The Other Eight, page 10
“I’m not a foot soldier. I’m more of an adviser. In fact, that’s what you can call me. The Adviser.”
“Kind of a passive name for a serious villain,” Scratch judged.
“You’ve chosen a poultry theme. Your opinion on the matter is therefore invalid.”
“Hey! Cockfights, voodoo rituals! Chickens have a long history in the underworld.”
“Whatever,” Pollinatrix said. “Flashing lights, fancy voices, and high-tech toys don’t make for a criminal mastermind. What makes you think you can pull off something big?”
The Adviser flipped open a hinged section of an arm pad and pulled out a packet of papers. He tossed it on the table. Chicken Scratch snatched the packet and unfolded it.
“What is it?” Bottleneck asked, standing and peeking over Scratch’s shoulder.
“Profiles of the sixteen finalists. Big deal. They’ve got this on the website already. I’m surprised they don’t have trading cards.”
“Keep reading,” advised The Adviser.
Chicken Scratch scanned the pages for a few more moments, then looked at the bartender. “You got someplace a little more private where my associates and I can have a chat?”
“The back room’s got a door. Supposed to be for the pool league, but we ain’t had a pool league since 1987.”
“Come on,” Scratch said to the others.
Pollinatrix, Bottleneck, Dentata, Chicken Scratch, and The Adviser filed into a dark room in the back of the bar that had just enough room for a pool table and a few stools. The table was mysteriously damp, and a strong and unfriendly odor suggested that either there was a problem in the bathroom, or that more than one person had considered this an attractive alternative to the bathroom. Dentata found a light switch that activated a single, sickly fluorescent bulb overhead. The door was shut, and Scratch threw down the page.
“Real names, addresses, family members,” he said. “Where did you get this stuff?”
“I have my sources. There’s more, but I can’t give you all of the information until I know you are willing to work with me.”
“I’ll do it! I’ll be part of the team,” Bottleneck blurted. “The first thing we’ll need is a formal organization. I’m thinking LLC. Something to get our finances protected. I have a good lawyer for that stuff. I can get the paperwork started. Probably in about two months we’ll be able to—”
“Bottleneck, based on your powers, I’m going to go ahead and ignore any suggestions you make,” Chicken Scratch suggested.
“Aw,” he said with a frown.
“What do we need to do?” Pollinatrix asked.
“Right now, just make yourselves available. In the coming days some… opportunities will present themselves.”
“Listen, this is all well and good. I want to make a name for myself as much as the next person,” said Dentata, “but I’ve got a life. Now I can put it on hold for a bit if it means getting this new career rolling, but I’m going to need some start-up capital, so to speak.”
“Exactly! We could have a joint bank account. It really shouldn’t take too long to get some checks made,” said Bottleneck.
“Here,” The Adviser said, revealing a bundle of twenties from another compartment on his suit. “This should be enough to keep you in town for a few days. We’ll be in touch.”
The Adviser marched toward the door.
“Wait,” Scratch said, “don’t you need contact info?”
“I’ve got your cell phone numbers, home addresses, social security numbers… I wouldn’t be The Adviser if I wasn’t well-advised.”
He turned and opened the door again, marching out of the bar without further comment. Behind him, the recently recruited villains began to divvy up the allowance.
“That’s three thousand for each of us,” Pollinatrix said.
“Yes! A chance to get even with those fools who wouldn’t put me on the team, and a wealthy sponsor. Things are looking up for the mighty Chicken Scratch!” proclaimed the eager new villain. “Does that costume guy do rush jobs?”
“I’ll give him a call. I could use a new pair of spike heels if I’m going to be on TV. I’ll see if he can overnight something to us,” she said, leading the way out of the room with Scratch in tow.
“It’ll be nice to have a new project,” Dentata said.
“Yeah, we should celebrate! You wanna get dinner?” Bottleneck asked.
She shrugged. “I’ve got nothing else to do.”
The pair made their way to the door.
