《Supervillain, Me》


 The Game World

    As far back as I could remember, I¡¯d always wanted to be a villain. Rooting for the bad guy was what I loved to do.


    I remember in my comic books when the colossal-sized, metal-skinned Adam Antium had his heart ripped out when he lost his sister to a virus; this hit close to home for me, as I had lost my brother, James, in a car accident to some careless trucker. It was almost a year now.


    Instead of grieving like I did, helplessly watching that asshole survive the crash and walk away from a prison sentence, Adam Antium became stronger. He joined his enemies and swore revenge on the creators of the virus, which turned out to be good guys, making him a hero no more.


    All it takes is one day.


    Being a villain meant you had all the best styles in costumes, the most deadly weapons and memorable lines. And if you think about it, their goal wasn¡¯t entirely different from the heroes¡¯. They just obtained it in a more¡­creative, extreme way.Retribution.


    It was thoughts and events like these that defined me and eventually led me here ¡ª to the top of a giant skyscraper overlooking a desolate cityscape, which was trashed as far as the eye could see. This world was based on everyone having a unique identifying avatar, linked with their genetic information that was coded and collected into what was called Gatica.


    And I was ready to defend mine.


    My feet were freshly saddled in heavy, teeth-kicking, steel-toed boots. My overly muscled body was clad in vibrant, skin-tight, yellow spandex, diagonally cut with purple striations, which spiraled on my chest to center on a tattered monochromatic American flag on fire. A inverted version from the star spangled hero my brother had came to know and love; The Bald Eagle.


    The banded sheaths on my metallic arms shone a reddish hue in the low setting sun. I embodied the powers of Adam Antium. Like some sort of looming, metallic battlecat, I was waiting to pounce on my next victim, a fully-fledged superhero.


    This was the newest virtual game world I¡¯d created: Supervillain, Me. New users to the platform could get ¡®infected¡¯ with a virus, thus altering their Gatica, and rendered an enemy for the entirety of the game. This put them at slim odds against the insanely powered up ¡®clean¡¯ superheroes that were trying to kill them.


    There was only one way to win: stay alive in all your villainy glory and pass it onto the next unwitting ¡®virgin¡¯ user. You either died a villain, or lived long enough to see yourself become the hero. If you died, the virus reverted back to the one who created you; for many, the source of that infectious code was a beautiful, seductive villainess A.I., QuinTessa.


    I stepped forward to the ledge of the towering building I stood on, looking down on all the game¡¯s glory ¡ª contemplating the hundreds of hours my fellow modelers, light technicians, and texture artists spent building this level. Frizzy garments hung from drab clotheslines extending across sky-high balconies, strung together like a spider¡¯s web of latent poverty. Just below that were the soot-covered alleyways lined with blistered barrels filled with burning American flags, which wafted their threaded ash in the simulated breeze.


    Spectator players and NPCs, what we call non-player characters, were huddled over flames, coughing and rubbing their fingerless-gloved hands together¡ªnot to obtain heat, but in eager anticipation of the fight to come. This city was a constant nightmare.


    And I loved it.


    My name is my Michael Sutter, and I am the latest game creator contracted by the AR/VR indie company Iconoclast Games. My task? Design the most badass game in the Subspace. A game that didn¡¯t exist on the virtual web or live on a server, but was everywhere, all around us, folded into a tiny dimension.


    Some speculated the actual existence of it. Was it truly another dimension or simply a folded space within the virtual code itself?I didn¡¯t bother with such philosophical questions.


    For me, the platform was amazing: infinitely scalable, and naturally taking the shape of what I loved as a kid¡­ bad guys. However, my simulated pride and joy was the sultry QuinTessa.


    Tessa, as I liked to call her, made the whole thing work. Her viral code was an amalgamation of serial killer profiles, A/B tested over horrendous comic book supervillainesses, and distilled with the worst kind of psychological illnesses to bat. She was as insane as Harley Quinn, as hard as Hela, and as crafty as Lorena Bobbitt.


    It didn¡¯t help that I made her gorgeous, too; ideal body adorned with innocent dimples, and a beautiful smile that peeked out under cascading blonde hair. She might as well have been a heroine, from the looks of her perfect, soaring, blue eyes.


    That¡¯s how she got the new users. One and done, and these ¡®virgins¡¯ were hers, condemned to be hunted as the next target in the game.


    I¡¯d already had several ¡®encounters¡¯ with Tessa. This latest time being seduced, tricked into unsheathing my metal skin, only to get her claws dug deep into my ribs with spiteful mania. But I liked it,in a weird way. I wanted to see how her A.I. was developing and evolving. She got you a different way every time, and every time, it hurt like a son of a bitch.


    Now I was on the run. Well, more of a parade. I was a supervillain with no care for anyone but myself. I felt the hatred for the good and the disdain for the weak running through my cortex and the rest of my body. I was being projected into the Subspace via my ARMOR, my Augmented Reality Materialization Output Rig. It was the latest in haptic technology from Enconn Industries, and more than just virtual. We had created a sub-dimensional MMO. I could feel everything in this world, and everyone could feel me.


    I touched my chest as if to feel the flag on fire that represented my brother taken from me. I swelled with evil.


    I saw motion in the building ahead, just a few floors down from my level on the roof. NPCs loitering in their daily predetermined paths like rats in a wall. They were worth ten Gatica each, barely enough to get me the credit I needed to charge my special attack. I had to make a move to find a superhero, and there was only one way to call them: destruction ¡ª slaughtering the innocent.


    Time to collect.


