Mom, I'm Bulletproof

Chapter 13.1: Proscenium vs. Dr. Critique

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 There was a large open space, surrounded by a few desks with outdated computers and stacks of papers.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."