The Myme-Catching The Train
From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
A 14-year-old Vincent Stern sat on a cold marble bench in the shadow of Atlas’s statue on an early March morning. The usual parade of colorful outfits entertained him as he sipped his coffee. There was a middle-aged man with an old bed sheet tied around his neck--a poor mid-life-crisis substitute for a sports car if Vince had ever seen one. There were girls barely his age braving the morning chill in their fishnets and skimpy leather hooker outfits. Every now and again Vince would even spot a legitimate candidate for super-hero status; a well muscled young man in spandex here, a purple-skinned woman with slightly glowing eyes there. He assumed his father had gotten his start here, too. Vince smiled wryly into his coffee as he pictured the blond behemoth standing in queue, awkwardly holding a clipboard and filling out the application for a hero’s license. Vince himself hadn’t inherited any of his father’s more obvious mutated genes: he was tall, but skinny, and his hair was dark red and stringy in comparison to his dad’s long golden curls. But he had inherited a slightly superior attitude and a budding aggressive streak that were mirror images of his father’s. The similar personalities explained most of the tension between the two. Vince’s father’s obvious disdain for his son, who was “weak, like all the other normals out there”, didn’t help either. Just before Vince was about leave his bench, the mime appeared. Vince burst into loud bouts of laughter as he watched the mime set up an old-fashioned record player and grind the crank. Ragtime music began to play from the speaker as the mime removed his silk beret. He reached inside and pulled out a second beret, which he sat on the ground next to the record player to collect tips. Then the mime began his routine. Vince was surprised to find himself amused and even slightly impressed as the white-faced clown taunted the passing “heroes” on their way into city hall. But soon enough the coffee was gone, leaving him with no shield against the biting wind that was sweeping through Atlas Plaza. Vince looked his watch and realized he was going to be late for school, and was off the bench and cutting through the grassy field nearby on his way to the bus stop. He stopped only to toss the loose change from his pocket into the mime’s upturned beret. Hoping to make up some lost time, Vince cut through an alleyway between two brick tenements. Suddenly he found himself sprawling towards the ground. His face struck first, and as he lifted himself up he saw a crimson starburst on the concrete underneath him. The thug with the baseball bat quickly jumped onto Vince’s back, smashing his face into the ground again. This time, he didn’t get back up.
When he finally came to, the sun was reaching it’s highest point in the sky. Vince’s kneecap throbbed from the blow he had taken from the baseball bat. He hadn’t seen his attacker’s face; just the hideous red mask that the Hellions wore to frighten their victims. The world spun around Vince’s head as he sat up. He did not like the idea of being a victim. He looked back down the alley, between the two buildings he had passed through. The line had shortened, but there were still people standing in front of city hall in their ridiculous get-ups. A dozen or so of them were standing in a row beneath the giant globe as a small group inspected their costumes, deciding who was the best dressed. “This is what they do,” Vince said to the empty alley, “Instead of being the ‘good-guys’, they compare jump-suits and exchange fashion tips.” Vince’s lips were swollen, and spikes of pain shot through his jaw as he spoke. His watch was gone. It was worth twenty dollars when he’d gotten it two years ago for Christmas. Checking his back pocket, he wasn’t surprised to find his wallet missing. He muttered obscenities as he lifted himself off the ground and trudged onward towards the bus stop. Vince had no idea what time it was, so he slid onto the bench, hoping the bus would arrive soon. Minutes passed slowly, and Vince was surprised to see the mime walking his way, munching on a slice of pizza. The bright red lipstick that had seemed so adorable to Vince this morning was slightly smeared, and mocked his own bruised lips. Vince saw the bus approaching from the same direction, and stood. As he reached into his pockets, he realized that his change was missing, too. “Fuck me!” he muttered. It was barely enough for bus fare. He cursed the Hellions, then noticed the Mime remove his beret to scratch the top of his head, and he remembered. He had given the street performer his change earlier. The mime took Vince’s shortcut through the alley, and Vince followed. Picking up a tattered and useless old mop someone had thrown out, Vince called out to the mime. The mime turned, and shock registered on his exaggerated features as he saw Vince’s face. “Jesus Christ, kid, what happened? Are you O–,” but he didn’t get out any more before Vince swung the mop at his head. The handle was old, and it snapped in two as it cracked on the mime’s temple. “What the fu–!?” Another swing of the handle, now shorter and easier to manage, sent some of the mime’s teeth flying. Vince hefted the handle above his head and began to rain blows down on the prostrate mime. The white grease paint was streaked with blood when Vince finally stopped. The mime had almost two hundred dollars, mostly in twenties. He had probably stopped by the bank on his way to get lunch. Vince emerged from the alley and walked calmly, his head down, a black silk beret covering his tousled hair. No time to wait for the next bus, he headed towards the PTA station and bought a monthly pass. He still had enough time for a hot dog and coke before catching the train.
