Entry 07: Listening in Spandex
Title: Listening in Spandex
Entry Number: 07
Author: latemarch
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG
Genre: Action & Adventure; Humor
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 1217
Yeah, so I was watching way too many back episodes of 2 Broke Girls when I wrote this, so it ended up kind of being my version of Caroline Channing if she was a superhero. This was actually my idea for my Halloween story for last year, but I never finished the challenge due to real life problemzzzz and so it never got written. Anyway, enjoy!
- - begin entry 07 - -
‘Oh god, oh god, they know.’ I thought as I stepped out of my Jetta at the Heroes Convention of Las Vegas. ‘They can smell the newbie on me already.’
Looking balefully down at my car, I decided that my four-wheeled baby was probably their first clue.
I’d spent thousands of dollars only two years ago on a jewel-tone sparkle purple paint job, and it showed. Not to mention that it looked like I was the only person to spend more than $50 on their car in the last hundred years. Next to me was parked a blue-ish halfback with a multitude of mismatched doors and parts, and a bumper sticker on the back that said, “Beetlejuice.”
The halfback owner stood across from me, watching me suspiciously like I was a troll or a member of the Villain League out to infiltrate their secret society. Please. Las Vegas doesn’t even have that many bridges in the first place.
Doesn’t have much at all, it looked like. I wasn’t used to this part of town - the last time I’d been to LV, I stayed in the Presidential Suite at the Bellagio and had a gold-flecked facial. Maybe that was why this all looked particularly horrid to me. It was probably perfectly normal for everyone else, I rationalized. A thought that became even sadder as a housecat sized rat trotted by carrying a bird in its mouth.
So I steeled myself, and walked into the ‘glamorous’ lobby of the Las Vegas Ramada Inn. If possible, I got even more stares inside, and it made me feel like Buffy walking through Sunnyvale High. I didn’t look tough - I didn’t look like all the other slayers, or heroes rather. I had a manicure and heels on, and a barrette in my hair… and good god, don’t these people know about hair care products?
The woman who had inspired my rather incredulous thought whipped around to glare at me, and I flushed deeply, reminding myself to keep my thoughts quiet. In this place, you could never tell what someone’s merit as a hero was, whether it was an organic power, a virus, or money. This convention welcomed all types of heroes, which was part of the reason why I was attending. It didn’t matter if you were a self-made, wealthy Batman type; a ‘once normal but now irrevocably changed and I made my costume in my bedroom’ Spiderman type; or a ‘born this way’ type like Superman. I had powers, but I considered myself more the Kick-Ass type of hero, meaning that more often than not I got my ass kicked rather than kicked ass.
None of them were going to be here though, of course. They were the heavy-hitters and this was a strictly peewee level con.
“Alright, here’s your welcome packet.” Said the receptionist, Ashley, whose nametag said that she was happy and helpful but in reality was neither. She handed me a plastic bag full of first aid samples and nylon swatches. There were a few potion samples for us ‘born this way’ types too, but I was mostly hoping those were booze.
“Thanks.” I muttered, and clutching my purse and welcome packet to my chest, followed the flow of people. They led me to an arched doorway with a crooked banner that said, ‘to the ballroom for the convention.’
Two men in black and gray stopped me a few feet from the closed doors of the ballroom. “Password?” One of them asked.
“Oh, oh god, um…” I fumbled around in my purse for the plain little business card. “Stan Lee.” I announced, holding the card out to them. It was sort of an inside joke in the hero community, seeing as we went public after one too many accidental exposures to people like Jack Kirby and Stan Lee, which had spawned a whole new type of hero: the Celluloid type.
I slapped my nametag - Maureen - on my chest as the opened the doors for me, neither of them looking particularly impressed.
Meanwhile, I was not particularly impressed with the venue. If they had worked at all to make it look better than before, they had done a crappy job - it was clearly just a ballroom from a middling hotel chain. There were some tables set up with white coverings and metal folding chairs. In one corner was a drinks station, and a stage was set up to the side. But that was it. That was it. No flowers, no music, no soft lighting, no dance floor. Not even name placards to tell us where to sit. It made me want my sixty-five ever-loving dollars back.
Only a few tables had full parties, lucky for me, and so I carefully chose one that had only three con-goers: two women wearing capes and a man with a large staff leaning against his chair. Two ‘irrevocably changed’ and a ‘born this way,’ for sure. Self-mades’ usually had a grimmer outlook on life. I greeted them with a hand wave as I sat down across the table. “Hi.”
