Nate didn’t like parties. He would admit that he enjoyed the rare party here and there that happened to strike a chord, and he could accept the use of ballroom parties and dances as mediums for social structure and meeting new people. He would not, however, admit to enjoying himself as he sat in the disgusting filth of Jake Silver’s apartment as his shit-faced friends danced, drank, and fucked to blaring, generic party music.

The apartment was small, especially for the number of people invited. The living area consisted of one small, faded couch, on which Nate sat, across from a thirty-inch television, and three doors. The door that led to the kitchen was propped open, allowing for ease of access for the drunks to traverse rooms, or for the people who were afflicted with a rather severe case of the munchies to find food. Another door led to the restroom, where the floors were covered in some disgusting mixture of urine, feces, vomit, and other less identifiable liquids. The third door led to what was assumably the bedroom, but the door had been closed and locked since one particularly passionate couple happened to desire privacy. Thus, the forty-something people attending the party were cramped into two small rooms, and none of them, as far as Nate could tell, payed the slightest attention to personal hygiene.

“So, what do you think of the party?” Jake asked, taking a seat next to Nate. Jake was normally a fairly good-looking young adult, with soft blond hair and unblemished skin, usually keeping up to date on the latest fashion trends while maintaining his own, personal look. As he now sat next to Nate in gym-shorts (or boxers, Nate couldn’t quite tell) and a wife-beater undershirt, Nate wondered if it was really the same person. Nate shifted uncomfortably where he sat, noticing that he was sitting on top of what he assumed was a bag of chips.

“It’s really fun, man, thanks for inviting me.” Nate lied. He had only agreed to come to meet Jake himself, a hero quickly rising in popularity and esteem. Surprisingly to Nate, the hero gig had come with a large amount of politics; increasingly the world was about who he knew and how that could help him rise the ranks. The best heroes, as defined by the state based on a number of criteria, get the highest pay, benefits, and honors. The rest are equivalent to meter maids: technically they’re real heroes, but they have little authority. Of the twenty or so heroes in the state, Nate never particularly strived to be number one, as Ultraman had had that position unequivocally reserved. Now, as the charts stated, Menace was toeing the line at fifth. Not too long ago, Menace would have been fine being last on the list — his association with the Gentleman not only boosted him into the higher rankings, but the higher he went, the more he was certain someone would find out. As he knew his number was soon to fall, and with his forged relationship with the Gentleman gone, he now felt impassioned to join the climb.

The first thing he needed to do was to be recognized (and therefore well liked) by other heroes. The state determined the rankings by pier review, pedestrian satisfaction, Catastrophic Event Function (CEF) completions, and how many hours worked. Nate felt that his hours were roughly at the top of the list, and his pedestrian satisfaction was as high it was going to be. There hadn’t been a CEF since Ultraman’s death, so that too was an unavailable resource. Thus, he had to raise the hero-societies view of him, a daunting task that he was not thrilled to complete. He inhaled deeply through his mouth and began to speak again. “So…” Suddenly, he was unsure how to proceed. He understood that he could not simply ask for a good recommendation, but, seeing as that was his sole purpose, he had not prepared to tiptoe around the subject. “Would you ever consider, say, taking a shift with me?” The Menace asked, cringing at his own wording.

“Sure, man, that sounds lit!” Jake responded, and Nate wasn’t sure if it was him or the booze talking. Jake was the number three hero in the state, and the number two hero in New Monmouth City, who donned the hero name: The Engine. Nate always admired his powers, and thought he looked amazing in action, but was always a little too offset by his person to work with him. Nonetheless, he was now a cleaner, more desperate hero, and agreed to concede his long-held yet perhaps unwarranted hatred. “Yo, here’s my number, just hit me up when you wanna do it.” Nate nodded, taking a poorly-scribbled note from the Engine and putting it in his pocket. He then excused himself, walked from the apartment, slamming the door behind him. He plugged the number into his contacts, then ripped the note up and threw it away, sighing. The night was not over for him quite yet.

Courtney always insisted on training later and later into the night. It had been a full week since the training began, and the sessions had moved from eight to eleven at night. Nate did not enjoy the training sessions, as he had no idea how the magic worked or how to work with anyone else, but, despite his apprehensions, he had to admit that he was enjoying the White Witch’s company. She was often quite childish, but, Nate figured, she was a child, and so most squabbles could be chalked up to that. In addition, Nate found she was also very set in her ways, which was unusual for a fourteen your old, but he did not really care. What he noticed most was the large smile on her face whenever they began to train, and he could not help but wonder if no one had given her their time before.

“So when do I get to start hero-ing?” She asked, as she always would at the beginning of practice. Every session she would wear her full hero garb, which was ridiculous seeing as how it consisted of a large sweatshirt in the middle of summer.

“When I say so.” Nate responded, the same response he’d given a thousand times. “You know,” he admitted, “I have no idea how your magic works.” Nate expected her to change the subject or brush off the statement, as she often did, but she just looked at him curiously. Her eyes were alive as she stared at him, dancing as fire in the midst of raging winds. They seemed to lose and reattain focus every so often, always on a different location, so Nate could not even begin to imagine what she was thinking.

