by Logan Jacobs
I had been hoping for a dumpy, maternal woman, but the head seamstress, who had a lot of celebrity clients, turned out to be an elegant, rail thin creature with a silver chignon in a leopard print wrap dress wearing red soled pumps. When she saw me walk in wearing my department store brand off the racks clothing, her finely drawn eyebrows raised a little, but she knew I worked for Miles, so she forced a smile, greeted me, and ushered me into a fitting room with my huge tissue paper swaddled gown in its metallic beribboned box.
Once I had it on and looked like a potato-faced peasant borrowing a princess’ ball gown, she and her assistants got out their pins and tsked and tutted over every strained seam, every place where I was flat or flabby instead of taut and toned, the extra foot of height even accounting for heels that the designer had clearly expected someone of my size to have.
“You’ll need a control garment with this,” the seamstress said matter-of-factly.
“What?” I asked.
She signaled to one of her assistants, who fetched a Victorian-looking corset contraption, except sleeker and stretchier. There was no way I could have gotten into it on my own, but the team of judgmental women unceremoniously yanked the dress down, forced the torture device onto me, and then zipped the dress back up. The corset made it a bit hard to breathe, but I had to admit that I kind of liked the painful pressure around my waist.
The head seamstress pursed her perfectly lipsticked lips and nodded. “A drastic improvement.”
Her bluntness stung a little, but when I looked at myself in the mirror and saw my new, fake figure, I couldn’t deny that she was right. It didn’t make me significantly thinner, it just sort of… smoothed out all the lumps. Yup, my real body would have ruined the silhouette of the dress.
“That looks nice,” I sighed.
“You want a tighter one?” she asked.
“N-no,” I said quickly. If it were any tighter or more constricting, I didn’t think I would have been able to breathe. And Miles needed me to stay conscious in order to observe any sketchy acting superheroes at the event.
After the tailoring team finally released me, with “Good enough” and “Guess it’ll have to do” written all over their faces even though they didn’t say it out loud, I rushed off just in time to make it to my makeup appointment.
The artist was very chipper and actually seemed to like me. I guessed that it was probably because with faces that were too pretty, there wasn’t that much she could even do to improve them. My face was probably a lot more fun for her because the transformation was so much more dramatic. It went from being a nondescript blob to actually having some structure and interesting features, all through the magic of endless layers of contouring. I practically couldn’t recognize myself when she was done. Maybe I didn’t look like a cover model, but at least on the spectrum between my usual face and the face of a cover model, I had moved to about the halfway point. Hopefully that would be good enough that Miles wouldn’t be completely embarrassed to be seen with me, even though I would never be a prize by his standards, no matter how many false eyelashes the most skillful of makeup artists painstakingly applied.
When she had done all she could for me, the makeup artist sent me off with a tube of the lipstick shade she’d applied so that I could do touchups and told me with a wink to have fun at the Gala “and later tonight.” She also assured me that my date wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off me. I opened my mouth to explain the actual, far more pathetic state of affairs, but then I decided to let her keep thinking that I was someone’s object of attraction and that I was about to have a wildly sexy night with a date who adored me.
It felt kind of good for the fantasy to exist in someone else’s mind besides just my own.
When I went to my hair appointment wearing my new and improved face, and I noticed that for once, strangers were actually sneaking second glances at me and smiling at me for no reason when I passed by. It was weird, but it felt awesome. It was like experiencing what it was like to be pretty for a day. As I stared into the mirror during my salon visit and wished I could always wake up looking like I did then, I wondered if Miles would think I looked pretty, or if he wouldn’t even notice a difference in comparison with the likes of Emma Kingston.
I knew I shouldn’t be obsessing over my appearance so much, especially since it clearly wasn’t the reason Miles had chosen to hire me or to invite me to the Gala that night. It was silly, vain, and superficial of me, especially considering that I had so many far more important things to be thinking about. Like how the superheroes of Pinnacle City might be intentionally endangering the people they were supposed to be protecting just so they could keep staging awesome fight scenes. Like how there was a good chance that my amazing boss was going to change the course of Pinnacle City’s history by disrupting their profit scheme.
Like how I had played an active role in killing seven men last night.
Okay, supervillains. But supervillains were humans too, or at least humanoid, or at least most of them were.
And they had absolutely deserved everything they got, considering that they had tried to break into our house and attack Miles.
But that revolving propeller blade had still been… pretty intense to watch. I had to admit I’d gotten a little squeamish at first.
But then? I assumed that I might be sick. I thought I might be traumatized by the images for years to come. I knew those were the kinds of reactions that normal people like me were supposed to have to witnessing violent killings, especially ones that they had been accomplices to. I was supposed to have nightmares, I was supposed to end up with psychological damage from the guilt. And it had been less than twenty-four hours so far, so maybe all that would still happen later.
But somehow, I didn’t think so.
When I replayed the scenes of those men getting dismembered by laser beams, of the one with superspeed being gunned down by Aileen, I didn’t feel any kind of horror or revulsion. My heart did start beating a little faster, but I think that was with excitement. And worse still, when I imagined other supervillains meeting similar fates that Miles and I had orchestrated for them, I got a tingle of warmth in my belly.