Their conversation stopped abruptly, liked I’d insulted their backstories, mission statements, and nylon with one two letter word. The two women glanced at each other in that way women have of glancing at each other. My teeth ground together as they simpered and stood to leave, going to join a larger party that immediately started whispering furiously.
Their male companion, the ‘born this way’ type, shrugged and left too, eyeing the odd leather and latex buttock as he went.
“Good riddance.” Petulance was my only comfort, it seemed as I flipped my shoes off under the table and slumped in my seat.
As if it was a carefully planned blow, two gossips walked around my table towards the bathroom. “Can you believe she had the gall to show her face?” I knew immediately who they were talking about: me, Maureen Fillmore.
“I know! No shame at all.” A mother hen sort of clucking followed that was totally at odds with her Bondism-erella outfit.
“Yeah, yeah, no shame.” I replied under my breath, but they must have heard me because their whispering turned frantic as they hurried away. Yes, go away, I’m a teenage outlaw.
Please. I was a twenty-five year old supermarket attendant making minimum wage, formerly a twenty-four year old millionaire making maximum wage as an heiress. My shame as complete, trust me.
Because my mother, who was also my mentor and teacher, had embezzled billions to fund her illegal experimentation on even more illegal blood magic (her abilities were much more Harry Potter-esque than mine would ever be), I was an outcast in both the hero world and the normal world. In the past year, I’d really learned the meaning of bad press - not even the X-Men would take me now.
I didn’t know why they all kept treating me like it was my fault. I embezzled nothing, did no blood magic - would never be able to do that because it was way out of my ability range. I’d come to the convention hoping to make a hero friend or two, learn something, and drum up some business. My card said that I was good at listening and at finding things, and I was.
Clearly a bad idea. People were treating me like I had a henchman a la Igor out doing bad deeds in my name. As if. I could hardly afford my own health insurance, let alone that for an employee. All of our assets were frozen after the trial. I was allowed the things bought in my own name (car, computer, shoes) and twenty minutes to pack the essentials - everything else was sold.
Rooting through the convention packet left me disappointed and sober - no booze. The glass bottles contained only a few potion samples for the ‘born this way’ part of our community. And there was no way I was trying on anything made of the nylon swatches, I was no superhero wannabe. Though I’d had a suit made for myself years ago in the beginning, it was long since hidden in the back of my closet.
- - end entry 07 - -
Well there you have it! The plot hasn’t really started yet, but I think this gives you a pretty good idea of who Maureen is.
Entry Number: 07
Author: latemarch
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG
Genre: Action & Adventure; Humor
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 1217
Yeah, so I was watching way too many back episodes of 2 Broke Girls when I wrote this, so it ended up kind of being my version of Caroline Channing if she was a superhero. This was actually my idea for my Halloween story for last year, but I never finished the challenge due to real life problemzzzz and so it never got written. Anyway, enjoy!
- - begin entry 07 - -
‘Oh god, oh god, they know.’ I thought as I stepped out of my Jetta at the Heroes Convention of Las Vegas. ‘They can smell the newbie on me already.’
Looking balefully down at my car, I decided that my four-wheeled baby was probably their first clue.
I’d spent thousands of dollars only two years ago on a jewel-tone sparkle purple paint job, and it showed. Not to mention that it looked like I was the only person to spend more than $50 on their car in the last hundred years. Next to me was parked a blue-ish halfback with a multitude of mismatched doors and parts, and a bumper sticker on the back that said, “Beetlejuice.”
The halfback owner stood across from me, watching me suspiciously like I was a troll or a member of the Villain League out to infiltrate their secret society. Please. Las Vegas doesn’t even have that many bridges in the first place.
Doesn’t have much at all, it looked like. I wasn’t used to this part of town - the last time I’d been to LV, I stayed in the Presidential Suite at the Bellagio and had a gold-flecked facial. Maybe that was why this all looked particularly horrid to me. It was probably perfectly normal for everyone else, I rationalized. A thought that became even sadder as a housecat sized rat trotted by carrying a bird in its mouth.
So I steeled myself, and walked into the ‘glamorous’ lobby of the Las Vegas Ramada Inn. If possible, I got even more stares inside, and it made me feel like Buffy walking through Sunnyvale High. I didn’t look tough - I didn’t look like all the other slayers, or heroes rather. I had a manicure and heels on, and a barrette in my hair… and good god, don’t these people know about hair care products?
The woman who had inspired my rather incredulous thought whipped around to glare at me, and I flushed deeply, reminding myself to keep my thoughts quiet. In this place, you could never tell what someone’s merit as a hero was, whether it was an organic power, a virus, or money. This convention welcomed all types of heroes, which was part of the reason why I was attending. It didn’t matter if you were a self-made, wealthy Batman type; a ‘once normal but now irrevocably changed and I made my costume in my bedroom’ Spiderman type; or a ‘born this way’ type like Superman. I had powers, but I considered myself more the Kick-Ass type of hero, meaning that more often than not I got my ass kicked rather than kicked ass.
