Curtain folded her arms. "I thought we were finished with plays. Haven't we moved on to the good stuff? Strategy, and tactics, and self-defense?"
Backstage at their theater, Proscenium loomed over her while she sat at her antique school desk, surrounded by stacks of books.
"In 1599, Queen Elizabeth asked Shakespeare to write not a comedy, not a tragedy, but a history," Proscenium said. "In the play, young King Henry, who was then merely Prince Harry, gathered a group of farmers and peasants and turned them into soldiers, leading them against vast armies."
She stood up from her table and chair and walked over to him. As usual, she had her cloak barely draped around her in a provocative way.
"And they returned home as heroes," she said. "I know this story already. Let me come with you on patrol tonight. I could watch your back."
"Shakespeare's challenge was determining how to portray such an epic tale of this on a single stage. He answers this in the prologue to Henry V. Read that speech. Study it. Know it. You will be discover the power of Shakespeare's words."
She turned away from him, walked to the table and sat down again.
"Poopie," she said. "I want to stop crime."
"Soon," he said. "Your time will come. Perhaps sooner than you know."
"Do you really mean that?" she said.
"Of course. I am the Proscenium. It is through me that the audience views the great work. I must be truthful."
"Whatever." She picked up the Shakespeare book and started flipping through it.
"I will quiz you when I return," he said. "In the morning."
Proscenium watched her for a few seconds, then turned into his cloud form, floating upward through the theater and out into the city.
* * * *
Proscenium found the building he was looking for – the Theater City Advocate.
It was once the city's preeminent newspaper. Now, though, the paper was barely running with only a perpetual skeleton cerew of employees. This made it the perfect place for tonight's confrontation.
The night before, Proscenium had returned to the Classicum Theater to find a note on the roof, asking for a meeting here. Knowing it was likely another trap, Proscenium could nonetheless not ignore the opportunity for more information.
In his cloud form, Proscenium floated through the hairline thin cracks in the building's windows. He reformed inside. There was a large open space, surrounded by a few desks with outdated computers and stacks of papers. He walked forward, his bronzed boots silent on the carpeted floor. A couple of the computers had been left on, filling the large room with a cold blue light.
"I am here," he said loudly. "You wanted to meet, let's meet."
"Greetings, performer," came a familiar voice. Dr. Critique stepped out of the shadows, wearing his cardboard box, as usual. "What role are you playing today, performer? Or are you just going to hide behind your mask?"
"What do you want?" Proscenium said.
"The truth."
Proscenium stood silent, as Critique stepped forward.
"You are a fraud, performer," Critique said. "You hide behind your mask and armor and cape. You hide your humanity."
"Enough," Proscenium said. "Over the last few weeks, I have walked into traps. Someone keeps setting me up. You must know who. Tell me."
"Never ask questions directly to the audience. Have you all lost sense of subtlety?"
"Enough!"
In an instant, Proscenium clouded, flew right at Critique, and reformed his hand first, immediately gripping the man by the neck. Proscenium lifted Critique off his feet. Proscenium took two steps and pressed the old man against the rear wall of the office.
Critique tried to speak, but only raspy wheezes came out. Proscenium loosened his grip on the man's throat just enough to let him talk.
"Your enemies?" Critique said with a slight smirk. "And what makes you think this city's criminal element specific enemies of yours?"
"Just as the proscenium arch watches over its city, so do I watch..."
"Over your city, yes, I know," Critique said. "Again, the fallacy of your point of view shows itself so that..."
Proscenium swung his free hand around and struck Critique with the back of his metal glove, immediately bruising the man's cheek.
Critique just smiled. "Your immediate turn to violence reveals the lack of thought that goes into you..."
Proscenium let out a frustrated yell and threw the man across the room. Critique hit a copy machine, knocked it over, and fell to the floor.
Critique clumsily stood, just as Proscenium charged at him. Proscenium raised both fists and brought them down onto Critique's shoulders. The small man let out a yelp and collapsed. Proscenium turned to the side and dug his metal-clad fingers into a Xerox machine. He pulled first with his shoulders and then with his arms, lifting the machine up over his head.
Critique held up a finger. "Wait."
Proscenium did not wait. He slammed the machine down onto Critique's body. He lifted it up and bludgeoned Critique two more times, feeling the man buckle against each attack.
Proscenium tossed the machine aside, where it loudly clattered against the nearest row of desks.
Critique didn't move either of his legs. One of his arms was bent and misshapen in several ways, twisted in ways a human arm should never be twisted. Puddles of blood had collected in various spots all around him.
"No more," Proscenium said. "No more games or puzzles. No more of our ridiculous debates. I am under attack. Why?"
Critique's body twitched a few times. He touched his chin as he forced his bruised lips into a smile. "You... are an antique."
Proscenium almost responded, "As are we both," but he stopped, fighting the temptation to engage in another circular debate.
Critique coughed up some blood and kept going. "You and your kind... must be swept away... to make way for the new..."
Proscenium stood silent.
"For decades," Critique said, "we have been unable to operate inside Theater City."
"We?" Proscenium said. "Who?"
Critique coughed in a way that almost sounded like a laugh. "You... are blind. Blinded by... tradition. By stereotypes. You cannot let go... of the old ways. This... is why you must be erased... from existence."
Proscenium remained still.
"We represent the future," Critique said. "You represent the past. You're a relic."
Proscenium thought for a moment, and then said, "If that is true, then why am I a target? Why not let this relic collect dust like so many other relics?"
"Heh," Critique said, managing another slight smile. "You... assume... you... are... the... target."
Proscenium lifted his foot off the man and stepped back.
"Yes," Critique said, once again struggling to sit up. "We've got you... figured out." He grinned as blood sloughed down the side of his mouth, and onto the cheap carpet.
"What have you done?" Proscenium said.
For a second, it looked like Critique might pass out after his beating. Instead, he used his good arm to wipe the blood from his face and continued.
"We've been testing you, studying you. We had to know what you really are."
Proscenium took another step away from him.
"And now we know."
Critique clicked his tongue. With that barely audible sound, Prosceniumfell to the floor, except that he was no longer Proscenium. He had becomeArthur, elderly janitor of the Classicum Theater, now wearing Proscenium'smetal armor.
# # # #
Next: The source.