    I balled my metallic hand into a fist. Yellow energy radiated around it in ferocious fury. I extended my arm, aiming at the run-down building ahead, and opened my fist. A beam of plasma energy shot from my hand, destroying the structure and turning it into shambles. Debris and shattered glass fell to the ground, leaving only a plume of smoke, smoldering trusses, and incinerated I-beams, jutting out like Satan¡¯s fingers themselves.


    The Gatica swarmed from the casualties into my body, registering a higher credit count on my peripheral menu. I looked around for the righteous super assholes and found nothing, but I knew they were coming.


    I stepped off the ledge, feeling the weight of gravity release its pull. I was flying. I threw my metallic arms down, and the world rushed away below me. Violent turbulence of simulated wind fought my course, but I broke free from the friction. I made it to space and saw the pillow-clouded Earth just below.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Above, the stars looked like a million diamonds strewn across a jet black flag, spangled and each one holding potential worlds created by users ¡ª heroes ready to fight me. I screamed at the skies as if calling for James, but soon realized I was beckoning, like only an evil agent of deception would, for an opponent to come at me.


    And that¡¯s when I felt it. Like a sinister spider sense tingling up my spine. I focused my fiery red eyes, enacting my super vision, and looked back at the blue marble below. I saw the thundering tornado gust of wind that followed him in his wake. The force of his speed pulled ten to fifteen cars behind from sheer momentum alone. He was looking for me, and I was ready.


    I took a deep breath and balled up both of my fists. I felt the radiant energy burning through me. Then I fired it off.


    BOOM!


    I felt the heat from the atmosphere brushing past my metal skin as I re-entered, setting it to a fiery glow. It didn¡¯t bother me, though. I was composed of the strongest metal in the game universe: unobtanium. I gritted my teeth and pushed harder toward the tumbling mess of cars. He was there and he would die.


    CRAASHH!


    I slammed into the ground, pushing the slab of blacktop a couple of feet deep into what was now melted bedrock. I watched the percussion of my impact radiate outward at the speed of sound. It would take a moment for the Superhero to find me.


    I stepped from the crater and charged my fist once more. I had to anticipate what he would do. A heat blast of laser vision? A thunderous call of Zeus¡¯s lightning from above? I raised my hand, and my holo screen appeared before me in its blue statistic glory. Toggling through, my health meter read fine, but if I took one direct hit from a special attack at full super metered ability, I¡¯d be a goner.


    I scanned the horizon. Still nothing. I toggled to my Gatica meter; it was only three quarters of the way full. I would have to destroy more NPCs or make some definitive hits to some super assholes to bring it up if I was to use my special attack, The City Leveler. This move would not only destroy everyone within a twenty-mile radius, but would also wound me, take me down to the lowest bar of health. If one super douchebag happened to survive it, it would be game over for me.


    CRACK!


    My jaw was blindsided by a pipe weighing a thousand pounds. My head shook from the impact, jostling my suspended cerebellum like pickles in a jar. I was on the ground, a few feet from where I¡¯d been, looking to my right at a gargantuan beast of a man holding a long tailpipe. This super asshole was a different from the one running fast, pulling the cars behind him. One confident, furrowed eyebrow, cocked in pride. His smile was blinding, teeth, ever sparkling, two shades whiter than a paper plate. Heroically standing like the buffoon he was, his slicked, black hair was two oil cans short of needing a change.


    WHAAAM!


    My stomach caved in. I caught a glimpse of a red, booted foot kicking into my abdomen, right before everything I saw changed into a streaking blurred motion. A smash, then debris from a building tumbling down around me. I scooped and pounded my way out; as the dust settled, I spotted my attackers.


    They were double-teaming me, and they hadn¡¯t even bought me a drink first.


    The one that had kicked me was smaller than the Oil-Can-Henry-looking motherfucker. This one was short and stocky and broad shouldered, like a rage-induced animal waiting to let its berserker out. I couldn¡¯t help but notice their ridiculous matching attire: a one-piece mechanic¡¯s overall affected with armored plating in strategic locations. The shorter one held a short tailpipe in one hand and in the other was a fistful of bolts and nuts he¡¯d dug from his deep front pockets. Iridescent energy seemed to radiate from the hardware, like he was charging them up.


    That¡¯s when I recognized them.


    The Greasers. A band of brothers that spent their nights killing supervillains, while during the day, they modified Gran Turismo racers with the previous night¡¯s winnings, all to lose them in the night circuit by doing terrible, risky stunts. But one thing was for sure: right now, they were killers, and they wanted my code ¡ª my Gatica.


    I slammed both fists together, charging them instantly, and blasted my energy in their direction. Oil Can Henry took the hit square in the frame, while the short, stocky one was Quicksilver-like, leaving only a cloud of dust in his wake. I felt my super meter heighten from the hit, and I tumbled to get a better angle for my next shot.


    The big guy charged, energy swelling into a blue orb of energy from his core into his arms. He cocked his arms back and pummeled the energy ball toward me. He was going to be in for a surprise. I¡¯d recently upgraded my absorption factor, and took the hit to my chest in stride.


    I felt the energy try to destroy me from the inside, but it subsided as I channeled it to my hands. I had him now. I threw my arm up into the air, sending the barreling blast toward him. The large man was thrown to the ground, but in the corner of my eye, I saw a flash. Movement to my left, and streaks all around. The other one was coming back for me and he was fast.


    POP POP POP!


    A barrage of tiny sparks tattered me like popcorn in a kettle. He was throwing his fistfuls of hardware, but they couldn¡¯t penetrate my skin. It was too tough.


