A Trans Superhero V. Press Conference: Who Will Win?

Jack was 5'2 with chocolate brown hair, scarred tan skin, and startling blue eyes that complemented his white mask nicely.

A length of nylon rope secured Jack’s hands to his ankles. He’d awoken propped up on the hard plastic seat of a dunk tank. Beneath him, the silver forms of piranhas. He could just barely make out a pink hint of their bellies as they slipped around soundlessly in the depths below.

If Jack leaned back, he would fall in. If he tried to jump, he would also fall in. It was a pickle. All around him, the echoey expanse of an abandoned warehouse, complete with flickering bulbs, creaking corrugated metal, and a dirty, dusty floor. Directly in front of him, a cackling man palming a baseball. Up and down, up and down, faster and faster, like the beat of Jack’s racing heart.

“Time’s almost up, Mr. Magnificent! Or should I say, Mr. Unimpressive?” Cue laugh. AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. All caps, ‘a’s and ‘h’s, booming gleefully off of every surface in the warehouse. “Anything to say before you meet your watery grave?”

Jack fixed the man with a hard stare. Normally, Jack would be all ‘I’ll never give up!’ this, and ‘wow, I’m not very interested in deep sea diving’ that. Normally, his heart would thrill a little, and the adrenaline rush would make him smile in spite of the danger. And normally, he enjoyed Mr. Sinister, the man that was constantly trying to kill him.

Mr. Sinister was 6'0 by Jack’s estimate, in an all-black catsuit and huge platform boots. He wore spiked, bulky shoulder pads and a choker that matched. Lush black hair, dark eyes, and a black mask.

Sometimes, he would spice his outfits up for fun occasions. Today was one of them. He wore an all-black baseball cap, backward of course, and a loose-fitting baseball shirt, dyed so poorly black that Jack could read ‘Angels’ underneath.

Normally, Jack would have processed the irony, but right now a million thoughts buzzed in his head, loud, angry, and cutting. When he closed his eyes, he could see it all over again, the glass of water clenched in his trembling hand, the rows and rows of camera lenses that glittered like stars in his peripherals. “Mr. Magnificent, this might be a little invasive, but there’s a theory on social media that you might be, that you might be, that you might be…”

“UH, HELLO?” Mr. Sinister’s hands grasped the seat, his face so close to Jack’s that the air smelled of his coconut aftershave. The dunk tank shook, and Jack presssed himself as far down into his seat as he could to balance himself, the man-eating fish below real to him once again. Mr. Sinister’s voice, usually deep and dark and husky, sounded like screeching to his tired ears. “Pay attention to me! Look at me! What’s the matter with you?”

Jack gnashed his teeth. Something in the back of his throat stung. He shifted his gaze from Mr. Sinister’s narrowed eyes to the forms of the fish below him. “If you’re going to kill me, then just go ahead! Do it! Fuck off with the fish!”

“Huh?” Mr. Sinister dropped his voice. He blinked a few times, his eyes wider than Jack had ever seen them before. “What’s wrong with you?”

Jack had never cussed before in front of Mr. Sinister, and right now he didn’t care. He leaned so far forward that his breath fanned over Mr. Sinister’s forehead. Before the press conference, Jack had eaten a tuna sandwich; he hoped that would be apparent. “There are a bunch of piranhas underneath me that you put there!”

“Well, yeah, duh.” Mr. Sinister rolled his eyes. “Aside from that.”

Jack sighed. How many times had Mr. Sinister dangled him off the side of a cliff or tied him to the train tracks? All of those times, Jack had flashed winning smiles and punned as if his life depended on it. Every time, Jack escaped, close enough that he could feel the wind of the passing train or hear the snap of his bonds as they shattered from the fall. Every time, Jack was flushed with adrenaline from the near miss, and Mr. Sinister would be just a few feet away, laughing or winking or sipping tea from a dainty bone-china cup.

It was almost an unspoken deal; Jack never caught Mr. Sinister, and Mr. Sinister never killed Jack. It was always oops! I forgot my handcuffs. Oops! Looks like all the evidence of your crimes is mysteriously missing. They were each other’s nemeses, and that was better than having a soul mate to Jack. But Jack wasn’t in the mood to play. In his head, the flashing lights, and The Question. His very own answer, clinging to him like a ghost.

“Fine. The press conference.”

“The one I kidnapped you from? Like twenty minutes ago?”

“What other one would I be talking about?”

Mr. Sinister shrugged, his head cocked in a way Jack could only describe as ‘boyish.’ That’s how he often thought of the villain; while Jack caught falling dudes in distress and captured robbers, Mr. Sinister would gleefully rub his hands together and float around the city lazily. “Okay. What about it?”

“Do you remember…” For the first time, Jack found himself struggling for words in front of Mr. Sinister. Normally, quips flowed from him like water from a well. Mr. Sinister just had that effect on him. But now? His mouth was dry. “The, uh, the question, the one about me being...”

Mr. Sinister closed his hand around the baseball, silent.

“You know?”

Mr. Sinister shook his head and Jack dropped his eyes to the fish once again. They looked like ominous shadows in the harsh light, and something wet hit his cheeks as he watched their lazy circles. Normally, when he cried in front of Mr.Sinister, he at least had the rain for an alibi. But today, a choked sound left his throat.

“Yo?”

“The one about me being trans!” Jack shot his head up and met Mr. Sinister’s eyes.