“So, what are your powers, anyway? Wait, let me guess. You’re Dentata. That means… teeth or something, right? So you can… bite through things?”
“Certain specific things, but yeah.”
“Nice! Well, my name is Porter. What’s your name?”
“Virginia.”
Chapter 15
Non Sequitur trudged back to his cabin, a bottle of water in hand. The day had started easily enough. There was a one mile run, which was roughly what he did back home to keep his weight under control, after which came the standard running through tires/climbing ropes/scaling walls obstacle course he’d come to expect from the movies. Then there was a cycle of push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups. By the last pull-up he was exhausted and ready for a break. What he got instead was another mile run, followed by another obstacle course and more calisthenics. The process repeated in a grueling test of endurance. Sergeant Roberts ran them all through the sequence until only eight of them could continue, then had them run it three more times for good measure. When all was said and done, Chloroplast, Undo, FM, and Retcon had fared the best. After that had been the dancers, then Omnivox. Non Sequitur was in eighth place by a wide margin. Everyone else had collapsed or faltered enough times to be sent back to the cabins. Nonsensica, however, had refused to go, and even rallied to finish the last iteration just a few steps behind Non Sequitur.
Now his cabin mate was right beside him, guzzling her own bottle of water. When she finished she opened a second one she had grabbed and drained it in one continuous swig. Tossing the empty bottle aside, she snatched the one out of his hand and sucked it dry as well. He would have objected, but judging from how drenched with sweat she was, Nonsensica needed it more than he did. He reached the cabin and held the door open for her to stumble inside.
Once inside they each grabbed a towel and set about soaking up the torrent of sweat the muggy Virginia heat had left behind. Non Sequitur shed the drenched T-shirt of his fatigues, revealing an even more drenched undershirt. Nonsensica grunted with increasing frustration, moving her stiff and sore arms behind her back.
She gave up and sighed. “Unzip me.”
“What?”
“I can barely move my arms, Non Sequitur. Unzip me. The tab is on the back of the collar.”
“Are you sure you want me to—?”
“I’m stewing in my own juices in this outfit, so ditch the adorably chivalrous crap and unzip me,” she snapped.
He quickly obliged, revealing her bare back.
“Thank you,” she gushed, relief saturating her voice as air finally reached her overheated skin. She held the front of her bodysuit with one hand to make sure it wouldn’t slip down and rummaged through the dresser for a fresh set of underclothes and fatigues. Once she had them, she marched directly into the washroom, leaving the door ajar as she stepped farther in. Out of sight, she turned on the shower. “You know, if we are going to be working together on this team, you and I are going to have to be comfortable with stuff like this. It is like backstage at a theater. If you wait for privacy, you might miss the curtain.” She managed to slither out of her costume. “Whew. That’s one thing you never read about in the comics, huh? How all of the classic crime fighters end the day smelling like a foot?”
“Well, maybe if you didn’t wear such an elaborate costume—”
“Uniform,” she corrected, stepping into the shower. Raising her voice, she continued talking. “And it isn’t that elaborate. A one piece suit, gloves, boots, goggles, and belt. About the same as the fatigues, really.”
“You know what I mean. I think we both know you would have finished well ahead of me if you weren’t wearing a sauna suit while doing mile-long runs. I’m surprised you didn’t get heatstroke.”
“Yeah, the medics were surprised, too. Maybe I’ve discovered a new power, huh?”
“I’m just saying maybe try a day of training with the fatigues on and see how you do.”
“Oh no. I have no intention of training in anything I wouldn’t fight crime in. What would that prove?”
“Well, you don’t need a fancy uniform to fight crime.”
“Pff. That’s easy for you to say, you’re a guy. All you need to do is throw on a trench coat and skip shaving for a few days, and you’ve got the brooding antihero look. People will buy that as a superhero outfit. Women are judged by their uniform. People expect something with some pizzazz.”
“Well, then what about spandex? That must breathe a little and wick away some moisture.”
