“Pleasure to be here.” Before Talia could say anything else, he stared directly into the camera trained on him. “And a pleasure to all my villainous fans out there.” He winked. “Stay bad, baby.”
Talia looked at him for a long second. “Funny you should say that.”
Weston cocked an eyebrow. “Is this a part of the interview?”
“No, of course not. This is: some critics in the villain community have questioned the film’s portrayal of historical events. How do you respond to this?” She looked up from the cards and stared at him, a flicker of mirth in her eyes.
“A film has to take some liberties with any history. Some figures are compressed into single characters, some threads of reality’s plot have to be, uh,” he made a scissoring motion with his hands, “clipped.”
She didn’t even look at the cards. “So you’re perfectly alright with letting heroes get all the credit for the defeat of Desecrator?”
Weston laughed. “As I said…”
Talia’s face hardened. The smile didn’t disappear, but there was something other than polite interest behind her features. “We heard what you said. We have it on tape. Care to answer the question?”
Marsh chewed his lower lip, mulling over his response. Finally, he looked up. “The screenwriter, Preston Wallace, a dear friend of mine, went over something like fifty eyewitness testimonies of the day Arbiter saved New York City, and came up with the most profound script I’ve ever read which, unfortunately, had to cut corners to provide for an adequate running time…”
Talia stopped his unbroken response. “Of two hundred and thirty minutes?”
He laughed nervously. “Yes, the present cut of it is quite long.” He threw his hands up in an exaggerated ‘what are you gonna do?’ gesture. “But what do you expect? It’s a historical epic.”
“A historical epic apparently devoid of history.” The sweet look Talia was giving him was made all the more unsettling by the venom in her eyes. It was like eating a chocolate covered brick of salt.
“You haven’t even watched the damn film.” He laughed, the pause in the conversation giving him enough time to think. “I think you should withhold judgment until the director and producers are ready to bring their vision to the world.” He snapped and pointed at the camera again. “July fourth, kids.”
“What good timing.” Talia looked at her note cards. “Why did your good friend leave out the contributions of villains in his script?”
“Oh, come on…”
“No, seriously. The heroes are well represented. But notably absent are the hundreds of villains who gave their lives in defense of New York…”
“There wasn’t time…”
“… The thousands more who were injured…”
“Seriously, Talia…”
She leaned forward. “… Or even those who helped rebuild the damaged sections of the city.”
“Some things had to be sacrificed!” Marsh was losing his patience. Talia smirked at the hint of weakness. “It’s just a movie! There’s no conspiracy to make anyone look bad!”
“I never mentioned a conspiracy,” she said innocently. “The movie just seems to have an unnecessary and inaccurate love story thrown in for little reason other than to appeal to teenagers.”
Marsh seemed confused for a moment. “So, the love story is superfluous…”
“Glad you agree.”
Marsh leaned forward. “I didn’t say…” He stopped completely, acknowledging that arguing would be pointless. “What’s your point?”
“My point is that your profound screen play dedicates no less than thirty pages to an imaginary relationship between One Shot and Arbiter. But…” She squinted and pretended to count on her fingers. “… Not a single page mentions a villain in a positive light.”
Weston shook his head and scratched absently at his chin. “Ladies like romance, guys like hot chicks.” He looked earnestly at her.
Talia laughed, hollow and eerie. “Sounds like it should be the tagline of the film.” The air between them thickened with silence.
“So, are you…” Marsh started.
She cut him off. “Rumor has it…”
“Oh, good. There’s more,” he muttered as he shifted his weight.
“… That you and Arbiter became very close on the set of the film.”
Marsh’s eyes betrayed the fact that he knew his hand had been caught in the cookie jar. “I wouldn’t say close…”
Talia cocked her head. “And how would you characterize your relationship with the man who has routinely said, quote, ‘Villain-kind cannot be trusted to coexist with sane human beings. Their minds are polluted, their histories corrupt, and their actions violent. To accept them as a part of humanity is to accept a gangrenous limb.’”
Marsh looked partially impressed. “You memorized all that?”
Talia bared her teeth, less a display to set someone at ease and more to warn them to cover their throat. “Do you wish to respond?”
Marsh thought for a moment. “Is there a way to answer this without getting you even angrier with me?”
“Is Arbiter a friend of yours?”
He shook his head, “Well, not exactly…”
“Is Arbiter one of your consultants?” Talia cocked an eyebrow. “A personal consultant?”
“I’m playing the guy in a movie. So, yes, Arbiter is a good, personal consultant of mine.” His eyes went wide for a moment when he realized a way the statement could be construed. “He was for the entire movie, not just me.” Marsh nodded, approving his own story. “He was an eye witness, wasn’t he? He is the guy we owe for actually stopping the Nazi invading our country.”
“The same guy who is also running for High Consul in the Super Heroes’ Guild elections, the same guy who is committed to rolling back the protective clauses, and the same guy who could use a little friendly PR, right?” They made eye contact and held it for long, unbroken seconds. Marsh was the first to look away, making a show of removing something from his teeth.
