The real plan begins.

Brandon collapsed onto his sofa with barely the energy to grunt when the familiar broken spring stabbed his lower back. His television—still a CRT—reflected each line in his haggard face. A pile of unread mail collapsed on the thrift-store table before him, disturbing the layer of dust; after a long, grueling day cleaning the facilities at a Gotham branch of LexCorp, he could barely pull together the energy to eat, much less spend his limited free time scrubbing his own apartment. He repeated his mantra—”eighteen more minutes, eighteen more minutes”, a reminder of his daily vacation time accrual—as he sank into the musty cushions. It was easier to think he was actually building a reserve of time off for an eventual holiday rather than paying back the debt he owed for spending his vacation time and sick leave far earlier than his co-workers. It wasn’t fair. If he was going to work so hard, he should at least have a family or friends to come home to instead of another few hours in front of the television before he slept just enough to survive tomorrow’s shift.

He flailed for the remote and pointed it vaguely at the television, letting it hang in his hand while the screen flickered to life. He didn’t even remember what he had watched the night before. The TV started on a news channel, or something else with an interview, where a talking head smirked at him through an ominous haze of orange. For once he recognized the face: Lex Luthor, his boss’s boss’s boss’s boss’s boss’s boss. Or maybe there was another boss in between? Whatever. It wasn’t like he’d ever have any actual contact with the CEO of the company where he powerwashed chemical tanks and scrubbed metal floors, especially when one of them was in jail.

Luthor didn’t say anything to the interviewer, though his expression did fall from a sneer into a glare. “You could at least act surprised to see me, Mister Townsend.”

Brandon’s heart jumped. What were the odds that the other person on the TV show shared his last name? He laughed at the thought.

“I’m glad to see I amuse you.”

…wait. “Mister Luthor?”

“Good, I was starting to wonder if you knew who I was.”

The remote bounced off the carpet. “A-a-are you talking to me?”

“Of course I am. And sit up, you look like a slob.”

He jumped bolt-upright on his couch, ignoring the piercing spring. “How? How are you on my television?”

“Mister Townsend, if I told you, do you think you’d understand?”

Brandon’s eyes flicked around his room, searching for cameras or microphones. “…no?”

“Good answer.” Luthor nodded at him, and the lump in his throat fell into his ribs. “I don’t have long, so try to pay attention. I’m sure you’re aware of my recent incarceration and the events around it.”

Brandon nodded. Who wasn’t? There hadn’t been a bigger news story in years. At this point, everybody in the world with access to media had seen the photos and videos of the Justice League naked and masturbating on a public street or broad moonlight, and every man (or, statistically, about 96% of men and 5% of women) had spent a great amount of time poring over the footage, recorded only a dozen blocks from his apartment. Brandon himself had downloaded the high-definition live feeds before they had been taken down, and the ensuing masturbatory marathon had cost him his remaining vacation days and a trip to the pharmacy for a cream to relieve chafing. From what he’d heard, he wasn’t alone. If a person was at all attracted to women, they were likely in a similar situation if not quite as intense. He opened his mouth but, in a rare glimmer of foresight, decided not to explain how he jerked himself ragged watching the same event where one of the most powerful men in the world had been arrested. No, Brandon would play it cool. “I’ve seen a few reports.”

“I bet you have.” Luthor’s raised eyebrow blew away Brandon’s misplaced calm in an instant. “Since you’re caught up, how would you like to get your grubby hands on some of those women?”

“…what?”

“I have connections that will allow you to infiltrate the Watchtower under the guise of an upstanding member of the janitorial staff, and while there you will have free reign with all the superheroines your heart desires.”

“…what?”

Luthor rubbed the bridge of his nose. “God, why aren’t the necessary ones ever smart? I’m getting you a job at the Justice League’s space station, and you’re going to have sex with them. Understood?”

This had to be a joke, right? Or a fever dream. Maybe Brandon had inhaled too many chemicals at work. He knew he should have made sure his mask was on right. “Okay, I understand,” he lied, “but how would it even work?”

“You wouldn’t be the first plant I’ve had in their organization. Let’s just say their hiring system isn’t as robust as they think.”

“No, I meant, how would I have sex with Wonder…with all of them?”

“Ah, of course. I should have known the mechanics of corporate espionage weren’t your primary interest.” Brandon recognized the look on Luthor’s face from most of his teachers, co-workers, and ex-girlfriends. “Did you notice the amulets the heroes were wearing, or were you too distracted?”

