Starter Villain

by John Scalzi

was sitting in Darroll’s office in the Barrington First National Savings and Loan building, which had been recently refurbished after its purchase by CerTrust, a Chicago-based financial company whose thing was buying local banks and then keeping the former branding so everyone in town would think they were still dealing with a local business and not some faceless financial behemoth.

“When people name cats, they usually do it in one of three categories: food, physical characteristics or mythology,” Morrison explained. “So, you name your cat Sugar, or Smudge, or Zeus. You went with mythology.”

Don’t swim with the dolphins during a labor dispute. No matter how much they try to convince you otherwise.”

“Dolphin societies are complex,” Livgren said. “They don’t necessarily track one-to-one with human societies, but there are rough analogues, and the idea of class apparently is one that works for them. Also, my predecessor in this role read them Das Kapital and other economic texts.” “We have a better education than you, you smooth-brained last-gasp Habsburg,” Who Gives a Shit said.

“I went to Northwestern,” I said, only a little defensively. “Oooooh, Northwestern,” Who Gives a Shit said. “Fucking doormat of the Big Ten, you must be very proud.”

Another picture popped up, a stock photo of young, attractive and multicultural people in suits. “But in fact, they look like this,” Yang said. I nodded. “Soulless corporate automatons,” I said. Yang pursed her lips. “I don’t think that’s what she was going for,” Morrison said. She was in the session with Williams and Hera, who was set up at her own desk with a keyboard. I had been unreasonably happy to see my cat again. “My mistake,” I said. “Investment bankers.” “Charlie.” “Sorry,” I said to Yang. Yang smiled tightly before continuing. “They look like everybody else,” she continued.

“So we’re like Spotify, but for evil.” “We’re much less evil than Spotify. We actually pay a living wage to the people whose work we’re selling.”

We were back in the tearoom, which was now beginning to fill up with tech and finance bros in town for the Bellagio Gathering. Half of them were talking loudly to nothing, earbuds conspicuously glimmering in their ears, cell phones on the table. The other half had their cell phones out and were talking into them without the benefit of earbuds, holding them out like the USB-C connector was a microphone. They were all performatively Doing a Business for the benefit of all the rest of them.

“I expected the members of Earth’s leading society of villains to be smarter,” I said. “I don’t know why.” “They’re smarter in movies and books.” “They would have to be, wouldn’t they?” Morrison said. “In the real world, they can be what people like them usually are: a bunch of dudes born into money who used that money to take advantage of other people to make even more money. It works great until they start believing that being rich makes them smart, and then they get in trouble. Unless they find someone else to take advantage of.”

“Your uncle didn’t want to pay for aesthetics. He was a practical villain.”