Marissa sat opposite him, far enough from the heavy stone desk that she could see her knees pressed together where they peeped out from beneath her freshly ironed deep-green skirt. The colour had been a gamble. She knew black was an immediate fail, far too predictable. Reds, in fact all of the hot colours, were out. Too bold for a sidekick. Blue was an option, but seemed to be the domain of the good and wholesome. Not appropriate for this interview, so that and the bargain price tag sealed her decision.

She looked up at Dr Precarious, his elbows on the desk with fingers steepled, pen balanced on their tips distractingly. "No. I never have. Not in any manner." One of the few interviews where no prior experience was a bonus. She studied his face, which revealed nothing. Only the new angle of the pen, still balanced indicated anything of a response. The pen still held her attention as he let it tilt past its balance point then, before it slid, bent his fingers and flicked them so that it went spinning into the air. As it spun in the air, he leant back on his transparent polymer chair. He had found his balance when the pen bounced on the stone and rolled towards the edge.

He was watching Marissa's eyes as she followed the pen to where it stopped, diagonally balanced over the edge, when he spoke, "Do you have any questions?"

Marissa had tonnes, but could not select from the catalogue and thought it bad taste to start alphabetically, so she made up a new one instead, "How soon do you intend to replace that acrylic chair with a genuine crystal one?"

Dr Precarious inclined his head until his neck gave an audible crack before straightening it again. "How do you know this one isn't genuine crystal?"

She knew. By the way the light bent through it with little change to colour, by the smudge marks that lacked definition, by the slight bend given away by changes in refraction as he breathed and most convincingly by the moulding edges that had never been smoothed over. She also knew that these wouldn't do. She needed to impress. "Crystal is much heavier. A good lead crystal would be pulling itself forward, back to the ground, causing you to learn further back than the light polymer requires. It would give you any even more relaxed posture."

He lifted his right finger and tapped it down on the balanced pen so that it spun into the air and landed against his chest, from where it slid into his left pocket. Then he stretched his arms back above himself and his legs forward so that the chair gently returned to four legs. Then he sat up straight, not touching the desk, but leant forward. He looked like he might be about to stand and Marissa pulled her heels under her ready to join him.

But he didn't. "Are you loyal?"

Ooh, the hard one. No point saying yes. He would never believe it and you would just be revealing yourself as deceitful. Saying no was equally just as bad because unless your sidekick is loyal, they are useless. Being ambiguous was the required position and he must have heard one hundred clever answers already. Sidekick positions didn't come up very often and she knew the competition was fierce. Can't be like all the others. "No. No I'm not loyal. But I'm extremely predictable, to the highly intelligent. I suppose you'd already guessed this'd be my answer."

Finally a response. A nod. The faintest of nods that may have sent waves through a glass of water, had it been balanced on his head, but certainly not enough to unbalance one from its honoured position.

Another hard question, "So why me?"

Pointing out that this was the first sidekick vacancy that had come up since she had come of age would be suicidal, so honesty was out of the question. This was a vanity question and she was sure the answer didn't relate to the job or her skills. "Ego." She deliberately left time for the word to sink in and start to irritate. "Every other super villain is hobbled by ego. Often so momentous that they barely function at all. You, on the other hand, have been so astonishingly effective that I had imagined you to have no issues with ego whatsoever."

His slow indrawn breath revealed that she was not out of the woods yet, "I noticed, despite your continued excellence at choosing the right words, you used the past tense in regard to your imagination."

She didn't let the blatant compliment touch her, "You're correct. I admit that I expected to walk into a simple yet functionally furnished office and meet a man of consistent taste, but no flare for style. I don't often make mistakes so you have left me feeling..." She placed the next word carefully, "...almost off balance."

He must either be happy with my answers or tired of my failings, but he did use the word lastly. She considered this most recent question carefully, "Lastly, what is your special talent." Why hadn't he used the word skill? This wasn't a role call for her party tricks. She ignored how much she loathed the word lastly when used in the place of the far superior finally.

Now or never, "I can't be in two different places at once." She knew he wouldn't show curiosity but waited for moment when it should have been expressed, "Even though many people who know me believe I can. This is because I am both very organised and think three steps ahead out of habit."

"Good. Well that ends the question part of this interview. Now please make yourself comfortable lying down on my desk."

Was this a trick? Was he letting me feel like I might be the most successful applicant just so that he can step way outside my acceptable boundaries without me showing resistance? Will I let him do this? What if what he really wants to see is some gumption? Will I disappoint him by not refusing or even questioning? Questions shuffled for priority as she compliantly lay down on his cold, stone desk.

"Now place each hand and foot at the corners of the desk and close your eyes."

He just told me to spread my legs. More words didn't change the meaning. And, with eyes closed, as she slid her ankles to what she remembered were the corners of his desk she was again glad she had purchased this particular skirt; its viscose smoothness slipped between her thighs with its abundant folds.

