Hench

by Natalie Zina Walschots

  Leviathan’s focus—one of the cornerstones of his psyche and the fuel for the inextinguishable rage driving him—was Supercollider. While details were hard to come by, even from his inner circle, the tension between them was monolithic. Their conflict had hardened into a cold war in recent years, but his determination to bring ruin down upon the hero never faltered for a moment. If ever a chance arose to cause Supercollider even the smallest harm or inconvenience, it was pursued doggedly.

  Since inflicting pain and hardship on heroes was fast becoming my specialty, Leviathan tasked me with dreaming up and doling out little miseries upon anything and anyone Supercollider came into contact with, extending the splash damage we inflicted to his associates. The prospect of a power failure at a ribbon-cutting ceremony the hero was attending, or Quantum Entanglement finding evidence of bedbugs in her hotel room, was enough to make him nearly giddy.

  “I’D WAY RATHER be on our side,” I announced to Molly, Vesper, and Keller in a hotel bar one night. On this particular occasion, we’d secured a new contract providing weapons for Infestation, a villain whose powers involved emitting a chemical that triggered an arachnid response.

  “Oh?” Keller was now cheerfully blurry. He leaned toward me. Where I’d expected a career-long rivalry to take root, a weird, rough affection was growing between us. Every time I suggested something ridiculous, he grew warmer.

  “Really. What’s a hero going to do? Arrest you? Shrink you and keep you in an ant farm until someone busts you out?”

  “Do permanent damage to your femur?” Molly offered, and I swatted them on the biceps.

  “My point is: It’s very boring. Straightforward. A hammer to a nail.”

  Vesper was nodding. “Tunnel vision.”

  “Exactly.” I was using my almost empty glass to emphasize my gestures. “On the other hand, we seem rather pleasant compared to those arrogant pricks, but who knows what the hell we’ll do to you?”

  Keller let out a bark of laughter. “You’re mistaking us for you, Tromedlov.”

  “Eh?”

  “I’ll just unleash the hounds on a problem; I’m pretty straightforward myself. It’s you they have to worry about.”

  I laid a hand theatrically on my chest. “Keller, you say the sweetest things.”

  The aging dragon actually had the audacity to waggle his eyebrows at me, and I laughed.

  ONE SIGNIFICANT DRAWBACK to my increasingly ridiculous travel schedule and all of the accompanying responsibilities was that it pulled me away from my team more and more often. Instead of sitting with Jav and letting him lead me through the labyrinthine genius of his spreadsheets, he was sending me brief data reports. Instead of meticulously planning subterfuge and playing bad cop and worse cop with Nour, I was sending guidelines and instructions. Instead of getting lost down rabbit holes of data with Darla, I was leaving them to wander on their own. It wasn’t at all that they couldn’t handle it, quite the contrary, but I loved to be more hands-on in that work. It occurred to me that I missed it.

  If the team’s crankiness was anything to go on, they missed my presence too.

  “I never see you anymore,” Jav said petulantly.

  I looked over my shoulder. I’d hopped into my office for a brief moment to try and find a document I needed on my neglected dumping ground of a desk. Jav was sitting facing me with his arms crossed, looking as though he were about to ask me if I knew how far past curfew it was.

  I allowed myself to look guilty. “I know; I’m sorry. I’m being a terrible team head,” I said. He pressed his lips together and I looked back down at my desk, hunting for a memo I was certain I had printed.

  “You always come up with the best ideas,” he said, a little pout left in his voice.

  “You’re all doing just fine without me.”

  “Nour and Jav resorted to prank-ordering, like, fifty pizzas to Stalactite’s headquarters yesterday,” Darla chimed in.

  Nour, without missing a beat of her phone conversation, grabbed a Sharpie, scribbled furiously on a legal pad, keeping the phone pinched between her face and shoulder. She then held up a sign that said, “TATTLER!”

  “After this meeting, I promise I’ll be back in the office with nothing to do but ruin and torment with you all for at least a couple of weeks. A ha!” I found the sheets I’d been searching for. I’d apparently used a couple of them as coasters at some point in the recent past, but they were still readable.

