chapter 9.1

ONE YEAR AGO

"I just can't do it anymore, Tegan! The gaslighting, the manipulation, all this putting me on a pedestal…"

Not to mention the plethora of cruelties dear old Mom had to say about her.

It was Eddie and Tegan in his new apartment, which thus far lacked furniture, power, and gas. The lease had just gotten approved after the letter came through from his employer stating he would be making three times the rent, but who knew if that was even true? As he moved boxes around fruitlessly, looking for an outlet for his pent-up frustration, she sat against the ledge of a window, alternatively examining her pretty fingernails and watching him work. Well, as far as what he was doing could be called work if he didn't have anywhere to put his stuff.

"I don't know how I'll make it, but it had to happen."

"Hey, at least you have a job."

"Yeah, as an entry-level software developer at Cyber Security, Incorporated." Cue sarcastic jazz hands.

With a grunt of effort, he heaved up a box and dropped it on top of another box.

"How do you even go about getting electrical service?"

"It's just a phone call," she said. She glanced from the walls, to the boxes, to his eyes. "So I've been thinking of applying to some receptionist positions."

"Oh, Tegan." His heart broke all over again. "You'd hate that."

"Not necessarily. It's kind of like acting, but over the phone."

"But I just read a study that concluded that service acting--the sort of customer service facade you put on in a work role--is as emotionally taxing as performing neurosurgery--"

"What should you care?" she suddenly exploded, popping out of her makeshift seat. "What should you care what I like or what I hate? We aren't even like that anymore, Eddie!"

He dropped the box he was holding. It landed square on his left foot. He didn't feel the pain. His eyes burned hot with moisture. He tried to blink back the tears, but a couple slipped through anyway. "So now I can't even care about you as a friend?"

"No, you can't!"

"Why not?"

"Because you're too much! This is all too much!" she exclaimed. "You're fucking delusional, Eddie!"

"I'm delusional now?!"

"Yes!" Her shoulders slumped. Her expression was one of defeat. "Look at the times. Eddie. We're coming of age at the back end of the information era. The world's just gotten too big, too fast! There's no more space to dream. I've made my peace. But you? You're too ambitious to ever be content, and I can't deal with that energy. And for all you say you're fed up with your mom and her grandiose visions for your future, for all the big deal you've made out of moving out here to a crummy west-side apartment, up here--in your head--you still haven't left! So goodbye, Eddie. One day maybe you'll see what I mean. You'll buy cheap furniture from Ikea and you'll get this lights situation sorted out and maybe you'll even find a cute barista to date. But I can't be here anymore. I need to work on job applications. Have fun in fantasy land."

With that, she walked out the door, leaving him utterly alone.

***

The day of Jasmine Freeman's big press conference had finally arrived.

Suited up and trying to force himself to be ready to make trouble, Eddie lurked in the shadows between two dilapidated apartment complexes, waiting for his opportunity.

It was one of these low-income neighborhoods that the bigwigs of leasing and finance planned to tear down to erect office space and trendy retail shops. That was as good a cause as any to incur the wrath of Big Tech, wasn't it? It was almost a shame that he wasn't here to fight. No, he was here to finally, finally earn his all-craved, all-euphoric end.

Some older guy in khakis with a clipboard strolled out of a nearby building. The press conference was minutes out; he'd have to do. His thrusters roaring to life, Eddie rocketed toward the man and hoisted him into the air, laser cannon pointed threateningly to his right temple. The hostage yelped in shock.

If Eddie was being honest with himself, he felt bad for the guy.

But it wasn't like he was in any real danger.

It wasn't like Bombshell wouldn't come crashing in to save the day.

"Nobody. Move."

***

Some help the cousins had been.

Ben managed to pin down Big Tech's components to now-defunct manufacturers. So, his superpower was dumpster diving. But then he got an upgrade.

Trail? Lost.

D'von got it out of one of his customers that Big Tech now had corporate sponsorship. What company? Who knew? It was just a rumor.

And no one, no one, fucking no one could tell Oriana about the goddamn flowers.

