Free The Totally Secret Origin of Foxman by Kelly McCullough

 
    â€œYou won’t save yourself that easily, Foxman!”
    I had a dozen pairs of designer jeans trying to choke the life out of me and the crudely welded neckpiece of my brand-new powered armor was creaking under the strain. I thought about flaming them with the rockets in my boots, but my Foxman suit was only mostly fireproof.
    A seam slipped between my neckpiece and my helmet, putting sudden pressure on my carotid artery. Was this really how my short career as a masked hero was going to end? Killed by Michael Damian, my former best friend? Only a few months ago he’d been helping me build a rocket-propelled skateboard in our secret clubhouse. But that was before the Hero Bomb changed the whole world …
    As my vision darkened I desperately tried to think of some way to transform the horrific Haberdasher back into my old pal.
    *   *   *
    And … I glared at the words on the screen. That version of the story wouldn’t do at all …
    â€œNo. Denmother, cut that last bit. It makes me sound too weak. If I’m going to do this whole stupid memoir thing, I might as well brag myself up.”
    A smooth mechanical voice responded. “I think vulnerability might make you seem more human, sir. More relatable.”
    Denmother is the voice in my head … literally. I have speakers surgically implanted in my skull so that I can hear her no matter what. She, or rather, it , is the AI that runs my powered suit, my home, and my life.
    â€œYou’re a bodiless computer, what do you know from human?”
    â€œPer standing order one-one-three-four, I reviewed all the appropriate literature when you told me you were embarking on a new project. Vulnerability as a means of building sympathy for a character who might otherwise come across as narcissistic or negative is narrative one-oh-one. Also, since this venture is supposed to be in lieu of cognitive therapy and other brain-reprogramming techniques, I think that lying might have a negative impact on your prognosis, sir.”
    I paused. I’ve been having some problems lately … and not so lately. But I’m finally trying to do something about them—thanks in part to my new sidekick, Meerkat. Unfortunately, the best ways to put your head right involve psychiatric professionals and talking therapy, or meditation.
    Shrinks are a nonstarter. If I spill my guts to anybody who doesn’t have the right security clearances, then OSIRIS—the delightful folks who regulate the whole masked hero world—will ban me for good. And, the kind of shrink that comes with an OSIRIS seal of approval also comes with special reporting requirements under the Franklin Act on Metahuman Activities. Since I can’t afford to have the messier stuff in my head get back to OSIRIS—that way leads to banning too, or worse things—I’m out of luck on the psychiatric front.
    So, I’ve decided that I’ll guide my own damned meditation and do something like talking therapy at the same time by writing my autobiography. Well, dictating it anyway.
    â€œOh, all right. I still don’t think I need to reprogram my brain, but I suppose if I’m going to make the effort, I should optimize the new code I’m imposing on my frontal lobes. Let’s try again, only a step further back in time. Dim the lights and hold all my calls, we’re going for a tour of my fundamental neuroses and the bomb that changed the world.”
    I really didn’t want to do this. Maybe if I pretended it was a screenplay? A major motion picture all about the fabulous Foxman? Yeah. Let’s go with that. Foxman’s story, not Rand’s, not … mine. That would be easier, like talking about things that happened to someone else.
    Establishing shot: Close in. A darkly handsome youth crouches on a skateboard in the classic pose coming off a jump, one hand lightly touching the deck which is tilted steeply back.