  “What’s so important about this meeting?”

  Jav was being unnecessarily difficult, but I decided to indulge him.

  I heaved a sigh, using my cane as leverage to lower myself into my chair. Taking out a compact, I proceeded to powder my nose and retouch my eyeliner. “Flamethrower’s an older hero, over fifty; his incendiary powers have kept him in the game longer than most, but he’s retiring very soon and one of his idiot sidekicks is set to replace him. No one knows which yet.” I carefully extended the wing tips of my eyeliner out a little farther, making the points sharper. “He’s absolutely set against any kind of friendly arrangement with Leviathan, even if that means just mutually ignoring each other. Blowtorch and The Spark, however, are a hair more amiable, and we want to ‘end hostilities, shepherd in a new age of mutual understanding’ with them, blah, blah, blah.”

  “What’s actually happening?” he asked.

  “We have a DNA sample from Flamethrower on file; it’s also common knowledge that Blowtorch and The Spark are twins. What we want to conclusively nail down is if they’re also his children.”

  Jav’s annoyance was suddenly obliterated by his curiosity. “Oh?”

  “He was a lady-killer in his youth. When a couple of the kids he’s got scattered about manifested powers, I think he took them on as kicks. Why hide their relationship otherwise?”

  “But he still wants one of them to take over the family business even if he was shitty at paying child support.”

  “Exactly. Though, if and when we let the old man know that his kids agreed to work with us, even if it’s just some sort of non-aggression pact . . .” Even in a hurry, this idea made me smile a little. I spread my hands. “I imagine it’ll make the dinner table a little awkward. Might even start a small family coup.”

  “I miss you so much,” Darla called, completely obscured behind an embankment of filing cabinets.

  I swiped on fresh lipstick and rubbed my lips together, setting it in place with a pop. “Momma will be back soon, children,” I promised. I snapped my documents into a briefcase, picked up my cane again, and headed to the meeting.

  No one was in the room yet, but Blowtorch and The Spark were lurking outside the boardroom door, looking uncomfortable in their suits (costumes were considered hostile inside the compound; heroes generally expressed their commitment to a peaceful conversation by dressing in civvies). Jana from HR was walking away from them rapidly; from the blandly pleasant expression on her face, I knew she was furious.

  She intercepted me on my way over and grabbed my arm. “I updated the brief, but just in case: since her transition, her name is The Spark.”

  “I made sure my tablet was synced with the update.”

  “Great.” Her teeth were clenched. I raised an eyebrow in question. “Also, don’t get too close to Blowtorch.”

  “Creep?”

  She shot me some “good luck” eye contact and left, heels clicking with authority. I began to deconstruct how I could weaponize this new data.

  “Friends,” I said warmly, gesturing toward the open door with my cane. Blowtorch gave my body a long, full up-and-down look, which I chose to ignore. “Shall we take a seat and wait for my colleagues?”

  The Spark nodded and walked through the entrance, but Blowtorch lingered, lounging in the doorway. He pointedly gestured for me to go ahead of him. I gamely walked forward, but kept a little extra distance between us.

  As soon as I tried to pass him, he suddenly stepped in front, causing me to draw up short or else bump into his chest. “So,” he sa
id huskily, “what do you do?”

  I smiled stiffly. “I handle information.” I took a step back and raised the tip of my cane, shooing him into the room. He raised his hands in a gesture of mock defeat that implied he was anything but done and went in. It was going to take a mighty effort not to antagonize him before it was strategically sound.

  I waited until he was lowering himself into a chair before entering the room. In the center of the meeting room’s long table, there was a plate of muffins, a carafe of water, several glasses, and some bendy straws. The Spark was already pouring herself a glass. At the far corner of the room was a side table with coffee, and I fixed myself a cup before taking a seat at the opposite end of the table from the twins. I was acutely aware of Blowtorch watching me openly the entire time.

  “Information,” Blowtorch repeated when I finally sat down. He leaned back and rested the heels of his wing-tip shoes on the table. “Does that mean you interrogate people? Rip out fingernails with needle-nose pliers?”