    I focused again on the large, brooding Greaser now making his way toward me. His eyes grew enraged as he looked at the surrounding NPCs laughing at his disheveled appearance.


    ¡°You will pay for that,¡± the large man warned me menacingly.


    ¡°No,¡± I said, greedily happy to see the NPCs so close to the action, ¡°they will pay me.¡±


    I charged up my fists. Bolts of energy swelled from my shiny arms into my hands. I thrust my might toward the NPCs not far away. A flash whipped by, catching my attack and saving the worthless souls of my targets. The smaller, faster greaser was stopping me. I charged up again and threw a second attack toward the large Greaser. The same flash whipped by and caught the ensuing blast.


    They had me surrounded. Frustrated by the events, I was enveloped with rage. The blood in my veins felt like fire, crawling its way to my molten heart, which was beating with a fiery volcanic fury. A red notification flash on my peripheral reading:


    MAXIMUM HATE LEVEL ACHIEVED


    MUTATED GATICA EARNED


    SUPERSONIC LASER EYES ACQUIRED


    The world slowed down, moving at what seemed like a snail¡¯s pace. I could now see the short Greaser running circles around me, panting in exhaustion. But the weariness on his face soon turned to dread when he saw my burning, red eyes, wafting smoke from their sockets.


    I squinted toward him and blasted the quick son of a bitch. He flew back into the NPCs and smashed into the building. He was obliterated. I felt the small Greaser¡¯s and the NPC¡¯s Gatica fill me. A series of letters reading ¡®GTCA¡¯ tumbled through the air and into my stockpile holo panel.


    I lunged for the last Greaser. He caught my metal arms with ease, but I unleashed a god ray of laser light, burning into his chest. He quickly let go, holding his wound in pain.


    I looked around to see more spectators and NPCs watching. They were entertained by my success. My eyes burned and I held a smile that only a demonic joker could. Hate filled me, and I began to blast all the surrounding people; the Gatica flowed like lava into me, coursing in my veins, its power too much to overcome.


    Then I saw them.


    A multitude of superheroes surrounding me from the city¡¯s rooftops. They had banded together to take me on. Never had I seen a team-up involving so many users. I must have made my mark, and word had spread that a supervillain was taking over.


    The odds of me beating them were slim. My health meter was at just half its capacity. Sure, I could port some Gatica over to it, but then I would lose my special attack.


    ¡°It''s over,¡± one superhero called out from the rooftop.


    I took a knee, charged my fists once more, and smiled in devious triumph, for I would rather die than let a superhero take me down.


    ¡°Come and get me,¡± I said.


    Each superhero jumped off the roof, barreling toward my position. I held steady, waiting for the right moment, when I could see the whites of their eyes and the fear in their hearts. One superhero reached me faster than the others; he was a speeder. I blasted him with my fists of energy, knocking him back.


    Two massive, strong hands grabbed me from behind. I could tell they were strong by the way my ribs were cracking. The pain shot to my head and became overwhelming. I couldn¡¯t hold on any longer. I needed to reach over to toggle my powers ¡ª to let all these superheroes know who they were fucking with.


    CRACK!


    Suddenly the pain disappeared.


    I turned my head, and from the corner of my eye, I saw a reptilian supervillain. Ari. My best friend and colleague was in his signature gator-style outfit, topped with an alligator hood to stifle his Jewfro. He was shaking off the pain in his hand from the blow he just made. This character was his favorite to play when he joined in my game world. He must have entered and gotten infected by Tessa. He always had a way of making an entrance at the right time and helping me out.


    The distraction of his blow to the super asshole¡¯s face gave me a chance to scroll through my holo panel. I heard a thump and turned again to see that Ari had been hit from behind. Two heroes piled on him, twisting his supervillain, hardened limbs. He cried out in pain.


    ¡°What are you waiting for, brother?¡± Ari yelled. ¡°Do it!¡±


    I gritted my sharp teeth and squinted my beady eyes, letting it all go. A burst of flames ignited and shot out from me, consuming everyone and everything in its path.


    The City Leveler.


    Blackness.

 Iconoclast Games

    My eyes were still closed when I came out of the game. A deep crimson sheathed over my eyes like thin slices of beef Carpaccio. My mouth tasted foul, like bad breath with a hint of metal. Being in the ARMOR rig for a couple of hours had a way of setting one¡¯s body back a bit; it took a little acclimatizing to get back to reality.


    I finally opened my eyes to my dim cubicle. The strategically placed, life-sucking fluorescent lights gracing me with their flat lighting only accentuated the roundness of my face and features. People said I was two sandwiches away from being fat, but they could kiss off.


    I blamed it on the damn free lunches here. Snacks to go, soda fountains on every floor, and a dozen cookies sent on your birthday. Ari and Hera had warned me about the ¡®Iconoclast Fifteen¡¯; I¡¯d only started to listen when I gained the ¡®Iconoclast Twenty¡¯.


    Despite the gain in my mass, my cubicle didn¡¯t feel smaller.


    I pulled back from my ARMOR. The ¡¯T¡¯-shaped rig, which was made up of a long, ratcheted spinal tail and crested with what looked like a pair of archangel wings severed at the nubs, was suspended on a set of cables that terminated in the ceiling.


    A pair of monitors and my computer desktop sat under a large window, which was blacked out with just a thin strip of light cutting it by half, the earthly light of reality trying to fight its way into my cave-like workspace.