I knew this meant there was something deeply wrong with me.
Was this Miles’ influence?
I suspected that Miles didn’t care about killing people who got in his way, but Miles was an extraordinary human being in so many ways. He kind of got a free pass for having some eccentricities. It was unavoidable. You couldn’t be a super genius and still be a completely normal, well adjusted, socially conventional human being. But me? I was average. Being average in every possible way defined me. So if the only way in which I differed from the norm was a secret intense bloodlust? Then I probably wasn’t an average human being, I was probably worse than average.
Even so, it was hard for me to feel bad about the one single trait that Miles and I seemed to share in common. No matter what it was. I was just happy that we shared it.
My second to last stop was to get my nails manicured. They buffed and trimmed them and moisturized my hands and painted my nails a shade of pale gleaming coral. They were gentle and meticulous with every hangnail, and looked up to smile at me frequently, but the whole time they were chattering away to each other in Vietnamese and giggling, with no idea that I understood every word of what they were saying.
Mostly they were gossiping about their friends and relatives, and who was trying to sleep with whom, but they also discussed my appearance in detail. My heavily makeuped face apparently passed muster as “cute,” but by the petite Asian women’s standards, I was apparently not just average but outright “fat” and dressed in an outfit that didn’t do me any favors
I kept my mouth shut throughout their whole discussion and tried to just focus on the Wardens research I was doing on my phone. Then when they started in on lotioning my hands, I told them I didn’t have time for a hand massage, since I needed to rush off and pick up my custom tailored dress in time to get back to
the house and meet Miles.
When I paid at the counter, I declined to leave any tip and told them in fluent Vietnamese, “Next time, you might want to consider keeping rude opinions to yourself in public.”
Then I hurried out the door before they could respond.
Sometimes my superpower was pretty useful.
Back at the seamstress’, they had me try on the dress to make sure the adjustments were correct. Not only did it fit perfectly, this new smoky-eyed, contoured, alluringly wavy-haired version of me actually seemed like someone worthy of wearing it. Once I looked in the mirror, I could barely tear my eyes away from this beautified fantasy version of myself.
Hopefully, I’d get the chance to participate in fighting and killing more supervillains later. Hopefully Miles wouldn’t ever get tired of me and replace me with a more talented and sexier assistant. Hopefully someday I’d find something, even if it was something minor, that I was genuinely good at rather than just average.
But those were all larger concerns that I could worry about later. For now, all I wanted was for Miles to see me as I saw myself in the seamstress’ mirror at that moment. All I wanted was for him to feel even a tiny glimmer of pride in presenting me as his date.
I couldn’t wait for the Gala that night.
Miles Chapter Five
Norma cleaned up nicely. Her green off-the-shoulder gown accentuated her C-cup cleavage, was nipped in at the waist, and was made of a forgiving enough fabric that you couldn’t really tell her figure was pretty average underneath. Or maybe that was the Spanx. I think she was probably wearing some kind of Spanx underneath. Her eyes had a nice smoky thing going on that made them look more exotic. Her smile was always charming, but she was wearing some kind of rosy lipstick that gave her a natural flushed look. The makeup artist had also managed to lend her cheekbones, and her hair was coiffed into a retro forties ringlet style that really suited her.
She wasn’t any kind of supermodel, but fully made over, she could easily pass for the cute girl next door on a sitcom. She wouldn’t look out of place in a red carpet type setting. She also wouldn’t attract all eyes and steal the show. She would blend right in, which was just the way I wanted it. That’s not what I said to her, of course.
“Wow, you look beautiful,” I said.
She blushed, right on cue. I’d never met anyone who blushed as easily as Norma, even though she wasn’t exceptionally pale, she just had a normal Caucasian skin tone.
“Thanks,” she said. “You, um, you look pretty great yourself.”
The mirror had already informed me of that fact, but I grinned anyway. “Thanks. The suit is bullet proof.”
“Er, are you expecting some kind of trouble tonight?” Norma’s eyes widened, and I realized that I might have made a small error by telling her about my protective gear.
“I’m always expecting trouble,” I said to smooth things over. “And something like the C.D.S. isn’t going to be popular with everyone. But if anything happens, they should be targeting me, not you.”
“I don’t know if I like the sound of that,” Norma said.
“We better go meet the driver.” I held out my arm for Norma, and she leaned on me a bit more than I’d been expecting. I guessed she wasn’t used to walking in heels, but we still glided smoothly out to the driveway together.
“Have a lovely evening,” Aileen murmured at us from the speaker by the front door before she secured all the locks behind us.
When we arrived at the Aberdeen Country Club in my armored limo, the crowd assembled there was a mixture of politicians, local entertainment celebrities, wealthy sponsors, members of the police community, and, of course, superheroes. Everyone else was in tuxes and evening gowns. The superheroes, however, were mostly all wearing their own variations on the same skintight Spandex masked and booted theme. Some of them had animal ears or tails. A few of them had capes, but that was old school and nowadays mostly only done ironically. Others with “incognito” personas were wearing civilian clothes and flashing telltale sigils or tattoos at the paparazzi.
