The League Regional Intake Office is on the fourteenth floor of a building that doesn’t have a sign out front. This is deliberate. The League doesn’t advertise where it processes villain applications, because advertising would imply they want villains to apply, and the League’s official position on villain applications is that they represent a necessary regulatory function performed with institutional reluctance, in the same way that sewer maintenance is a necessary regulatory function: critical to public health, unglamorous, and ideally completed without anyone having to think about it.
I’ve been here seven times.
The waiting room has twelve chairs, a number dispenser, and a potted fern that I’m reasonably certain died during my third visit and has been composting in place ever since. There’s a framed poster on the wall showing a hero and a villain shaking hands beneath the words REGISTRATION IS THE FIRST STEP TOWARD PRODUCTIVE CIVIC ENGAGEMENT. The villain in the poster is smiling. I’ve stared at this poster across seven visits. Whoever drew it has never met a villain at this stage of the process.
I pull a number. Eighty-seven.
The display above the intake window reads NOW SERVING: 54.
╔══════════════════════════════════════════════════════╗
NOTICE OF CIVIC INTERACTION
LOCATION: League Regional Intake Office, 14th Floor
CATEGORY: Application Review (Provisional)
VISIT: 7 of — (ongoing)
ESTIMATED WAIT: 2 hr 11 min
NOTE: Mask removal required in all intake areas
during posted business hours.
╚══════════════════════════════════════════════════════╝
I take off the mask. I always take off the mask. I’ve taken off the mask seven times in this waiting room, and every time it feels like removing a fuse from a panel. Without it, nothing in the circuit works, but the building code says it’s got to come out during inspection. Without it I’m a twenty-nine-year-old in a coat that’s starting to fray at the left cuff, sitting in a chair calibrated to keep you awake without giving you grounds for a complaint.
The woman two seats over is wearing a cape. An actual cape, which either means she’s new or she’s committed to a brand I can’t afford to judge because my brand is a coat and a mask that fogs my glasses. She’s filling out what I recognize as Form 12-D, Scheme Pre-Registration, and she’s on her second copy. I can tell because the first one is crumpled in her lap and she keeps glancing at it like it owes her an explanation.
The kid across the room (he can’t be older than nineteen) is reading the League’s Provisional Classification Handbook, which I’ve read cover to cover twice. It contains six hundred pages of definitions, four hundred pages of procedural guidelines, and zero pages of useful advice.
(Nobody tells you any of it.)
A man in his fifties is asleep in the corner chair. He’s either been here longer than I have or he’s given up. I can’t tell the difference from the posture, and I’m not sure the distinction matters.
Two hours and nine minutes later, my number comes up. Two minutes faster than the Registry estimated, and I choose to interpret this as momentum.
* * *
Deputy Registrar Eunice Holloway is already pulling up my file when I sit down.
“Mr. Calamity.” She doesn’t look up from the screen. She doesn’t need to. Seven visits. She knows my face and my file and what the answer’s going to be.
“Deputy Registrar Holloway.”
“You know you can call me Eunice.”
“I’d rather keep it formal.” Familiarity is a concession. I haven’t earned any concessions, and the last thing I need is to build rapport with the person who stamps DENIED on my application six weeks after every visit, because rapport suggests a relationship, and a relationship suggests mutual recognition, and mutual recognition is Benchmark Five on the list I’m here to discuss. I don’t want to accidentally satisfy a benchmark through small talk when I can’t satisfy one through criminal activity.
She scrolls through something. I can see the amber reflection in her glasses — the same amber, always the same amber, the Registry’s one aesthetic commitment.
╔══════════════════════════════════════════════════════╗
APPLICANT PROFILE: Theodore Calamity
CLASS: Petty Nuisance (Provisional)
LEVEL: 2
INFAMY: 2
LEAGUE STANDING: Absolutely Not
PRIOR VISITS: 6
STATUS: No benchmarks satisfied.
╚══════════════════════════════════════════════════════╝
“I’ll walk you through the current requirements,” she says. “Again.”
