Supervillain, Me

by Gentry Race

  The scenery was absolutely amazing. I spotted a quartet of cosplayers riding electric scooters along the waterfront, each one dressed like a different season of the year. The tails of their costumes flapping in the wind as the sun beamed brightly on each one as they cruised the walkways. We were now in sunny California’s comic book paradise.

  “Seasons are superheroes now?” I asked.

  Ari looked in my direction. “Nah, man, those are mutant ghosts from the Quantum Universe: Winter Draught, Spring Blossom, Summer Light, and Autumn Decay.”

  The limo pulled up to our destination. The Romni Hotel was a jewel in the lineup of San Diego hotel chains. It was made up of three different rectangular buildings mashed into one. Outside, large perforated banners advertising the latest binge-worthy television shows hung down, covering the sides from floor to ceiling. The stacked-together buildings were like irregularly shaped Lego blocks, all intersecting six floors up, where a sparkling rooftop pool and patio was perched high above where crowds would soon ensue.

  Our suite was three floors above that, nestled in between a set of other suites and amenities. It was a large two-bedroom, with two king beds and a pullout couch. I was quick to throw my bag on the bed in the room closest to me, claiming dibs.

  Hera pushed Ari to the ground, almost effortlessly, and claimed the other room. Ari laid on the floor, reactionless at the loss. He propped himself on his elbows and smiled.

  “You got the pullout couch, man,” I said.

  “My couch pulls out, but I don’t,” he joked, rising up and walking to the window. “You know, I don’t even care. Look at this view.”

  I chuckled and walked to the window to see the convention center across the street, just past a set of train tracks, sandwiched between two high-rise hotels. Just below us was the rooftop pool. On the same level, workers were sprinkling fake snow around a large ice sculpture of a woman in a full-length cape, holding a long, metal sword. A set of tables and a DJ booth crested it all, framed by a ‘Diamond Dragon/Wire Cafe @ Comic Con’ banner.

  “Holy shit, man. DD,” Ari said, trying to restrain his anticipation.

  “DD?” Hera asked from her bedroom, where she was unpacking her bag.

  “Is there a fucking echo in here?” Ari asked rhetorically. “Fucking Diamond Dragon.”

  “Oh, right. That new fantasy series on cable.”

  “I’ve heard of it. What’s Wire Cafe?” I asked.

  “You know, wire? As in Wire Magazine.” Ari looked around the window, as if there was something nearby he’d be able to use to repel down. “We’ve got to get into that party.”

  “Yeah, good luck,” I said. “It’s probably reserved for VIPs only. You know, like celebrities?”

  “Man, fuck that shit. I created Kah! Baller. I’m gonna find a way,” he said, walking to the door and leaving with haste.

  I rolled my eyes and looked at Hera, who was sitting on her bed. She looked at me, did a slight bounce, and smiled. I knew what she was thinking about; this was the first time she’d even acknowledged what happened the night before. It felt sort of awkward. Maybe I just wanted things to go back to the way they used to be.

  “We’d better get ready,” Michael said.

  “Yeah,” Hera agreed. “Tonight is Preview Night, and we are meeting at Fairweather's, that rooftop tiki bar to demo your game in live action.”

  After a quick shower, trying to rinse off the humidity that still clung to my skin, I slipped into comfortable shorts and a loose shirt, willing to accept the cool ocean breeze of San Diego at dusk. I popped my head out to see that no one was in the suite. Hera must have already left to meet up with Ari and get into who knows what kind of trouble.

  Empty grocery bags sat folded on the kitchen island. Ari must have gotten a few things from the store. I looked in the fridge to see a jar of gefilte fish and something wrapped up, labeled ‘Ptcha’. A quick Google search had me gagging: jellied calves’ feet.

  Nasty. Ari is putting the weirdest shit on his pizza these days.

  I checked the time and then left. It was Wednesday; Preview Night. The kickoff event for Comic Con weekend.

