by Lucas Flint
I had to admit, prior to this, I never understood why Rubberman was so interested in the toys of himself. It always seemed kind of nerdy and even a little childish; I mean, I’m 16-years-old, after all. Sixteen-year-olds don’t play with toys, much less thirty-year-old men like Rubberman. I always thought that the main appeal of such toys was their earning potential, as it added yet another income stream for superheroes like Rubberman, and more income streams usually meant higher profits and more money.
But holding this unfinished prototype in my hands, I couldn’t deny that I felt like a little kid again getting an awesome toy for Christmas. It made my job feel more real, to put it one way, like I was really a sidekick now. Of course, I’d been a sidekick for a month now and had even helped Rubberman take down a few supervillains, but somehow this collectible action figure made it seem far more real. Perhaps it was just the fact that it was a physical object I could hold in my hands and interact with.
Thinking about his toy, however, brought another concern to mind. I looked at Rubberman and said, “Will I get any royalties from the sales of these toys?”
“Of course,” said Rubberman. “As per the law, you will receive a minimum of ten percent of all royalties earned from sales of these toys, which will be included with your weekly paycheck whenever the money comes in from SuperFun Toys.” He leaned forward, like he was going to share a secret with me. “But don’t worry; ten percent is just the minimum. I struck a deal with them that the royalty rate will rise to fifteen percent if they sell more than five thousand figures, which should be easy, given how my toys sold thousands of copies and most of the collectors will no doubt nab your figure in order to complete their collection.”
“Wow, that’s really nice of you,” I said. “If my toy sells even half as well as yours, I think I’ll have enough money to buy a new car for myself, rather than a used one.”
“Glad to see you’re excited, but don’t expect any royalty money for a while,” said Rubberman as he sat upright again. “As I said, the first wave of the Real Sidekicks line won’t be out until spring of next year. Even once the toys are released, it usually takes SuperFun Toys two months or so to send out royalties, though unlike some companies I’ve worked with, SuperFun Toys is pretty regular about paying out royalties and won’t cheat us out of what they owe us.”
My shoulders slumped. “Oh. I thought they’d want to get these toys out pretty quickly, what with Christmas coming next month and all.”
“SuperFun Toys doesn’t rush their products to market, because they care more about quality than speed,” said Rubberman. “I did work with a toy company that rushed a line of figures based off me to market in order to meet the Christmas rush one year, though.”
“Really? How did that work out?”
“Let’s just say that outsourcing your toys to Chinese factories that don’t see any dangers in using lead paint is not exactly a winning business strategy and leave it at that,” said Rubberman. “But anyway, are you starting to see the possibilities in this business now and understand why I love it?”
I nodded eagerly. “Yeah, I am. It really is better than other minimum wage jobs.”
“Without a doubt,” said Rubberman. “But if you’re still disappointed in not getting paid until next year from these toys, there’s a new line of t-shirts coming out next week with you and me on them. Check it out.”
Rubberman suddenly held up a medium-sized t-shirt for me to see. It showed me and Rubberman standing on a street corner, looking like we were fighting some unknown enemy off-screen. Rubberman’s fists were stretched out, while I was shooting lasers from my eyes. It looked really cool, even cooler than the toy I held in my hands.
“These will be available all over the country next week and you will get ten percent of royalties, as usual,” said Rubberman as he put the shirt down on his lap. “I’ll add your royalties to your paycheck when they come in, which should be sometime next month.”
“Awesome,” I said. “I didn’t know you struck a deal with a t-shirt company already.”
“Actually, this particular company had already made me include sidekick rights in the contract I signed with them last year,” said Rubberman. “Sidekick rights are essentially the rights that companies buy from superheroes in order to make merchandise based off the likeness of their sidekicks. It’s pretty common to include sidekick rights with superhero rights in the same contract, even if you don’t have a sidekick, because sidekicks can sometimes become popular enough to warrant their own merch, like you. That’s how they were able to design these t-shirts so quickly.”
“Amazing,” I said. “It seems like there’s no limit to the amount of money you can make in this business.”
“Right,” said Rubberman. “It’s hard to get noticed at first, but once you do, it’s even harder to get people to stop calling you about the various rights you have. Hell, I’ve even sold off bed sheet rights last year to a company that specialized in that sort of thing. And they’re very comfortable bed sheets, too.”
I have to admit that for the first time since I started working with Rubberman, I was starting to realize the possibility of getting rich in this business. I had only accepted this job because I needed to save up money for a car, but if I could get these types of licensing deals, then maybe I didn’t need to go to college at all. Maybe when I graduated from high school, I could just go into the superhero business for myself. Everyone is always complaining about how expensive college is and how much debt you need to take on just to get a basic four year degree; I could skip all of that by jumping into this business myself as my own superhero at some point.
