The Other Eight (13 page)

“What is it?” Bottleneck asked, standing and
peeking over Scratch’s shoulder.

“Profiles of the sixteen finalists. Big deal.
They’ve got this on the website already. I’m surprised they don’t
have trading cards.”

“Keep reading,” advised The Adviser.

Chicken Scratch scanned the pages for a few
more moments, then looked at the bartender. “You got someplace a
little more private where my associates and I can have a chat?”

“The back room’s got a door. Supposed to be
for the pool league, but we ain’t had a pool league since
1987.”

“Come on,” Scratch said to the others.

Pollinatrix, Bottleneck, Dentata, Chicken
Scratch, and The Adviser filed into a dark room in the back of the
bar that had just enough room for a pool table and a few stools.
The table was mysteriously damp, and a strong and unfriendly odor
suggested that either there was a problem in the bathroom, or that
more than one person had considered this an attractive
alternative
to the bathroom. Dentata found a light switch
that activated a single, sickly fluorescent bulb overhead. The door
was shut, and Scratch threw down the page.

“Real names, addresses, family members,” he
said. “Where did you get this stuff?”

“I have my sources. There’s more, but I can’t
give you all of the information until I know you are willing to
work with me.”

“I’ll do it! I’ll be part of the team,”
Bottleneck blurted. “The first thing we’ll need is a formal
organization. I’m thinking LLC. Something to get our finances
protected. I have a good lawyer for that stuff. I can get the
paperwork started. Probably in about two months we’ll be able
to—”

“Bottleneck, based on your powers, I’m going
to go ahead and ignore any suggestions you make,” Chicken Scratch
suggested.

“Aw,” he said with a frown.

“What do we need to do?” Pollinatrix
asked.

“Right now, just make yourselves available.
In the coming days some… opportunities will present
themselves.”

“Listen, this is all well and good. I want to
make a name for myself as much as the next person,” said Dentata,
“but I’ve got a life. Now I can put it on hold for a bit if it
means getting this new career rolling, but I’m going to need some
start-up capital, so to speak.”

“Exactly! We could have a joint bank account.
It really shouldn’t take too long to get some checks made,” said
Bottleneck.

“Here,” The Adviser said, revealing a bundle
of twenties from another compartment on his suit. “This should be
enough to keep you in town for a few days. We’ll be in touch.”

The Adviser marched toward the door.

“Wait,” Scratch said, “don’t you need contact
info?”

“I’ve got your cell phone numbers, home
addresses, social security numbers… I wouldn’t be The Adviser if I
wasn’t well-advised.”

He turned and opened the door again, marching
out of the bar without further comment. Behind him, the recently
recruited villains began to divvy up the allowance.

“That’s three thousand for each of us,”
Pollinatrix said.

“Yes! A chance to get even with those fools
who wouldn’t put me on the team, and a wealthy sponsor. Things are
looking up for the mighty Chicken Scratch!” proclaimed the eager
new villain. “Does that costume guy do rush jobs?”

“I’ll give him a call. I could use a new pair
of spike heels if I’m going to be on TV. I’ll see if he can
overnight something to us,” she said, leading the way out of the
room with Scratch in tow.

“It’ll be nice to have a new project,”
Dentata said.

“Yeah, we should celebrate! You wanna get
dinner?” Bottleneck asked.

She shrugged. “I’ve got nothing else to
do.”

The pair made their way to the door.

“So, what are your powers, anyway? Wait, let
me guess. You’re Dentata. That means… teeth or something, right? So
you can… bite through things?”

“Certain specific things, but yeah.”

“Nice! Well, my name is Porter. What’s your
name?”

“Virginia.”

Non Sequitur
trudged back to his cabin, a bottle of water in hand. The day had
started easily enough. There was a one mile run, which was roughly
what he did back home to keep his weight under control, after which
came the standard running through tires/climbing ropes/scaling
walls obstacle course he’d come to expect from the movies. Then
there was a cycle of push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups. By the last
pull-up he was exhausted and ready for a break. What he got instead
was another mile run, followed by another obstacle course and more
calisthenics. The process repeated in a grueling test of endurance.
Sergeant Roberts ran them all through the sequence until only eight
of them could continue, then had them run it three more times for
good measure. When all was said and done, Chloroplast, Undo, FM,
and Retcon had fared the best. After that had been the dancers,
then Omnivox. Non Sequitur was in eighth place by a wide margin.
Everyone else had collapsed or faltered enough times to be sent
back to the cabins. Nonsensica, however, had refused to go, and
even rallied to finish the last iteration just a few steps behind
Non Sequitur.