  I attempted to look scandalized. “Hardly. I’m a researcher; I generally only brutalize databases.”

  “Ah, nerd chick. Nice.”

  I let my smile become strained. The Spark cleared her throat. Her brother glared at her, annoyed.

  “You look familiar,” The Spark said uncomfortably.

  “I doubt it; I’m generally stuck in the office.” I tried to sound encouraging; I suspected talking to The Spark would be more pleasant than continuing to deal with her vaguely repulsive sibling.

  “Mmm. Did you ever work for, what’s his name, the Electric Eel?”

  I fought to keep my shoulders from rising. “Briefly, back while I was still freelancing.”

  Her face lit up a bit and she nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I remember. You were in the room when he used the Mood Ring on the mayor’s kid.”

  “I was,” I said mechanically. “I was a temp at the time.”

  “Pretty badass,” Blowtorch drawled.

  “Not really. I wound up in the hospital. Supercollider shattered my femur.”

  They didn’t know how to respond to this; The Spark looked suddenly stricken and Blowtorch made a blustering sound. I found I enjoyed the discomfort. I held up my cane. “This is a souvenir.”

  Blowtorch recovered first. “Pretty tough, then, for a nerd chick.” Blowtorch let his eyelids become heavy and he smirked at me. “That’s hot.” He shot some sparks out of the tip of one finger for emphasis. It was extraordinarily embarrassing for everyone in the room.

  I took that as the signal to humiliate him; putting up with him was no longer even remotely fun. I gave him the frostiest, most threatening smile I could muster. “Mr. Torch, what do you think my rank and role in this situation are?”

  “Huh?”

  “Let me rephrase for you: Why do you think I am at this meeting?”

  He didn’t understand the point of the question. “Taking notes, I guess?”

  “No, I am not ‘taking notes’; I just happen to be particularly punctual. I’m the head of my own department and one of Leviathan’s representatives at this summit. Quite frankly, I find your behavior most unbecoming thus far.”

  His face turned ugly; he looked at his sister and jerked a thumb toward me. “Why would a supervillain keep this frigid auditor bitch around? No fun at all.” He angrily grabbed a blueberry muffin. I noticed the water in the glass nearby had started to boil.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Keller said brusquely. I stood gratefully as he, Molly, and a couple extra suits I didn’t recognize walked into the room.

  “Good, some real conversation,” Blowtorch muttered. He stuck out a hand and blandly shook each of theirs. He didn’t bother to stand, but at least he sat up straight and put his feet on the ground. Keller gave me a questioning eyebrow and I shook my head slightly.

  After the meeting, with overtures made, old grudges addressed, and a mutual plan to reduce tensions between Leviathan and the Flamethrower brand (once the torch had officially been passed to one of the siblings), Jana returned to escort the two heroes out. Blowtorch shot me a last, hostile look, while The Spark continued to look deeply ill at ease. As soon as they were safely out of sight, a forensics team descended like starving buzzards upon the boardroom, carefully collecting and bagging everything the heroes had touched, sipped, or left uneaten to harvest any DNA evidence. Surely there was enough spit for a good, old-fashioned paternity test.

  The rest of the team had left for a dinner break, so I retreated into my empty office for a few minutes of peace and quiet. I rubbed my temples for a moment, breathing out the tension of the meeting. Feeling it start to seep away, I absently checked my email. Two immediately caught my attention.

  There was a short message from Surveillance that read:

  Anna,

  Keller asked to see the video of your interaction with the heroes during today’s meeting. Just a heads-up.

  I swore quietly. I expected Keller would be trying to look for proof I’d been unnecessarily rude to the dirtbags, and braced myself for a small war.

  A moment later, however, Keller wrote me himself.

  A,

  Way to handle those two asshats, Frigid Auditor Bitch (FAB).

  Cheers,

  Bob

  I cracked a smile. I had won that bastard over after all.

