by J Bennett
At the student services booth in the admin building, a pleasant chatbot in the form of our school’s mascot, Protector, looks as sad as an animated shield can when she regretfully informs me that no positions are open.
“I am sure you will be a hero for another organization,” Protector says with utter sincerity.
Excellent: A piece of code believes in me. A piece of code that is smarter, nicer, and more competent than I’ll ever be. Outside, I plop down on a bench in the quad and watch a brightly painted robo hum gently as it mows the grass. A few students wander down the paths, but the place is mostly empty. I’ve seen the old movies that show colleges pulsating with life. Outside used to be a destination. Talking was something you did in person, not over a connection.
I stare at the brick façade of the science building. I can help change things. I can craft plans and proposals to encourage people to go outside again, but no think tank will even consider hiring me without a master’s degree. I need to finish school. And to finish school, I need dollars. Which means there really is only one destination — the place I should have started my job search in the first place.
I push myself to my feet and head to Iconic Square.
The square is about a mile around and dominated by “The Hero.” It’s the first thing I see as I approach. The massive silver statue stands right in the middle of the square and depicts a faceless female hero embracing a small child. “The Hero” looks suspiciously like Beacon, right down to the copious curls cascading from her helmet, but of course the City Council says it represents the grace, courage, and spirit of heroism. The square features sidewalks edged with carefully cultivated trees. Clusters of brightly painted shops and restaurants line up the path, interspersed with larger buildings, like BLC Bank and the Grand Museum.
A large banner hangs above the museum’s entrance, announcing an upcoming exhibit of an incredibly rare opal necklace that belonged to some old British queen. It’s obvi villain bait. The City Council is always setting up “opportunities” like this for a vil caper, “greasing the wheels,” as my Grandma Rosario would say. I check the date on the banner and make a note to be nowhere near Iconic Square on opening night.
I look around the square, assessing all the small businesses that invite tourists to spend their dollars. (Crypto exchanges are displayed prominently in front of BLC Bank.) Each business is filled with human workers, their salaries subsidized by the City Council. It’s the only way businesses can afford breathers and keep the square humanned so vils have people to terrify, capes have someone to save, and the tourists can feel like they’re in a real, living town — the kind that doesn’t actually exist anymore.
The thought of working on Iconic Square and being easy bait for Shadow again turns me into that shriveling little girl in the desert, but I can’t let my fear hold me back. The tuition for Shield University may be discounted (due to the fact that it often falls under villain threat), but even with the lower price tag, it’s all I can do to manage my bills. My UBI barely covers my half of the rent each month and enough nutra-packs not to starve. Then there’s Alby. I never have much extra money to send my brother, but I need to believe that what I do give helps.
I take a deep breath and imagine all my fear seeping into Anthony, the practice robo at Palinsky’s. I visualize myself kicking the chips out of him. No MMA moves, no Krav Maga. Just a good ol’ street stomping.
LGO – Life Goes On.
So do I.
As I resume my job-begging tour, the day turns beautiful. The sky is blue, the sun is warm, and the radiation count is low. A perfect trifecta. Tourist trolleys roll down the street, their speakers blaring amusing factoids about the square and the big, historic cape-vil fights that have gone down on these streets. Occasionally the trolleys shudder to a stop and disgorge a mob of torys so they can overpay for food, grab dollars at the bank, or just take selfie holos in front of The Hero. Some trolleys gleam a pearl white. These are decorated with hero icons. Other trolleys are splashed in ebony and scarlet hues, their walls covered in vil icons. I’ve noticed that the vil trolleys are always more crowded than the cape trolleys.
A few brave joggers bounce past me down the sidewalks, their faces hopeful. This is the ultimate despo move for strivers: purposefully making themselves a target. They’re hoping to get snatched by a vil, or at least robbed and saved by an up-and-coming cape, all just to grab a tiny bit of ep time. In rare cases, it can pay off. Lysee swears that a girl named Tanzy who used to work at the bank was able to use her jogging-induced kidnapping to forge a short romance with one of the Dragon Riders. All it took was two months of midnight jogs and almost getting buried alive by Vole from the Dark League.
