by J Bennett
And then he’s retreating out of the room. He pauses just before he gets to the door. Over his shoulder he says, “Wholesome, you never would’ve been a good henchman anyway. You’re too nice. If you tried to stab anyone in the back, you’d miss.”
He slaps a sad-yet-resilient expression on his face and takes a step forward. The door slides open, and I can just barely see one of the cam drones beyond recording his stoic exit. His gracious visit to a fallen comrade will certainly swell the hearts of viewers. In the show, Gold will come off as the comic relief with a secret soft side. I can’t even imagine all the sappy, heart-themed emojis the tweens will start pouring onto his newly erected henchman Stream when the first eps launch. And for one stupid minute I’d thought he’d come to visit me out of kindness.
My mistake.
By the time Matthew appears to take me home from the med clinic six hours later, I’m feeling hardier. My mind is a little soft, and it still hurts to breathe, but I can walk without swaying like I’ve snorted a dozen crushed Dead Heads. On my Band, Dr. Acorn reminds me that I need to return tomorrow for another stem cell injection for my ribs.
Universal healthcare is a great thing. Too bad you have to be half dead to actually get it in a timely manner.
“Roughly 26% of emergency clinic visits in S-8 are directly related to semi-reality show production,” Matthew says in greeting. He gives me a once-over. “You don’t look so good.”
“Well, you look iconic,” I respond. My friend wears a ridiculous hat, one of those old ball caps you only see on Halloween or in historical movies. Sunglasses, too, and more makeup than I’ve ever seen on him.
“Don’t want the cams to recognize me,” he explains. He’s stayed as far away from his dad’s new show as possible, which makes this unrequested pickup all the more meaningful. It also makes me wonder who let him know about my little drop-in at the med clinic.
As I prepare to leave the room, Matthew moves to tuck me into his side as we approach the door, but I shake my head. Instead, I step in front of him. I’m feeling defiant and more than a little ashamed for wanting the henchman gig so badly. The embarrassment makes me angry, and the anger gives me courage. When the door whooshes open, a little cam drone zooms into position. I don’t look at it, but instead stare straight ahead as I move down the corridor. I can’t do anything about the discolored mess of my face, but I force away the limp even though my knee cries in pain with each step.
Matthew gently helps me into the back of a rental car splashed with an artistic motif of Beacon and Shine, and then swings in next to me. As soon as the car begins rolling down the street, he tugs me into his side. Matthew is full of kindness and vulnerability, and for once I don’t pull away from it.
“I’m glad you didn’t make it,” he says softly over my head.
“It was that bad for you?” I quietly ask. He’s never told me why being on his father’s show messed him up so much, why he needs Betty, or why he wears faux leather wrist straps to cover the scars that were skin-grafted away long ago.
“The show owns you,” Matthew replies carefully. “The people who watch, they own you. And the worst thing is…” He looks out the window.
I can’t help myself. “What?” I whisper.
“The producers hint at things. They guide you, but most of it… it’s you giving your own soul away. You begin by playing your own part, but then you become that part, that different person.” Matthew’s voice is low. “I was young. It became hard to tell the difference between what was the show and what wasn’t the show. I really thought we were evil. That we were the bad guys.” Matthew’s voice trembles.
When the car drops us off a block away from the house, I do something uncharacteristic: I link my arm through his. We walk toward the house, side by side.
“Do you know 38% of the population has been on at least one semi-reality show?” Matthew says.
“And the other 62% all want to be,” I finish.
He laughs. “We’d rather pretend than live our real lives.”
Pretending is better than the real world for a lot of people, but I don’t say this thought out loud. Matthew practically has my rants memorized anyway.
When we reach the house, Matthew wants to escort me to my door, but I convince him that I can handle the walk down the hallway on my own. If Lysee were home, I might request him to run interference — my Stream is already gushing with personal messages from her, including questions, worried animal emojis, and nonsense about how the path of the Universe will lead me exactly to where I need to go. Fortunately, my well-intentioned roomie is working tonight. The grilling will wait until tomorrow.