“Arbiter was a great help in terms of accuracy on how a great deal of the event went down. That’s all. His influence on this fictional,” the emphasis on the word stopped the flow of the sentence, “story is minimal.” The actor leaned back in the chair. “Outside of that, there was a bit of fear regarding his… divisive nature, especially so close to an election.”
“Alright,” Talia offered, although her tone wasn’t indicating she wanted to let the argument rest. “I’m sure your villain fans will appreciate your attention to detail regarding a violent sociopath.”
Weston half-laughed. “I know that it’s kind of the in thing to think that neutrals don’t care about villains, but we do.” He leaned forward. “You guys are the underdogs. I get it, I really do. But there’s the very real fact that history isn’t written by villains because villains… well…” The pause hung in the air for an uncomfortable moment.
“Get their asses handed to them?”
Marsh watched a self-satisfied smirk spread across Talia’s face. He returned the expression. “You could say that.”
Talia shuffled through her cards, then dropped them to the floor. “What exactly do you think the villain community’s reaction will be when you and your director endorse Arbiter for High Consul?”
Weston rose to his feet immediately. “This is over.”
“So it is true!” Talia stood up, the words stopping Weston in his tracks. “This entire movie is propaganda for some washed up hero…”
“Hey!” Weston shouted and turned toward her. “That man is responsible…”
“My viewers know what he is responsible for and what he stands for!”
“Who cares? He’s not going to win, your whole balance won’t be upset, and you’ll still remain the spoiled daughter of a commie super villain…”
It happened so quickly that Marsh barely had time to register that he was falling. His vision went white before going black as his head cracked against the carpeted floor. The c
eiling hazily came into view through the tears which were now pumping into his eyes. He felt something hot streaming down his face and knew, mostly from experience, that she had punched him square in the nose. Talia appeared in his line of sight, pointing at him threateningly with her index and middle fingers. “Do. Not. Talk. About. My. Father.” Her accent had returned.
Weston touched his nose and winced. He shook his head and laughed. “Really? Really, Talia?” He slowly got to his feet, hand under his nose in a vain attempt to staunch the blood. “My lawyers…”
“Who would have thought a bunch of degens would have hated Arbiter?” A tinny recreation of Marsh’s voice interrupted him. The man himself stopped, then looked at the crew which had ebbed back into the darkness during the last moments of the exchange.
“I didn’t…”
“Oh, yes, you did, Mr. Marsh,” came a male voice. “And just imagine the kind of storm we could whip up about you when this recording surfaces!” Pushing his short frame to the front of the crew, Solomon “Producer” Houston made his appearance. Well-dressed in an expensive beige suit-and-vest combo accented with a pink paisley tie, he carried his authority with a casual air. His well-cropped black hair shined against the near-darkness behind him.
“You had no right…” Marsh approached Houston threateningly. In response, the shorter man produced a signed copy of the actor’s consent form, stopping him instantly.
“Yes, I did.” Producer stared at Marsh. “You can take this one if you want. I made copies.”
“I will get that recording…”
“If it’s the last thing I do, blah, blah, blah.” The executive laughed nasally. “You’ve been hanging around Arbiter too much. How about you move along so this tasteful reminder of your time here…” He snapped his fingers at someone hidden in the dark.
After some scrambling and an impatient ‘come here’ gesture, the recording returned: “… bunch of degens…”
Producer bared his teeth and hissed as though he had burned himself. “… Remains unheard?” he finished. A smile stretched across his face as he squinted one of his eyes and looked upward, as though physically searching his brain for something. “That’s short for ‘degenerates’, right?”
Weston looked at Talia, then at Producer. He threw on a smile, though his eyes betrayed his emotions. “Standard agreement, then? No lawyers for…”
He was cut off by the man casually examining his nails. “For no epithets. That’s right, Mr. Marsh.” The two stared at each other for a moment. “Would you like a hat or something? Commemorate the occasion and show your commitment to peace and…”
“Can it,” Marsh growled as he turned around toward Talia.
“… Prosperity, the American way, apple pie, ma, baseball…” Producer muttered half-heartedly.
Weston looked into Talia’s eyes. She returned the favor, unblinking. He leaned in. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” He took a few steps backward, clasped his hands together in a gesture of thanks, then made his way toward the exit.
“Get the lights up people, good job!” Producer announced. The lights rose almost immediately in response to the command. “Strike this place and let’s get back to the station!”
“I thought you weren’t coming,” Talia said disappointedly as she walked by him.
“I never miss a Talia interview if I can.” He laughed and looked around for someone. “Janet! Did you see the left hook this time?” Producer looked confused for a second. “Where’s your assistant?”
“Right here, sir.” Sure enough, James had appeared behind them as they made their way to Talia’s chair.
Producer looked shocked. “You’re not Janet.”
“I fired Janet, Sol,” said Talia matter-of-factly.
“When?”
Talia took her red trench coat off the back of her chair before she responded. “Six weeks ago.”