She waited, listening, but could not hear him or sense the warmth of his body. She imagined him taking the time to inspect her in detail and she wondered how she looked. Had her bra crumpled as her arms, raised above her head, pulled her breasts higher out of their cups? Did any of the buttons on her blouse gape, or had it pulled up above her skirt revealing a line of white belly? Had she remembered to paint her toe nails dark-green to match her fingernails? What if he starts sucking on my toes? She imagined she'd let him, having never had that experience before.

Then there he was, undoing the tiny buckle on her high heeled shoes. He hadn't realised they were elasticised there and could just be shucked with a finger. Or maybe he did, and wanted to draw this out. Both shoes were off, but she didn't hear him place them down. She waited, expecting lips, or his tongue to touch her toes.

She caught herself from jumping as something cold was placed directly on her naval. His tone remained the same, "Be careful not to tip it. It may be water, or it may be acid. Choose which ever helps you not to spill it."

Acid? Okay, this was an interview with a super villain, she knew there were risks, but acid? Then another thought; lemon juice is acid.

Thankfully he broke her thought processes, "Now I'm going to lay this book on your upper arm and then three more on your remaining arms and legs. Take care to not let them fall."

Her mind went with; they might be books about water or books about acid, whatever helps. The tension of the situation made this seem funnier than it was. She felt the pressure of the other books being laid on her and let this distract her from the glass on her belly. Though still being sure to breath with her chest and not her diaphragm. Was this an outlandish trick to make her breasts heave?

"Now I have an implement here, especially chosen for this task, which I will be using on your feet to see how much you really want this job."

She knew his deliberate vagueness was a ploy to drag her attention intensely to her feet and she took care to not give it to him. Instead she remained focused on the weight of the four books, calm and steady. Then she felt it. It must be a feather. He was trying to tickle her. Couldn't he see that her soles were dark and even cracked slightly around the edges? She hated how her soles looked, as much as she loved how their toughness allowed her to go barefoot unless compelled by convention to bind them in shoes. She hardly felt a thing. Maybe he stopped sometimes, maybe he was just being super light.

Just as she thought she had passed, he dragged the feather's ragged edge across beneath her nostrils. Here she was extremely sensitive. So sensitive that, with everything else going on her nerves went into overload. Adrenaline pulsed through her just in-time to fight back a flood of dizziness hidden behind closed eyes. It took so long for her to stabilise her mind and senses that she was able to avoid the reflexive gasp he expected.

The second stroke was almost unbearable, but the nerves were still so tingling from the first pass that she somehow remained still again. Waiting for the third kept her senses alive, but it didn't come. The next thing she felt was the glass being lifted from her navel. Then the books were removed.

"You can open your eyes now."

She did. He had sat back in his clear, acrylic chair. The way he surveyed her as she lay there was telling her something so she remained still, trying to figure it out.

Then he gave another one of his almost indiscernible nods, "You may take your seat again."

Lying down on the table had seemed so easy and unconscious. Now she didn't know if she should roll towards him, bend her knees and slip off the desk by his side; or roll away from him and in the same motion risk her skirt riding up as she slid off. Sitting up forward like a zombie climbing out of the grave didn't seem flattering at all. Maybe she could swivel around while lying flat? No, that would be worse.

Then she had it. She rolled away from him, allowing her hips to travel further than her shoulders so when she made it onto her back again, her hips were mostly off the desk and she gracefully turned them to place her in the chair as she straightened up then lifted her elbows off the desk.

"Did The Weasel send you? Is that what this is?"

Marissa smiled back at him. She was close now, "You said that question time is over."

"True, I did. And if The Weasel sent you, you wouldn't tell me anyway would you?"

"The Weasel? If The Weasel sent me, I would have already told you. Nothing would please me more than double crossing the double crosser."

"Marissa, you are hired."

"Then I presumptively accept. Thank you." She took care to remain seated and not move at all.

"You will come to know my ways over time, but I will at least tell you this about me. I don't make mistakes. I often look like I have made mistakes, but they are deliberate. So if you think I have made a mistake, do not, ever, correct it for me. Ever."

"Can I tell you if I see something that appears to my inexperienced eye as a mistake?"

"What could possibly be the benefit of that?"

Oh, she had fallen into a trap of her own making. "Simply to help you get to know me, see what I notice and how much I miss. Only if it helps you predict me."

"Only if it helps me predict you. Yes. That'll be fine. I'll let you know when it's not."

"Verbally?"

He paused to consider her question, "Possibly verbally. It'll depend on my mood." He gestured for her to remain seated as he stood, "Well enough chit chat..."

She watched him walk across the dim room then flash brightly as he passed through the thin shafts of light that streamed into the room. She guessed that the soles of is polished shoes were leather by the faint sound he allowed as he walked. Then he disappeared around a corner at the far end.

I'm fairly confident about how Marissa is being portrayed. But I'd love your impression of Dr Precarious so far. Is he creepy, dangerous, charming?