I GET ANOTHER ping as soon as I leave the library. Sherman, this time.
Got something to show you. You free?
She’s saved as S in my contacts. I’d give her a more inspired nickname (try Severe Smile Allergy, or Super-but-she-keeps-it-secret-expi-ali-docious), only Lyssa’s perfected the art of snooping over my shoulder while I’m texting.
Plus, after last night … I’ve seen Sherman smile now. I’d better cross the Allergy joke off my list, or at least bump her down to Laughter Intolerant.
Right now, anything to keep me away from home is welcome. Especially if it gives me a break from worrying about Jav. I tell Sherman to meet me back at my apartment, then race her there so I can grab my helmet (hidden under my laundry pile: the one place safe from prying sisters). Sherman arrives five minutes after I do. I hear the rumble of her bike just as I’m rushing out again, past the closed bathroom door—
“Hi Lyssa, bye Lyssa!”
No reply. I find out why as we ride down the street, passing Lyssa on the way. She’s coming out of Jesús’s corner store, slipping her Skittles bag into her backpack. I go to wave—then remember I look like some rando in a motorcycle helmet. She doesn’t look up.
Sherman pulls up outside the bar suckered onto the side of the Crow Building, above the rooms where we had initiation. I climb off the bike after she dismounts.
“Are we doing extra training or something?”
My mind helpfully supplies an image of us in the shiny silver underground range. She could, like, stand behind me, show me how to line up a shot. Position my arms and stuff. It’d be real educational—even if we’re supposed to miss the heroes, it’d make me feel more confident if I knew I could send them to sleep at a squeeze of a trigger.
Sherman shakes her head. “You’ll see.”
There’s a buzz about her today. Reminds me of those pre-eco bulbs that hum and vibrate when you turn them on. I hesitate when she leads me not toward the Crow Building but the bar beside it—only Sherman drags off her helmet to shoot me this expectant look that’s probably the closest she comes to spaniel eyes, and I find myself trotting along.
The weather today is what Javira Thesaurus Neita might describe as stultifying. No airflow. A hummock of trash bags melts off the edge of the sidewalk, so hot the air above them wobbles like the stink lines in a cartoon. You can taste their contents from several feet away.
The bar is named Meera’s, according to the unlit neon sign out front. The alley that snakes around its backside is pleasantly shady, if you can overlook the mildew crawling over the old, crumbly bricks. An extraction fan coughs humid puffs of steam. The march poster I noticed on our first day already looks mushy at the edges. By the protest, it’ll have rotted away.
“Are we skipping the front entrance just to be dramatic?” I ask.
Sherman shakes her head. “Only people who use the front entrance are those we don’t want in here.”
“We?”
She slow-blinks. “Henchmen?”
Right. Because the bar sits right next to the Hench HQ, and us lackeys need our leisure time. I fiddle with my pockets (woefully devoid of ID) but no bouncer guards the gate. It should surprise precisely nobody that henchmen aren’t sticklers about the legal drinking age. Sherman raps twice on a metal door beneath the extractor fan, at which point a slot shoots open and a voice rasps out:
“Password?”
“Can’t remember, since you change it every day.” Sherman switches to booting the door. “Lemme in, Meera.”
“That’s not the password.”
“Lemme in before I rub Mr. Bojingles on your truck, you anaphylactic ass.”
That seems to suffice. Bolts clunk and click like castanets. The door swings wide, revealing a lanky scarecrow of a woman, her bony hip cocked to bar our entrance. She’s South Asian and seriously punky, with a buzz cut, a pink sari, and huge geometric earrings. No mask in sight.
When I peer past her, I see the same goes for several of the patrons. Men, women, and more sit around wooden tables that look hefty enough to tip on their sides and use as cover in a firefight. I count a few holograms, but most folk seem comfy enough to show their true faces.
And what a variety of faces there are. Every age, every skin tone, every shape. Looking from the hollow-cheeked white woman nodding off in the corner to the plump Latinx guy stimming excitedly while telling his squad about some upcoming advance in holosuit tech, it seems wild that heroes and villains treat us like we’re the same cloned minion as soon as we activate our masks.
“C’mon in,” says the woman—Meera? “Gang’s all here.”
It looks borderline derelict from the outside, but once you step through the door, her bar rocks this goofy old-fashioned diner vibe, checkerboard terrazzo and green leather seats. The building has a narrow floorplan that reminds me of a trailer home, like it could roll away one night only to pop up on the far side of the city. A no cats sign, hand-painted on a splintered chunk of ply, hangs over the counter.
The air tastes stale and smoky, though it hasn’t been legal to light up at bars since the ’90s. Boozy, too, of course. Makes my scalp prickle, my skin crawl—but my lungs have yet to start scrunching shut on themselves, so, y’know. That’s nice.
“Hey, Sherman!” A holler, from the seats that barricade the front door. “Thought you got yourself fired?”
Sherman halts in front of the counter. She sinks into this parade-rest stance that they must teach all the kids on the Super Squad fast track: shoulders flat, chin up, every disc in her spine stacked. I stay a pace behind, lurking in the entranceway. Judging by the angle, Meera and I are the only ones who can see how tight her fists are clenched behind her back.
