Truth, Justice, The American Way, and B.P.O. :

Suarav Mohapatra

 

The sonic boom can be heard miles away. The conditioning kicks in, even before whatever remains of my super senses can make sense of what is happening. Quicker than a speeding bullet I am down on the ground behind the dumpster. I fear for the worst, not what the source of the noise could be, but what it could bring out in me. I would not be lying or even remotely bragging if I said I did not fear most things people are afraid of. Been there and done that. But the neural implant and the conditioning are hard to beat. This reflex that I have developed over the last few years has saved me from the splitting headache that the implant would bring if it kicks in. For Government Issue crap built by the lowest bidder, the neural implant they fit me with works surprisingly well.

As soon as I realize it is just Agni flying by, I get up and shake the dust from my lapels. I look longingly after the streak of fire left in the wake of the supersonic fireball of a man who guards Megapolis these days.

Where is he going? What dangers shall he face today? What thrill does he seek streaking across the clear blue sky?

I feel a longing deep in my stomach. I clench my fists. I shake my head hard and refocus. I can not be distracted today. I almost forgot that I was going for an interview. This was the second one for me this week, and the fifth one this month.

That is a new record, even for me!

I come out of the alley. The bar at the end looks pretty inviting. It is not noon yet. I fight with that impulse. I had promised Luissa that I would not drink before the interview. I make a mental note of its location for future reference, most probably the immediate future.

Even interviews are hard to get these days. But Bryce pulled a few strings, called in a few favors and I got the calls. I felt bad calling Bryce, but then we go back a long way. The name of the Warner family still has some clout, and Bryce uses it well. He was perhaps the only one of us who escaped the purge. When the hammer came down, he just disappeared behind the elaborate veneer of the suave rich playboy image he had cultivated as a cover.

Those days were the simple ones. Put on a pair of glasses, part your hair the other way and no one realized who you really were. Bryce buried the Bird persona and no one noticed. Last I heard someone called Shiva was patrolling Gotom City streets now.

At last I am there. This is perhaps the last newspaper in the city for which I have not yet interviewed. They simply do not need reporters now. In between cheap hired labor from India and the smart word processors they got their bases covered. This is not strictly the kind of journalism I am used to, but when you spend your nights working the drive through window of McDuffy's Burger Palace, a journalist position at the Inquisitive Imp is a step forward. Hell, it even beats my alternative career in retail. I say silent thanks to Bryce as I step through the lobby. The interviewer goes through the motions. She looks at my resume and makes the obligatory grunts of approval. The Q and A part is short and I leave within twenty minutes of my arrival.

Another dead end.

There is commotion outside. A giant killer robot is on the rampage. I resist the temptation to tear off my clothes and rush in. I look the other way. The crowd looks expectantly at the sky and soon relief arrives. Two meta-humans descend from the crowds wearing the Lutcorp insignia on their chests, Oorza, the Indian wonder, and Xen, the Chinese acrobat by the looks of it. They make short work of the robot as I make my way to the bar I had noticed earlier.

A smoldering piece of circuitry rattles towards me as they fly away to the cheers of an obviously relieved crowd.

Made in Taiwan!

Damn! They are even importing the villains these days.

The farm in Kansas looks real inviting at such times; maybe I should just take Luissa and move back in with Ma and Pa. It is a much better place to raise the baby than this place. Much cheaper, too. I make a mental note to talk to her tonight.

I enter the bar. I happen to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror by the entrance. I am wearing a blue suit, the only one I have. Thank god no one can see the red underwear and socks!

I walk up to the bartender who is looking at the TV. A reporter is summing up the Lutcorp forecast for this quarter. Metahuman Outsourcing is looking real promising, they say, another gravy train for Lutcorp. They are opening one more training facility in Africa, an untapped market as the announcer puts it
.
I sigh. I clear my throat and look at the bartender.

I ask for a scotch on the rocks and he obliges. His eyes never leave the television set. I hand in my credit card and down my scotch in a shot. Faster than a speeding bullet, some might say.

"Sir! We do not take American Express, Kanji-Visa and Vyasa-MasterCard only!"

I look up and fish a few bills out of my pocket. I stand up and hold my arm out to get the card back.

"Sorry about that," he says, trying to read my name from the card. "Have a nice day, Mr. Kant!"

"Chuck. Call me Chuck", I say putting the card in my wallet.