“Anyway,” said Rubberman, putting the box of prototype toys down on the floor behind his desk, “as fun as it is to talk about money and licensing deals, right now we need to talk about tonight’s mission, the one I mentioned to you on the phone.”
Snapped out of my thoughts of riches, I walked over to the desk and sat down in the chair opposite it, but I didn’t put down the toy. I kept it in my hands, moving the limbs and generally messing with it as I looked at Rubberman. “Right, the mission. What’s it all about? You usually don’t bring me on these kinds of missions.”
“Well, I’ve decided that you are ready for the big time,” said Rubberman. “And, because I intend to give you more responsibility anyway, I know that the best way to teach you something is to actually have you do it yourself.”
“Cool,” I said. “I’m listening.”
Rubberman looked at his desktop computer monitor and started clicking on his mouse (which I just now noticed had his logo on it). “All right. Yesterday, I received an email from the curator of the Golden City Historical Museum, Jed Golden. Do you know who he is?”
I nodded. “Yeah. He’s the great-grandson of Harold Golden, the founder of the city. I went to the Museum once when I was a kid, on a field trip, but I haven’t been back there in a long time.”
“Well, looks like both of us are going to be there tonight,” said Rubberman, “because Mr. Golden wants us to protect a certain exhibit there tonight.”
“Really?” I said. “Which exhibit, exactly?”
“The exhibit in question is the silver pocket watch of Harold Golden,” said Rubberman. “It’s a one-of-a-kind watch, the only remaining watch of its kind from that time period that still works. It’s incredibly valuable; Mr. Golden didn’t say how much it costs, exactly, but he did say that it is valued well into the seven figure range.”
My jaw dropped. “What? I mean, I remember seeing that watch when I visited the Museum the first time, but I didn’t think it looked that special.”
“It’s a historical artifact, Alex,” said Rubberman. “That alone makes it worth millions of dollars to certain individuals. In fact, lots of people have offered to buy the watch from Mr. Golden, but he’s rejected every offer because he considers it part of the city’s history, in addition to being a family heirloom.”
“But he thinks someone is going to try to steal it,
right?”
“Right. Mr. Golden says he got an anonymous tip that there will be an attempted theft of the watch tonight at midnight. The Museum’s normal security guards will be on duty, but Mr. Golden wants us there to act as the last line of defense, especially if the thief turns out to be a supervillain of some kind.”
“Does he know who it is? Or have any suspects?”
“No. All Mr. Golden knows at this point is that a thief will try to break in and that we need to either apprehend the thief or at least keep him from stealing the watch. I already negotiated a fee and we’ll be paid next week.”
I nodded, but then looked around suddenly. “Hey, you don’t think that the thief is ZZZ, do you?”
“Doubt it,” said Rubberman. “Remember, ZZZ is supposed to be after me. I doubt he has any interest in the watch. It’s probably someone else; thieves are not exactly rare, you know.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I said. I fiddled with the prototype. “I just can’t get my mind off ZZZ. Have you heard any news of his current whereabouts?”
Rubberman shook his head. “No. The police have informed me that there have been no sightings of him since his attack on you. Myster hasn’t had any luck in tracking him down, either. I’m sure we’ll find him soon, though. He can’t hide forever.”
“Or he’ll find us.”
“The Elastic Cave has some of the best security systems in the city. ZZZ couldn’t even get close to the Cave’s secret entrance without setting off at least eleven different alarms. We’re safe here, don’t worry.”
“If you say so,” I said. “But what about Myster and Cyberkid? Are they going to help us defend the watch?”
“No,” said Rubberman, shaking his head. “It’s just going to be you and me tonight. I did ask Myster, but he said he’d need to get approval from Heroes United first and that would take too long, though he promised to provide back up if we needed it.”
I frowned. “I think I remember Myster mentioning this Heroes United thing before, but he didn’t say what it was.”
“Oh, I haven’t explained it to you before?” said Rubberman. He sighed and rubbed his forehead, like he was about to explain something he didn’t want to talk about. “Heroes United is the largest and most well-known superhero hiring agency in the country. That means they connect individual superheroes with national, state, city, and local governments and other entities who hire superheroes, essentially acting a middleman who vets the quality of superheroes for potential clients. You pay a yearly fee to become a member and to be listed in their superhero directory, which is consulted by potential clients all over the country.”
“I didn’t know such an organization even existed. I thought all superheroes were independent like you.”
“No, many, if not most, superheroes belong to organizations like Heroes United,” said Rubberman. “Sometimes they even belong to multiple organizations at once in order to increase their chances of being hired. One of the hardest challenges in this business is getting hired by a government to protect a city or town. Most governments are hesitant to hire superheroes who have not been vetted by an organization like Heroes United; in fact, in some states, like New York, many local governments refuse to consider independent heroes at all and work exclusively with Heroes United and similar groups instead. By joining with these groups, it makes it easier for superheroes, especially new ones just starting out, to get a foot in the door, so to speak.”