“I’ve memorized them.”
“Then this should go quickly.” She adjusts her glasses. Eunice Holloway is — I’d guess late fifties, though I’d never ask, because Eunice isn’t a person you ask personal questions. She processes applications with total fairness, which is worse than hostility, because hostility I could use. Hostility is a narrative. Fairness is a wall that doesn’t know it’s a wall.
“League Admission requires satisfaction of ten qualifying benchmarks,” she says. “I’ll note your current standing on each. Benchmark One: three Certified Schemes. A Certified Scheme requires pre-registration via Form 7-C, forty-eight-hour advance notification to the relevant jurisdictional authority, and post-incident filing within seventy-two hours. Your current total is—”
“Zero.”
“Zero. Your recent action at the Kessler Street Water Authority was not pre-registered. No advance notification was filed. No post-incident report has been submitted.” She pauses. “Would you like a copy of Form 7-C?”
I already have fourteen copies of Form 7-C. They’re in a folder in Storage Unit 417-B, next to the fire extinguisher I bought voluntarily and the emergency exit I don’t have, which are League Lair Standards eight and twelve, respectively, and I’m getting ahead of myself.
I didn’t file the form because filing it would’ve given them forty-eight hours’ notice. Forty-eight hours is enough time for someone to do something about it, and I couldn’t risk that, because — and this is the part I can’t explain without sounding like I’m confessing — I needed the device to run. I needed the water to change. I needed the consequence, and the consequence only works if nobody stops you, which is a sentence I’ve just thought in a government intake office while a woman with perfect handwriting waits for me to respond.
“I have the forms,” I say.
“You have the forms. You didn’t submit the forms. There’s a difference, Mr. Calamity.”
“Understood.”
“Benchmark Two: a Registered Lair meeting eleven of fourteen League standards for villain operational facilities.”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“My lair meets five.”
“Five,” she confirms. “You’re short on adequate ventilation, secondary egress, reinforced perimeter, adequately intimidating conference room, designated captive holding, and fire suppression certification.” She glances at me. “Also, your facility is listed as a commercial storage unit. The League prefers dedicated structures.”
“The League prefers.”
“The League requires eleven of fourteen. You meet five. Benchmark Three: one Registered Subordinate.”
“I work alone.”
“The League notes that as well.” She says it without inflection. It’s the most devastating inflection.
“Benchmark Four: one Licensed Heroic Defeat. A registered hero, Level 10 or above, must be defeated in a documented engagement filed with the League Combat Registry.”
I’ve never fought a registered hero. Not because I’m avoiding them. A hero has never shown up. Vantage arrived at Kessler Street, technically, but he arrived after I’d already left, which means by League standards I wasn’t defeated and he wasn’t victorious and the entire event has the official status of two people who were in the same neighborhood at different times.
“Zero,” she says.
“I assumed.”
“Benchmark Five: an Assigned Nemesis. This requires mutual recognition — one hero, one villain, standard Form 18-A, both signatures.”
Both signatures. A nemesis requires that a licensed hero look at me and say yes, this is the person I’ve chosen to define my career against, and I need to say the same about them, and we both need to sign a form, and this is a system that requires your enemy to agree to be your enemy through paperwork.
“Zero.”
“Is it possible to file a unilateral—”
“No.”
“Benchmark Six: Escape from Lawful Custody.”
“I’ve never been in custody.”
She looks up from the screen for the first time. “You’ve never been arrested?”
“No one’s tried.”
I don’t say this with pride. It doesn’t deserve pride. Nobody’s arrested me because nobody’s considered me worth arresting, which is the same reason nobody’s fought me and nobody’s agreed to be my nemesis and nobody’s signing Form 18-A with my name anywhere near it.
“Benchmark Seven,” she says, and I can tell she’s deciding not to say something, which is the closest Eunice Holloway has ever come to editorial commentary. “Recognizable Criminal Identity. This requires that your operational persona be identified without assistance by a minimum of fifty registered civilians across two separate polling events.”
