Arthur looked at him. “That’s the point.”
“You’ll never understand.” He brushed past Arthur. “From your Impenetrable Fortress of Darkness, which was actually impenetrable, to the artificial intelligence that was dangerously adept at learning, your designs are too good.” Mr. Cleese sighed audibly, the sound of which made Arthur turn around. “Remember what we had to do to your A.I.?”
Arthur nodded. “You had to destroy it. As well as my working notes. And my computer.”
“And do you remember why?” There was a pause as thick as the haze of smoke. “Well?”
“You felt that something like that would be a threat to national security if it had been allowed to exist.”
“Precisely, Mr. Lovelass.” Cleese turned and winked at Arthur. The villain strode past him, clamping his hand on the younger man’s shoulder as he did.
The blow jostled Arthur and seemed to push down his mood even further. It was here, the final slap back to reality. He buoyed himself up momentarily to give a snide, “Well, maybe someday I’ll be appreciated,” before the doldrums in his gut pulled him back down. He couldn’t believe it. Rejected again? Another six months to even make another attempt? “I worked so hard for this…” he muttered as he moved toward his things. “I cannot believe this…”
The mumbling about lunch resumed. The interlude of convincing Arthur of his inferiority had apparently held back a tidal wave of hunger. Above the others, Mr. Cleese’s voice announced the official end of his meeting. “Johnson, collect the blueprints and prototype. The Heroes’ Guild will need it for their daily updates.”
Arthur leaned forward to the table. Hot wells of something worked their way up through his gut as his vision grew blurry. A tear fell from his face, his hand racing up to catch it on its way to prevent any others from falling. “I’m… I’m such a failure…” He felt someone move behind him, most likely the previously mentioned Johnson. With a shuddering intake of breath, his girlfriend’s disappointed face materialized in his mind’s eye. “Kirsten’s going to kill me…”
“Lasagna’s in the cafeteria today!” Mr. Cleese bellowed joyfully as he shoved papers into the leather suitcase he had stashed under the table. He nudged a nearby board member and motioned vaguely toward the other end of the table. “You better not get in the way when I fling my piece at Johnson over there.”
“And people wonder why we aren’t taken seriously!” Arthur’s angry roar quieted the room as the assembled stared in shock. If it hadn’t been for his suddenly raw throat, he would have been certain the outburst had come from someone else. “Look at you! Look at all of us!” He looked around at the collection of agape jaws and eyes aimed at him, finding the view simultaneously humiliating and empowering. Only Mr. Cleese eyed him coolly, not surprising for someone who had, at least twice in his career, lived to tell the tale of confronting Arbiter. “We’re jokes! The only reason, the only reason, we’re around is because people need someone to laugh at!” The words had their own volition, spilling out of their own accord. Now that his anger had spoken its part, his heart thundered in the empty cavity where those words once dwelt.
Mr. Cleese appeared barely fazed by the outburst. “I understand your frustration, Mr. Lovelass. I, myself, was taken aback when the Bronze Age reared its head and I could no longer wage the rampant destruction that had made Golden Age so much fun.” He turned to gesture to the painting behind him. “Spitfire, that most vile of British villains. My fame and, more importantly, my luck with the ladies knew no bounds.” Gazing at the picture lovingly, he reluctantly resumed his speech. “I fought to make sure restrictions were kept to a minimum. But, believe me, the system we’ve put in place is for the best.” He made his way toward Arthur again. “At least we don’t have some loony like Arbiter running things, eh?”
Arthur felt his cheeks redden with embarrassment, which in turn served to make him even angrier. He realized he had just yelled at someone who had essentially given up his livelihood to save New York from Desecrator. There was no vulgarity long enough or profound enough to elucidate his mistake.
While he pondered, Jack had closed the gap. He gave Arthur a playful sock on the chin, which didn’t do too much to endear himself to the younger man. “If it makes any difference at all, Argyle…”
“Arthur,” came the correction, weaker than before but still tinged with annoyance.