“Spandex is for posers. You want to go pro, you go latex,” she said matter-of-factly. “Unless you’re a villain. Female super villains have the leather option.”
“Super heroines can’t wear leather?”
“Well, maybe white leather. Though it would probably be pleather. You know, more animal friendly.”
“Where do you get all of this?”
“It’s just the way it is, you know?”
“I guess I stopped thinking about that sort of thing a long time ago. Back when I was a kid.”
“You thought about it when you were a kid?”
“Everyone thinks about that stuff when they’re kids.”
“Yeah, and I’ll bet a lot of kids think about winning the World Series or becoming a rock star,” she said. She turned off the shower and wrapped a towel around herself. “And you know who eventually hits the home runs and gets the gold records?” She leaned out of the bathroom, hair still dripping. “The ones who never stopped thinking about it.”
Chapter 16
The hero hopefuls gathered in the mess hall after a long day of crawling through mud under barbed wire, climbing cargo nets, and a half-dozen other activities that army trainers seemed to think would be indispensable in the field. The tables there were long, school cafeteria-style benches. The building was a standard design, one built to accommodate a far larger group, but since each table could comfortably seat eight, there were only two of them. A pair of folding chairs and a small table had been added to one corner of the room, where Dr. Aiken and Private Summers spent their mealtimes observing the group and the growing tension between its two halves. The layout of the room formed a sort of behavioral laboratory that was fascinating to the psychologist. Aside from leaving the rest of the mess hall wide open, as if it was to host some sort of formal dance later that night, it led to another staple of high school culture: the cool kids’ table. While Undo, Retcon, Johnny On the Spot, and other high performers and military-minded members of the group sat at one table, the misfits of the group were relegated to the other. By the fourth day of training, the table roster was seemingly set in stone. Nonsensica, Chloroplast, Non Sequitur, Gracias, Phosphor, The Number, and Bomb Sniffer invariably ate together, outwardly lamenting the cliquishness of their group and inwardly seething about not having made it into the “good” clique. Afterthought was generally there with them, but they seldom noticed.
“Look at them over there. Half of them don’t even want to be superheroes,” Gracias muttered, glaring at the other table. “They’re all soldiers now.”
“Nothing wrong with being a soldier,” Phosphor noted.
“No, no. Of course not. But this isn’t about getting a batch of new soldiers, this is about getting a batch of new superheroes. Where are the tests for that?”
“The army isn’t after superheroes. They just want soldiers who know more tricks than the soldiers on the other side,” said Chloroplast. “Robots who will act as a unit, follow orders, and march in time.”
“I’ve got no problem with acting as a unit, but there’s a lot more to being a superhero than there is to being a soldier. On top of the soldier skills, you need a suitable uniform, you need a theme, you need a catchphrase,” Nonsensica said.
“Not to mention having a worthwhile power and knowing how to use it properly,” The Number growled, glancing at Primadonna over at the popular table. “As opposed to just strutting around and coming up with ‘artistic’ excuses to shake your money maker. I bet she doesn’t even have a catchphrase.”
“Do you?” Nonsensica asked.
“Of course! After I finish using my powers I say, ‘After that dance, your number is up!”
“Mmm. Not bad. But you’re The Number, right? That’s more of a jab against someone named Number. How about this one? ‘Five, six, seven, eight, looks like crime just ain’t so great.’ It’s got numbers, it’s got sort of a dance vibe. It rhymes.”
The Number considered it. “Maybe. I like the tempo count, but that really belongs before a dance…”
“Yours was pretty good at the combat trial, Nonsensica,” Gracias interjected. “Here’s mine. Ready?” He did finger pistols. “You’re welcome. Eh? Eh? See, ’cause I’m Gracias, and it means thank you.”
“Yes, we got that,” Chloroplast said. “I’m surprised you didn’t go with something about Cheeseheads.”
Gracias growled, tugging out his shirt. “Look, a white G with a circle around it on a green shirt does not equal a Packers shirt.”
“That is the exact description of a Packers shirt.”