I try the restaurants first, playing up my fantastic skills of writing down food orders on e-paper and carrying trays, but this impresses no one. Next, I visit Culprits Coffee, hoping that my regular visits for bear claw donuts will win me sympathy. Not so much. The general store isn’t hiring. Neither are the 3D kiosk, the robo repair shop, the tech clothing upgrade booth, or the med clinic where capes are always getting stitched up by beautiful nurse assistants.
I even try the BLC Bank, the biggest vil magnet in the whole square. Lysee looks a little embarrassed as she introduces me to her manager, who gives my Stream a quick, unsympathetic glance, and then informs me that the bank isn’t hiring.
My failure to even earn a nibble of interest is no surprise. Biggie LC is filled with beautiful people all looking for work while they play the Fame Game. There are always more people than jobs. I blow out a heavy breath and continue my march down the sidewalk. Near the northeast corner of the square, I stop and turn. There it is, right across the street. Beyond the small crowd of drooling tourists stands the blackened hulk of the Redemption Café. The windows are gone, the insides charred and gutted. A few letters from the glowing LED sign have fallen like rotted teeth.
My fog of misery burns away, leaving a seething anger in its place.
A blight on Shadow. I won’t let some loon send me shivering under my bed.
A blight on this fame lame town that cares more about ratings than the real, breathing people who live here.
And a blight on all the tourists, on all the strivers, and on all the viewers who tune in. They are what fuels PAGS and all the producers to constantly push the envelope. I bet PAGS loves Shadow. Even though he’s clearly a dangerous lunatic, he’s giving their heroes great ratings. Who cares if the Elementals are down for the count? If they need to replace Flame, that’ll be a huge ratings frenzy as every over-muscled jock in town vies for the chance to slip into his red, composite-plated tights.
As these thoughts run through my head, I visit more shops. I beg for work at the tour booths, the drone mechanic, the VR studio with its full immersion tanks, and the fancy boxing gym that the rich newbies use ‘cause they don’t know about Palinsky’s.
More rejections. The anger heats up inside of me, a flame climbing higher and higher.
By midday, there’s only one place in town I haven’t tried. The cleanly painted square building sits in a long row of small shops at the end of the square, and I’ve been avoiding it on purpose.
With a deep breath, I step through the door of the pharmacy as it whooshes open. I don’t know what I expected — I’ve never been in here before — but it’s a clean, tidy shop. Meds line the walls in bottles of every color and shape, some glowing, others swirled in rainbow patterns. All the mood enhancers are behind the counter, along with a specialized printer for genomic meds.
There’s something else surprising behind the counter.
“Hello. You are Alice,” says Ollie. The stripes running through his blond hair are now red. A new black stud gleams under each eye. It’s the same look Candor, one of the Dragon Riders, picked up that even Lysee admits is not such a glam look.
“Hi, Ollie,” I say. “I didn’t know you worked here.”
“I do. You met Shadow yesterday. I saw the Streams. He is very bad. Very bad.”
I sigh. “He sure is.”
“I told you to stay away from him.”
I laugh at that. “You did.” Then I remember another thing Ollie said in class yesterday. “You think he isn’t sponsored, right?”
“Oh, definitely not. Definitely not.” Ollie shakes his head, and his fingers tap the counter. “He used a laz gun. That’s not allowed. And that bomb. Completely against the town rules regarding villain conduct. But even before that incident, he has committed numerous infractions against the rules.”
“How do you know so much about him?”
Ollie blinks at me. His eyes are a pale blue, always jerking away when I try to meet his gaze.
“I study them. All the heroes, all the villains,” Ollie states matter-of-factly.
Ah, so there it is. He’s another super fan. He must follow all their Streams, watch their eps and interviews. He probably crawls around in those weirdo fan groups to fawn over the smallest costume changes and speculate about Cleopatra’s new diet.
