A Shot at the Big Time

by Christina McMullen

  “So you’re trying to tell me that the LG doesn’t know my alias?” I asked as the elevator creaked its way up to the fifth floor.

  “Is that so odd?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I said, rolling my eyes at his obliviousness. “It’s not like I wear a mask or anything.”

  “You don’t have to. You’re just a low level tech grunt in a company that employs thousands of grunts. Outside your costume, you’re invisible, Lisa.”

  “Wow, way to bolster my self-esteem.” I shouldered past him and fished around for the keys to my apartment, but Dee was faster with his own copy. Although as he opened the door, I remembered that not only had I gotten the key back from him after our last break up, but I’d also changed the locks.

  “It wasn’t meant to be a burn,” he said, making himself at home on my sofa. “Tell me in all honesty how many of the faceless thousands that you work with would you recognize in a non-work situation? A dozen? Maybe twenty tops and they’d all be in your department.”

  “Okay, sure,” I conceded. “But there’s a difference. The ones who I’m working with or against I definitely recognize. You know darn well that I know the secret identity of not only every LG, but all of the second string ‘Figs, their sidekicks, and a good number of the up and coming underlings.”

  “Really? All of them?”

  “Yes really! Yes all of them!” I huffed and went to the kitchen and grabbed two beers from the fridge, tossing him one. “You can’t tell me you don’t do the same. It’s a requirement in our line of work.”

  “Yeah, well my reasons are a little different, aren’t they? I’m the dirty work guy. You, well, I’ll just chalk that up to OCD or something, but the LG, they don’t take notice unless they have to take notice and so far, they’re only concerned with your movements as a Mal.”

  “Okay, first of all, I’m meticulous, not OCD, and second of all, way to totally dismiss a very real disorder as a joke. I thought you were one of the good guys?”

  “Sorry, but you can’t expect me to keep up on what I am and am not allowed to say anymore.”

  “Yes I can and stop trying to change the subject,” I said and took a swig of beer. “So if I’m to understand this, the LG thinks they’re too good to remember a face?”

  “Not too good, too busy,” he corrected, though—as was usually the case with his commentary—I failed to see the difference. “Look, doll face, you don’t need to worry about me revealing your secret identity to the LG is all I’m saying and even if I did, it ain’t likely they’d even remember two minutes later.”

  “Oh, so I’m a big enough deal that they tried to take me out of the picture last week and apparently I’m a big enough deal that they sent you to spy on me, but I’m not a big enough deal to bother finding out my secret identity. The way I see it, the LG is doing me a favor.”

  “Call it what you will,” he said, downing the entire beer and getting up to forage for more in my fridge.

  “You know, I can’t help but notice you’ve done nothing except belittle me and tell me how insignificant I am. If you’re trying to get into my good graces, or my pants, you might want to try another approach.”

  “Such as?”

  “Maybe you could just congratulate me on my promotion and acknowledge my accomplishments.”

  “Should I?” he asked, pausing halfway back from the kitchen with a sudden and unexpected change of demeanor. “I mean, I know this is what you’ve always wanted and I know why, but Li, there’s other ways, easier ways, to get what you want.”

  “We’ve been over this,” I groaned. “I can’t ‘kick for you and still respect myself.”

  “There are others…”

  “Dee, I’m not cut out to be a ‘Fig.”

  “So you say, but you just don’t strike me as being a typical Mal.”

  “That’s because I’m fe-Mal,” I quipped, giving him a smartass smirk, but instead of laughing or even groaning, he just kept staring at me. Eyeballing me like he was trying to see into my psyche. I knew this game all too well. He was gearing up for another round of armchair psychiatry.

  “I’m way too sober for the Dennis DeMarco Discount Diagnosis,” I muttered and got up, brushing past him to see if I had anything stronger than beer on hand.

  “Cute, you’ve been practicing,” he taunted.

  “And you’re rusty,” I said, giving a fist pump when I spied half a bottle of tequila up on the fridge. “Well, go on,” I prompted while searching for a pair of shot glasses that I knew I had somewhere.