He continued as though the other man hadn’t spoken. “… I believe in you.” The emphasis on ‘I’ came out very strong, as though Cleese was the unwilling dispenser of bad news. “Why, in six months’ time, I’m sure you’ll come in here with just enough effort to impress us.”
Arthur eyed him cautiously. He wasn’t too sure if this man was merely teasing or if he actually thought he could do it. “You’re… not joking, are you?”
Jack shook his head solemnly. “Not at all.” He gestured to the suitcase still on the table. Arthur gingerly pulled the case toward him, feeling marginally better for the moment. Looking up as he snapped it shut, he became acutely aware of the eyes now boring into him, all above oddly too sincere smiles.
“Thank you for your time, then.” Arthur managed a weak smile and turned to the door. He felt Mr. Cleese’s hand between his shoulders, forcing him along.
“Good day, Mr. Lovelass.” Jack opened the door with one hand and shoved Arthur through. The light outside the room was blinding, and the loud bang as the door slammed shut made him jump. The reception area was silent, save for Roller Jockey’s floundering attempts to flirt with Sierra. Her feigned interest from before was devolving into completely unfeigned irritation.
And then, laughter. Erupting from behind him, he could hear the entire room of bureaucrats bellowing with guffaws, half-forced and half-real. The blood swam to his face. Any embarrassment, however, rapidly diminished as he felt his free hand clench into an angry fist.
“He believed me!” Mr. Cleese’s muffled voice carried through the vent above the door. “Did you see the look on his face?” Another bout of laughter, and Arthur found himself moving smoothly toward the exit. He could barely make out a derisive, “His girlfriend’s going to kill him!” as he reached Roller Jockey.
“… A couple of henchm–urk!” The roller blader faltered in mid-sentence as Arthur shoved him over. Without stopping, Art managed to sidestep the flailing limbs of the newest villain in New York. The secretary’s eyes popped as she stood to look at the casualty before even noticing that Arthur had yanked open the door and had already moved to the other side of it.
“You need to sign out!” the secretary called through the door as it closed. Arthur didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything. There was so much anger and resentment flowing through his brain that he wanted, more than anything, for someone to try and pick a fight with him.
He hit the stairs two at a time, the awkward downward motion throwing him a bit off balance. When he hit the ground level, the burn in his chest made him realize that he had been holding his breath since he had been yelled at by the secretary. A scream, desperate and roaring, had been boiling up inside of him and threatened to escape indoors. He walked, then jogged, then ran to the doors, pushing himself through and feeling the light envelop him.
Arthur’s eyes slammed shut in response to the sun as he heaved gobs of air. The scream had been suffocated, but now the intense urge to cry took over. Inside, he had been trapped, surrounded by his future benefactors and, in a way, supervisors. Outside, no one cared whether or not he cried because no one would ever recall seeing him that day. It was beautiful, in a way, the anonymity of the city, the way blending in, even red-faced and practically weeping, was so effortless.
“Hey, Art!”
Damn it.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE ROOMMATES
THE SECOND HE HEARD TIM’S VOICE, Arthur’s fight-or-flight reflex doused his already shaken system with adrenaline. He combated the urge to run to the street, partially because it was rude, but mostly because Timothy could easily catc
h up. Eyes adjusting to the sunlight, Arthur turned toward his friend.
His smile was easy and wide, brown eyes glinting in the summer light. Curly dusty-blond hair clung to the top of his head, which was handsome in a grizzled kind of way. Tim was shorter than Arthur by a good eight inches and much more muscular, the perfect build for a brawler. Which he was by profession, despite the fact that his apparel, torn jeans and a red t-shirt proudly bearing the image of Pac-Man eating a power pellet, wouldn’t betray an actual job to anyone.
“Hey, Tim.” Arthur offered a curt wave as his friend continued to approach. “How’s the day going?”
“Nothing too exciting. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d see how the interview went.” Timothy looked at him. Arthur shook his head and started down the steps. “And, judging by your hasty retreat…”
“Eighteen, Tim.” Arthur stopped at the first landing and turned to watch Tim follow him. “Eighteen times I’ve done this song and dance, and every time I’ve been rejected. Each time more humiliating than the last.”