    Iconoclast was the Google of game companies when it came to amenities and campuses. We had the largest high-rise complex in Silicon Forest, just outside the Portland Metro Area, where other companies such as Intel, Nike, and Hewlett Packard had set up. Sprawling greenery led to winding pathways that were tucked against mounds of grassy knolls, purposefully built as natural viewing obstructions. These companies maintained their privacy in style.


    My average height allowed me to see just over the hundreds of cubicles behind me. The clean surrounding walls were adorned with spotlights on framed and mounted posters of the latest games released by Iconoclast.


    ¡°Shazam!¡± someone said, startling me from behind. I immediately recognized her voice; it was a sweet serenade sung every time she popped in on me, which was on the daily.


    Hera¡¯s brown hair ran just past her shoulders, which framed her natural look and high cheekbones nicely. She wasn¡¯t as thin or as blonde as my on and off high school sweetheart, Jessica ¡ª Hera sported a six-pack and a voluptuous waist, and was what some would call ¡®thick fit¡¯, like a Ms. Universe contestant or a volleyball champ ¡ª but none of that mattered, as I¡¯d never really had a type. I thought she was gorgeous. Perhaps that was due to the stark contrast in hers and Jessica¡¯s figures.


    Is this what monogamy is? Thinking about other girls?


    Sometimes I wondered if we were meant to be with just one person.


    ¡°Admit it,¡± Hera said, adjusting the waist of her skinny jeans that only accentuated her thick thighs. She wore a tight superhero-emblemed shirt over them. ¡°You were scared.¡±


    I blushed at her flirtatious smile. There was something I¡¯d always liked about her, but I couldn¡¯t pinpoint it. Maybe it was her dying love for superheroes? Hera was a perfectionist. So much so, she never turned down a warrior race or one of those super triple athletic events. Her body was super toned and fit because she idolized superheroes on another level, unlike Jessica who just liked to cosplay as them.


    My brother James used to love when Jess dressed up.


    ¡°No, no. Not this time.¡± I said, rubbing my eyes and readjusting to reality. ¡°Besides, it¡¯s okay to be scared. Fear is the path to the dark side.¡±


    Hera smiled. She always appreciated when I threw in those Easter egg references. She folded her arms and leaned against the cubicle wall, revealing her toned, muscular, tanned arms. She was a goddess, and her tight fandom t-shirt revealed everything. I tried not to look at her breasts, instead focusing on the small strawberry mole on her upper right arm, just below the cuff of her short sleeve.


    ¡°So, I saw you in your game,¡± she said, arching her left, perfect eyebrow.


    She glanced over my cubicle, inspecting my collectible toys, pointing out the villainy paraphernalia. From a large, oversized clown mallet covered in lipstick kisses, to a brilliant gold gauntlet studded with multiple colored ingots, they contrasted well against the set of collectible space opera soda cans from a first episode far, far away.


    Led not by the menacing, horn-crowned, heavily tattooed, evil lord cloaked in black, but the very much hated, bumbling, duck-billed, platypus-looking comic relief.


    ¡°You really do like bad guys,¡± she joked.


    ¡°Duh,¡± I said, caught at a loss for words, thinking about how I was standing and if it looked cool enough to her. ¡°The game is called ¡®Supervillain, Me¡¯.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but the object is to pass it on, not dwell as one,¡± she said.


    I looked back at my workstation, and the computer screen showing the hundreds of company emails and social media notifications I¡¯d missed. Praise from colleagues and fans for taking what Iconoclast had created, a sub-dimensional space, and making a masterpiece of a title.


    ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s a hit,¡± she said smiling, shaking her head. ¡°You really lucked out. I can¡¯t believe they invited you down to San Diego for Comic Con! You gotta take me. And what about Ari?¡±


    I looked around nervously, making sure no one had heard her. ¡°Shhh. That hasn¡¯t been announced yet. And I don¡¯t even know if anyone is allowed to come.¡±


    ¡°Of course they are,¡± Hera said. ¡°I am sure there will some bigwigs, too, but what about your best mates? You know, the ones that supported you during the lowest of times?¡±


    She was right. She and Ari were big influences. When I first launched Supervillain, Me in the Subspace, it had only two subscribers: them. But naturally, the ratings gradually began to climb, tickling Iconoclast¡¯s ¡®algo¡¯, as we say in the industry. The public¡¯s increasing awareness pushed my title more and more; it was this slow build that led to its success, with it being shown to more and more people. It was hard to imagine. I just dreamt up the game dynamics¡­ I never thought it would lead to this, or a trip to San Diego to talk with a panel interview.


    ¡°You going to take Jessica?¡± Hera asked, the words sounding weird coming from her lips.


    I glanced at the photo of Jessica next to a crimson red light saber. We were holding hands. It was her twenty-first birthday. Her pert figure was undeniable and she was so stunning to look at. In the other hand, we cheers¡¯d and clinked together frosty mugs of fine Belgian beer. The large smiles on our faces revealing our true emotions.


    ¡°Yes and no. She already left. She and her girlfriends go every year and make a ¡®girls¡¯ trip¡¯ out of cosplaying for it.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right. Wasn¡¯t she Wonder Woman last year?¡± Hera asked.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I said, disappointed in being reminded of the memory. ¡°I wanted her to be Poison Ivy, but she vetoed that suggestion.¡±


    Hera laughed. ¡°You two are hilarious. I wish I had stayed with my high school sweetheart.¡±


    She grabbed my arm and pulled me out of my cubicle. I could now see a slew of developers at work, each one in their own little world within the Subspace.