Now his cabin mate was right beside him,
guzzling her own bottle of water. When she finished she opened a
second one she had grabbed and drained it in one continuous swig.
Tossing the empty bottle aside, she snatched the one out of his
hand and sucked it dry as well. He would have objected, but judging
from how drenched with sweat she was, Nonsensica needed it more
than he did. He reached the cabin and held the door open for her to
stumble inside.

Once inside they each grabbed a towel and set
about soaking up the torrent of sweat the muggy Virginia heat had
left behind. Non Sequitur shed the drenched T-shirt of his
fatigues, revealing an even more drenched undershirt. Nonsensica
grunted with increasing frustration, moving her stiff and sore arms
behind her back.

She gave up and sighed. “Unzip me.”

“What?”

“I can barely move my arms, Non Sequitur.
Unzip me. The tab is on the back of the collar.”

“Are you sure you want me to—?”

“I’m stewing in my own juices in this outfit,
so ditch the adorably chivalrous crap and unzip me,” she
snapped.

He quickly obliged, revealing her bare
back.

“Thank you,” she gushed, relief saturating
her voice as air finally reached her overheated skin. She held the
front of her bodysuit with one hand to make sure it wouldn’t slip
down and rummaged through the dresser for a fresh set of
underclothes and fatigues. Once she had them, she marched directly
into the washroom, leaving the door ajar as she stepped farther in.
Out of sight, she turned on the shower. “You know, if we are going
to be working together on this team, you and I are going to have to
be comfortable with stuff like this. It is like backstage at a
theater. If you wait for privacy, you might miss the curtain.” She
managed to slither out of her costume. “Whew. That’s one thing you
never read about in the comics, huh? How all of the classic crime
fighters end the day smelling like a foot?”

“Well, maybe if you didn’t wear such an
elaborate costume—”

“Uniform,” she corrected, stepping into the
shower. Raising her voice, she continued talking. “And it isn’t
that elaborate. A one piece suit, gloves, boots, goggles, and belt.
About the same as the fatigues, really.”

“You know what I mean. I think we both know
you would have finished well ahead of me if you weren’t wearing a
sauna suit while doing mile-long runs. I’m surprised you didn’t get
heatstroke.”

“Yeah, the medics were surprised, too. Maybe
I’ve discovered a new power, huh?”

“I’m just saying maybe try a day of training
with the fatigues on and see how you do.”

“Oh no. I have no intention of training in
anything I wouldn’t fight crime in. What would that prove?”

“Well, you don’t need a fancy uniform to
fight crime.”

“Pff. That’s easy for you to say, you’re a
guy. All you need to do is throw on a trench coat and skip shaving
for a few days, and you’ve got the brooding antihero look. People
will buy that as a superhero outfit. Women are judged by their
uniform. People expect something with some pizzazz.”

“Well, then what about spandex? That must
breathe a little and wick away some moisture.”

“Spandex is for posers. You want to go pro,
you go latex,” she said matter-of-factly. “Unless you’re a villain.
Female super villains have the leather option.”

“Super heroines can’t wear leather?”

“Well, maybe white leather. Though it would
probably be pleather. You know, more animal friendly.”

“Where do you get all of this?”

“It’s just the way it is, you know?”

“I guess I stopped thinking about that sort
of thing a long time ago. Back when I was a kid.”

“You thought about it when you were a
kid?”

“Everyone thinks about that stuff when
they’re kids.”

“Yeah, and I’ll bet a lot of kids think about
winning the World Series or becoming a rock star,” she said. She
turned off the shower and wrapped a towel around herself. “And you
know who eventually hits the home runs and gets the gold records?”
She leaned out of the bathroom, hair still dripping. “The ones who
never stopped thinking about it.”