  Jessica loved Preview Night. She anticipated the start of the five-day shenaniganfest like it was her birthday week. Being long involved in cosplaying, she’d won a few contests, and really put all her effort into tailoring the best outfits. Preview Night was the pinnacle night for these cosplaying events. Jessica would be out and about with hundreds of other people dressed to the nines as their favorite ridiculous characters, trying to outdo one another in craftsmanship and creativity.

  I looked down at my phone. I wanted to text her.

  Michael: Hey, all unpacked and ready to go. I got a work thing soon. Where will you be tonight?

  Jess: At the Sonic the Hedgehog Whiskey Lounge. Big cosplay event there. Wish me luck.

  Michael: Are we going to meet up after?

  Jess: Not sure. I will try. You are gonna love my outfit.

  Damn. She was always so distant during this time. Last year, she didn’t call or text for two days. I damn near pulled my hair out worrying about her. But, alas, she was with her best girlfriends from college. I didn’t have anything worry about. It made sense because they always had a lot to catch up on. I would be the same way too.

  Jess had attended San Diego State University before moving to Portland and getting a job at Swoosh. Her crew had a funny nickname for the notoriety the school got for their excessive parties and trips to Tijuana: STDSU. I always chuckled, thinking about this. Especially since Jess was a self-proclaimed virgin waiting for marriage; a goodie-two-shoes without a speck or blemish on her golden halo.

  6

  LayBoy Promotion

  Despite the earlier humidity, the cool ocean air was a bit more arid in the Gaslamp Quarter, and I thanked my lucky stars. Jess had always said that a place with high humidity, like San Diego, was a terrible location for a comic convention. Droves of people crammed together like sardines in a can, copious amounts of fans packed together, each under layers of costume and makeup, and so excited to be here that they had forgotten to use deodorant. The smell was sometimes rampant, she said.

  My walk to the tiki bar was about five blocks east, away from the convention center. Absent from the evening air were the whiffs of salty musk, putrid cumin, and even the rancid smell of old t-shirts, which Jess had always warned me about. Instead, I was met with scents of vanilla and lavender, with a tinge of prickly pear. The air was sweeter than I thought it would be; then I noticed the group of women in front of me. And I was thankful to have the latter.

  A local restaurant’s bar had been rented out and taken over by some marketing company to push the latest TV show, movie or video game. Upon closer inspection, I recognized an ARMOR rig similar to the one I worked with day in and day out at Iconoclast.

  This must be the latest upgrade from Enconn.

  Five incredibly gorgeous and scantily dressed women held signs reading, ‘Layboy AR Intimacy Arcade. 18 and over.’

  I was perplexed. Layboy was the up-and-coming virtual reality pornography simulation company from Southern California. I knew them from the ad money they threw at Iconoclast Games, trying to weasel their way into the Subspace and get more Iconoclast users to try their ‘intimate’ experiences.

  These experiences could be anything from virtual sex with popular porn stars, to sexual role-playing games, even with your favorite knockoff pixelated video game character. If you had some kind of weird fetish and didn’t want your significant other to know about it, you could experience it, fully encrypted. However, I was never fond of the girls that the fantasies portrayed. They used stock 3-D models that looked more dead in the eyes than a drunken zombie passed out in the uncanny valley.

  “Wanna try, sweetie?” one girl asked, dressed in daisy duke shorts and holding a sign that read, ‘New ARMOR 2.0 available.’

  I stopped, trying to glance into the bar’s windows and entrance, which were purposefully covered in blackout
curtains. The daisy duked girl took notice of my curiosity and immediately ran over to me, seeing her angle open up on a sale.

  “I can show you around, if you’d like?” she offered.

  I tried not to look at her breasts, which were squeezed together like two gigantic peas in a pod. Her face was blessed with a natural beauty, unlike some of her coworkers, who were wearing heavy eyeliner and fake eyelashes. She reminded me of a hotter version of Jess, save for the brown hair.

