Let you.The rest of the words blend and blur, but those two stand out in sharp clarity. Mr. Singkham letting me do anything feels ... like something I should have taken care of a long time ago.
But I will. Soon.
I release a dissatisfied huff. Simone doesn’t flinch. I’d like to keep her on, because she isn’t skittish like so many others I’ve hired, but if she doesn’t give me better news, and quickly, she’s going to end up as collateral.
I clear my throat as I put the papers down and place my hands on top of them. However, before I can speak and send electricity skittering over her skin, Simone chooses that moment to stand up a little straighter, adjust the glasses balanced on the end of her nose, and save herself.
“I know it’s not my place, Mr. Taranis, but I did have one other suggestionnoton your list.”
I wait. The rope of the guillotine is taut.
She sets down her binder and gestures at my newspaper-covered desk. “May I?”
I give a small tip of my head, and she moves rapidly, her fingers flitting over the papers, dragging a few of myleastfavorite to the top. The ones where the Wyvern shimmers in his new fucking suit, in his new fuckingskin, his perfect little bride-to-be standing right beside him in half of them.
I grip the cold edge of my desk, wondering if I’ll be able to break this one with a touch. I went through three wooden desks before Imigrated to concrete. So far, it’s held up to my ire. She better get to the fucking point.
“Look here.” Her finger moves, not over the headlines but over the tiny, tiny text between the caption and the photograph that readsphoto credit: Monika Neumann. “It’s on every paper. Online publications too.” She reaches into her pocket and withdraws her phone. She already has the latest headlines pulled up, and as she scrolls down, I notice that same name listed beneath every photo in every article.
“And their social media—well, his social media; hers is more personal—you can see here that his following had two major explosions. One after the Forty-Eight Hour Festival, when you were all photographed together and this image surfaced.” A picture of the Wyvern, the pink monstrosity, staring down at Vanessa adoringly, his hand tipping up her chin as he leans down to kiss her. The worst part about the photo? You can see my blurry fucking outline in the background, talking to Ms. Lemon, the witch.
“And of course, his first major post. Three million likes. And this wasbeforehis transition, when he didn’t have even ten percent of your following.”
I know what photo she’s going to show me next. It’s a picture of the Wyvern as a Black man with glowing brown skin and fire in his gaze, traveling up a tunnel carrying no fewer than six humans draped over his broad frame. It was a daring rescue after an avalanche. I hadn’t been called in for it, nor would I have wanted to go if I had been. But with power over fire, he’d been an easy candidate. And he’d delivered.
“All of the rescue photos were taken by the same person. She was on-site with him.”
“In the snow?”
“Apparently, from the reports I’ve seen produced by The Riot Creative detailing the incident, she snuck into the tunnel after him.”
I frown. “She could have died if the tunnel collapsed.” Likely would have. Humans are so frail. Pathetic.
Simone nods. “Correct. She’s known for taking big risks.” She opens her little binder and pulls out a stack of photos—these featuring neither Champions nor villains.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter as I comb through the images. Some of them are ... hard to look at. Even for me.
Armed militants wearing uniforms I don’t recognize, whose badges are written in various scripts I don’t speak, hunkered down behind large bags of sand, machine guns peeking out from over the tops. The camera nestled among the guns captures the moment a militant is shot in the head, eyes rolled back, blood spatter visible as it shoots out the back of his skull.
“For fuck’s sake.”
Another image shows the desert, soldiers posing next to the mutilated body of a man in a different uniform. I glance at another picture, this one of a white man with short blond hair and a filthy beard trapped in a tire. It’s on fire.
“Get these off my fucking desk.”
She does, gathering them up before setting others down in their place. “Those photos are all Monika’s. She’s a war photographer. They say she’s the best of our generation. She has exhibits too.” The new photos Simone shows me are mostly portraits taken from unusual angles or in the reflections of other objects.
“Your point? Other than to make me want to lose my lunch?”
She takes a fortifying breath and gathers all her glossy little pictures back up into her leather notebook, which she holds against her chest. “I think that with the right photographer, you might be able to use even the most average PR firm. After all, The Riot Creative is small. They may be good at what they do, but they aren’tthatgood. The significant differential here might just be the right photo ops. A picture is worth a thousand words, but Monika’s seem to be worth a million likes.”
I flick my gaze up at Simone, thinking that in this moment, Iwouldn’tlike to gut her. It’s an odd feeling. “Good,” I say.
She exhales, her lips twitching in the smallest makings of a smile.
“Very good, Simone.”
By now, Simon has returned and stands just inside my office, clutching his own binder to his chest and watching his coworker in awe.
