Project Northwoods (9 page)

Cleese looked more amused than anything else. He clapped his hands, then rose from his chair. “Let me explain something to you, Alfred…”

“Arthur,” came the correction from gritted teeth.

The only pause came from an intake of breath as opposed to consideration for this mistaken name. “… the Super Villains’ Guild, and this may be a bit of a shock to you, is not actually in the business of winning.” Jack leaned over the table to the nearest smoldering cigar, picked it up, and gesticulated with it, as though the trail of smoke provided some kind of help illustrating his point. “We are here to provide a moderate challenge to heroes.” He smiled and drew the cigar to his mouth. The tip glowed an angry orange before he extricated it and puffed a gob of smoke out while he regarded the sausage-like object in his hand. “Nothing more.”

“I know,” Arthur said flatly.

Mr. Cleese peered at him with a cocked eyebrow. “No. No, I don’t think you do. Villains are the dregs of society. The scum of the earth, so to speak.” He gestured to the assembled, who nodded and murmured in agreement. “We’re antisocial, angry, or just plain crazy. And we’re allowed to be! The government of these United States, to keep us from murdilating the shit out of everyone, gives us a free pass to act out our animal aggressions against goody-two-shoes who do us no real harm.” He walked toward Arthur. “In exchange, we give the government our research and inventions for whatever purposes it desires.”

Arthur rolled his eyes impatiently. This wasn’t new information, but that wasn’t going to stop the old codger from talking. “Fine. But the military could totally…”

“Let me ask you something…” Cleese interrupted. “Is there a… self-destruct mechanism?”

Arthur scoffed.
Who’d be so stupid?
“No.” The word came out flatly.

“A remote control? Perhaps one with a big red ‘STOP’ on it?”

Arthur crossed his arms.
What is he getting at?
“No.”

“Is there a hard-wired glitch in the countdown, giving a dashing hero the extra moments he needs to stop the death ray?” Jack took this moment to look Arthur in the eyes. There was no real effect other than making Arthur more aware that Mr. Cleese was toying with him.

“No.”

“But I am safe in assuming,” he turned away dramatically, continuing to gesture with the cigar, “that there are numerous safeguards and redundant systems which would stymie your nemesis should an attempt to stop the device be made.” It wasn’t a question this time.

Arthur smiled. “Yes, sir. It’s been rigged so that every attempt to tamper with it makes it harder for even me to stop. A hero touches this baby,” he gestured to the device sitting innocently on the table, “and he might as well level a city himself. And the final design triangulates targeting data from third party satellites as well as utilizing a ‘death sentence trigger’.” He motioned to himself with his thumbs. “I tell the machine to go, and it doesn’t stop just because I’m getting a cup of coffee.” He looked into Cleese’s eyes, a desperate smile on his face. “Tell me the idea of having a hard-wired target doesn’t make you think of the good ol’ days.”

“Yes, indeed,” Jack muttered with a verbal roll of the eyes. “Simply put, Mr. Lovelass, you are an anachronism.” He turned and approached Arthur, who appeared to not comprehend the word. “A throwback, the derelict soul of a Golden Age villain stuck in your Bronze Age frame.” He motioned with his cigar hand at Arthur, close enough that the stream of smoke made the younger man’s eyes water.

“I don’t understand.”

Mr. Cleese stared at him as though he were an exceptionally stupid puppy. “If we were to institute you as a villain, you would be too good.” He gestured at the prototype without looking. “This death ray of yours could not be stopped.”

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.

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 catch 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.