Chapter 50

At the gate, Nebraska hands her Legacy ID to the Surly Security Guards and announces that we’re her guests. The guards subject us to an invasive pat-down. They even make us take off our shoes, and they wave a metal detector wand over us.

We don’t carry any bags, but they search our pockets. They ignore Finn’s letter in my pocket but pull out a silver flask from the oversized right front pocket of Nebraska’s butterfly-printed romper.

“No liquids over 100 milliliters in the VZ,” a guard says, shaking the flask so that its contents slosh within. “You’ll have to dispose of it if you want to enter.”

Nebraska liberates her flask, twists open the cap, and downs her libation in one continuous swallow.

She probably has the tolerance of a team of oxen, so I don’t worry that she’ll cause a drunken scene. A Manic Pixie scene, maybe, but those are so delightful.

At least we don’t have to wait in a ginormous line. We’re the only people requesting entry, and the approximately forty-seven guards look extremely bored.

Customs officials issue us VZ visitor passes with our names and Trope designations to wear on lanyards around our necks. Because she’s Legacy, Nebraska gets a gold rope lanyard while Zelda and I have to slum it with standard-issue white string.

Once we clear the screening process, a guard leads us to the visitor’s walkway. The enclosed steel catwalk loops around the inside of the wall with an intricate system of ladders that leads down to ground level and up to guard towers. From this vantage point, we have a bird’s-eye view of the entire Villain Zone, which, aside from its preponderance of bunkers, appears to be a fairly normal town.

“Your pass unlocks any gate to which you have access,” the guard explains. He’s young and tough with a buzz cut and an angry pink scar across his neck. Excellent grammar though.

“I know my way around,” Nebraska says by way of dismissal. He salutes her and retreats back into the guard station.

As we walk, Nebraska points out various villainous landmarks—the Bounty Hunter Bar, the High-Roller Casino, the Inn of No Return, and the Wax Museum Morgue.

I shiver. We don’t need to extend our sightseeing to include any of those venues. “Where’s the jail?” I ask Nebraska.

“All in good time. First there’s something else I want to show you.”

I’d like to demand that she take us directly to George, but Zelda and I are pretty much at Nebraska’s mercy. Maybe this blackmail plan wasn’t as clever as we thought it was.

Finally, she unlocks the sixth gate we come to (yes, I’m counting—in case we need to make a quick escape), and we take the ladder down, Nebraska ahead of us. When we get to the bottom, Nebraska turns and knocks on the door.

Zelda takes advantage of this distraction to mouth, “What is happening?”

I shake my head to indicate I have no idea.

A tall man in a linen suit and Panama hat opens up and flashes us a genuine smile. “Welcome to the Trope Museum,” he says in a vaguely European accent. “I am Milton, and I will be your guide today.”

Purely on the basis of where he works, I know he has to be some sort of criminal type, and judging from his dapper style and cultured bearing, I’m going to guess Art Thief or Con Man.

He retrieves a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses from his shirt pocket and examines our passes. “Ah, Manic Pixies. Your visit cannot be a coincidence.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Nebraska asks.

“If I followed the rules, I would not tell you. But luckily for you three, I have anarchist tendencies.” He twirls his mustache. “The Council sent a memo about you. The Trope Museum is preparing your exhibit—the final resting place for the Manic Pixie Dream Girl Trope.”