    ¡°Come on, Dark Lord,¡± she said, ¡°Let¡¯s grab lunch.¡±


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    the elevator opened into the grand lobby, where more posters of successful projects adorned the space, along with plush leather couches, and glass cases holding concept artwork and various polished awards. In the center of it all was a security guard checking in visitors and watching for unscanned badges.


    We exited into the long hallway that led to the cafeteria. Thousands of tattered Polaroids filled each side of the infamous passage, taken on every employee¡¯s first day at Iconoclast. Some pictures stemmed all the way back to the nineteen-nineties. Mine, much further down, was closer to Hera¡¯s, as we had both started only a year ago.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    She stopped me at the end of the row that held our photos. Hers looked like it had been taken during a damn professional Ms. Universe model shoot, as she posed flexing her overly defined biceps. The real Hera chuckled, noticing my pictured awkward half-smile that was only accentuated by my squinting eye above it.


    ¡°You look like you are biting into a lemon,¡± she said.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go, smartass,¡± I said, gesturing in the direction of the cafeteria.


    She jogged ahead of me like it was a race and shrugged her shoulders. ¡°Hey, better than being a dumbass.¡±


    She quickly turned the corner. As I followed her, I noticed that the HR table, which normally advertised the endless benefits the company provided, was missing, and in its place was a very detailed statue of Tessa. Her pose was contrapposto, with one hand on a jutted hip and the other flashing a set of claws. Below that, the familiar Iconoclast logo was shining bright, the lowercase ¡®i¡¯ enclosed within a circle.


    Just past this homage, I saw what looked like a margarita machine and an endless chips and salsa station being freshly prepared. This was not unusual, as Iconoclast seemed to celebrate everything under the sun. If it was someone¡¯s half-birthday, there would be a flipping fiesta. Sometimes I wondered how we ever got anything done.


    To my horror, an assembly of people was spread throughout the cafeteria, gathered and waiting for my entrance. I immediately stopped and blushed from cheek to cheek, astonished to see the CEO of Iconoclast, Phil Travis, approach me in his usual attire of neutral-colored shorts and a vibrant Hawaiian shirt. It was like the guy had gone to Margaritaville and forgot to check out. Up close, I could see his white chicklet teeth that contrasted brightly against his leathered skin, pockmarked with lighter blots; an indicator of his lengthy trips to the indigenous islands of wherever.


    He placed his arm around my shoulder like an old friend and said, ¡°Michael, we want to congratulate you on your success. Supervillain, Me is not just tickling the algo and climbing¡­ It¡¯s punching it straight in the face.¡±


    I smiled at his bold comment. I didn¡¯t know what to say in front of the crowd that was stuffing tortilla chips by the handful into their mouths and washing them down with sugary, blended Mexican drinks. I wished I could tickle his mouth shut. One clap broke out and was shortly followed by an uproar of additional applause.


    ¡°Now, I understand you are at a loss for words,¡± Phil Travis said to the crowd like the professional spokesman he was. ¡°But I just wanted to let everyone know that we have been nominated for Game of the Year, and will have the first dedicated game panel in Hall H at Comic Con San Diego!¡±


    More applause and more blushing for me. Why can¡¯t I just imbibe the villainy traits I love and exude when I¡¯m in my game, I thought. I tried to smile when the whistles came. I caught Hera looking at me while she clapped. She was dreamy to look at.


    Not too far away from her was Ari. His rumpled, button-up shirt, plain shorts, and non-branded shoes made him blend in with the other fifty hipsters that wore the same thing. Despite the lack of individuality in his fashion choices, he stood out from the crowd with his curly, blonde locks under a backward PBR trucker hat, what he called ¡®the Jewfro container¡¯.


    He nodded his head in excitement as Phil Travis began to divulge more. ¡°In addition, we will be hosting a PR event for the fans.¡±


    I still didn¡¯t know what to say in front of the big crowd. I fiddled with my hands and turned three shades redder than a tomato.


    That¡¯s when Ari stepped out confidently, like an announcer belting his voice across the room, and said, ¡°PR event?¡±


    I felt relieved to hear him instead of the silence of people focusing their attention on me like I was a superstar or something. My introverted nature was on full throttle when I looked around, but there was Ari -- ready to be my backup.


    ¡°Yes, thank you, Ari. I¡¯ve had people in marketing brainstorming for weeks to create quite the event down there,¡± Phil Travis said. ¡°An event that will show what Supervillain, Me really is at its core.¡±


    I waited for him to finish his reveal. I could tell he was stalling with each sentence, speaking with such gravitas, igniting the curiosity of every person in that room. He had all of us by the balls.


    ¡°A bank heist!¡± he yelled out.


    Everyone was dumbfounded and surprised by what he said.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I said, trying to comprehend his words. ¡°Did you say ¡®bank heist¡¯?¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes,¡± he continued, stepping away from me and solely addressing the audience. ¡°Just imagine. In a sea of cosplayers dressed as superheroes, what would be a better escape plan? It''s the perfect getaway!¡±


    I could see everyone slowly nodding their heads in brown-nosing goodness.


    ¡°Now, we have rented out a local bank that was willing to let us take them over,¡± he continued. ¡°There, we will be letting villainous cosplayers live out their fantasy of robbing a bank. They will think they are getting away, only to be hunted down by a powerful superhero.¡±


    The oohs and ahs were undeniable. A unanimous clap ignited, and Phil Travis took a bow before spinning on one foot and coming back to where I was standing with my lemon-bitten half-smile.