“Look, we’re not talking about costumes anyway, we’re talking catchphrases. What’s yours?”
“Looks like green just made you black and blue.”
Gracias nodded. “Not bad, not bad. Plus, it would work for both members of Team Green.”
“I never put much thought into this sort of thing until I got here,” added Phosphor. “Think I’d like a team-related one. Like, ‘It’s not Phosphor you, it’s Phosphorus.’”
“We’ll work on that,” Nonsensica said. “But you definitely need one. You’ve got to have the total package if you want to be one of the greats, like Ambition.”
“Well, we’ve all got ambition, or else we wouldn’t be here,” said Bomb Sniffer
Nonsensica laughed. “Yeah, I guess so, but what I meant was we have to be the total package like Ambition was.”
“I’m not sure what you mean by that.”
Non Sequitur shook his head slowly and left the table.
“Totally not twenty-three,” Gracias said.
“I am too!”
“Ambition was a superhero who was active during most of the eighties and into the early nineties,” Nonsensica explained. “He was in Chicago, and he was just about the only hero so far who had any success.”
“What was his power?”
“Oh, it was awesome,” Gracias chimed in. “He had this gun, right? Except it didn’t fire bullets, or anything else, really. He used to put in a clip of… What did he call it?”
“Ambunition,” Chloroplast said.
“Right, right. Ambunition,” Gracias said, clapping his hands once.
“So good. Great name,” Nonsensica admired with a knowing nod.
“And when he pulled the trigger, whatever he needed to do, he had limitless drive to get done. He’d enter this trance, sort of, and he had one hundred percent focus on whatever needed doing. He could run faster and longer. He had that mother-lifting-a-minivan-off-of-her-trapped-child-level strength. It was great.”
“Shouldn’t he have been called Dedication or something like that?”
“Then he couldn’t have called it ambunition,” Nonsensica said flatly. “Besides, the name was perfect, because no one had more ambition than him. And he inspired others to his level. He was my idol. He rescued hostages, he solved murders with the cops, everything.”
“What happened to him?”
“Went out the way all great heroes should. In battle with a villain as bad as he was good. A guy named Hay Fever. He had the ability to cause severe sneezing fits in others, as long as one of these little tokens he made was nearby.”
“That sounds pretty weak as powers go.”
“You should know better than to say something like that. It all comes down to how you use it. Hay Fever would sneak one into a bank and cause everybody to sneeze while he just walked in and walked out with money. They were too busy sneezing to hit the alarm or try to stop him or anything. Eventually he moved up to sneaking one into the cockpit of a plane and threatened to make the whole flight crew sneeze nonstop until the thing crashed. Ambition managed to track him down, there was an epic battle, but his clip of ambunition ran dry willing himself not to sneeze, and finally Hay Fever managed to shoot him. Ambition died, but the fight stalled Hay Fever long enough for the plane to land and the police to get close enough to bring him in.”
“Saved all of those lives, got the bad guy, and went out in a blaze of glory. If I’m gonna go, I want to go like that,” Gracias said.
“And you don’t find a hero like that by searching for the best soldier,” Nonsensica said.
“Darn right,” said The Number. “I mean, all soldiers are heroes. But not all heroes are soldiers. If you want the best of the best, sometimes you’re going to have to look beyond the hut-two-three-four stuff.”
“To get beyond the hut-two-three-four stuff, you have to make it past the hut-two-three-four stuff.” The comment came in a commanding, almost robotic four part harmony courtesy of Omnivox. Despite his seat at the other table, his voice carried as if it was all around them. “There aren’t three of you who could cut it as a normal soldier. How do you expect to cut it as a super-soldier?”
“You’re one to talk. I haven’t seen you put your powers to good use even once,” Nonsensica said. “But they are familiar.”
“He has superior skills,” Primadonna said, standing up and strutting toward the less successful group. “We all are the best at what we do.”
“Listen, missy. If you think you’re a better dancer, then bring it on,” The Number said, marching up to her.