╔══════════════════════════════════════════════════════╗
BENCHMARK 7: Recognizable Criminal Identity
MOST RECENT QUARTERLY POLL
CORRECT IDENTIFICATIONS: 8 / 50 required
MISIDENTIFICATIONS: 2
MOST COMMON MISIDENTIFICATION:
“the guy who fixed the water”
╚══════════════════════════════════════════════════════╝
Eight people. Eight people in this city can identify me by my operational persona. Two of them were wrong. They thought I was “the guy who fixed the water,” which is — yes, technically accurate, and also the single most damaging possible summary of my career to date.
“Eight correct identifications in the most recent poll,” Eunice says. “Three of those originated from the Kessler Street incident.”
“And the misidentifications?”
“Noted in the record.” She moves on. This is a kindness. I’m not sure either of us can handle the alternative.
“Benchmark Eight: a Signature Invention. A fielded device, registered with the League’s Technical Division, classified Tier 2 or above.”
My devices work. They always work. That’s the problem: they work so well they fix things instead of breaking them, and the League’s Technical Division doesn’t have a classification for a device that functions exactly as designed and accidentally solves a problem nobody asked me to solve.
“Nothing registered,” she says.
“I have designs.”
“Designs aren’t devices, Mr. Calamity. Benchmark Nine: a Recommendation from a League Member in Good Standing.”
I don’t know any League members. I know their names because they’re on the news and their approval ratings because those are public filings, and I know that asking any one of them to recommend me for League admission is roughly equivalent to asking an insurance adjuster to cosign a claim against his own company — technically not prohibited, deeply humiliating to attempt.
“And Benchmark Ten: a minimum Infamy threshold of twenty-five.” She folds her hands. “Your current Infamy is two.”
Two. Out of twenty-five. I’d need to multiply my current Infamy by twelve and a half to clear the threshold, and my most recent registered action actually lowered it, which means I’m not even stagnant. I’m regressing.
“That concludes the benchmark review. Your current completion status is zero of ten.”
Zero of ten.
I knew. I’ve known every time I’ve walked into this office. I came here knowing the answer and I sat in the waiting room for two hours and nine minutes and I let her walk me through every benchmark because I don’t know why. Because the process is the thing. Because showing up is what you do when the system requires you to show up, even when the system’s already decided you don’t qualify, because if I stop showing up they’ll say I wasn’t interested, and I am interested, and I want that on the record even if the record doesn’t care.
I play the card.
“My father was Commodore Calamity.”
Eunice doesn’t react. That’s not accurate. She contains a reaction, which is different. Her expression doesn’t change, but something behind it reorganizes, fast and quiet.
“I’m aware of your lineage,” she says.
“My title says Legacy: Unverified. I’m asking you to verify it.”
╔══════════════════════════════════════════════════════╗
TITLE: [Legacy: Unverified]
LINEAGE: Theodore Calamity → Commodore Calamity
(Deceased)
VERIFICATION STATUS: Pending review.
Legacy status, if verified, grants provisional
credit toward Benchmarks 7 (Recognizable Criminal
Identity) and 9 (League Recommendation), contingent
upon confirmation of the predecessor’s standing at
time of death.
╚══════════════════════════════════════════════════════╝
Two benchmarks. If it verifies, I’d get provisional credit on two. That’s not much. But zero to two is an infinite percentage gain, and I’ll take it, because when you’re starting from zero the math favors any movement at all.
Eunice types something into the terminal. She reads whatever comes back.
Something crosses her face.
Fast. If I’d blinked, I’d have missed it. But I didn’t blink, because I’ve been waiting for this across seven visits, and whatever she’s reading is the first thing I’ve ever seen crack the surface of Eunice Holloway’s professional composure.
She closes the screen.
“Mr. Calamity.” Her voice hasn’t changed. Not technically. But there’s a half-beat of space before my name that wasn’t there before.
“Yes.”