“The necklaces?”

“Yes, the necklaces. The amulets affected the minds of the women who wore them. The same amulets have a different effect when worn by a man. They make the wearer totally imperceptible. Silent. Invisible. A ghost who cannot be detected by even the most sophisticated technology.”

“So if I had one of those, a woman wouldn’t notice if I touched her?”

“Not just touched her, Mister Townsend. You could bend a woman over and take her in the middle of the Gotham Freeway, and nobody would give you so much as a passing glance.”

Brandon started to put two and two together. “And if I’m on the Justice League space station, I could do it with all those superheroes?”

“I’m counting on it.”

“That would be amazing! Any man would kill for a chance to…wait. Why me? Why not a supervillain, or…or you?”

Luthor’s smug cheer returned to his voice. “Good, you’re thinking. Rest assured, the amulet isn’t dangerous. I’m sending you because you’re the only person who can do it. My extensive research shows you have a specific deficiency that makes you uniquely suited for the job.”

“Are you saying I’m stupid?”

“Not out loud. I mean you have a genetic quirk, a mutation that suppresses the development of superpowers. Any child of yours is guaranteed to be an ordinary, humdrum boy or girl, even if their other parent is a genius, an athlete, or a Kryptonian. It’s a rare trait, found in only one in a thousand men, and among those men we found your other inheritable traits made you best suited to this opportunity.”

“But that doesn’t matter unless…wait. Wait, wait, wait. It sounds like you’re expecting me to go to the Justice League, have sex with the heroes there, and knock them up.”

Luthor snapped his fingers, the first time Brandon had seen anything below his neck. “And he’s figured it out. You, Mister Townsend, are going to give the entire Justice League little bundles of joy, burdens to keep them out of the public eye and away from crime-fighting for months or years, and gifts who will never grow up to follow in their mothers’ brightly-colored boots. These children won’t be superheros. They’ll be just like you.”

His nearly-bare apartment came back into focus, and his head dipped as he mulled over Luthor’s full meaning. Just like him? No family, no friends, no relationships, no savings, stuck in a dead-end job, literally counting the minutes until their next day off? “But…that sounds awful.”

“Awful is what they make of it, Mister Townsend. Rest assured, the mothers of your children will be able to care for them far better than you might expect. The kids will never be scientists or gold medalists, but who is? Are you so concerned about it that you would give up a chance to have your way with the entire Justice League, and get paid while you do it?”

“Yeah, paid a janitor’s salary.”

“Then how does seven figures sound?”

Seven…figures? He must have meant dollars. Seven dollars per hour, even less than minimum wage. “It’s…”

“Millions. Millions of dollars, and a one-way ticket to any location of your choice when it’s all said and done. As long as you’re leaving the country. It’s another reason you’re perfect for this job. It’s easy to subject me to a paternity test, but some random gentleman in Europe? Tracing a child to you would be nearly impossible. All I ask is that you have as much fun as possible along the way.”

Brandon’s eyes lost sight of the room. This was wrong, wasn’t it? Lex Luthor was a supervillain, according to the news. This was an evil plan. He’d basically said as much when he talked about how pregnant heroines would be on the sidelines for months. How many people would get hurt because there were fewer heroes to save them? And what about the women themselves? How would they feel about it?

Then again, he reasoned, they wouldn’t feel much, would they? They would never know he was the one who had done it. If any of them had a boyfriend or husband, they would probably just assume a child was his. It was exactly the sort of thing couples planned for. And there were a lot of superheroes, so if a few went on maternity leave now and again, the others could pick up the slack. At least he’d know the women were safe and sound instead of kidnapped by aliens or something. And if he refused, Luthor would just find another person to do it. One in every thousand men? So, what, twenty or thirty thousand men in Gotham alone? Had he refused, Luthor would offer the same deal to somebody else and there was nothing Brandon could do to stop it. But if he accepted, he would be in the best position he could imagine. He could grope Wonder Woman, taste Vixen, smell Supergirl, spank Black Canary, and fuck every single one of them as often as he wanted with no repercussions.

“I’ll do it.” He didn’t say it. The words left his mouth without his consent, and his stomach reeled as he heard them in his own voice.

“Excellent.” Luthor nodded at something off-camera. “My assistant will visit you within the week. She will bring you the amulet and give you all the information you need for your new job. Oh, and Mister Townsend?”

“Y-yes, Mister Luthor?”

“Congratulations.” The television shut off on its own, plunging the room into darkness.