"James? Is that you?"
Cal turned at the sound of someone calling his host body's name. He had just finished squaring and adjusting his posture in an attempt to maintain the look of someone who meant to choke a man with one hand on a Monday morning commute, when a spiky-haired young man with a bulky backpack weaved through the sea of passengers, eyes wide, clearly recognizing James, Cal's host body.
In his mind, Cal sifted through the scraps of social data he'd scraped together from James's phone contacts, social media photos and videos, and a name surfaced.
Michael Dawson.
James's friend and former classmate at the Mastertasker's Institute.
Cal forced James's casual grin onto his face.
"Oh... hey, Mikey. Long time no see. How're classes treating you?"
Mikey reached him, practically vibrating with excitement. "Dude, James! It is you! And holy crap, bro, did you really just choke that banger out with one hand?"
Cal blinked slowly. "…Hmm? Oh. I guess I did."
He kept his tone vague and noncommittal, letting Mikey lead the conversation. Cal thought it was safer that way, so that he wouldn't end up saying anything weird.
Mikey dropped his backpack with a thud and plopped down beside him. "Bro, I had no idea you were that strong! You always seemed to hold back in class whenever we did strength drills."
James held himself back during strength drills?
A red warning light started flashing in Cal's mind.
Was James hiding his strength? Or did his body suddenly get stronger now than before? Or… was James subconsciously avoiding physical confrontations because of some past trauma or incident?
Cal had nothing to go on but needed to give some explanation of what had happened. Something both believable and fast.
"I had my reasons before," he said, sighing dramatically, "but they're gone now. Ever since I got booted out."
Mikey winced. "Yeah, man… I heard you ended up henching for old Silver Dollar. Rough gig. Even among D-Class villains, that guy's known as the biggest tightwad in New York. Is he still making his henchmen work on contingency?"
Cal's soul shriveled.
Contingency?
As in… no salary unless a mission succeeds?
James… HOW BADLY DID YOU SCREW UP YOUR LIFE?
Cal's emotional spike must have triggered the body's feelings, because a single tear slid down his / James's cheek.
Mikey's eyes widened, and he grabbed Cal's shoulder in sympathy. "Damn. So it is true. Bro, I feel for you. It's hard landing a stable underling gig without villain references or a diploma from the Mastertasker."
Curse you, James! How could someone so naturally gifted be such a gigantic failure?
Cal forced a pained smile, then a sudden thought struck him. It was risky, but worth trying out.
"Mikey… how's Alicia?"
Mikey's face darkened like a thundercloud. "You're still hung up on that girl? Bro, the whole reason you got kicked out by Mastertasker in the first place was because you covered for her! Do yourself a favor and forget about her. You've ruined your life enough."
Cal froze.
Oh no.
OH NO.
James wasn't just a regular screwup. He was a SIMP screwup.
A massive simp, disappointment, and failure of a host body!
Cal had inherited what was practically a slave contract, a job with no hope for advancement, and daily personal humiliation from his siblings, just because James couldn't keep it in his pants over a girl?!
No wonder his sister called him a loser.
"You're right," Cal murmured. "I'm already at rock bottom. If I go any lower, I'll start tasting dirt."
"That's the spirit, James!" Mikey grinned. "Glad the real world finally slapped some sense into you."
He paused, studying Cal thoughtfully. "Actually… based on what I just saw, it'd be a waste to leave you in D-Class hell. Maybe I can talk to my dad. He's tight with Brainmatter. Maybe he could put in a word with Mastertasker and get you readmitted into the Institute."
Cal's eyes widened.
"You'd do that, Mikey? Seriously? Thanks, man! If I get another chance, I definitely won't mess up again."
Mikey beamed, slinging his backpack over his shoulder as the train slowed. "Here's my stop. I'll call you if things pan out. Don't disappear on me this time, James!"
He hopped out just before the doors closed.
Cal waved… then sagged with relief.
Progress.
Actual progress. Cal might just be able to fix James's life after all.
After a few more stops, the train finally reached the 8th Avenue Station in Manhattan. Cal got off and followed the GPS application through a few blocks until he reached his end destination, an old, worn-down pub with a faded sign.
The Top Dollar Lounge, Silver Dollar Savelli's "legitimate business" front.
Cal closed his eyes to see if he could recall any information that might be useful to him at the moment. He remembered reading in the comics that the Top Dollar Lounge had a side entrance used by employees and performers.
Cal took a circular path toward the side of the building, where he found a small steel door marked Employees Only. He stepped inside, and muscle memory immediately kicked in; his hands automatically reached for the wall-mounted rack of employee timecards.
"You've got to be kidding me…" he muttered. "Savelli makes his henchmen clock in? What kind of penny-pinching discount villain operation is this?"
He found James's card, punched it, slid it back, and headed down the long, narrow hallway in the direction he assumed was the main pub floor.
Just in time to see a body fly past the hallway opening.
"—the hell?!"
A split-second later, the thunderous crash of splintering wood and shattering chairs echoed from the pub floor.
Cal sprinted out into the main pub area.
And froze.
A man in a blood-red leather jacket and a matching devil mask with two tiny horns protruding from the top stood towering over the crumpled form of Silver Dollar Savelli.
Cal felt a bone-chilling cold as he recognized the Stupendous Comics character standing in front of him.
The Red Devil.
Class-B Hero.
A revenge-driven psycho known for beating people half to death for fun.
And right now?
He was beating Cal's boss into paste.
Cal swallowed hard.
"This job is going to be the death of me."