Matthew gives me a quick kiss on the cheek when the stairs deposit me on my floor. “Glad you’re okay, Alice,” he says.
“I might crack, but I don’t break,” I say, and point to my head for the double meaning. Matthew laughs, and then heads up to the top floor.
All I want to do is crash in my bed, yet I find myself stopping halfway down the hallway. I turn and stare at Leo’s gray door. Is he inside? I imagine him editing the footage of our fights today, patiently layering dramatic music and The Professor’s commentary on top of punches and cries of pain. Out of curiosity, I check my Band, only to find that Leo’s Stream is private.
Surprising. You have to pay to block your Stream from the public, and it isn’t cheap. Also, almost no one actually wants to block their Stream unless they have a super low Stream score, a criminal record, or have endured a viral embarrassment. Some of the ultra-minimalists block their accounts, but since most are too poor to afford the fee, the majority just don’t wear Bands at all.
I glance at my bright yellow door. Blessed sleep is so close. But my feet don’t move. I can’t ping Leo through my Band since we aren’t connected, so I do like the movies of old and knock.
When the door opens, I’m caught off guard. I guess I expected him to be out, or at least not to be dumb enough to open his door to a stranger’s knock.
If Leo’s surprised to see me, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he stands and waits. He’s still wearing the same clothes from earlier today — that plain red shirt and the jeans without tears or holes or streaks or polka dots or any other dash of customization. I get that same sense that he is weary, but I still can’t put my finger on why. His amber eyes are sharp as they take me in.
I find myself studying the mole on his face.
When I don’t speak, he asks, “Are you okay? Doctors patch you up?”
Anger rises inside of me, swift as a Mars rocket. It’s not his questions that infuriate me. It’s the soft concern in his voice. Like he actually cares. Like he wasn’t the one who put me in that med clinic.
“I hope I gave you some good footage,” I say. One benefit of getting axed from the show is that I don’t have to hide my contempt.
Leo is unmoved. I despise how much I’m attracted by his cool confidence. He says, “Did you come here to ask why you weren’t chosen?”
“I know why I wasn’t chosen. I lost,” I tell him. “And I don’t care about that anyway. I came here about Nitrogen.”
Leo tilts his head just a little, the only indication of his curiosity.
“Don’t make him play a berserker,” I blurt out.
Leo crosses his arms over his chest. “Why not? Nitrogen is big and strong. He’d make a perfect berserker.”
“No, he wouldn’t.” My voice rises. “He’s sweet and sensitive and smart. Everyone always makes the big guys into thugs. Try something different. Make Nitrogen the gentle giant. Let him show his heart and his brains. That’s the way he is anyway. It’ll feel true. The viewers will love it. They’ll love him.”
“You came here to advocate for the guy who pounded you right into a med clinic?” Oddly, Leo doesn’t seem surprised by my plea. If anything, he’s amused.
I think again about how he paired me against Sequoia in the final round. He’d obviously been studying us. He knew forcing us to fight would be a bigger emotional wallop for vie
wers than the more obvious clash of the giants.
The realization downloads. “You weren’t going to push him to be a berserker,” I say flatly.
“No, I wasn’t,” Leo confirms. He leans slightly against the doorframe. “You’re right. That would be a disaster.”
I glance behind him into his apartment. He hasn’t unpacked yet. His living room just has a couch and a single portrait hanging on the wall. I don’t even see a table.
“You have good instincts for this,” he says, bringing my gaze back to his face. His eyes. That’s what makes me think that he is weary. Something about his eyes.
“Ever think about becoming a producer?” he asks.
The question is meant as a joke, but it burns.
“Sorry, can’t. I got this affliction called a soul,” I say.
Something flickers across Leo’s face, but he hides it with a wan smile. “Fair enough.”
I hate him all the more for not taking my bait. Because he almost seems like a decent human being. And because I realize that I still find him stunning.