She’s nervous. Why are we here again? It can’t just be to hang out. Obviously, I’m awesome, and anyone would be lucky to bask in my presence, but Sherman’s on a stratospheric level of cool. Not even my ego can convince me that the biker chick with Maleficent cheekbones is dragging me around for the company.
Sherman flexes out her fingers. Drops her hands to her sides.
“It’d take more than that to scare me away.” She scans the crowd. Meera’s is jam-packed for such a run-down hole in the mid-afternoon. “We all know things need to change. And we all know how we can make that change happen. Only question left is, who’s willing to stand up and help?”
Of course—this is about the march. Still can’t quite believe I signed up for that. But when Sherman turns, studying each member of her audience, I remember why.
It’s just … her. Something about her—the way she holds herself, that sense of energy humming underneath her skin. She’s a glass bottle wrapped around a lightning bolt. I can’t look away. Judging by the hush, neither can anyone else.
“I can’t do this alone,” she says, real quiet. I don’t dare breathe, in case I miss a word. “None of us can. I bet you’ve all heard plenty of bullshit about unions: that they’re a scam, they’re corrupt, they’re—” Here come the finger quotes. “Anti-American. But at the end of the day, a union is nothing to fear. It’s just a way of leveling the power imbalance between us and our boss. It gives us a platform to stand on, together. You’re all here because you’re interested in joining, or in being a part of this protest, so, uh.” A jerky shrug, a hint of a scowl. There’s my Sherman. “If you got questions, now’s the time, I guess. Let’s hear ’em.”
One of the masked henchmen at the back of the room shoots their hand up so fast it risks catching light. “We’re criminals. How do we even form a union? Don’t think our rights are covered in the Constitution.”
That’s a point. Meera saunters past me to lean on the bar, grabbing a chipped glass and subjecting it to a polish. The squeak of her cloth and jangle of her bangles provide a rhythmic backing track to Sherman’s reply:
“Look at it like this. The Crow Corporation did their job of pretending to be a legit enterprise a bit too well. All of our contracts say we’re some form of blue-collar worker, right? Sanitation or drivers or general miscellaneous employees. And while the guys at Teamsters don’t want any association with our actual organization”—presumably on account of the whole “suit up after dark and commit crimes” thing—“they’ve been real helpful in getting our home-brewed union up and running.”
I don’t know what Teamsters are. Sounds worryingly like a sports club. Still, this might be the most I’ve heard Sherman say in one sitting, and the last thing I want her to do is to stop.
“They taught us how to do things right,” Sherman continues. “So we did. We showed we had majority support, negotiated for a union contract, the works. But our boss won’t listen. They know, at the end of the day, we can’t demand a proper election from the city council. Not without putting ourselves under way too much scrutiny.”
“So, what do we do?” calls another henchman, from the crowd.
“Well, we can’t unionize Hench legally.” Sherman’s mouth ticks up at one side. “But I don’t think any of us have a problem going against the law. We’ve made an informal union, without official recognition or support.”
The first henchman snorts. “Good thing we’re not used to getting either.”
I nod along, despite having worn a holomask for barely a week. We’re the ugly secret, the zit under Sunnylake’s skin. The ones who tip off the heroes, then get beaten up in thanks. No one ever looks at us. But maybe, if enough of us join the march, that’ll change. Maybe everything will.
“Right,” says Sherman. “We’re disposable, to the VC and the Super Squad alike. But we provide a service. And whether our employers are CEOs or villains, if they want our labor, they need to make it worth our while to keep providing it.”
Point. I’d like to see a villain set up their own giant laser. With or without the instructions.
“We’re going to march for the money to support ourselves and our families,” Sherman continues. Now the words fill her chest, projected to the back of the room. “But also to demand better treatment. Injury payment. Better organization. The incident at the observatory would never have gotten out of hand if our client had given us a detailed overview of his goals beforehand. We could’ve workshopped our entire operation, figured out a plan of attack…”
And—what? Killed Amelia sooner?
That thought jolts the pink-tinted glasses off my nose. Another henchman speaks up so I don’t have to: a guy with graying cornrows. Judging by the gauze taped to his cheek, he got on the wrong side of a piece of the observatory roof. “The more efficient we get, the worse the damage.”
“But that’s half the problem! On every job, we stall and we mess things up and we mitigate the damage. We do the heroes’ and the villains’ jobs, for minimum wage. That can’t sit right with any of you!” Sherman’s voice dips; she averts her glare to the floor. Everyone leans in, holding their breath. Anticipating her next words. “I’m not pretending this is the perfect answer. But someone has to do something. And, like I said, I can’t do it alone.”
Her words reflect off the smoky windows, the array of multicolored bottles behind the bar, and every face that’s turned toward her. Echoing on and on, in all of us.
She’s won me over. Even though I know she’s a Super, with more in common with the villains and heroes than anyone else in this room. Would the others support her if they knew, too?
That doesn’t matter. Sherman’s doing something good. Something amazing. We all feel the electrical charge in the air, the excitement, the hope.