“Y-yeah?” Mr.Sinister’s voice cracked for the first time Jack had ever heard. “What about it? Look, I was kind of busy, figuring out the best place to get you — “

“I said no!” The minutes came back to him, looping behind his eyes like a scene from a horror movie. The camera lights. His dry throat and his panicked ponderings about whether anyone could smell his tuna breath from the other side of the podium. His absent-minded selection of a woman with short bangs and purple lipstick. Her question that hit him like an oncoming truck. “Mr. Magnificent, this might be a little invasive, but there’s a theory on social media that you might be a trans man. Is this true?”

“So?” Mr. Sinister rolled his eyes.

“I lied! I’m trans! I’m like, super super super trans!”

Mr. Sinister snorted. “Well you are a superhero, so I’m sure you’re ‘super super—”

“Why did I lie?’ Jack had been replaying the moment ever since he woke up, but standing behind the podium, he hadn’t thought about it at all. The word leaped from his throat, followed immediately by an awkward laugh, followed immediately by glugging down water, followed immediately by pretending to hear a scream for help that wasn’t there, followed immediately by charging out of the press conference. And of course, getting chloroformed in a back alley. But that part he thought about the least. “Why did I lie about that? I don’t know why I said ‘no!’ And I swear to God I saw the reporter’s face, like, fall! What have I done?”

Mr.Sinister opened his mouth, but Jack kept talking. Tears hit the water below, and it sounded like rain to his tired ears. “People have theorized? What? They’re fucking talking about my body! I shouldn’t have to answer a question like that, it’s none of their goddamn business! But I still feel like shit, and I think that’s the shittiest part! I shouldn’t have said no! But I don’t even know why I said it! I swear to God, Sinister! I didn’t mean it! Am I secretly ashamed?” More tears. “Fuck! I don’t want to be ashamed!”

Mr. Sinister pressed his mouth into a hard line. Perhaps this wasn’t how he expected his Great Press Conference Piranha Dunk Tank Scheme to go. And then he sighed, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. “You made a mistake, and you were under a lot of pressure. That’s a hard question to answer, and no one should force it out of you. And there’s the whole hidden identity aspect to think about, you know?”

“I’m a superhero — “

“Really, I would’ve never guessed — “

“ — You know what that would do? If people knew a trans dude was their biggest idol? How many trans kids would benefit? And I just threw that away! I just — “

Mr.Sinister blew out a sharp breath. “Hey, hey, hey, calm down.” He wound the baseball back, and the arch of Mr. Sinister’s long, muscular arm made Jack twitch. He was snapped back to reality. Piranhas. Dunk tank. Rope. “I appreciate you coming out to me,” Mr. Sinister offered with a shrug. “Maybe this will help you?”

BAM! It happed in less than a few seconds. The baseball hit its target, the seat dropped out from under Jack’s trembling body, and he was plunged into the waters below.

***

For a moment, every thought left his brain as water surged into Jack’s lungs. His auxiliary functions kicked in; the subconcious reminder that Mr. Sinister wanted him to live as he sank down to the bottom of the water. He gripped the ropes with his teeth and yanked as hard as he could, and his bonds pulled apart easily. “Boyfriends tie me up tighter than you do!” was Jack’s usual taunt, and Mr. Sinister would dutifully respond that he would study up. He never did.

But the fish began to swarm around Jack. Glimmering silver as coins, their bellies a striking pink against the murky water. They had goofily oversized eyes, big perfect circles. A few opened their mouths, and Jack winced, expecting their sharp teeth to pierce his legs and arms to ribbons. But they were slow, calm. He squinted at their teeth. They were flat, square….human-like.

The breath Jack had been holding escaped him in a flurry of bubbles. He shot to the surface, trying his best to ignore the fish slamming their faces into his shins. Mr. Sinster was on the ground, howling with laughter.

“They’re Pacu!” he wheezed between each screeching laugh. “You…actually…thought….I was going to put you in a PIRANHA TANK? That wouldn’t even work!”

“You are SUCH a CHILD!” Jack grabbed at his soaking mask; it was going to take forever for his costume to dry. “What the hell is a Pacu?

Mr. Sinister stood up, still laughing. “They’re an invasive species of fish from South America. I found some when I was fishing, and they definitely don’t belong in Lake Jacob. I thought you might want to help build a tank for them with me and we can donate it to the aquarium. I dunno that much about PH levels and water-to-fish ratios and stuff. Figured you would.”

“What would make you think I would know anything about that?” Jack said, trying to push his little tank of shrimp at home out of his head. Trying to forget how fun it was to set up their little castles, put up seasonal decorations for them, and test their water every week.

Mr. Sinister shrugged. “Cause you’re smart.” His voice softened. “And that’s why you’re gonna figure out the whole press conference stuff.”

That shouldn’t have slowed Jack’s pounding heart, but it did. He took a long breath and pulled himself up over the lip of the dunk tank. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to hold another one at the aquarium,” he mumbled.

There it was: Mr.Sinister’s trademark evil smirk. “I can’t wait to throw your coming-out kidnapping! Maybe I’ll make a net out of twenty trans flags. Or have some poodles dyed pink and blue run you out of town!”

Jack’s smile grew just a little more. He didn’t have all the answers, and he knew he had a raging sea of emotion to battle by himself; it was gonna be a rough press conference.

But at least he knew that no matter what, his crazy evil nemesis was there to stay.