“Do you think the police will go after him?” I ask, voicing a question I’ve been pondering all morning.
Ollie shakes his head again. “Our police force is not equipped to handle a true threat.”
He’s right on the Loons there. Biggie LC cops are laughably incompetent. Our police chief, Memphis McDonald, is a round, baby-faced man beholden to the City Council and Mayor Wisenberg. Turns out being a living joke is a good way to make dollars. Every month, PAGS puts together a feel-good special on him.
From what Lysee told me, the last one featured our brills police force getting their asses handed to them by the Dark League until Beacon and Shine saved them. That was followed by some sappy storyline about McDonald teaming up with The Kid to find The Kid’s missing dog. I hadn’t realized The Kid was still clinging to his show. He’d been such a heartthrob when he grabbed his Fame 10 years ago. He still dresses like a teen and it’s getting cringey. I shake away these thoughts and focus back on Ollie.
“They should call in real cops, like the FBI or something,” I say.
Ollie looks at me like I might be rocking a faulty circuit. “Haven’t you read the City Charter?”
“Uhhhhh.” Has anyone read the City Charter?
Apparently one person has.
“The City Council retains full discretion to investigate all crimes committed in Big Little City,” Ollie informs me. “They have the authority to apprehend offenders, press charges, and turn them over to the justice system.”
“They won’t go after him then, will they?” I say, and then answer my own question, “Not as long as he keeps gushing the ratings and doesn’t actually kill someone.”
“Possibly even if he kills someone,” Ollie says.
“No, they wouldn’t let that happen.”
“It’s allowed. It’s in your residence waiver.”
“What?”
“You didn’t read the residence waiver?”
“I… um, skimmed it.”
Now Ollie looks at me with a measure of pity. “You should have read your waiver.”
“That’s… that’s illegal,” I sputter. “Media companies can’t create conditions that are likely to lead to death. That’s the whole point of Castillo v. PAGS.”
The Supreme Court is going to rule against PAGS. It has, too. Those dirty bastard producers thought they were being so clever, stashing that rusty chainsaw in a far-flung barn in Z Town. They claim survivors were meant to use it to build protective shelters against the zombies. But that show drives everyone lobotomy. It was no surprise that Ashlan Cooper lopped off Yolina Castillo’s head in order to win the season. In the end, Z Town is never about surviving the zombies; it’s about surviving the other contestants.
My thoughts are interrupted by an older man who enters from a door behind the counter. The similarities between father and son are clear, though the man is taller and more gaunt. Deep smile lines crease his face, and his eyes are glazed in that familiar Mellow way. Looks like the pharmy is a fan of his own meds.
“Ta,” he greets me. “Is Ollie helping you?”
“Um, yes,” I say to him.
“This is Alice Hannover. She and I attend school together. Shadow blew up her restaurant yesterday,” Ollie informs his father.
“Ah, I see. That sounds like a traumatic experience.” The man nods, his expression forming into a practiced gentleness. “Looking for something to calm your nerves? Help you sleep?”
“No,” I snap.
Behind him, colorful bottles of Mellows, Sweet Dreams, and Throttle line the walls, along with endless synthesized pills, patches, and vapes to soothe away all pain and flatten feelings. I know there are people who need real help — Alby and Matthew for sure — but there’s a difference between taking away true, debilitating pain and medicating away inconvenient anxieties and small setbacks.
The older man smiles understandingly at my refusal.
“It’s okay to feel unsettled,” he tells me. “The storylines may be planned, but that doesn’t mean your trauma isn’t real. You’d be surprised how many citizens in Biggie LC appreciate a Mellow in the morning or something to help them sleep. Heroes and villains, too. Unfortunately, PTSD comes with the territory.” He chuckles in a carefully rueful way.
There is a measure of practice in his interactions, like he has performed this gentle scene many times. The pharmy glances at his Band, a showy and expensive Falcon Model, matte black. “Ah, I see this isn’t the first major trauma you’ve experienced. Most people with your anxiety score benefit greatly from Mellows.”