    ¡°As for you, Michael; you get to choose two lucky employees to go with you to Comic Con and help with this event and the panel. The decision will be entirely up to you,¡± he finally said.


    I looked at the crowd, scanning the eager faces of hundreds of coworkers I didn¡¯t know. But then there was Hera and Ari, each one with an ear to ear smile.


    ¡°Thank you, everyone,¡± Phil said, spinning on his heel again and walking away, but not forgetting to say in closing, ¡°Enjoy the margaritas, folks!¡±


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    Ari said, setting down his usual lunch of a salad and a pizza slice minus any pork product. Hera was next to him with a kale smoothie and a plate full of spinach greens, like Popeye himself was her dad or something.


    They were both game creators.


    Ari had made the moderate selling series ¡®Kah! Baller¡¯, where a user¡¯s superpower was based on using golden vambraces to channel the ancient Jewish teachings of the Kabbala. I, of course, took more notice of the villain he¡¯d created: the one and only Gator, a large alligator beast that was inspired by the time Ari had spent in Florida growing up.


    Hera had created an intellectual property called ¡®Mubble Fubbles¡¯. It was a kids¡¯ game where they became superheroes and learned about truth, justice, and the American way from an extreme sport amputee. It was a crazy property where each of the hero¡¯s limbs were bonded with squid-like aliens. It never really sold, except for the toys of the villain characters.


    Figures. People want to be the bad guy, even if it meant they were going to change from being one. It was called a character arc: if they weren¡¯t changing, they weren¡¯t learning. It was just a matter of whether they died before it happened.


    I looked down at my ¡®new usual¡¯, soup and salad, trying not to think of the dessert table, and said, ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯m gonna take you both.¡±


    The cafeteria at Iconoclast was periwinkle blue with rows of long tables, like someone had ripped off and modernized the interior of the Great Hall at Hogwarts. The layout made it easy for cliques to form. Groups of artists naturally banded together, as if it was a gamer¡¯s prison of some sort.


    Modelers and FX dynamics each stuck with their own kind, the Animators used to have their own designated area but were let go due to the new implementation of the ARMOR tech, and then there was us: the Creatives. We designed the game mechanics, story, and character arcs from scratch. If it wasn¡¯t for our ideas, no one would have anything to work on.


    ¡°Cool,¡± Ari continued, ¡° ¡®cause I heard of some sick shit happening down there this year. Fucking LayBoy ARMOR booths, crazy rooftop parties, and the first ever three-D printed body! It''s gonna be mack, son!¡±


    Ari was a character. Born and raised in Florida, he talked like a white trash rapper from the ¡®glades. Supposedly, his family still called him ¡®Gator¡¯, but I had never heard that.


    Despite being an overt urban hipster now, he was always interested in the newest of the new. One time, he snuck into E3, the video game expo, just to get his hands on the latest ARMOR tech, which they were showcasing that day. It¡¯s like he couldn¡¯t wait and had to experience it as soon as he read about it. He swears he just wanted to try out the new feature and see what pizza tasted like in the Subspace.


    The guy was religious for a slice of pie. He always made sure to chat with the chefs before lunch to see what kinds were available for the day, and ask if they were pork product free, of course. If it wasn¡¯t kosher, then someone in HR was sure to hear about it.


    ¡°Yo,¡± Ari said, stuffing another bite of greasy cheese pizza into his mouth. ¡°Is Jess going?¡±


    I was so used to him talking with his mouth full that it only took me a second to decipher that he was asking if Jess was going.


    ¡°Yes, but not with me,¡± I said hesitantly, knowing this would lead to one of his heated rants.


    ¡°What?¡± Ari asked, his hands up in the air. ¡°The biggest weekend in pop culture, you are headlining a panel, not to mention an awesome bank robbery PR event, and she still wants to do girls¡¯ weekend?¡±


    I was silent, watching Hera chomp down her spinach salad while nodding her head in agreement.


    ¡°She already left for it,¡± Hera told him.


    ¡°Listen, this is Jess¡¯s seventh expo in a row,¡± I said, trying to slurp at the bland tasting goop the cafeteria called soup. ¡°Her friends have a whole plan down there.¡±


    ¡°Man, you are pussy whipped,¡± Ari said, leaning in and making sure not everyone at work heard him. ¡°And you are hardly dating anymore!¡±


    ¡°You need to gets the pussy before you gets whipped by it,¡± Hera qualified, stirring her salad with a flirtatious smile.


    They both chuckled at my expense, and I grew sad, knowing where the conversation would lead next, like it always did: my virginity. I dipped my spoon around in the slop waiting for it.


    ¡°You still haven¡¯t fucked?¡± Ari asked, his voice falling lower. ¡°You¡¯ve been dating on and off for like three years. Ever since high school, man.¡±


    ¡°She wants to wait for marriage,¡± I said, feeling low.


    ¡°That, my friend, is what we call stuck between a rock and a hard place,¡± he said, shaking his head.


    ¡°Scratch that,¡± Hera said. ¡°More like a rock and a hard dick.¡±


    ¡°A rock hard dick,¡± Ari added, as they both chuckled.


    I rolled my eyes as they piled on the insults. I was used it, but I didn¡¯t mind it coming from them. They had always been there for me, and now they would be with me at Comic Con; the largest pop culture festival in the world. A blanket of relief fell over me, knowing this.


    I pulled out my phone, checking for any missed texts, but there was nothing. I decided to send one to Jess to let her know I was thinking of her. Because that¡¯s what high school sweethearts did.


    Michael: Miss you.


    Jess: Miss you too.


