Not Your Villain (Sidekick Squad #2)(18)
Emma just laughs and goes back to her holobook.
They don’t share all their classes, but they find a rhythm, where and when to wait for whom and which perfectly shaded spot to claim for lunch, and the routines of school settle in as easily as breathing.
Twice a week after classes, Bells takes the bus to Vegas to practice on the motorcycle. He’s getting better, but last week Rebecca yelled at him for driving so slow in Vegas traffic that people honked at him all the way down the Strip.
Rebecca and Harris show him holovids of people on motorcycles doing stunts, driving at breakneck speeds, and careening around edges of cliffs.
“No cliffs,” he says, laughing nervously, “but I’ve got the turns down.”
After a few assignments, Bells is cleared for his public introduction as Chameleon. Bells hopes for something cool—maybe stopping a bank robbery or interfering in a mugging—but apparently he’s not quite ready for that. He’s supposed to stick to the carefully planned appearance schedule that Harris laid out.
He’s on a vidcall with Harris, staring at the file that Harris just sent him. “Rescue… a cat,” he repeats.
Harris’ hologram sighs and crosses his arms. “It will endear you to the public, I promise,” he says in a long-suffering tone. “You’ll have to be in Vegas. I’ve already lined up a few prospective clients for you. A Mrs. Dorothy Abernathy’s cat will be stuck in a tree on Saturday morning. Here’s the address.”
His DED chirps.
“Barry, the League is counting on you.”
“To rescue cats,” Bells says again, incredulously.
“Raising public morale,” Harris says.
Bells loves cats.
Okay, he loves the idea of cats. He knows they exist in multitudes in the Unmaintained lands and that they used to be domesticated. They’re carnivores, which means they are expensive to keep; everyone in the Collective is on a mostly plant-based diet. Bells is pretty sure no one in Andover has a cat as a pet. A few feral cats roam the city, particularly around the grain stores, where they keep the mice at bay. The city encourages people to feed them if they can, but they don’t belong to anyone.
Bells loves the history of cats, the ridiculous things people used to make them wear, and the absurd photos and vintage videos of people interacting with them. Among his favorites is a video of a cat sitting on an early version of a MonRobot, watching the world go by as it rolls across a floor.
He gets to Vegas in less than an hour on his motorcycle, zooming past buses and people in their cars. No one knows who he is, although he gets a few looks of interest in his rainbow-green bodysuit and the matching motorcycle. A few people snap pictures with their DEDs and whisper, and Bells smiles behind his mask; a thrill of excitement thrums through him.
On the outskirts of downtown is a cluster of beige-colored homes that look alike; they are well-maintained, large homes with lawns, of all things. Bells eyes the lush grass in front of the homes: such a waste of land and water when farmers struggle to grow enough food for the two million people living in the North American Collective.
Mrs. Dorothy Abernathy is at least seventy years old and she ushers him inside her lavish home with much tut-tutting. “Oh, hello, dear, it’s so wonderful to meet you. Your film crew is already here, such nice young people. Chameleon is a fine, fine name. What were your powers again?”
“Shapeshifting,” Bells says. He does a double take at the three—no, five—people sitting on the squishy armchairs in Dorothy’s living room. “Film crew?”
“Here on League business.” A burly woman hefts a camera onto her shoulder. “Gotta get the good deeds down so we can broadcast them.”
Dorothy nods. “Well, Sir Fiddlesticks is in the tree, as requested. It’s quite high up. Do you want a ladder?”
Bells sighs. “I don’t think I’m allowed. I have to get the cat back using only my powers and my wits.”
In the tall tree in the backyard, a cat sits on the very top branch. The lush green oak has no business being in the desert, but this is Las Vegas, a city of opulence and decadence, one of the few that kept its original name from before the Collective.
Sir Fiddlesticks is a fat orange tabby who is eating out of a… bowl, which is also nestled on the top branch.
“I had to get him up there somehow,” Dorothy says. “All right, dear. Do your heroics!”
Bells takes a deep breath and starts to climb the tree. How tall is this tree? Twelve feet? Don’t look down, don’t look down… oh no, he looked down.
He gets a brief glimpse of how far down the ground is, Dorothy’s patient face, and the camera crew and their gear, documenting everything. Suddenly dizzy and nauseous, he scrabbles at the branches for a better grip; the tough bark scrapes at his palms.
“Hi, Sir Fiddlesticks,” Bells says from his unsteady perch. “You’ve got to come down.”
The cat meows and continues eating out of his bowl.
“Come on, please?” This is nothing like he’s seen on the Net. Cats are supposed to be cute and fluffy and to love interacting with humans, and this one is ignoring him.
“Just pick him up, dearie; he loves that!” Dorothy calls.
Bells isn’t sure what to grab. Avoid the head and the legs, right? He settles for trying to gently grab the cat round the middle and lift him up. The cat hisses, lunges forward, transforms from a docile fluffball into a flash of teeth and claw, and startles Bells. He falls out of the tree. He has no time to panic, but rolls into a ball, hitting the ground butt first. The cat lands easily next to him and looks up at him.