  “I am interested in this ‘ARMOR 2.0’ tech. What is that? I thought LayBoy was strictly a VR company, not augmented as well?” I asked.

  “We are both VR and AR now. ‘2.0’ is the newest thing in AR intimacy. A sensation you can feel and touch,” she said. “My name’s Destiny.”

  Of course her name is Destiny.

  The notion of an ARMOR projecting physically real data into our world was an intriguing thought.

  She smiled softly, knowing I was hooked. I was infatuated by both the tech and her presence. She grabbed me by the hand and pulled me past her friends who were obviously jealous that she had found a taker.

  Inside, a tunnel of black sheets led to a large man, dressed sharply in a suit that was as keen as his stare. Destiny pulled me over to him. I was nervous; it all felt so fast. I had just wanted to know about the technology they were using.

  “Are you over eighteen?” asked the burly man, his medium-length beard and sideburns rivaling a nineteen-seventies action star’s. He checked my identification. “I don’t want no funny stuff. You look like one of those taboo guys. You into taboo?”

  “Taboo? No, I just want to see the tech—”

  “Now listen up, this is a freebie. Sign up for our mailing list here, and you are good to go.” He held out a tablet that looked small in his oversized hands. “And no funny business.”

  Once Destiny got the okay, she pulled me along down another dark corridor, which opened to the restaurant bar, decorated to look like a nineteen-eighties starship cruiser of some sort. The bar was fitted with knobs and dials that blinked intermittently. Just above that, where a back bar mirror would have been placed, thousands of tiny lights twinkled, making it look like outer space.

  She walked me to the center of the room and strategically placed me over an ‘X,’ sloppily taped on the floor. I tried to say something, but was cut off by an audio recording beginning to play.

  Greetings, Michael Sutter. Welcome to LayBoy technologies, where we put the fun in ‘functional’. We have analyzed your social media presence and used our algorithms to amalgamate a template profile to work from. This will save us time. Can I ask you to pick between a set of images?

  I hesitated. This was the last thing I needed out there on the internet: a profile with LayBoy. Jess would be less than thrilled if she found out I was sexing up virtual girls on the side. I mean, I wouldn’t mind the stress reliever, sure. Ari had even told me he’d done it a few times when he was drunk. Besides, I was a virgin, for god’s sake. I needed all the practice I could get, right?

  This step will fine-tune your profile.

  I thought for a moment more. It was the pent-up stress — the pressure to have premarital sex had me tied in knots. Maybe that’s why I was an idiot that night I’d gotten drunk and fooled around with Hera. I mean, this VR booth wasn’t any different from using my hand to pleasure myself, and even Jess was cool with masturbation. What harm would it cause? If anything, I deserved it.

  “Yes, you have my permission,” I said, a rush of adrenaline shooting through my veins.

  It was arousing to think about the fantasies I could experience. What kinds of girls would come up in the initial profile creation? And where was the freaking clunky VR helmet? At least that would cover my face. I was blushing too much.

  Okay, which of the two images would you choose from?

  Two holographic images projected in front of me: a furry cat and a mangy dog. I paused for a moment, trying to think about the logic of what this test was trying to prove.

  What in the hell do animals have to do with virtual sex?

  Please pick one, Michael.

  “The cat,” I said, embarrassed. “But for the record, only because there was lack of a better choice.”

  That is noted, Michael. What about this one?

  A pair of women appeared before me in holographic form. Finally, they are getting to the good stuff, I thought. One option was a blonde woman, thin-framed and petite, taking a basic stance, while the other was a brunette. The brunette was unique, exhibiting not just a thicker frame, but also a more empowering stance, as if she was trying to exude the presence of a cosmic warrior.

  “The brunette,” I said.

  Thank you, Michael. And how about these?

  The next images projected before me were odd. Creatures I had never seen before. The one on the left looked like a woman from the waist up, but her bottom half looked like it belonged to a squid. The other image was of a half-woman, half-monkey.