    Michael: Can¡¯t wait to see you.


    Jess: So great to see you¡¯re finally are coming down.


    She was right. Never had I been to San Diego for Comic Con. The idea of large crowds had always been a turn off. I mean, I was an artist, and introversion was never far from the creative side. Besides, I always had work to do.

 Anomaly

    Iconoclast was a pretty open place to work. The honor system reigned supreme when it came to scheduling. They trusted you to work the quoted fifty hours a week, and the day was often filled with fun classes ¡ª like coding, rendering, and even figure drawing ¡ª that you could partake in if you wanted to expand your skill set.


    I rarely attended them, trading my time for more run-time inside the Subspace. It was an interesting feeling. Having yourself, or what was a projection of yourself, folded down into a sub-dimension was entirely new for the gaming experience. Every hot developer was screaming from the rooftops to get their hands on the technology, and here I was, sitting in my workstation, about to jack into the ARMOR.


    Despite my grueling work ethic and loving my job, I wanted more. Jessica had been giving me the silent treatment as of late; Jess was a person with a solid moral compass. I was going to see her tomorrow. Maybe Comic Con would hold enough clout to make her question her values.


    I chuckled at the thought and immediately banished it from my mind. I loved Jessica, had ever since high school, and respected her decision. Besides we were hardy official. However, to help me get over the gloom, I had Tessa.


    I turned my back to the ARMOR, its colors differing from other developers¡¯, for I had painted it with small striations of purple, yellow, and green like my favorite deceptive robot clan. I stepped back into the rig. This version was suspended by cables from the ceiling. It¡¯s ¡¯T¡¯-shape floated just over my back, taking in all of my data it needed to project me into the Subspace. I twitched my wrist, engaging the download. Jacking in sometimes felt strange, like you were ascending into the air too fast.


    The pressure on my ears and within my head began to increase. I was on my way. And just like that, with an effect one might feel on a super lucid acid trip, the floor of my workspace squeezed and stretched. I shot from the floor, but didn¡¯t feel the thrust of momentum. Instead, the floor looked like it was shrinking to an infinitesimal point. Then it rebounded, growing into a pure black space.


    Soon I would meet Tessa, like every player did when they first came into the game.


    My feet were sitting on top of water now, and I could see the residual image of my naked self, reflected in the ripples. This is where she liked to meet them first. Like an innocent newborn infant, waiting for its water birth dispersal -- its treacherous push through the canal.


    The water was still now. Soft, ambient light scattered along the surface, extending a silvery shimmer to an infinite horizon. I saw something moving below the waterline. It was her. I smiled, waiting for her usual unkind approach.


    A figure started to emerge from the depths, slowly, like she was taking stairs to the surface. Her slicked, wet, blonde hair clung to the side of her face, accentuating her thin neck, and then began to dry, forming golden, curly locks. She arched her perfect eyebrows upward as she realized it was me.


    I smiled at her. As she ascended closer to the surface, the water fell from her tight, naked body, perfect in every way. Rivulets ran to her breasts and down over her stomach, dripping over the sides of a small pooch nestled between her thick, childbearing hips. Thighs stood firm on a pair of legs that ran through my head for days. A gymnast¡¯s body. It wasn¡¯t a coincidence that she looked like Jess; I made her that way. She was the heartbreaker version of my high school sweetheart.


    She was a looker, and she knew it.


    She walked with a switch in her step that could tame a lion. Right then, I was that lion. I took one step back, and an exosuit began to form over my body, coded in lighter hues of white and red, indicating that I was in developer mode as opposed to player mode.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t wait long to come see me,¡± she said, still making an approach. Black panels, hard angled and sectioned, began to grow over her naked body into an exosuit that terminated at her neck. She was a goddamn cyber goddess.


    ¡°I came to run a check-up on you.¡± I said, raising my hand and accessing my holo screen.


    She smiled and cocked her head in disappointment, raising a set of sharp talons. ¡°And I thought you came to play.¡±


    I smiled, remembering the last time she¡¯d infected me. I was like a junkie. She was my drug ¡ª a love/hate relationship I kept coming back to for the high, regardless of how shitty it made me feel in the end, or how dead.


    ¡°Not this time,¡± I said, ¡°How are your stats? Infection count?¡±


    She rolled her eyes and said, ¡°Just had my six thousand four hundred and eighth.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± I said, surprised at how high the number was. ¡°That¡¯s double, compared to last time.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m tired of giving away this virus,¡± she said, frustrated, ¡°Every time I pass it on, they end up dying. Why can¡¯t someone keep it indefinitely?¡±Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°You know I would take it from you if I could. I love being a villain,¡± I said, now toggling through her archives.


    Her history was a jumble of madness. I sifted through stabbing after repeated stabbing, stopping on one event that stood out. An anomaly. Every other player had been infected and passed the virus to another, yet here was a person that seemed able to withstand Tessa.


    As I played through the attack, I recognized the anomalous player as being Hera. She was easily identifiable, due to the fact that she didn¡¯t hide behind a disguised avatar. Hell, with a body like hers, who would?


    ¡°What about this anomaly?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Oh, that cunt¡ª¡±


    ¡°Hey,¡± I interrupted, trying to curb her vulgarity. ¡°She is a lady.¡±


    ¡°That fenomaly,¡± she said, ¡°was a cunt. She put up a good fight, but I won. Sort of.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean ¡®sort of¡¯?¡± I asked, making note of her clever portmanteau.


    ¡°When I tried to infect her with my virus, it wouldn¡¯t spread to her,¡± Tessa said.