The hero
hopefuls gathered in the mess hall after a long day of crawling
through mud under barbed wire, climbing cargo nets, and a
half-dozen other activities that army trainers seemed to think
would be indispensable in the field. The tables there were long,
school cafeteria-style benches. The building was a standard design,
one built to accommodate a far larger group, but since each table
could comfortably seat eight, there were only two of them. A pair
of folding chairs and a small table had been added to one corner of
the room, where Dr. Aiken and Private Summers spent their mealtimes
observing the group and the growing tension between its two halves.
The layout of the room formed a sort of behavioral laboratory that
was fascinating to the psychologist. Aside from leaving the rest of
the mess hall wide open, as if it was to host some sort of formal
dance later that night, it led to another staple of high school
culture: the cool kids’ table. While Undo, Retcon, Johnny On the
Spot, and other high performers and military-minded members of the
group sat at one table, the misfits of the group were relegated to
the other. By the fourth day of training, the table roster was
seemingly set in stone. Nonsensica, Chloroplast, Non Sequitur,
Gracias, Phosphor, The Number, and Bomb Sniffer invariably ate
together, outwardly lamenting the cliquishness of their group and
inwardly seething about not having made it into the “good” clique.
Afterthought was generally there with them, but they seldom
noticed.

“Look at them over there. Half of them don’t
even want to be superheroes,” Gracias muttered, glaring at the
other table. “They’re all soldiers now.”

“Nothing wrong with being a soldier,”
Phosphor noted.

“No, no. Of course not. But this isn’t about
getting a batch of new soldiers, this is about getting a batch of
new superheroes. Where are the tests for that?”

“The army isn’t after superheroes. They just
want soldiers who know more tricks than the soldiers on the other
side,” said Chloroplast. “Robots who will act as a unit, follow
orders, and march in time.”

“I’ve got no problem with acting as a unit,
but there’s a lot more to being a superhero than there is to being
a soldier. On top of the soldier skills, you need a suitable
uniform, you need a theme, you need a catchphrase,” Nonsensica
said.

“Not to mention having a worthwhile power and
knowing how to use it properly,” The Number growled, glancing at
Primadonna over at the popular table. “As opposed to just strutting
around and coming up with ‘artistic’ excuses to shake your money
maker. I bet she doesn’t even
have
a catchphrase.”

“Do you?” Nonsensica asked.

“Of course! After I finish using my powers I
say, ‘After
that
dance, your number is
up
!”

“Mmm. Not bad. But
you’re
The Number,
right? That’s more of a jab against someone
named
Number.
How about this one? ‘Five, six, seven, eight, looks like crime just
ain’t so great.’ It’s got numbers, it’s got sort of a dance vibe.
It rhymes.”

The Number considered it. “Maybe. I like the
tempo count, but that really belongs
before
a dance…”

“Yours was pretty good at the combat trial,
Nonsensica,” Gracias interjected. “Here’s mine. Ready?” He did
finger pistols. “You’re
welcome.
Eh? Eh? See, ’cause I’m
Gracias, and it means thank you.”

“Yes, we got that,” Chloroplast said. “I’m
surprised you didn’t go with something about Cheeseheads.”

Gracias growled, tugging out his shirt.
“Look, a white
G
with a circle around it on a green shirt
does not equal a Packers shirt.”

“That is the exact description of a Packers
shirt.”

“Look, we’re not talking about costumes
anyway, we’re talking catchphrases. What’s yours?”

“Looks like green just made you black and
blue.”

Gracias nodded. “Not bad, not bad. Plus, it
would work for both members of Team Green.”

“I never put much thought into this sort of
thing until I got here,” added Phosphor. “Think I’d like a
team-related one. Like, ‘It’s not Phosphor
you
, it’s
Phosphor
us.
’”

“We’ll work on that,” Nonsensica said. “But
you definitely need one. You’ve got to have the total package if
you want to be one of the greats, like Ambition.”

“Well, we’ve all got ambition, or else we
wouldn’t be here,” said Bomb Sniffer

Nonsensica laughed. “Yeah, I guess so, but
what I meant was we have to be the total package like Ambition
was.”