  That’s Head Frigid Auditor Bitch to you. —Anna (HFAB)

  Two seconds later:

  LOL

  Sometime between when I finally went back to my suite rather late that night, and when I wandered back to my office in the morning, someone found the time to tape a sign to the door that read, WARNING: FRIGID AUDITOR BITCH. I opened the door slowly and was greeted by my entire team grinning at me.

  “This is going to be a thing, isn’t it?” I sighed. Nour giggled.

  It was a good week before I realized that Greg had changed my email signature from “Anna Tromedlov” to “The Auditor.” It stuck.

  AS LUCK WOULD have it, I didn’t have to go back on my promise to the rest of my team; I did, in fact, have a few relatively peaceful weeks in the office after whirlwind months of travel and meetings. While I’d enjoyed taking my talent for personalized misery on the road, it was a special kind of joy to be in my own element for a while. The team had done a fine job without me, ruining relationships and triggering superpowered migraines at a spectacular rate. But there could be no doubt that when I could be more present, our cruel little department thrived.

  I also had to attend to the long-overdue task of hiring some much-needed relief to help take on some of Jav’s workload, and after a great deal of screening and a hilarious series of interviews, we brought on a former temp named Tamara Ng. Several departments had used her to help solve data flow problems, and I saw no reason not to make the arrangement permanent. Her arrival brought its own kind of chaos, as our workflow and entire little department dynamic had to be retooled around her presence. It was a positive change, but good things are often extraordinarily stressful, especially in the short-term.

  Since one of my standard problem-solving staples has always been to throw alcohol at a situation until it improves, to thank the team for holding down the fort while I was off sowing the seeds of discontent and also welcome Tamara into the fold, I called a “team-building” session at the Hole.

  It took exactly a single round of drinks and twenty minutes of small talk before the team decided to drop the charade and worked up enough collective courage to start grilling me about Leviathan. I had started to take for granted exactly how unusual it was that I spent so much time in his presence, even for someone who worked for him.

  “I haven’t even met him,” Tamara said. Her face was serious and solemn, as though she couldn’t even imagine it.

  “We’ve never spoken,” Jav confessed. “I’ve been in the same room as him a couple of times, but that’s it.”

  “He’s terrifying,” Nour said, almost whispering, as if he might overhear. “Have you seen him without his armor?”

&n
bsp; I swallowed a bit too hard. “Um, no.”

  “Does it freak you out to be around him so much?” Nour stared at me.

  “No, he doesn’t scare me.” This wasn’t entirely true, but the feeling I had in his presence was extremely complicated and I had actively avoided dissecting it. I had to psych myself up before crossing the threshold into his office, but once I was in physical proximity to him, something in me uncoiled. I noticed my colleagues were visibly relieved when he left a room, whereas I felt the edge of something melancholy. “He’s very clear in his instructions, which makes it easy to work with him,” I said after far too long a pause.

  Darla snorted. “We don’t care about his management strategies, Anna.”

  Jav nodded. “Yeah, come on. Details. Weird, terrible details.”

  I thought a moment and then cracked a smile. “He likes Coronation Street.”

  “He fucking does not!” Jav slapped the table.

  “It’s true; we had a lovely chat about how much he likes Hilda Ogden.”

  “My mind is blown.”

  “More,” Nour demanded.

  “I know for a fact that his Zune is loaded with Vengaboys.”

  “You are so full of shit.”

  “He has a Zune?”

  “I think ‘We’re Going to Ibiza!’ is his favorite.”

  “You’d better be lying,” Jav said, crossing his arms.

  “More!” Nour said.

  I thought about, but did not tell them, the image he used as his lock screen and desktop across all of his personal devices: an engraving of Satan by Gustave Doré, with a quote from Paradise Lost:

  . . . the Arch-fiend lay

  Chain’d on the burning Lake, nor ever thence

  Had ris’n or heav’d his head, but that the will

  And high permission of all-ruling Heaven

  Left him at large to his own dark designs,

  That with reiterated crimes he might

  Heap on himself damnation . . .

  It wasn’t a secret, certainly, but something about it felt deeply personal, and speaking of it felt like breaking a different kind of confidence. Besides, my team didn’t want intimacy; they wanted to be scared.