“I hate all the uncertainty. Are we humans, Erin? Do we even have a choice? Or are we just fractions of a computer program?”

Erin bit her lip, looking around at the passersby. There were no written rules about what could or could not be said in public. Of course there weren’t. Written rules could be found by Protagonists and would then be censored by the Plot. Along with the writers, possibly.

Talking about Protagonists openly in public had the same dangers involved. Anyone who could overhear might be a Protagonist under the guise of their alter ego. 

So, when Erin glanced around, it was to scan the faces and features of all the people in line nearby. In the age of the internet and high surveillance, there was no actual way for a superhero to maintain their secrecy for very long. There were whole forums of online conversation dedicated to secret identities of superheroes. Erin knew the Meridian City Protagonists well.

Finally, she responded, cautiously, “If you want my take on the human condition, Greg, I need to be far more intoxicated.” She smiled at him, trying to bring a little levity to a question that no one had an answer to/for. “I think being human is relative. This is the way the world works now. Fate and destiny are for comic heroes, not real people like us.”

“Ha,” he offered as a scoff, “Fair enough. How old were you when everyone kind of figured out what they were?”

“Mmm, I was eight or nine when Doommaster tried to conquer Carthage, so nearly 20 years ago?” The anniversary was coming up about eight months from now.

At the time, nearly the entire city fell under the spell of the Plot, permanently changing the world, figuratively and literally. The Plot changed the city so that superheroes could fight Doommaster and his cursed monsters with impunity, destroying buildings for an awe inspiring opening Plot line. In the process, most of the city’s people became Plot Pawns, permanently losing their personalities to play some small role in the story, even if as just a fleeing victim of Doommaster’s cursed powers. 

No one knew how things worked, and people fighting the Plot just folded in that first terrible encounter.

Minor things like materializing a smoothie machine were nothing. When the Plot flexed for a storyline, an entire battalion of tanks had appeared for a Puppeted automated military to drive into the city in the early days. That was just for show, however, as the real stars were the new Protagonists. “We all kind of realized then, didn’t we?” Erin shrugged. “I didn’t quite grasp it out until I was a couple years older, and tried to talk to a Pawn - some sibling of a Protagonist I’d seen on television - in a grocery store.”

Greg shook his head. “Must have terrified your parents, when they realized who you’d spoken to.”

“Yeah.” Her father had found her, and she’d never forget how grey his face had turned. “Anyway, I suggest just focusing on the good things in life.”

Greg stared at her as they shuffled a little closer to the truck, Joel and Mike talking animatedly about their latest strategies to Isabel. “The good things, huh?”

“I am sure Mike and Joel would be happy to introduce you to their games. Did you hear that Corey from sales went to one of their weekend bouts once?”

Greg laughed. “I’ll stick to train miniatures…” He paused, sighing, glancing at his watch. 

“Something up?” 

“Oh, I had something to do this afternoon, but I got assigned some digital archiving last minute.”

“Why are you here? We wouldn’t have minded if you skipped.” 

Greg offered a wan smile. “You might not have, but you know how Isabel is, and I had promised yesterday I’d come.” 

Erin responded in kind and was at a loss, until something did occur to her. “Hey, let me take care of whatever you are scanning.”

“What? No, Erin, I couldn’t-” 

“Greg, I told you, I have to stay late anyway, and I am not going to be up for much coding after greasy Mexican.”

It took a little coaxing, but she finally got him to promise to give her whatever task he’d been assigned so he could leave early. 

Greg seemed a little better after that, and the line moved fast. They all got their tacos and burritos, or, in her case, a slightly too-oily quesadilla. 

They didn't talk as much on the way back, eating what they could on the move, either dodging people trying to get their own sustenance for the day or others trying to get back to work.. Erin had even finished her chicken quesadilla before getting back to her desk.

After she settled back in to work and promised to meet Greg in an hour, a shadow covered her desk and keyboard. She mumbled a quick, “One sec,” as she finished the thought she was trying to coalesce into an email. She had to get one last line out to complete her thought and looked up.

Her smile froze when she saw her guest. The pause was short, just long enough for her to blink and realize she was still in control of herself. 

“Hey, Tyson. How are you?” she asked conversationally as her blood ran cold with fear.

Tyson Templeton was a big guy; he had a perfect white smile accentuated by his bald head and a well-trimmed stubble. He was a foot taller than Erin’s average five-foot-six, black, and had an air of friendly charm. Exactly as the executive marketing and sales rep he played should, he wore a two-piece suit with skinny tie and he had an easy-going confidence. Tyson cut the kind of figure that would be equally at home acting as the hotshot, sharp-tongued lawyer in the midst of courtroom deliberation or the soldier dressed in fatigues, performing black ops in some third world country.

Erin wasn’t afraid of what he could do to her physically, of course. Metaphysically, however… Tyson Templeton was the office Protagonist.