Tim scoffed. “Aw, come on. How can you top being beaten out by Spandex King, scourge of the gymnastic world?”
Arthur rolled his eyes at the memory. Because of a record number of applicants that day, Arthur needed to present in the same room as three others. They had all had their licenses granted, even the guy who would go on to become one of the lamest villains in history. Spandex King was an unemployed carpenter who happened to like the feel of the stretchy fabric and made a persona based entirely on that. Mr. Cleese had loved it, even writing a background story in which the King had once been an Olympic hopeful whose dreams had been cut short by a corrupt coach. Arthur had invented Mollie and, subsequently, had all his materials destroyed to prevent him from doing it again.
“Oh, they found a way,” he reassured Tim.
Tim whacked him on the arm, the gesture of reassurance lost completely in the moment of unhappiness. “Buck up, dude.” Arthur scoffed audibly and turned away to the next set of steps. “So you had a few bad tries.” Arthur made a mental note to ask Tim about his definition of ‘a few’ when he didn’t feel like strangling a puppy. “Keep plugging away.” Tim managed to keep pace with Arthur despite the latter’s much longer stride.
“Mr. Cleese called me an anachronism,” Arthur said in a forced staccato from the stairs. “I don’t even know what that means, but I know I don’t like it.” He reached the next landing and didn’t feel like moving anymore. He walked to a nearby pillar and leaned against it.
Timothy leaned next to him, folding his arms. “It sucks man, I know. I mean… damn. You’d think they’d give you a pity license after a while.” Arthur exhaled noisily, an insincere smile threatening to turn up both sides of his lips. It melted away in an instant, and he grabbed his tie and yanked it off in frustration. “And those pants…” Tim continued, laughing. “They’d want to employ you just so you wouldn’t have to walk around with stained clothes.”
“Yes, Tim, insult me. Great idea,” Arthur muttered as he shoved the tie in his pocket, the length of it proving difficult to corral.
Tim pushed himself off the pillar and turned to face Arthur. “I honestly think you’re trying too hard, Art. You gotta relax a bit. You know… start lower on the ladder.”
Arthur slipped away from Timothy, putting his hand in the air between their faces. “Okay, I’m walking away from this conversation.”
Tim called out after him, “Just ‘cause you don’t like the idea doesn’t mean it’s a bad one.”
“Tim, for villains’ sake…”
“‘Henchman Lovelass’. Come on, it’s got a nice ring to it.” With a clap of his hands, Tim’s face lit up. “Or they sometimes give you a number. With your brains, you could be Number One.” Timothy rushed in front of Arthur, stopping him. “How badass would that be? Number One? Just like Commander Riker, dude.”
“Yeah, this inspirational speech coming from a hired gun of the Tibetan Mob.” Arthur put his hand over his mouth in a display of over-emphasized shock. “Oh, wait!” He cocked his head and said, with a degree of matter-of-fact snide, “You aren’t allowed to carry guns because your bosses are all pacifists!”
Tim smiled casually. “There are worse jobs.”
“Like what?” Arthur asked. “Working for the Andorran Mob? No, Tim, because even they laugh at you.”
Tim’s smile grew wider, accompanied by an airy laugh of indifference. “I’m going to attribute that comment to the fact that you only hurt the ones you love.”
Arthur immediately felt the crushing weight of his attitude hit him full-force with guilt. He hadn’t meant to sound like he thought less of Tim, even if that’s how it came out. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m being a jerk.”
“Yes,” Tim said with a solemn nod. “You are being a jerk.” Most would have lied in an effort to help Arthur’s already wounded self-image, but not Tim.
“I’m not henchman material. I’m not super-fast or strong… or even nigh-invincible, like you.”
Tim smiled crookedly. “Baby,” he clicked his tongue and winked, “no one’s nigh-invincible like me.”
Arthur was starting to feel better, which was irritating unto itself. “First day out, and I’d come face-to-face with a nightstick happy cop.” He mimed the snap-wristed motion of an officer beating an imaginary suspect on the head with an accompanying ‘thump’ sound effect. “One whack and I’m out.”