“Commodore Calamity’s League membership was active from—” She stops. Starts again. “The Commodore’s file indicates a lapse in dues payment beginning fourteen months prior to the recorded date of death. League policy requires continuous membership in good standing for legacy transfer. A lapse of ninety days or more constitutes a break in standing.”
“How long was the lapse?”
“Fourteen months.”
“So his dues—”
“His final dues payment was never processed.” She says it evenly. Fair. The same procedural precision she’s used for every line of every benchmark, because that’s what Eunice does — she gives you the same attention whether she’s reading you a form number or telling you the last connection to your dead father has been administratively severed. “There is no legacy to inherit.”
╔══════════════════════════════════════════════════════╗
NOTICE OF TITLE REVIEW
TITLE: [Legacy: Unverified]
STATUS: Verification denied.
REASON: Predecessor membership lapsed 14 months
prior to recorded date of death. Continuous
membership in good standing required for legacy
transfer (Policy 4.2.1, Section 9).
This title will remain visible but will confer
no benefits. No benchmarks affected.
╚══════════════════════════════════════════════════════╝
Fourteen months. My father stopped paying his League dues fourteen months before he died. I don’t know why. The file is sealed, and Eunice isn’t going to tell me what she saw on that screen, and the Registry’s just informed me — in amber, in government format, unhurried — that the last professional link I have to the most feared arch-villain of his generation is a title that’ll stay visible but carry nothing.
Like a breaker that’s still in the panel but doesn’t carry current.
I don’t say anything for a while. Eunice waits. She’s good at waiting. She’s had seven visits of practice.
“Is there anything else I can help you with today?” she asks.
“No.”
“Your next eligible visit window opens in six weeks. You’ll receive a reminder.”
“I know.”
I stand up. I put on my coat. I don’t put on the mask (I’m still in the intake area, posted business hours), and I follow the rules because the rules are the only part of this I can control.
* * *
The 4:15 bus. It’s raining. The mask is in my pocket and the benchmarks are in my head and then, between one stop and the next, they’re not just in my head.
╔══════════════════════════════════════════════════════╗
QUEST LOG FORMALIZED
PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: League Admission
STATUS: 0 / 10 benchmarks satisfied.
[ ] 1. Three Certified Schemes ............. 0 / 3
[ ] 2. Registered Lair (11/14 standards) .... 5 / 11
[ ] 3. Registered Subordinate ............... 0 / 1
[ ] 4. Licensed Heroic Defeat ............... 0 / 1
[ ] 5. Assigned Nemesis (mutual) ............ 0 / 1
[ ] 6. Escape from Lawful Custody ........... 0 / 1
[ ] 7. Recognizable Criminal Identity ....... 8 / 50
[ ] 8. Signature Invention (Tier 2+) ........ 0 / 1
[ ] 9. League Member Recommendation ......... 0 / 1
[ ] 10. Infamy Threshold ................... 2 / 25
This objective has been added to your permanent
quest log and cannot be dismissed.
╚══════════════════════════════════════════════════════╝
Permanent. Cannot be dismissed.
The benchmarks settle into the upper right of my vision, amber, each one a clean unchecked box. Ten lines. The bus rounds the corner onto Delancey and the rain’s doing that thing where it’s too light for an umbrella and too heavy to ignore, and I’m reading the list slowly, one line at a time, already knowing none of them are going to look better on a second pass.
Zero of ten. Eight people know my name. My lair meets five standards. My Infamy is two. My father’s dues were never processed. His legacy was revoked before I was born into it, and I’ve been carrying a title that went inactive before I knew it existed.
The bus stops at Wexler Avenue. I don’t get off here. I haven’t gotten off at Wexler in twenty-one years.
Ten things. That’s all it is. Ten things between me and the door, and the door’s not locked, it’s not barred, it’s not guarded by anything more complicated than a checklist and a woman who processes it with perfect fairness and a system that doesn’t negotiate because it isn’t listening.
I pull out my phone and open the calculator. Not for math. For the feeling of pressing buttons that do what you tell them.
The bus keeps going. The benchmarks don’t move.