One henchman shuffles through the crowd, handing out leaflets, while another crosses to join Sherman. Her union buddies, I figure: the ones who helped her plan this, before she got fired. It makes my chest flutter to be counted among them. The kids at the top of the cafeteria pecking order have invited me to sit at their table.
The newcomer has a shaved head, amber skin, broad shoulders, and a yellow Etsy-looking they/them pin on their jacket. A tattoo of a purple orchid blooms on their left hand, which I only notice because that same hand settles on Sherman’s shoulder.
“So far,” they tell the assembled henchmen, “every time we’ve passed these requests up the chain of command, we’ve heard radio silence. We need something far larger to catch our employer’s attention. To prove we mean business.”
Sherman gives their knuckles a welcoming pat. “Some of you are already part of the union,” she says. “But for all the others, no matter how new…” Her gaze lingers on me. I have this sudden temptation to turn on my mask, if only to conceal my flush. Warm in here, with so many bodies packed together. “I’d ask you to join us, in uniform, at Sunnylake’s living wage march. Henchmen need to be more visible. We need to take control of the narrative that’s told about us, by media and heroes and villains alike.”
I nod. Oh, yes. I am ready to control that narrative. Whatever that means.
“And if our demands aren’t met?” That’s the snoozy woman. Sherman’s speechifying must’ve woken her up. I’m surprised it had the same effect on me. Politics, the sort of senate-level stuff Jav blogs about, always seems too big and far away. But this? It’s close to the chest. It’s personal. And, like every henchman here, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to see this through.
Sherman’s mouth curls at one edge like the claw of a cat. “Simple,” she says. “The henchmen go on strike.”
… Except that.
A bubble has been swelling up within me since I stepped through Meera’s back door. Puffing me out, making me larger than I am. Growing with every one of Sherman’s words.
At that, it bursts.
“Wait, what?” asks the guy with the bandaged cheek. “How are we supposed to get by if we’re not working? I need this money for more than Meera’s shitty overpriced beer. No offense, Meera.”
“Offense taken,” says Meera. By now, she’s powered through twenty glasses, constructing a ziggurat of squeaky-clean tumblers. They split the light into rainbows, painting the wooden counter. “But you don’t have to worry. Given everything I’ve heard from you guys, the villains can’t wipe their own asses. It’ll be a week max before they beg you guys to come back.”
The lumberjack takes a gulp of his drink (evidently, not shitty or overpriced enough to be off-putting). “Or they fire us all.”
“Do that and they have no one. Anyway, look at me.” Sherman spreads her arms. “I got fired. I walked right back in the next day.”
“Some of our union organizers have contacted local foodbanks,” adds her buddy with the they/them pin. “They’re aware of an upcoming influx in demand. We have a small fund for members—but at the end of the day, if we succeed? It’ll be worth a couple days without pay.”
“Max’s right.” Sherman tips them a nod. “Anyone know when the first strike was?”
Didn’t realize there would be a pop quiz. Still, I’ve never been good at leaving silences to fester, so when no one offers an answer, I’m obliged to peel open my dry mouth: “The seventies?”
Sherman stares at me.
“… I saw Pride, okay? If they haven’t made a hit box-office film of it, I don’t care.”
“It was in ancient Egypt,” says Max, leaning their shoulder against Sherman’s. Obviously, the two of them have rehearsed their talking points. I find myself wondering, looking at the two of them, just how well they know each other. Is Max one of Sherman’s old teammates? Something more? Not that it’s any of my business. “The pyramid builders refused to work until they were fed.”
That’s a bit further back than expected. “Huh.”
“Story old as time,” says Sherman. “The little guys stand up for themselves, and the big guys cave. Otherwise, guillotines get built.”
It sounds like she means it. That’s the worst thing. I reblog every Eat the Rich post that crosses my Tumblr dash, but I don’t keep cutlery on hand. Anyway, back then, the big guys didn’t have Superpowers.
Sherman must notice the sweat sheen on my forehead. She nibbles her lip, then shrugs Max off, turning back to her crowd. “Don’t you want to go to work knowing your mission objective won’t change halfway through the night? Don’t you want to be sure your families will get some sort of compensation if Brightspark turns you into a vegetable?”
Only that’s the problem. Can’t she see? She’s pitting us against Supers far more formidable than Brightspark. It’s one thing to head to city hall and chant slogans for our nonexistent rights in the hope someone in power takes notice. It’s another to actively piss off the Villain Council. To walk out on work and expect them to retaliate with smiles and handshakes, not fireballs. Fireballs like the one that killed Amelia.
The burst bubble leaves a sucking singularity in my chest. It drains me of all thoughts but this distant sense of doom, like the strings holding up the sky might snap.
“Join the march,” says Sherman, glaring out across the barroom floor. “Join the strike. Don’t cross the picket lines. We’ll get what we’re owed, on the other side.”
Her voice still has that resonance to it; I feel it to the core of my bones. First thought: Sherman is seriously badass. Second, third, and fourth-through-fortieth thoughts: Sherman has considerably more bicep than brain. And if she follows this strike plan through to its finish, she’ll get herself killed—along with every other sucker in this bar.