  “I know you’ve got motive, but, Frosty, you aren’t cut out for villainy. You or Lane, though I suspect the big lunk just followed you over to the dark side. Not a lot of initiative, that guy.”

  “Watch it,” I warned. Not that what he was saying about Lane wasn’t true, but he was my brother, which means only I was allowed to talk smack about him. I found the shot glasses and put two on the counter, filling them. After slamming both, I refilled and handed one to Dee.

  “I’m just saying, you hate violence. You have a fatal talent and you refuse to use lethal force.”

  “Uh, that’s got nothing to do with my being a Mal and everything to do with not being a psychopath,” I noted. “Which is more than I can say for your trigger happy ass.”

  It was a tired argument. One I’d had a million times before with a million different people. Well okay, maybe with five or six different people, but I was still over it. I poured another shot, but hesitated. It was getting pretty late and there was a difference between going to work hungover and going to work still drunk, so I handed it over.

  “For the record, I only shoot people who deserve it.”

  “That’s certainly debatable, but right now, it’s late and I’m in no mood for debates.”

  “Oh yeah?” A slow smile spread across his lips, accentuating the booze-soaked glassiness of his eyes. “What did you have in mind instead?”

  “Sleep,” I said, matter-of-factly, glancing at the clock and trying not to think about how many hours there weren’t until I had to be at work.

  “I can think of better uses for your bed.”

  “I know,” I said with a coy smile as I pulled him to his feet. “Which is why you gotta go.”

  “Come again?”

  “Not even once.”

  “That was cold.”

  “You’re surprised?” I asked, push-pulling him out to the hallway and the waiting elevator bank. “Should I call you a cab?”

  “Nah, I’ll walk it off,” he said with a yawn before giving me the tipsy version of his bedroom eyes. “You really kicking me out?”

  “I warned you it’s a work night.”

  “You’re a cruel woman, Frosty,” he said, grabbing the door frame, either to steady himself or to avoid leaving, I wasn’t sure, but at that moment, the elevator sounded its arrival.

  “Yeah, I am,” I said with a grin as I pushed him through the elevator doors and stepped back.

  “At least you finally acknowledge it.”

  Chapter 8

  Functioning on three hours of sleep and a mild hangover wasn’t the greatest idea, but it was nothing I hadn’t done before. Wednesday had its share of issues, but they were typically routine issues. I could recover deleted files and uninstall malware in my sleep. I had the barista add two extra shots to my coffee this morning, though admittedly, that was more to stave off the hangover headache than to wake me up, so I assumed I was good to go.

  Assumption, it turns out, does more than make an ass out of you and me.

  Instead of anonymously making my way down to the dungeons with all of the other mindless drones, I was sidelined the moment I walked into the building by none other than Mary Sue Winfield herself. Seeing the big boss standing in the foyer of her world headquarters was weird. Really weird. I wasn’t the only one trying and failing to act natural. Nearly all of the underlings were either openly staring or whispering as they walked by. So when she made a beeline right for me, not only was I keenly aware
that dozens of eyes were now upon me, but I really hoped the extent of my sleep-deprived and hungover state wasn’t as outwardly obvious as it felt like it was.

  “I’ve cleared your schedule for today,” she said without so much as a hint of greeting. “Officially, you’re in a teleconference all day.”

  She put a hand on my back and led me through a side door and—thankfully—out of the spotlight of the foyer. As we passed through the sales department, I noted that Lane still wasn’t at his desk. I made a note to ask, but at that moment, I was more curious as to where my own fate was taking me. Towards the back of the east wing, we came to a bank of elevators and Mary Sue steered me to the last set of doors, using a secured passkey to call the car.

  “Unofficially,” she said with a familiar twinkle in her eye once we were in the privacy of the elevator, “I’ve brought in my lead team of branding consultants.”

  I gave her a blank look. Branding was one of those words Lane used. Branding was a sales word, not an IT word.