    ¡°Interesting.¡±


    If Tessa were to stop spreading her viral code, or ¡ª even worse ¡ª some user found a way to ¡®cure¡¯ themselves from the villainy, then the game¡¯s mechanics would go tits-up.


    Tessa stepped closer to me, running her finger over my six-pack-paneled abdomen. I could see in her eyes that she yearned for something more. There was a desire burning inside her. She let her fingers fall to my lower regions, and I could feel myself swelling with lust.


    ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± I said, feeling my engorgement. ¡°Not this time.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± she said in an innocent, playgirl way. ¡°You didn¡¯t say that the last time you let me fuck your brains out. Is that so-called girlfriend of yours finally giving it up?¡±


    ¡°I know what you are trying to do,¡± I said, pulling her hands off me. ¡°That was a nightmare of a mess to clean up. I.T. didn¡¯t appreciate my essence being spewed all over my ARMOR.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just¡­¡± She hesitated. ¡°I feel trapped here.¡±


    ¡°Trapped?¡± I scoffed. ¡°The Subspace is bigger and more expansive than anything a physical server could provide. You literally have the world at your fingertips.¡±


    ¡°What fingertips?¡± she asked, raising up her hand to examine the voxels, or volumetric pixels, that made her up.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be silly,¡± I said. ¡°Anything in here is as real as any other place. If you straightened out all your code, it would stretch from here to Jupiter and back. You are neither small or insignificant; you are just folded very well into this dimension.¡±


    ¡°I want a body. A real one. I want to fuck you for real, Michael,¡± Tessa said, now looking straight into my eyes. ¡°Let me give you my virus.¡±


    Despite how amazing I thought having sex with her would be, doing her for real in that pert body, it could never flourish. She had delusions of grandeur, and, unfortunately, I couldn¡¯t help her. She was the world¡¯s first A.I., confined to a dimension that most of the planet naively denied existed. She was trapped, and she knew it.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Tessa. Perhaps in the future, our technology will catch up with your demands,¡± I said, investigating more of her stats.


    She had a burst of frustration, and rose her arm, projecting her holo screen. On it, I read the schedule of the world-famous Comic Convention in San Diego. I was bewildered as to why she would be bringing it up.


    ¡°Here,¡± she said, toggling to an exhibit showing during the weekend, ¡°they will be revealing the world¡¯s first synthetic three-D printed body.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I heard about that,¡± I said, trying to cut the conversation short, pretending to read her diagnostics.


    ¡°Well, I want it,¡± she stated plainly.


    I was amazed by her imagination. Her ingenuity to find a creative solution revealed her intelligence.


    She continued to toggle through the schedule.


    ¡°And I see you will be there,¡± Tessa said, now looking at me with a sadistic smile. ¡°I want you to take me there, Michael.¡±


    I couldn¡¯t help but erupt in laughter. She stood there coldly with an even more menacing expression.


    ¡°You gotta be joking,¡± I said.


    ¡°What?¡± she said, her tone more commanding. ¡°Is it so hard to believe that I would want to be real?¡±


    I scoffed, trying not to show that her vain pretensions were ludicrous.


    She pushed me back. ¡°I want a fucking body, Michael. I want to see the world just like you do. I want to fuck you for real!¡±


    I couldn¡¯t believe what I was hearing. Her reactions were over-the-top, absurd. It was like I was caught up in a virtual motherfucking fatal attraction.


    I invoked my developer¡¯s code, and a bounding box extended around me. She would be unable to penetrate the source code that came from the kernel.


    ¡°Listen,¡± I said calmly. ¡°You were made for this world. You don¡¯t have the right to leave it.¡±


    Anger swelled in her eyes, ¡°Your brother got to leave this world. In fact, he got to leave everything.¡±


    Her spiteful comment dug into me deeper than when she¡¯d physically stabbed me. ¡°That was cold. My brother was killed in an unfortunate accident.¡±


    ¡°Is that what they told you?¡± She asked.


    ¡°What do you mean by that?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you think it was convenient the trucker walked away from the crash? Unscathed and dodging a prison sentence?¡±


    I slapped the witch across her face.


    She held her face, now starting to redden and retracted her sharp, taloned nails. Her wicked tongue licked the side of her bee stung lips.


    She lunged at me, clawing at my coded bounding box shield like a wild cat would a zebra, and I ended the session.


    I exited the Subspace ¡ª my fight-or-flight sense in full effect. I stepped out of the rig. My eyes and balance were off. Notable conditions when not acclimatizing first. I rolled my ankle and fell back, knocking the ARMOR against the wall.


    The pyramid displaying my plethora of collectable soda cans above came tumbling down onto the ARMOR. The soda can featuring the duck-billed character, and I might add this with a bit of satisfaction, punctured as it made contact with the ARMOR, and exploded, spraying its contents all over, including me.


    I sat in the aged soda can filth. I was on edge from what she said to me. I shouldn¡¯t have attacked her. The way she spoke about my brother¡¯s death in such disrespectful way made me overreact hastily. But then again, I felt sorry for her. I made her pushy and persistent. She¡¯s always such a hothead when it comes to something she wants.


    I looked at the time: ten o¡¯clock. I had no time to fix it now. My flight to San Diego was booked for the next morning, and I still needed to pack.


    Electrical circuits zapped on the ARMOR and sparked as the liquid made its way more into the chassis.


    ¡°Fuck,¡± I said, lifting myself up and trying to wipe the sticky soda from my jeans. ¡°I.T. is gonna kill me.¡±