  Both images gave me an eerie feeling, and I couldn’t help but blurt out, “None.”

  Michael, I have indicated you gave the answer ‘none’?

  “That’s right. Not into monster girls,” I said.

  I am sorry, Michael. You have to pick one for the profile creation to commence.

  I was a little taken aback. The two monster women I was supposed to choose from shriveled my pecker inward a little further every time I looked at them. The monkey girl wasn’t so bad… More human than monkey. Somewhat cute. Maybe with a heavy pair of beer goggles, it could happen.

  But then there was the squid girl. Pretty. A bun pulled back tighter than a dolphin’s asshole. She wore glasses, like she was maybe super into books. And then there were the creepy tentacles she wore like a snaking dress, which fell over… no legs. The girl had no legs.

  “Monkey woman,” I said as quickly as I could to get the test over with.

  Thank you, Michael. The test is over now. Please wait while we calculate the ideal situation for you.

  Ideal? I looked over to where Destiny had been standing. She was gone now. Figures, I thought. Just like in Thailand when you negotiated for a runner to get you into a club, and then they’d bounce the moment you’re knee-deep in ping-pong popping vaginas, then you find yourself at last call, being handed a bill for more than what you paid in total to fly there.

  Great news, Michael. We have found not just one mate, but two.

  “Two?” I asked.

  The notion was absurd. In the past, I had imagined having two women at once, but then my logic would kick in and remind me that I needed to crawl before I could walk — hell, before I could run.

  Yes, Michael. Please wait for physical manifestation.

  Physical manifestation? I cracked a crooked eye as the holographic display faded away. All that was left in the room was slight ambient light, illuminating the fake printed drapery that tried to convey a nineteen-eighties starship.

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, something in my peripheral began to shimmer. There was a rippling of movement, like heat distortion, and then it formed a humanoid shape — a woman. Her golden hair fell just past her shoulders, pulled into pigtails. She wore thin-framed glasses over heavy, dark eyes that were lined into sharp outward points. Her high cheekbones capped a perfectly dark red lip-lined smile, that curved around teeth whiter than pearl.

  She looked devilishly gorgeous.

  A tight red and black spandex suit, offset in color and divided into fourths on her body, clung to her small yet voluptuous waist. As she came closer, I was able to make out that she was more than just pale; she was intentionally painted like a jester. I knew what they were trying to convey — a villainess I used to have a thing for, a crazy assistant to a clown prince of crime — when I saw what was standing tall from behind her back.

  She held a large wooden mallet that looked too heavy for her to bear. Naturally bound to each face of the hammer was an inlet, a slit of fleshy folds. LayBoy was no stranger to sex toys, and toys
were what I saw; vagina props affixed to each end of the large hammer. What the fuck is she going to do with that, I asked myself. It was like some kind of whack-a-mole for hard dicks. I cringed thinking about the mallet coming down smashing onto my family jewels.

  My companion stopped a few feet away from me. Just behind her cock-slamming hammer, I saw something familiar: a T-shaped device with a connecting ratcheted spinal column, floating in midair. There it was. The ARMOR. It looked exactly like the one I used, but instead of capturing the presence of the user, it projected from three small lights that coalesced together to manifest the villainess before me.

  “You — your ARMOR is materializing you here,” I stuttered. “Are you actors?”

  The clown-faced girl slightly nodded just as another shimmer began to sparkle to the right of her. Another womanly form came to fruition, thicker in frame and sporting a black vinyl baseball cap with cat ears that jutted out from the top. She was graced with three long, fluffy tails that emerged from a plump behind, coated in a skin-tight black body suit. It was a goddamn half-cat-woman kitsune.

  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. They must have scanned my social media profile all the way back to when I was a teen; I had a thing for villainess catwomen then. Not to say I didn’t now, but seeing my two ultimate dream women in the flesh was surreal. I was getting hard just at the thought of it. One of my all-time greatest fantasies was about to come true.