  “I know things are moving fast, but I’d like to see you make your debut sooner rather than later. Once they’re done, I’ve brought in a costume designer to help jazz up your look. Klaus comes highly recommended as one of the top names in talent couture.”

  The lightbulb over my head flickered on.

  Okay, I admit, part of me was kind of excited, not just to be getting a jumpstart on my career as an official Coalition of Evil member, but also because the thought of playing hooky on the clock with the big boss was kind of fun. We got off the elevator on the thirteenth floor, which I found to be rather interesting. According to all of the public elevators, One Winfield Place, home of Winfield Enterprise’s World Headquarters, was one of those superstitiously built old buildings that didn’t have a thirteenth floor.

  It should have come as no surprise that the Coalition’s secret base of operation was hidden on a supposedly nonexistent floor of its leader’s business, but that didn’t stop me from gawking like one of the idiot tourists downtown. Mary Sue, rather, Take led me across an atrium to a bank of offices on the southern side of the building. I silently cursed her long stride as we whizzed past computers and technology that was lightyears in advance of anything I got to play with down in the IT dungeons.

  She strode with purpose up to a set of closed doors and I admit that I was way more impressed than I should have been when they opened on command. I followed her into a large yet sparsely decorated board room where a mousy guy in thick glasses and a sweater vest sat hunched over a laptop.

  “Ah, good, you’re here already,” she said, nodding at the mousy man who looked up with a start and jumped to his feet as if startled. He looked as if he was about to say something, but Mary Sue continued on. “I’ve got to get to a shareholder’s meeting, so I’ll leave you to make introductions.”

  With that, she breezed back through the automatic doors, leaving me and the man staring awkwardly at each other.

  “Um… Hi. I’m Lis—”

  “Lisa, yes, yes,” he cut in, stepping around the table to give me a brief and incredibly weak handshake before picking up a file folder that sat on the edge of the table. “Hmm… Lisa Raskin, according to your profile. If I may be blunt here, sunshine, Raskin just isn’t doing anything for me.”

  “Um…”

  Okay, there was blunt, and then there was being a jackass. Who the hell was this guy to say that my name wasn’t working for him? No, literally, he hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself before ragging on me. He was lucky I didn’t ice him just for calling me sunshine.

  “I wasn’t aware that my name was supposed to do anything,” I said instead, barely containing my irritation. “I thought we were supposed to be focusing on my talent persona anyway?”

  “Yes, yes, of course, but we have to start from the ground and work our way up,” he informed me with a dismissive gesture. “Now, you’re an ice talent, so I think we need to reinvent you. Lisa Raskin is no more. You are now Lisa Frost.”

  “Uh, no. No, I’m not.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  His head actually recoiled as if I’d slapped him and the fire that ignited in his eyes made me wonder if this guy wasn’t a relative of Tabby’s.

  “I’m not going to change my name to match my talent,” I explained. “Aside from the fact that it’s not a good idea to drop hints as to who I am—”

  “Sugar, you’re a Malevolent,” he cut in. “The first time a Hero hauls you off to jail, your cover is blown.”

  “Jail? I don’t have any plans to go to jail, but keep calling me sugar and that could change.”

  “You’ll be caught,” he said with an air of finality that wasn’t helping to warm me to him. “As soon as you make a name for yourself. It’s a rite of passage, so don’t get your spandex in a twist.”

  Believe me when I say that it took all of my resolve not to choke the little pompous worm with his own underwear for that comment.

  “I’ve never been caught and I don’t plan to start getting reckless just because I’ve been promoted,” I informed him through gritted teeth.

  “That’s what they all say,” he said with a long, drawn out, and overly dramatic sigh. “Now, Ms. Frost—”

  “The name is Raskin,” I practically growled. “My talent alias is Frostbyte, so as you can see, it would be really stupid to change my last name.”

  “Frost… bite?” He began rifling through the papers on the desk in front of him, frowning and muttering to himself. “I don’t see anything… So what, are you some sort of an ice vampire?”

  “Vampire? No, not bite, byte! B-Y-T-E,” I spelled out. “I’m a computer hacker.”