“Huh.”
James raised his hand meekly. “You were the one who hired me, actually, sir. Keep an eye on Talia, you know.” Talia and Producer stopped and looked at him with a degree of annoyance. “Paraphrasing.”
“What’s your name, kid?” Producer asked.
James flicked his nametag. “Jam…”
Producer waved his hand at him. “Whatever, don’t tell me. You have a shelf life of about a week or so.” He looked back at Talia as James looked one degree more defeated. “No use getting attached, right?”
“I’m glad you enjoyed another opportunity to prevent lawyers from dismantling your precious station.” Talia wheeled toward the exit and headed toward it briskly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
“Have you been working out, ‘cause I mean one punch and the guy was down!” He turned to James. “Jethro, find a way to make that my screen saver when we get back to the station.”
James quivered and tried to respond for a moment. “That’s not really my…”
Producer was tailing Talia again, who had begun to pick up speed. “Did you book that interview with Zombress yet?”
Talia shook her head and exhaled loudly as she said, “No. Her office has yet to return a single call.” Her exasperation lay less with the villain politician’s lack of response, and more with the company that doggedly refused to let her out of their sight. “Just like every election I’ve covered up until now.”
“Tenacity, Jared,” Producer said, whacking James on the shoulder. “Take note of it. Just because you fail once doesn’t mean you shouldn’t keep doing the same thing.”
James smiled. “Like a crazy person.” Producer stopped and looked at James, unreadable. The younger man swallowed nervously. “Einstein… d-definition of… d-doing the same thing… expecting…” he stammered before trailing off.
Producer arched his eyebrows. “Different results. I got it. But think about this: if Einstein’s so smart, why’s he dead?” He put his index finger on James’s head and gave it a gentle prod.
He turned back to Talia only to watch her vanish out the back door. He muttered an expletive, shoved his way through the fire exit, and was almost blinded by the sun. The alley to the right terminated in a ninety degree angle cluttered with a number of large garbage bins. As James blundered through the door behind him, Producer checked to the left. Talia leaned against the brick of the theater, a cigarette smoldering in between her fingers.
“Zombress isn’t interested in running,” she said. She kicked off the wall and approached Producer. “I’m not going to waste my time calling a temperamental politician, even if she is the token villain in the Super Heroes’ Guild.”
“Then have Jermaine do it,” Producer said as he gestured with a thumb to James.
“I’m not going to have the dumb kid waste his time.”
James laughed at the absurdity of it. “I’m right here, guys.”
Ignoring him, Talia continued, “We all know it’s a sham. Let’s just let the woman have her privacy.”
Producer struck a defiant pose. “She may not want to win, but I’m committed to making sure someone thinks of villains first.” He puffed out his chest. “I believe in democracy.”
Talia stuck her cigarette up in the air. “Play the Cold War card, and this goes in your eye.”
Solomon Houston, owner of Villain World News, didn’t respond to the threat. “Come on. You gotta believe in something.” Talia raised her eyebrows and gestured with her cigarette. “Oh, that’s right.” He shook his head. “The eternal pessimist.”
“Realist,” Talia corrected, ejecting a geyser of smoke from her nostrils.
“Call it what you want,” Producer said dismissively. “I just don’t want you throwing yourself out of the traffic ‘copter.”
Unseen, Talia rolled her eyes. “Unless you can get the exclusive rights to my suicide, of course.”
“That goes without saying,” he said, clamping his hand on her shoulder as he brushed his way past Talia. “You’re needed at the station in an hour. You still have an anchor position to do.”
She
saluted his retreating form before taking another drag off her cigarette. Talia stared at the ground and kicked at a styrofoam cup. James cleared his throat and she looked up. “Do you… need anything?”
Talia pursed her lips, and took a few steps toward him. She put her hand on his cheek, issuing a shock at her touch. “Do me a favor, will you?”
James puffed himself up slightly and said in a slightly-exaggerated lower register, “Anything, ma’am.”
Her hand was off his cheek now and gesturing in wide circles to his body. “Clean… this. All this. You look like a lumberjack’s pet gnome.” James turned a pleasant shade of red. “And knock off this idealism crap. You’ll be eaten alive if you’re too nice.” She shoved her way past him and disappeared into the theater.
James stared at the graffiti encrusted alley wall opposite of him, trying to make sense of what just happened.
CHAPTER TWO
ARTHUR
ARTHUR’S EYES WERE ALREADY OPEN in anticipation before he heard Mollie chime “Arthur, it is now ten o’ clock,” in her high-pitched, computerized voice. Sitting up almost immediately at the sound, he cracked his knuckles and back before craning his neck hard enough to release an audible ‘pop’. Once limber, he ran his hand through his curly, dark auburn hair; the curls were impervious to the motion and resumed their position on his scalp. He rubbed the sleep from his brown eyes and rose from the bed. Eagerly, he reached for the string dangling to the side of the window. At his command, the blinds whipped upwards with a whistle. Late morning sunlight bathed him in warmth and gentle luminescence.
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