The Swiss Army Henchwoman
5% of the population of St. Genevieve, is, has, or will be heroes. Conversely, they say that 1 in 7 citizens will be in 'villain' group. This is wrong. My name is Patrice, and I am the outlier that should not have been counted.
I'm what you'd call an extra body for the gangs and ne'er do wells. A hench for hire. I dress up in their team colours and I do what I can for a fee. If I've got a superpower, it's not getting caught.
This week was pretty busy.
Monday I'm part of an army of insurgents (something Italian, I never caught it. Newspaper will tell me in a few weeks anyway) that have been hanging out on the moon for the last three decades. Someone told them I was looking for work. No idea who. The uniforms we get to wear are spiffy, but the army boys keep getting freaked out by today's modern standards for heroic costumes. The money they pay me with at the end of the day when I get the survivors to their base in the sewers is old, but good. No dates above the 70s.
Tuesday is the Goodguy Associates. The movers and shakers of the city when they're not bitching at each other in the back of their favourite money laundering operations, and they needed someone to move and shake for them. I catch up on the ins and outs on the cab drive over. For these guys you wear a bowler, a nice suit, and a pack a day.
It's easy work. We (the Goodguys) are making a move. They're always making a move. I'm there to add a body and muscle if someone gets any ideas. I'm also there because I take great meeting notes. Post-it on the back of the file says don't get attached to Tony, he's got a real estate appointment at the bottom of the bay later this week. There's usually a note like that.
Weds I'm a ninja. Not much to say, which is kind of the point. The two-toe socks ride up on my feet and itch like hell.
Thursday, I'm an techno-anarchist with this new group, the Digital Rights Movement. I almost mix it up with Friday's ancient cult job and wear robes to a steel-studded event. Caught my calendar just in time and faux pas avoided. We (the DRM) blow up a memorial to those lost in the '98 Space Invaders invasion. Heroes arrive. I'm gone. Jason, the metal freak in charge, gave me shit for just gluing on my piercings. I'm not risking my skin for someone who thinks that his shit is worth that much commitment for a one-time gig.
Friday IS the cult meeting. Group called the Children of the Lost City. I practice my chants in front of the mirror. It cracks. Ellen from my sorority hooked me up with this gig. She told me she remembered I had amazing enunciation. I'm being paid 500 for this song and dance. Way better pay than the DRM. They spend so much money on cyber-replacements, they don't have enough to spend on what's important.
We summon a demon. It eats the leader's soul and takes over the group. Asks me if I want to stay on, but I say I'm just a temp.
Saturday's my day off. Pizza in my underwear and DVR. Sunday I'm part of a string of artisanal arsons, so I'm relaxing while I can.