  “You have a machine talent?”

  “No! I mean, yes. That is, I’m a talented hacker, but I don’t have a talent in the sense that I was… Ugh! Look, I learned my way around computer programs and software, okay?”

  Honestly, why couldn’t we use the word superpowers like everyone else? Talent just made things unnecessarily complicated.

  “If it’s not talent, then it isn’t part of your persona. Drop it. We’ll call you Ice Queen.”

  “No, we’ll call me Frostbyte.” I’d gone past the point of straining at civility and was beginning to wonder if this wasn’t yet another test. “Ice Queen is a ‘Fig who operates out of Altima Springs. Besides that, you can’t dismiss the very skills that got me noticed in the first place. “

  “Yes, I can. Look, honey, my eight year old niece can play with computers. No one will be impressed by this.”

  “Is that so?”

  I pulled out my phone and scanned the local network, noting without surprise that nothing here on the thirteenth floor was connected to the rest of the Winfield network. What was surprising was the complete and utter lack of security. It took me all of thirty seconds to takeover completely, find this dude’s laptop, and send over a targeted attack.

  “You may want to ask your eight year old niece to fix this,” I said, jamming my thumb on the initiation button and feeling a slight bit of disappointment that poking my phone’s screen didn’t give me the same satisfaction that some big, shiny detonation button would have. Still, watching the mousy guy’s waxy, sun-starved complexion blanch even further as the screen locked up and smoke began to issue from the keyboard was its own reward.

  “What did you do?” he sputtered.

  “Me?” I shrugged casually. “Not much of anything. Certainly nothing impressive, if you’re to be believed.”

  “This is just…”

  “…A small example of why you don’t want to dismiss any of my talents, natural or learned,” I finished for him.

  “Ah, pissing off the clients already?”

  I turned as the doors opened with an audible whoosh. A tall blonde guy with a gameshow host voice and teeth to match walked in and set a briefcase on the table before extending a hand to me.

  “Harold Rasmussen,” he said, flashing me a blinding smile and taking my hand with the kind of practiced firmness
that made it obvious this guy was typically the client facing partner. Not that this made me trust him anymore than Mr. Sweater Vest. “You must be Ms. Raskin.”

  I raised my eyebrows and shot a pointed look at the mouse. “I thought I was, but your colleague here seems to think otherwise.”

  “My apologies,” he said with a wink that would put used car salesmen to shame. “I was caught up in that construction mess down on Martindale Way, but we’re all here now, so let’s get down to business. Now, what is your signature move?”

  “My what?” I asked, taken completely off guard.

  “Your move, your attack.” Harold punctuated his words with the kind of arm flailing someone who has never seen actual martial artists would think was Kung Fu. “The added flair that separates you from all the other riff raff out there.”

  “Your trademark attack,” Mousy McGlasses added with a patronizing smile. “All of the A-listers are instantly recognizable by a formation that is uniquely theirs.”

  “I don’t have one,” I admitted.

  “Well then, it’s time to craft one,” Harold informed me with yet another exaggerated wink. “We’ll call it the Ultra Ice Blade.”

  “Ultimate Ice Blade,” the wormy guy cut in, causing Harold to whip his head around so fast he should have worried about whiplash. Not surprisingly, his hair didn’t move at all.

  “We’ve discussed this, Ronny. Ultra is better than ultimate.”

  Oh good. Now I had a name for the smarmy one. It was even a smarmy name.

  “Since when?” Ronny asked indignantly.

  “Don’t you remember last week’s webinar?” Harold flashed his giant-toothed smile at his partner. “The latest public opinion poll clearly shows that the favored word is ultra because the masses know that nothing can be better than ultra.”

  “Yes, yes, but we all know that’s pointless data, don’t we Harold?” Ronny gestured wildly, rolling his eyes so hard that he had to have pulled a muscle. “Twenty percent of those polled thought that penultimate was higher, so all that proves is what we’ve always known: The people don’t know what they want until we tell them!”