“All I’m saying is you should give it a chance. You can network. Make friends, actual friends, with people who aren’t me. And when the time comes, you can go back in there prepared. Villain name, references, a rap sheet, what have you.” Tim bobbed his head in agreement with himself. After a moment, his eyes squinted, as though pulling important information from the recesses of his mind. “But whatever you do, don’t go into the interview with a green costume.”
With a scoff of incredulity, Arthur asked, “Why? Why not green?”
“I don’t know,” Timothy said honestly. “Ariana said something last week about green being the new beige.”
Arthur digested this information. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Tim shook his head, looking as confused as Arthur. “I know. But the woman packs my lunch. I’ve learned not to argue.”
“Maybe I should… take some time off.” Arthur started toward the steps again, Tim walking beside him. “Give myself time to think.”
“News flash, Art: if you don’t get a job sometime soon, you, me, and Ariana are all going to starve to death.” Arthur rolled his eyes and gestured with his free hand as though it was incessantly talking. If Tim was irritated by the dismissal, he didn’t let it show. They finally hit the sidewalk and stopped in front of the throng of people moving along to their own lives. “We’ll talk about it later.” The two turned to face each other. “I’ve got to get back to the Mob.”
“Yeah,” Arthur said, exasperated. A thought struck him. “Wait a minute.” He jabbed a finger at his friend. “Aren’t you supposed to be there now?”
Tim half-laughed with practiced bravado. “Asked for the morning off. Had some errands to run.” He leaned in close to Arthur, as though sharing a secret. “But I told them I needed three hours to find the bliss in ignorance of worldly desires.”
Arthur smirked and shook his head. “They bought that?”
“I know, right?” Tim whacked Arthur on the shoulder, making the taller man distinctly aware of a growing ache beginning to nest there. “Take it easy, man.” Tim spun on his heel and vanished into the current. Arthur joined the stream of people heading in the opposite direction.
The Live Hard Café was surprisingly packed, the early afternoon heat prompting most patrons to take refuge in the air-conditioned interior. In keeping with his day, Arthur was forced to endure the temperature under the minuscule shade of a too-tall umbrella on the patio. The corner where he sat was farthest from the street, a move which had gone all but unnoticed by his demoralized mind.
He w
asn’t alone, of course: others had rejected the artificial coolness in favor of sunlight and shouting above traffic. One woman was reading a book with her feet up on the table, her dog leashed to her chair leg. The dog itself, an Irish Setter, looked painfully overheated as it occasionally lapped at a water dish the café provided.
A cola rapidly perspired on the table, the moisture slowly forming a puddle on the metal surface. The expanding pool threatened a folded white piece of paper with his named etched on it in familiar, too flowery handwriting. The urge to rip the note up was successfully fought back by his urge to sit and wallow in self-pity, which was also serving to suppress yet another urge to throw himself in traffic.
Deliberately, he leaned forward, placed his forehead on the table, then proceeded to pound his head. If he afforded just enough leverage, he reasoned that he could give himself a cerebral hemorrhage.
He was dimly aware of the feminine voice above him. “I tell you, Arthur, my back is killing me.” Without an acknowledgment of the woman joining him across the table, he continued to ram his head into the unyielding metal. “Could you stop that?” his visitor asked without a solitary note of concern. “We only just finished buffing out the skull indentations from the last table you brutalized.”
“This is the worst day ever,” Arthur grunted into the table. He pulled himself upright and looked at Ariana. She smiled at him toothily as she threw her wadded-up apron on the table. She was gorgeous, more than anyone not famous had any right to be. Straight black hair, shoulder length, was held back in a sloppy bun from her freckled high cheekbones. Her left ear had two small metal loops – one in the lobe and one in the cartilage – connected by a short chain which glittered against her naturally tan skin. She was two inches taller than Tim, always a source of stares whenever they’d walk down the street. Her deep brown eyes glinted with just enough light most of the time to give her an almost aggressively friendly appearance. This, naturally, made insecure women hate her instantly and most shallow men adore her at roughly the same speed.
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