In any case, what did it matter? Big Tech had yet to do anything that would incur Bombshell's interference. The chance of a meeting was slim to nil: it seemed, despite a difference in labels, they were operating on the same side.

Earlier in the week, she had drafted a Tweet: 'Hey #BigTech I just wanna talk.' The idea had been to propose an alliance. They could keep each other in the loop: he'd handle corporate crooks; she'd continue to contend with street-level crime. But she backspaced through the whole thing after a few minutes. It would never work, not as long as she held onto this schoolgirl fascination. She'd just have to kill that part of her and move on with her busy life.

As for the bouquet…

He'd probably caught a passing interest in her, tracked her down, and then forgotten about her. She was a pretty girl, but she wasn't so vain as to think herself capable of inspiring an obsession. The city was full of pretty girls, and one of them was bound to have come onto Big Tech, displacing her in his heart, or whatever organ it was that guys allowed to rule them. All the better for her--and for his waistline; she'd never be satisfied with him as he was.

It was Tuesday again. She had called off of work so she could 'pick her injured sister's kid up from school'. She'd have felt bad about lying, as if speaking the words would manifest the situation into existence, only, she didn't have a sister. Her real obligation: attend Councilor Freeman's press conference. She'd say a few words at the podium, answer a few questions, and keep an eye out on the security front. Easy enough.

Only, as she keyed the Fatmobile's ignition, a call came through on the emergency line. "This is Bombshell, what is your emergency?"

"Bombshell, thank God! I'm standing at the intersection of First and Fourteenth and there's a man being held at the point of...is that a gun?"

"What do you mean? It's either a gun or it ain't!" she snapped. Whole fool was out here sounding like the BCPD.

"It looks like...some sort of laser cannon."

Oriana's heart dropped.

"I'm on my way. Get inside. Stay safe."

This was it. She was finally going to meet Big Tech.

But the excitement didn't peak the way she thought it would.

Yes, she wanted to fatten him. She was base, predictable, and lived for the thrill of doing what she did. But a part of her had hoped he was above hostage-taking; that, whatever the press said, he was in the game for the right reasons.

Speeding out onto the city streets, she rang Jasmine. "Councilor, it's me," she said. "I know I said I'd be there at two on the dot, but a hostage situation is going down. It's in walking distance of the conference, though, so I don't think I'm gonna be more than fifteen minutes late."

"This...is actually great! We can spin this!" came Jasmine's response. "Just try and get it done with as little police involvement as possible."

"Always the plan."

After some negotiating traffic, she pulled up on the scene of the crime and dashed out of the car.

The hostage situation was taking place in midair, about fifteen feet up, well within the range of her powers. Big Tech had some fifty-something dude in the least convincing chokehold she had ever seen. Upon sighting her, he declared, “Don't move! Or this guy-- what's your name, guy?”

“Craig,” said the struggling hostage.

“Don’t move,” Big Tech went on, “or Craig gets it!”

Between the tremble in his voice and the history of nonviolent theft, a glimmer of hope piqued in Oriana. “You and me both know you ain't the type.”

“Oh really? Well this man is worthless to me: he's an estate agent!”

“Actually,” Craig piped up, “I'm a property surveyor.”

“Shut up, Craig!” Big Tech stammered. “Shut up, or… I'll kill you!”

“I thought you were going to do that anyway.”

“Yeah, but for real this time!”

“So you wasn't gon' kill him?” said Oriana.

“Quiet, you… you…” Big Tech had to think about it for a while. “You fetishistic freak! How could you think I care for the life of a… a…”

“Property surveyor,” said Craig.

“That thing!”

“Look, he's just one guy,” Oriana shouted. “People ain't the problem, I thought you'd been known that already!”

“Well, surely killing one more capitalist can't hurt!”

“Well,” said Craig, “I think it'll hurt me.”

“Shut up capitalist!”

“I'm not a capitalist, I mean, not strongly, not in an ideological sense. Did I mention I was a property surveyor?”

“Yes. Yes you did.”

“It's honest work.”