I grind my teeth to avoid spitting out an insult.
Anxiety score. Yep, just another helpful algo my own Stream runs on me and provides to anyone with a medical license. My unhappy score is high because I don’t update my Stream enough. Because I don’t interact with my few followers by watching their vids or stamping joyful emojis on every pic and geo check-in. It’s also because the town’s cam bots have recorded terse expressions on my face all day today.
“I can give you a sample if you’d like to try it,” Ollie’s father is saying. “Generic Mellows are covered by Medicare, though it typically takes one to two months to receive approval. If you are able to pay out of pocket, I can send you home with a batch today and, for a higher cost, even compound them to match your genome.” He pats the genomic printer with more pride and warmth than he’s shown his own living son standing just a few feet from him.
“No thank you,” I force out. “Actually, I was wondering if you needed any assistance. As Ollie mentioned, my previous place of employment recently exploded.”
Ollie’s dad gives me a kind smile, but all he has on offer is free sample meds I don’t want. No job. The rejection, by this point, doesn’t even phase me. I give them a polite goodbye, and that ends my formal job search.
“You should really stay away from Shadow,” Ollie calls after me as I walk through the doors.
Best advice I’ve gotten all day.
I almost order a moped on my Band to take me home, but think better of it. Those are dollars I can’t afford to spend anymore. Instead, I walk. No classes today and no work schedule. A tour bus trundles by, its sides plastered with the faces of Beacon and Shine. The com system loudly points out the site where Evil Santa built his infamous Christmas Tree of Doom last year.
I turn onto a quieter side street and let my mind churn.
Okay, so no jobs in town. I knew the chances were low. No big deal. It’s not like the polar ice caps are melting all over again. I still have options.
All the talking heads can’t shut up about how we’re living in a gig economy. I just need to gig it. There are almost endless ways to HALC — Hustle a Little Currency. Some people design and sell 3D print schematics for all kinds of things, like shoes, lipstick, and robo upgrades. Others post vids showcasing a talent and rely on microtips from their fans. The best giggers who build up massive audiences can even pick up lucrative sponsorships and earn serious currency. I glance at my Ban
d to see what Streams are trending. There are the usual singers and dancers, but I also see Streams dedicated to carving lewd ice sculptures, juggling hats, and artfully shaving llamas. Lysee’s currently obsessed with some guy in Rhode Island who raps about orange juice. Just orange juice.
Hustling isn’t easy, not with so many others vamping for attention, begging for tips. Lysee, who has actually built a decent Stream following, has tried to monetize her friends about a million times. She tried singing. Then there was that muffin baking binge and a painful two weeks where she recorded vids of herself trying to learn the lasso. That one was supposed to pile up the tips and also grab the eyes of some local producers and land her a role as a superhero sidekick.
None of it worked.
Dozens of ideas flicker through my head as I walk home. Maybe I can print earrings and hand-paint them or knit hats. It’s fashionable now for the Captains of Industry to buy handmade everything. Makes them feel good helping the little people, I guess.
As each new idea hits, I quickly toss it away. I’m a half-decent singer, but the people who really make a living like that are experts who spend years building their following. I don’t know how to design shoes or juggle or carve ice. My Krav Maga is good, but not great. I’ve never painted or knitted anything in my life. I’ve got nothing new and shocking to offer a Streamverse that seems immune to shocks.
There are other options. Plenty of women, men, and non-binaries talk dirty, strip, and perform “special tasks” on vid for patrons who pay.
No. Never that.
I’d drop out of school before I’d turn myself into a living sex toy for the pleasure of strangers. Also, I’ve heard it’s a tough way to make a living; programmers have created all sorts of CGI people, animals, and anime figures who ply this same market. Nina the Centaur is a famously good CGI sex character known for performing the vilest of acts. She practically put teddy bear porn on the map.
Okay, what else? The wind picks up, and I smell rain coming. Gauzy clouds slip in front of the sun, and suddenly the day feels cold.