“It’s simple, really.” She began. She motioned for Nate to sit down on the grass, like a young child would for their teachers or parents. “So, magic comes from chaos.” She repeated this line as though she were repeating it straight from a textbook. “The magic is, to untrained eyes and minds, an unexplainable force in the wold. This unexplained something from nothing is the very essence of magic.” She paused, as if trying to remember the next line, but gave up. “So then, it’s like,” she bit her lip, “how do I explain it? I think it’s like this: the magicians, wizards, witches, sorcerers, conjurers, or whatever type of magical entity you happen to be, they all are, let’s say, regulators for this chaos. Thus, the random nothingness of the projected world becomes the ordered, concise ‘magic’ in this world.” She saw Nate’s inquisitive look and beat him to the question. “So what is the projected world, right? Well, it’s kind of a world mirroring ours and it’s kind of a world in our heads. I didn’t really get it either until I went. It’s like… imagine everything that isn’t a sentient entity is gone from the world. No houses, no structures, no bridges, no nothing. So it’s just that and then the people, upon entering the realm, begin to construct it from their magic and their willpower. So, I mean, I guess, magic in this reality is bringing chaos from the other world and making it ordered, and magic in the projected realm is taking order from this world and making it chaotic. Something like that.”

Nate was slightly more confused then he let on, but he had certainly attained the basic concept of where magic came from, despite the fact that he still had no idea how it worked. He was more curious, however, about the projected realm, and what it must be like. “Can you take me to the projected realm?” He asked.

Fear blazed in her eyes as she shook her head: “No.” Nate decided not to push the issue. “Now are we going to train, or what?”

Nate squared himself as the girl drew her wand. Their training matches operated thusly: it was a game of tag. She had the winds at her disposal, along with an arsenal of other magic, and Menace had his usual powers, but consistently refused to use them. She started as it, as he was much faster than her when she failed to use her magic. He ran, weaving between the trees, as she hoisted herself into a levitating flight and launched herself towards him. He rounded a tree and doubled back, as the girl just barely avoided the tree but the momentum carried her much farther forward. Nate ran back into the clearing beneath the cube and caught his breathe as the White Witch came barreling towards him. He was about to side step when the girl pulled her wand in front of her, forcing a gale to thrust the Menace squarely into the tree behind him. Ironically, Nate had the wind knocked out of him, as Courtney crashed into his stomach. “Tag.” She said, patronizingly.

“Thanks, kid.” Menace muttered under his breath.

“No problem, teach.” She responded. The night progressed long past midnight, when Courtney decided to return to her house to sleep, and Nate, following suit, did the same.

The Gentleman was waiting for Nate when he got back to the house. As Nate entered, he saw the completely masked face raise a finger to where his mouth would be, and then lower it to his waist. The Gentleman then waved for Nate to take a seat at the kitchen table, where he sat. Nate slowly and quietly pulled back a black wooden chair from the table, and sat across from the Gentleman, staring into the mask. The light above the table remained unlit, and the darkness felt imposing, almost threatening, around Nate’s throat like a dagger. The Gentleman seemed unperturbed, or, at least, his perturbation was hidden under the mask.

“How has your life been since our last meeting, my little Menace?” The Gentleman asked, and Nate could have sworn the masked man was attempting to hide a giggle while he spoke.

“Increasingly difficult.” Nate said, reluctantly. As much as he hated to admit it, he had established a rapport with the masked man over the years, and had simply become accustomed to speaking frankly. He understood that, behind the mask, there was a flesh-and-blood human being, who was not entirely evil.

“I might be able to help with that.” The Gentleman said, and Nate knew he was smirking behind the mask. “Our old arrangement was quite beneficial, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I have to say I would.” Nate admitted. “But why again? Why now?”

“Perhaps for peace of mind in my life, perhaps to save yours, or perhaps for neither reason. Maybe it’s because I need you out of the way for my next assignment, or maybe it’s because I dislike seeing you squirm so. It could be because I pity you. Nonetheless, I am willing to reestablish our kind-hearted, peaceful arrangement, despite your past transgression.” Nate thought. He was doing fine on his own, at least to his knowledge. He had yet to majorly fuck up, and he had yet to die, which he counted quite simply as a win in his book. The Gentleman was offering peace of mind to him, at a price he could easily afford. The Menace grimaced, but he knew that the answer had to be a firm and resounding yes. It was a three-year crutch that he thought he no longer needed, putting pressure again on the leg only to find that, somehow, it had become dulled through lack of use. It was a truth that he knew, and one that he knew the gentleman knew. Nate reached to rub the bite marks on his neck, still sore three weeks later. He felt his mouth, still injured from Galatea’s fist the week before. His hand then fell to his stomach, where, not two hours ago, Courtney had collided with all her heroic might. Everything on his body ached from training or from working, and yet he could not help the smile from climbing across his face.

“No thanks.” Nate answered. He could not tell the expression behind the Gentleman’s mask, but he was sure it could not have been pleasant. “I think I’m going to keep on doing what I’m doing.” The Gentleman sighed as he stood from the table.