“It's fuelling a corrupt system!”

“All I do is estimate the value of buildings before they go on the market…”

“See?” said Big Tech. “He's lining the pockets of the wealthy!”

“Actually I work for the council as well, basic health and safety checks, that sort of thing…”

“He's a part of the system!”

“Well yeah,” Craig shrugged, “if it stops somebody's chimney falling down on ‘em.”

“Who has a chimney these days? Millionaires, that's who!”

“I never really ask questions…”

“Because you've never checked your privilege!”

“God,” Oriana sighed, “you two are ridiculous.” She began tapping her foot. “I dunno what's going on anymore, but can we hurry this up? I'm s'posed to be on security detail right now.”

“I agree,” said Craig. “My wife's cooking tonight, and she makes a great casserole.”

“I'll hurry this up alright!” screamed Big Tech. “I shall accelerate Craig's ultimate demise!”

"Look, man, this ain't you," Oriana tried a final time to reason with him.

"You've no idea."

"What changed?" she asked. "You were totally fine to redistribute the wealth in the shadows...you had a whole method, you stood for something, man! You...you were sweet."

"...What?"

"You gave me flowers."

Big Tech hovered above, buzzing around, seeming stunned...but with his gun ever trained on his hostage.

"I…"

"Just put the guy down!" She fumbled for the note out of a side pocket. "Put the guy down," she repeated, holding up the slip of paper, "and tell me this wasn't you!"

"Don't take another step closer!" He pressed the muzzle harder to his hostage's temple, but that was his only reaction.

Now, Oriana was rusty when it came to her experience with men, but she knew when a guy was playing coy or shy or dumb, and this...wasn't that. If he hadn't sent the bouquet...if someone had sent it on his behalf…

"Oh God...somebody's fucking with me," she realized.

Could it be that somebody was fucking with both of them?

"Who's making you do all this?" she shouted. "I can help you!"

"Folks, I hate to be a Debbie downer but I'd really--" Craig began to interject.

"Shut up, Craig!" snapped Bombshell and Big Tech in almost perfect unison.

"It's just I was supposed to finish at 3 today and I'm missing the Masters, I've got money riding on Dustin Johnson--"

"That does it you insolent twit!"

She heard the mechanical whir of his laser cannon warming up, and as much as she wanted to hold onto the hope that he wouldn't fire, could she really live with Craig on her conscience?

So, she hit him.

For the first fifty pounds or so, not much changed. He remained airborne, hostage in tow, the threads of his tuxedo straining to contain his newly added mass, but curiously, he showed no signs of putting up a fight.

Two hundred: he dropped the hostage. Craig hit the ground with a groan--"Sorry!" Oriana winced, but it wasn't a high drop, and after a few moments he was able to pick himself off the pavement and scuttle off to safety. Big Tech, in the meantime, had started to squirm as everything got too tight. His seams had started to give way, but the rocket belt was cutting him in half down the center.

Three hundred: well and truly overweight now, he burst out of the belt and fell out of the sky. A misfire of his ray gun took out a chunk of a vacant building. He landed on his back on the pavement, seeming disoriented, possibly concussed, but still breathing.

Five hundred: the quivering mass of his body spread out onto the pavement, pinning him in place, and every ounce of fresh fat jiggled as he spasmed, having almost certainly reached completion, as they sometimes did. Oriana would be turned on if she weren't still so concerned.

She capped it at five.

"I'm sorry," she said, kneeling down at his side. She'd never actually apologized to one of her crooks before. "I couldn't let you kill Craig. But listen, if you're being coerced, somehow…"

She worked off his helmet, intent on looking him in the eyes as she delivered her sincere promise to help him get out of whatever he'd gotten himself into.

This whole thing was turning out to be more sad than sexy.

And then, she looked.

Nothing could have prepared her for the mutual flash of recognition.

Even with the added weight rounding out his cheeks and doubling his chin--and even with her goggles on--there was no mistaking the identity of someone you shared an office with.

"Oh my God...Eddie from software dev?"

"Oriana?!"