“Well,” I start awkwardly, “I guess that’s all I wanted to say.” I turn and take a step toward my door.
Leo’s voice stops me. “It wasn’t because you lost the fight.”
I don’t turn around.
“I didn’t choose you because you could have won, and you didn’t. We’re not a hero show, Alice. We’re a villain show. You didn’t want it enough to go dark.”
A tight smile pulls on my lips. His words kill me a little because I know he’s right. I needed that job, but every particle of me hated what I was doing. Leo saw right through me.
“The soul affliction,” I manage.
“The soul affliction,” he agrees.
I force myself not to look back as I take slow, measured steps to my yellow door.
Chapter 16
Apache, you’re in my petri dish now!
The Professor, S3, E9
Three days later, Adan motions me to a seat at his table as I walk into chem. I prob shouldn’t feed his ego, but I honestly can’t muster the energy to steer my body somewhere else. I drop into the offered chair, and my ribs send me a quick reminder that they’re still not entirely healed. They’re getting better, though, and so is my head. A few more days and I should be hardy. At least physically.
“Your face is bruised. Were you attacked by a purse snatcher?” Ollie leans over the table from Adan’s other side to study my mottled complexion. I assume Adan offered him an honored spot at our table as well. Probably for some more lab “help.”
“I’ve been robbed six times,” Ollie states. “Four times a hero intervened to protect me. First it was Sapphire, then it was Strong Lad. You might not remember him. He was never officially sponsored. The third hero who rescued me during a robbery was Blood Monk. This was in season three of his show when he was reformed, except he really wasn’t reformed, it was all a cover—“
“What happened?” Adan cuts Ollie off. “Someone do this to you?” His bright green eyes take on a serious look as he studies my face. The swelling is down, and the hairline fracture in my cheekbone is mostly healed thanks to the stem cell treatment at the clinic. But pale bruising still cradles my eye, even beneath the layer of makeup I borrowed from Lysee.
I’ve already got my story ready. “I thought I’d give Hitler a spin at Palinsky's,” I lie with a shrug. “I only had a half hour, so I started his settings a little too high.”
“He’s not programmed to tag that hard,” Adan says.
Oh, right. Adan actually has enough dollars to use the high-level combat robo.
“I may have adjusted those settings just a bit,” I say.
“Alice, that’s dangerous.” Adan shakes his head, his handsome face chiseled with concern.
“Yes. The settings are in place for a reason. There have been a number of occasions when robots maimed or killed humans who hacked their settings,” Ollie confirms. His head nods on his skinny neck, sending blond hair into his eyes.
No robo has directly killed a human in decades, not since manufacturers finally loaded them all with blockchain technology to shield their human protection protocols. Even toasters and 3D printers carry that software. Everything connected to the internet does, and so far, no hacker has been able to strip it away. Robos still hurt humans all the time and occasionally kill them indirectly, but that’s mostly because breathers are drooling lobotomies. Just yesterday, a story hit my Stream of a human who programmed his robo to cut down a tree in his yard. Guess what? The tree fell right onto his house and split his skull.
“When are you going to Palinsky's next?” Adan asks, snapping my attention back to him. “I’ll show you how Hitler works. I’ve programmed him with some of my own drills. I’ll give you the code.” He blasts me with a wide smile that would probably make his fans swoon.
A sweet offer. Too bad I canceled my gym membership yesterday. Before I can reply, the lights dim, and my Band hums as it automatically powers down. The pod in front of us flickers to life, projecting a bright holo-screen at each table. Today’s topic is chemical bonds. Adan’s eyebrows rise suggestively, but I stare at the screen and pretend to pay attention.
Chemistry is the last thing on my mind; I’m more focused on accounting. My universal basic income will deposit tomorrow, which will cover next month’s rent and nothing else. In two weeks, the second payment for this semester is due. If I don’t find a way to hustle dollars by that time, I’ll be dropped from school and lose all the credits from this semester as a final, crappy bonus to an already terrible month.