None of them were going to be here though, of course. They were the heavy-hitters and this was a strictly peewee level con.
“Alright, here’s your welcome packet.” Said the receptionist, Ashley, whose nametag said that she was happy and helpful but in reality was neither. She handed me a plastic bag full of first aid samples and nylon swatches. There were a few potion samples for us ‘born this way’ types too, but I was mostly hoping those were booze.
“Thanks.” I muttered, and clutching my purse and welcome packet to my chest, followed the flow of people. They led me to an arched doorway with a crooked banner that said, ‘to the ballroom for the convention.’
Two men in black and gray stopped me a few feet from the closed doors of the ballroom. “Password?” One of them asked.
“Oh, oh god, um…” I fumbled around in my purse for the plain little business card. “Stan Lee.” I announced, holding the card out to them. It was sort of an inside joke in the hero community, seeing as we went public after one too many accidental exposures to people like Jack Kirby and Stan Lee, which had spawned a whole new type of hero: the Celluloid type.
I slapped my nametag - Maureen - on my chest as the opened the doors for me, neither of them looking particularly impressed.
Meanwhile, I was not particularly impressed with the venue. If they had worked at all to make it look better than before, they had done a crappy job - it was clearly just a ballroom from a middling hotel chain. There were some tables set up with white coverings and metal folding chairs. In one corner was a drinks station, and a stage was set up to the side. But that was it. That was it. No flowers, no music, no soft lighting, no dance floor. Not even name placards to tell us where to sit. It made me want my sixty-five ever-loving dollars back.
Only a few tables had full parties, lucky for me, and so I carefully chose one that had only three con-goers: two women wearing capes and a man with a large staff leaning against his chair. Two ‘irrevocably changed’ and a ‘born this way,’ for sure. Self-mades’ usually had a grimmer outlook on life. I greeted them with a hand wave as I sat down across the table. “Hi.”
Their conversation stopped abruptly, liked I’d insulted their backstories, mission statements, and nylon with one two letter word. The two women glanced at each other in that way women have of glancing at each other. My teeth ground together as they simpered and stood to leave, going to join a larger party that immediately started whispering furiously.
Their male companion, the ‘born this way’ type, shrugged and left too, eyeing the odd leather and latex buttock as he went.
“Good riddance.” Petulance was my only comfort, it seemed as I flipped my shoes off under the table and slumped in my seat.
As if it was a carefully planned blow, two gossips walked around my table towards the bathroom. “Can you believe she had the gall to show her face?” I knew immediately who they were talking about: me, Maureen Fillmore.
“I know! No shame at all.” A mother hen sort of clucking followed that was totally at odds with her Bondism-erella outfit.
“Yeah, yeah, no shame.” I replied under my breath, but they must have heard me because their whispering turned frantic as they hurried away. Yes, go away, I’m a teenage outlaw.
Please. I was a twenty-five year old supermarket attendant making minimum wage, formerly a twenty-four year old millionaire making maximum wage as an heiress. My shame as complete, trust me.
Because my mother, who was also my mentor and teacher, had embezzled billions to fund her illegal experimentation on even more illegal blood magic (her abilities were much more Harry Potter-esque than mine would ever be), I was an outcast in both the hero world and the normal world. In the past year, I’d really learned the meaning of bad press - not even the X-Men would take me now.
I didn’t know why they all kept treating me like it was my fault. I embezzled nothing, did no blood magic - would never be able to do that because it was way out of my ability range. I’d come to the convention hoping to make a hero friend or two, learn something, and drum up some business. My card said that I was good at listening and at finding things, and I was.
Clearly a bad idea. People were treating me like I had a henchman a la Igor out doing bad deeds in my name. As if. I could hardly afford my own health insurance, let alone that for an employee. All of our assets were frozen after the trial. I was allowed the things bought in my own name (car, computer, shoes) and twenty minutes to pack the essentials - everything else was sold.
Rooting through the convention packet left me disappointed and sober - no booze. The glass bottles contained only a few potion samples for the ‘born this way’ part of our community. And there was no way I was trying on anything made of the nylon swatches, I was no superhero wannabe. Though I’d had a suit made for myself years ago in the beginning, it was long since hidden in the back of my closet.
- - end entry 07 - -
Well there you have it! The plot hasn’t really started yet, but I think this gives you a pretty good idea of who Maureen is.