Free Origins of a D-List Supervillain by Jim Bernheimer

felt foreign—like I was some two dimensional character who could only move on one axis.
    The ride itself was monotonous. The elevator was built to move up slowly and down quickly. I looked at the guy in the nearest Pummeler suit and said, “Did they have to cut out the Muzak?”
    “Funny prisoner,” the man said and flexed the oversized hands on his powersuit. “How about you just keep your mouth shut? Otherwise, your teeth might decide they should be anywhere other than in your mouth. I’d be the one serving as their travel agent.”
    I took him up on his kind offer.
    • • •
    “Mr. Stringel,” the woman on the other side of the table addressed me. “We’re here today to assess whether you are ready to return to society.”
    Bobby’s words about how no one ever makes parole on their first board weighed heavily on my mind as I regarded the two women and three men on the other side of the table from me. None of the five people introduced themselves, and I figured that was probably so people couldn’t come after them when they finally did get out.
    It makes sense. I wouldn’t want anyone knowing who I was. Besides, who in their right mind would tell a villain their name?
    “We’d like to start with your thoughts on the Promethia Corporation,” the man at the end began. I wondered which one of these people was in Patterson’s pocket. This one had sunken eyes and male pattern baldness.
    Since he immediately jumped on that, I pegged him for the person who’d ensure I wouldn’t be leaving North Dakota anytime soon. Of course, F. Randall Barton could easily afford more than one stooge.
    “Well, I don’t like Promethia,” I said, trying to channel my best Shawshank Redemption style honesty. “I doubt I will ever like Promethia, but I’m willing to walk away from my feelings for that corporation. In all likelihood, I’ll never hold another high tech position again, so I think it’s time I put all that behind me.”
    “Do you really believe you can put that behind you?” the man redirected.
    “I fought them in court and lost. I tried becoming a criminal and lost. Somehow, I don’t think the third time is going to be the charm.”
    “How can we be certain you’re not lying to us now? You could always submit to a telepathic scan.”
    Almost no one ever does that! “No, I’d prefer not to have someone messing around in my mind.”
    Fortunately for me and just about every other criminal in here, after numerous abuses, deep telepathic scans were considered illegal search and seizure by the Supreme Court. There were also enough public stigmas attached to them that even using it on known criminals wasn’t very popular.
    I was certain that they still happened, but just went undocumented.
    “So, assuming you were to leave here today, Mr. Stringel,” the forewoman took over. The man who’d been questioning me looked annoyed at being cutoff. “How would you get your life back on track?”
    “I’ve been working on getting a teaching certificate. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get a job in that field, but it’s worth a shot. Other than that, I’ve dusted off my skills as a drummer and figure I can make ends meet that way while I figure out my next move.”
    “Where would you go? Back to Mississippi or perhaps your parents in Nebraska?”
    “Neither, I’ve got a friend in Miami, so maybe there, but most likely Los Angeles, if I want to catch on with a band.”
    The questioning continued for almost another hour. One thing I noted was that the other woman never asked me a single question. She hadn’t said anything since I came in the room and it was rather disconcerting.
    What’s her deal, I wondered.
    “I think we’ve heard enough, Mr. Stringel,” the woman heading the panel said.
    She turned to the other female who had been creeping me out and said, “What is your opinion?”
    The woman in question was a light skinned black woman or perhaps Latino. It was really hard to tell. Other than