I’ve spent the last two days figuring how to live even more cheaply than I already do. I can cut back on material cartridges and survive with the things I already own. Lysee will mock me for wearing the same clothes for more than three times – her magic recycle number – but that’s nothing new. If I really need something, Matthew will let me use his Anders 3200 and pay him back later. It’s also time to say goodbye to my beloved weekly bear claw doughnut at Culprits Coffee. From now on, it’s only gov nutra-packs for food. They’re really not so bad if you don’t chew.
“Ionic bonds are the strongest type of bond,” Professor Hersherwitz is saying on the screen. Happy-faced atoms appear on the screen with bright valence electrons dancing around them.
My plan on saving dollars is coming along, but as far as earning some despo-needed funds, I’m still trying to find a solution. I’ve managed to scribble out three verses of my platypus rap song, and I’m testing out some low cost background beats now. Platypus t-shirt designs are in the works. Truthfully, they’re utterly terrbs, but I’m hoping that can be part of their appeal. Artfully awful has been a legit trend for years.
“Those atoms are sharing their electrons,” Adan whispers to me. “Kind of romantic, don’t you think?”
Professor Hersherwitz jabbers about covalent bonds as two atoms snuggle together on the screen.
“Only works when they both need something from the other,” I point out.
“Maybe one of the atoms does need electrons from the other, but just refuses to admit it,” Adan whispers back.
“I think that atom knows perfectly well whether or not she wants to share electrons with that particular atom or with any atom at all,” I snap.
“The atoms aren’t conscious,” Ollie pipes up. “They don’t make choices at all.”
Adan is giving me what he clearly considers his most charming smile. “See. It’s all just chemistry.”
I just about gag on that cheesy line. Ollie looks confused.
Professor Hersherwitz’s voice dramatically slows, then cuts out. I refocus on the screen just as the blue unicorn freezes and disintegrates into static. A student behind us groans. We all know what’s happening. Someone has tapped into the feeds of every Pod and Band in the city. Producers of sponsored capes and vils can do this with special permission from the City Council.
A new scene flickers onto the holo-screen. The cam is jerky, the drab colors
obviously filtered. The setting is a dark room. Shelves line the wall, and they’re filled with old equipment, broken beakers, a microscope covered in spider webs. An old chalk board — the kind you only see in the historicals — stands to the side with a formula half scrawled across it. The last part of the chemical formula is smudged, like someone angrily erased it.
A familiar voice speaks off-screen. “Newton’s First Law of Thermodynamics states that energy cannot be destroyed. Neither can the need for vengeance.”
Three figures walk into the frame, each wearing a black lab coat, a different-colored glowing bowtie, and black goggles. The shadows slice across their faces, making them look like soulless automatons. It’s a nice effect: I barely recognize Sequoia, Gold, and Mermaid.
Around me, some of the other students are perking up. They recognized the voice, or maybe the bowties of the henchmen. A few watch the screen with over-enthusiastic expressions of surprise or horror etched on their faces. These are the ones preening for the lens, hoping they’ll be featured as a cutaway reaction.
On screen, we hear a noise. It’s soft at first, then grows louder. I recognize the sharp note of a cane striking a concrete floor.
A figure leaning heavily on his cane limps in front of the henchmen. His silver hair is wild. The shadows carve deep, weary lines on his face. His lab coat hangs in scorched tatters around his thin body.
“Beacon, your time has come,” the gravelly voice says. “But I will not strike against you. That would be too easy. I am going after what you love.”
Here, the cam zooms in, clearly illuminating The Professor’s face just in case anyone doubted that we were witnessing a major vil comeback. “Big Little City, you’re in my petri dish now!” he cries, and then the vid cuts out.
I sit back in my chair, a little dazed. Around me, the other students chatter. I hear the excitement in their voices. I hate to admit it, but Leo knows what he’s doing. It was a solid launch.
And also a serious gut punch. Seeing the henchmen, knowing that I could have been standing with them and earning a nice paycheck, presses on my still-raw nerves.