I roll around on the couch in an effort to make my wallet a little more accessible. “I have a ten in my back pocket. I’d do two slices of the chicken vodka parm.”
They don’t respond to my request at first. There’s a few moments of silence, followed by the quiet taps of someone typing. I wonder if they’re pulling up the online menu.
“They do vodka parm slices? That sounds good, let’s get a whole pie of that,” the agitated one mutters, sounding a little more relaxed. Maybe he’s just the hangry sort.
The couch cushions shift as the one near me gets up, asking me, “Do they do good garlic bread? I can’t stand it when they don’t put enough garlic on it.”
“We’re not getting garlic bread again,” the hangry one of them hisses as the footsteps move away from me in the room. I get the impression it’s a pretty large space, at least. Every little noise echoes off the big metal walls and floor. “Stop talking to the hostage. Your little news anchor crush is going to get us in trouble.”
“Uh, no, you’re thinking of the girl from Channel 10. Sits behind a desk and reads the traffic report, makes all the street names sound British,” the one that was sitting with me before deflects. “Laura Beckingworth or something.”
I have to withhold a little snort. I’m not competitive with Laura Beckingham, but I’m a little glad I’m not the only one who’s had that thought. Even if the only other person who shares it is some supervillain’s lackey.
“Why’d the boss want her anyway? He said she was key for something.”
“Do you not know about Lacey Vigil?”
“The weather correspondent?”
“Her boyfriend’s Steel Heel. She gets kidnapped like once a week.”
“More like every month, but basically, yeah,” I call over, because if I have to listen to this conversation I might as well bea part of it. I can’t stand to listen to people talk about me. “And he’s not my boyfriend anymore.”
Their conversation falls quiet for a moment and then continues on in hushed whispers after. I roll my eyes under the blindfold and blow out a breath.
Whatever, I wasn’t trying to make friends or anything, I guess.
The henchmen mumble back and forth for a while, I can tell they’re back to discussing their job and whatever their boss’s plan is when they turn the TV up to cover their voices. It works at first, and between the delay between the sounds from the TV and the sounds of the showdown outside, it’s all starting to give me a little headache trying to pay attention to what’s happening.
Tuning out from the fight, I wriggle around on the couch, maneuvering into a lying down position that’s a little easier on my back. An hour or so passes trying to get comfortable, the couch feeling cheaper by the minute.
I don’t always catch my ex’s fights anymore. I know a lot of people find them interesting, but he always wins. And I don’t really want to bear witness to it if—for once—he doesn’t.
There’s something sharp sticking out of the back of one of the cushions, like a broken spring. When I drag my arm against it, the broken edge feels sharp, but not enough to cut through the tape on my wrists. I sigh and try to roll my wrists as far apart as they will go, stretching the tape thinner.
Carefully, I brush the binding against the broken spring beneath me, again and again. I think I’m getting somewhere; with every pass I feel a little more room between my wrists.
I still when I realize the henchmen’s whispering about the plan has become a little bit heated, their voices louder thanthe TV. I think I can tell them apart, but I find myself second guessing if I actually can. It’s a lot like the first time you listen to a podcast, and you have no idea what the hosts look like yet.
“What do you mean you don’t remember phase two?” one hisses, and I hear a smack.
“Dude, if I don’t have to take point, I’m not paying that kind of in-depth attention.” The one that took the gag off me scoffs. “Just fill me in.”
“This is why he doesn’t let you out more. You’re so—”
“No one gets to lecture me but Maes—” He cuts off with a grunt, and the sound of someone shoving him. But half a syllable is enough.
They’re Maestro’s guys. Good to know, even if I’m not surprised it’s none other than Steel Heel’s nemesis.
“You guys should unionize,” I call out, because I can’t help myself.
“Shut up,” the one with an attitude barks across the room at me, then mutters, “Ugh, the pizza guy’s here. You deal with him.”
Everyone who lives in Goethal knows the name Dr. Maestro for his villainy, the ooze he unleashed upon the city sewers and surrounding ecosystems after he was fired from Steel Industries. Tabloids have printed a few blurry photographs of his minions flying through the night, scaling down building sides, or lurking in dark alleyways. There’s a CCTV clip of one with a long tail doing warm-up stretches on a rooftop near the Steel Spire. No one’s sure what they’re doing, but once every few news cycles, someone mutated by the ooze goes on a rampage and starts destroying city property, endangering and injuring people.
Clayton has told me the things most people don’t know—from when Dr. Maestro was an employee at Steel Industries more than a decade ago. He’d used company equipment and proprietary research to fuel his illegal and unethical experiments. When Clayton tried to stop him, Maestro took his wrath out not just against him, but every innocent in Goethal.
Steel has always felt personally responsible for the fallout. It’s why he puts himself in danger—to fight these monsters attacking the city. I’ve tried to get him to talk about his feelings about it, if not to me, to a therapist, a friend, someone. He still hasn’t found the time, not while crime fighting and dealing with the lawsuits his company is facing from the ecological disasters his ex-employee created; he’s diligently working to clean up the mess.