“Oh. That doesn’t sound so bad. Actually, that sounds pretty convenient.”
“In theory, yes, but in practice, the results can … vary, to put it mildly,” said Rubberman. “For example, a lot of these organizations will put a lot of restrictions on what their members can and cannot do if they want to stay in the organization’s good graces. And they aren’t always objective; I’ve known more than a few heroes who have been blacklisted by these organizations strictly on political grounds, which can really hurt a superhero’s career depending on where they live.”
“Ouch.”
“Worse than that, in some countries it is actually illegal for a superhero to operate independently. Many countries, particularly in Europe, require that a superhero join these types of organizations in order to be able to contract out their services at all. They say it is to ensure the quality and safety of superheroes, but in my experience, it is usually because they don’t want any competition and are seeking to control the market and enrich themselves at the expense of others. Most of the people in charge of these organizations are nominally ‘superheroes,’ but few do any actual superhero work and most just subsist off the membership fees and percentage fees they get from members.”
“Percentage fees?”
“Each organization earns a percentage of the money that its individual members earn from their contracts with governments or other clients. It ranges from between five and fifteen percent of the member’s earnings, depending on the organization, and it’s usually justified on the grounds that the superhero in question wouldn’t be getting any money at all if not for the advocacy of the organization in question. It’s an understandable argument, but still leaves the individual member in question a lot poorer than they were before.”
“I see. What other benefits do these organizations offer?”
“Anywhere from healthcare to legal representation in court, depending on the size and scope of the organization in question. Heroes United offers the best benefits, which is why it is the largest and most popular superhero hiring agency in the country. They’ll even cover college tuition for your kids, though there are restrictions to obtaining said tuition.”
“Wow,” I said. “With all of those benefits, why don’t you join Heroes United? It sounds like a great way to enhance your career.”
Rubberman rubbed his forehead, looking rather tired. “Because I’ve seen how Heroes United, despite its reputation, tends to exploit its members. When you take into account member fees and percentage fees, as well as various other fees you can pay, the average Heroes United member is making anywhere from a third to half of what they could have made if they went independent. And just because they offer benefits doesn’t mean that you can always get them. For example, in order to get Heroes United to pay for your kids’ college tuition, you have to sign an exclusivity contract with them for ten years, which basically means you can’t go to any other agency or go independent for a full decade.”
“Ouch.”
“And then there’s the fact that its board of directors is made up of so-called ‘superheroes’ who rarely fight crime themselves,” said Rubberman. “They make obscene salaries off the money they earn from individual members. Sure, they have codenames and costumes and will occasionally go out and stop a petty thief just to prove to the government that they’re still heroes, but by and large they’re more interested in extracting profit from their members than in actually doing any superhero work themselves.”
“Well, if that’s true, why haven’t you told Myster about this? He seems like a good guy. I don’t think he’d approve of such exploitative behavior.”
“Myster and I have had many discussions about this in the past.” Rubberman shrugged. “He understands my concerns, but doesn’t see eye to eye with me on all of the points. He feels like his career was made by Heroes United and so feels an obligation to it. It’s his business, I suppose, so I can’t make him do anything, but at the same time, I do believe that he and most of the other members would be better off if they went independent instead of staying with HU. Because I can’t control them, all I can do is focus on my own business and make my own decisions.”
I nodded. I didn’t know as much about these superhero hiring agencies as Rubberman did, but if what he said was true, then they seemed more or less superfluous to me, if not detrimental to the superhero industry as a whole. Rubberman’s career certainly didn’t seem to be hurting from a lack of support from such an agency; if anything, it seemed to be thriving, which was perhaps why Heroes United kept making offers to h
im. I looked down at the prototype toy of myself in my hands and wondered if such a thing would even be possible in such an organization.
“Anyway, that’s irrelevant,” said Rubberman, waving off the explanation as if it was pointless. “We need to get ready for tonight’s mission. Go to the Rubber Room and get some training in before we go. I’ve already let your parents know that you’re going to be working late tonight, so don’t worry about contacting them, because they already know.”
CHAPTER NINE
That night, I stood in front of the glass display of Harold Golden’s watch, my arms crossed in front of me, leaning against the engraving which explained its history and purpose. Normally, I’d be pretty tired, because I usually was in bed by midnight, but I’d drunk a large cup of coffee before leaving the Elastic Cave and so was wide awake, if a bit jittery.
But I was starting to regret it, because I’d been standing here in front of the display for half an hour now and nothing had happened, at least nothing that would require me to use my powers. I looked up and down the hallway at the various other exhibits which made up this wing of the Golden City Historical Museum, but the hallway was pretty barren tonight; I didn’t even see the security guards. The only other security measures, aside from myself, that were visible were the security cameras near the ceiling, which silently filmed the hallway. The lights were off, save for a single light above the watch itself, which provided enough illumination for me to see anyone approaching from either end of the hall.