Dinner was scheduled to start in half an hour, and the tables were waiting with their pristine white tablecloths, floral arrangements, and carefully plotted name cards, but for now, everyone was just milling around snacking on hors d’oeuvres and accepting champagne flutes from the servers that deftly navigated the crowd.
One of the first people to approach me was a news anchor named Jenny something-or-other. She was pretty in an aging former cheer captain kind of way, but her voice had that whiny-nasally tone that people of her ilk thought was professional
“Look who it is, the guest of honor,” she cooed. Then she gave Norma the once-over and evidently concluded that she didn’t look like the type of woman I’d date. “And who is this, your… sister?”
“This is my friend Norma,” I said as I pulled her in by the waist. “What about your husband, is he here? I really admire his work, I’d love to get a beer with him sometime.”
“Oh, we’re in the process of a separation,” Jenny said as she scrunched her nose.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” I lied. Actually, that had been one of the gossipy details that Norma had briefed me on during the ride over here. But I had brought it up intentionally because I didn’t like the dismissive way she was eyeing my assistant.
“Don’t be sorry, sometimes you just gotta live and learn, hahaha,” Jenny said. “And some men never grow up, you know? But anyway, tonight is all about you! And this, ah, this C.D.C. of yours?”
“Miles didn’t invent the Centers for Disease Control,” Norma said in a deadpan voice, and I got the feeling she wasn’t too fond of Jenny either.
“Ah, well, he’s such a Renaissance Man, I’m sure he could’ve.” Jenny blinked in confusion, but then someone behind my shoulder caught her false-eyelashed eye. “Oh, there’s Chuck! I’d better go congratulate him on his team winning the championship this season.”
“Think Chuck’s going to be her next ex-husband?” Norma muttered to me as soon as Jenny left.
I laughed. “Nah, he passed on signing that overrated rookie what’s-his-face with the stupid beard that hasn’t done shit since he signed that fifty million dollar contract with Miami, so he must have some level of common sense.”
A young cop came up to me next and shook my hand. “Hi, I’m Neville Wilson,” he said. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I said. “I’m just providing an advisory tool to help direct resources to keep the streets of Pinnacle City safe. You’re the one actually doing the job.”
His scrawny freckled fellow cop nearby heard that, laughed, and said, “Nah, me and Neville aren’t smart enough to do what you do, man. If we were we’d be billionaires on yachts too.”
Neville punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Come on now, you mean you wouldn’t still want to put on the uniform and do your civic duty?”
“No, I mean I’d be in a Speedo drinking margaritas with Georgia Summers on a yacht,” the freckled cop insisted.
Well, he’d got one part of the equation right anyway.
“I don’t actually own a yacht,” I remarked.
“No?” Neville exclaimed in exaggerated surprise. “How come?”
“I dunno,” I said. “Not really my thing. I never seem to have time for one.”
“You should get a yacht anyway,” his freckled friend insisted. “Chicks like yachts.”
“Come on, man,” Neville laughed. “You’re giving Miles Nelson dating advice? Who the fuck do you think you are?”
The freckled cop grinned and stuck out his hand. I shook it. “I’m Tim McCoy.”
“Nice to meet you both,” I said. “Hey, so what other kinds of tools would you want for the department? What do you think I should develop next?”
“Ooh, can we get laser guns?” Tim asked. “And, uh, flying motorbikes? Can you imagine chasing a suspect down on one of those? Like a highway chase or something, and he keeps weaving in and out, he keep
s checking his rearview and sideview mirrors, doesn’t see shit, thinks he fucking got away with it, then eventually he pulls over somewhere… and the wheels just touch down on top of his car. ‘Surprise, bitch!’”
“He’s not Santa Claus!” Neville said. “There’s such a thing as a budget, you know? No one’s gonna approve flying motorbikes. Only the superheroes do the flying around here.”
“Okay, well, here’s my card,” I said as I handed one to each of them. “I want you to let me know what you think of the C.D.S., once it’s implemented. Call me up, tell me what you like, what you don’t like.”
“Oh, for sure,” Neville agreed.
“Hey, can we get a photo?” Tim asked as he held up his phone.
“Yeah, sure,” I said and the two of them squeezed in on either side of me so that Tim could snap a selfie.
“Thanks, man,” Neville said.
Then Tim said under his breath, “Holy fuck, is that the Killer Kitten over there?”
“Yeah, it is,” Neville breathed incredulously.
“Okay, I gotta get a photo with her for my little bro,” Tim said.
“For your little bro?” Neville asked sarcastically and punched his buddy again.
They waved at me and called out thanks again, and then the two cops were scurrying off through the crowd hot on the tail of “The Sexiest Superheroine of the Year.”
“See, some people are excited about the C.D.S.,” Norma said to me.
“Not as excited as they are about Helena Petrovna’s leather leotard,” I said wryly.
“Hey look, isn’t that Optimo?” Norma asked me, and I turned to where she nodded.
There he was, with his chiseled blond features in all his blue Spandexed glory, and he was flexing his abundant muscles for photographers. That seemed to me to be his primary occupation, more so than fighting crime.
“So it is,” I said.
“Should we go ask him about The Chief?” Norma asked.