes me like him despite his general slackitude. “My mom’s family has the sight.”
“Oh right, I forgot about that.”
DeAngelo’s biceps tighten as he pulls the tray toward him. He’s a typical striver wannabe — handsome as hell and jacked with muscle. Spends his paychecks on protein packs, teeth whiteners, and fluorescent red lightning bolts in his hair. He’s convinced that it’s only a matter of time before he grabs some eyes and gets that long-awaited sponsorship.
At least he’s got a good sense of humor. His spot-on customer impressions are the only thing that makes closing remotely bearable.
“Who do you think it’s going to be?” DeAngelo asks. “Personally, I wouldn’t mind if Wild Infinity saved my life. I’ve got her call button right here.” He shows me a holo-screen filled with hero icons and points to the one with a wolf paw print on it.
“Isn’t that Wolfsbane’s icon?” I ask.
“What? No, it’s Wild Infinity’s…” DeAngelo pauses and stares at the screen glowing against his forearm. “Actually, I think you’re right. Isn’t her icon some giraffe or something?”
Ignoring him, I grab my plates. The older couple at the Interrogator Table both wear expensive Pegasus model Bands, so I’m hoping for a big tip, or at least that they remember humans appreciate tips.
I take two steps forward when the lights flicker.
Aw, blight.
“Ha!” DeAngelo whispers at me.
“Maybe the solar battery needs to be replaced,” I mutter, and realize that I’m alone in the back hall. DeAngelo is already strutting into the dining area, ready to station himself wherever the action develops so that he can try to snag some ep time.
We both know what’s happening. Hint – when the lights flicker, it’s never the solar battery.
Unlike DeAngelo, I quickly tail it to the kitchen and set my plates down. Vils love to trip, shove, or use their weaponry on servers carrying trays. Always earns them a great visual for their ep.
The lights go out and the kitchen robos freeze. A raw meat patty smacks down onto the still-hot grill. Some customers gasp. At least one claps.
I press my back against the wall just inside the kitchen and wait for the inevitable vil monologue, but it doesn’t come. Only a heavy silence. Thirty people hold their breath, most waiting eagerly for the storm.
The front door swishes open. Even steps enter the restaurant followed by the soft whir of cam drones. A single drone projects a light. It shines down upon a figure in ragged black clothes.
Oh no.
No, no, no, no, no.
Not him. Anyone but him.
Shadow doesn’t wear a costume, or at least not the normal, ostentatious outfit most vils favor. Instead, he goes with black jeans, slashed to reveal writhing snake tattoos stitched into his skin. His torn leather jacket is unzipped and his skinny chest is tattooed with a yellowed, cracked ribcage. A mutilated face screams within the ribcage where the heart would go.
The tattoo looks even more hideous in person.
Shadow doesn’t speak, but he does laugh. It bubbles out of black lips, harsh and cracking. He holds out his hand, and a holo-bubble springs to life from the rusted Band on his wrist. A timer appears within the bubble and begins to count down from ten minutes.
ten minutes until what? A bomb?
Shadow has never used bombs before, but his attacks are always different, seemingly random. I lean out of the kitchen doorway and glance around the Redemption Café, searching for some big, obvious bomb planted in the corner.
Nothing.
Shadow doesn’t work like other vils. It’s not about the optics with him, only the results. The bombs could be small or planted around the outside of the building.
And still we wait. Shadow doesn’t speak. He never does. Maybe that’s what’s so terrifying about him. He’s not so tall, not brawny, and he doesn’t even wear any armor. He’s a mystery: He has no bitter back story to tell us, no multi-step plan to explain to his victims, no purpose for the violence he inflicts upon our city.
The vil turns to survey the room, and I get a perfect view of the fire molten strapped to his back. The thing is huge, its handle wrapped in leather, the blade wired. Lysee has told me that he can turn the edge molten hot.
“You’ll never get away with this!” DeAngelo shouts, stepping partially into the spotlight. He actually looks like a hero in his bright uniform and red cape.
Shadow grins. He wears no mask. His face is slathered in black, greasy paint, and his eyes glow red with illuminated contacts. His hands tighten into fists. I can hear the stretch of his gloves. He takes one powerful step toward DeAngelo, and his arm moves so fast, I barely catch the swing. Shadow must have laced his knuckles, because the contact he makes with DeAngelo’s face is audible.
DeAngelo falls to the floor, spitting out cracked teeth and gooey blood. He moans and drags himself away.
No, no,
no, no.
Vils aren’t supposed to maim civvies. Rough ‘em up a little? Sure, that’s allowed in the residency waivers we signed, but not this.
Gently, I shake my wrist to wake my Band. Bob’s face appears, and I immediately put my finger to my lips. He raises an eyebrow but remains silent. I’ve never called a cape for help before, but despo times and all that. I’m sure at least one of the customers has already sent out a hero call. The capes give bonuses for tips like this, and they’re always begging their local Stream followers to download their personal call icons. I glance back out the open doorway. Three minutes left on the clock.
Hero call buttons, I mouth to Bob.
He speaks, and his words float up silently in a chat bubble. “Are you under duress? Can I film this for your Stream?”
I shake my head furiously at him. His face disappears, replaced by eight different call icons floating above my wrist. This must be the standard set of the highest rated sups, since I’ve never personalized my list, unlike Lysee, who constantly updates her hero icons and reorders them whenever a cape announces a costume revamp.
I stare at the buttons. Which cape to choose? The motorbike icon must be for El Lobo. The last button in the corner shows the silhouette of a dragon, and a little banner below it announces Trending Now! That one must call the Dragon Riders. There, right at the top of the list is the lantern icon that will alert Beacon and Shine. Adan will come. Adan will help. My finger moves toward that button, when a bright light pours over me. I look up at the cam drone overhead. It’s black and cheaply printed, with razor blades jammed into its belly.
A blue light strobes on its nose, and my holo-screen vanishes. It must be equipped with a dampener. I flinch out of the light, trying to retreat farther into the kitchen. The drone quickly flits around me, showing its razorblade belly. It lunges forward, and I stumble back, out of the kitchen. The drone herds me down the short hallway and into the main area of the restaurant.
I look up, right into Shadow’s glowing red eyes, and see the glint of an enhanced reality lens over his left eye. His drones must be feeding him images from every corner of the restaurant. It takes extraordinary control to process so many different streams of information and to control multiple drones at the same time. Even the best producers usually only handle three at a time, and Shadow’s got at least five inside the restaurant. Maybe more at the exits.
