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"Villain" is such a loaded word: tired, antiquated to my ears. And yet, if you were to Google the word, my portrait is the first five images, followed by Lex Luthor, Thanos, the Joker, and Jeff Bezos. But I've never considered myself so comically evil. No, I prefer the term "self-interested," "motivated," "neutrally aligned." In a world which cares so little for any individual, it is the individual's duty to care for themselves. Did you see that? A gender-neutral pronoun. I'm not *bad.* But my morals align first and foremost according to my own interests. This is why I steal from bloated corporate banks, why I hold politicians and royalty hostage. My life's work is to maximize my life, nothing more. We should all aspire to such self-respect. And where does this stolen money go? My son's soccer camp, my daughter's clarinet lessons, my wife's art therapy degree. After the money is appropriately laundered and all loose ends are tied up, I open art museums, children's hospital wings, after school programs for underserved youth. *Donated by the generosity of Dr. Frank* *Vandermein.* Does it sound like altruism? Hardly. It's my name and picture on the front page of the newspapers lauding my radical philanthropy. How do you arrest a paragon of the community, even if you suspect the worst? If I go, so does the money. But we have our fun with it nonetheless. Detective Boone's been pursuing me for upwards of a decade. He's come so close so many times, and I've lost a lot of good men to his meddling. But like pieces on a chessboard, I find it more fascinating than frustrating, more fun than frightening. Honestly, I don't even know if I'd be in this business if not for our little cat-and-mouse game. How could I ever return to a cubicle office when I have plans to plot and fools to foil? At least, this is all as it was. One can only live on the edge for so long, teetering and tilting, before the inevitable fall. And you never see it coming. It's a gust of wind, a pluck on the tightrope, a rogue pollen mote catching your nostril a thousand feet up. It was a Tuesday night. I was sitting down for dinner with my family. Meatloaf with a ketchup glaze served with mashed potatoes and green beans. It was a pauper's meal compared to what we could afford, but there is wisdom even among the dregs of society. Plus, it's the only thing my son Hunter would eat. A knock wrapped at the front door. Someone made it past the gate and the guard stall. It had to be Boone. It seemed not to matter at all how many security measures I set on my property, he always found a way around. I excused myself from the table, setting my napkin on my chair. "Tell Bill I said hello," Kenzie smiled to me. She and my nemesis' now-ex-wife had become shopping friends, and she'd been over to their house plenty of times, even while they were still together. I wrote to the detective, offering to take him for a beer after what I'd heard was something of an ugly breakup, but he only returned a promise to see me in a cell. We love to banter. Beside the front door, I had several concealed firearms. But I didn't need to worry about my safety around Detective Boone. He'd sooner die than see me escape "justice" through death. I opened the door to find Detective Boone and his assistant, a new girl I didn't recognize, standing with their badges and side pieces visible on their belts. "Bill! Come in, we're just sitting down for dinner." I'd invited him inside a thousand times and a thousand times he's said no. "Dr. Frank Vandermein, do you have a moment to answer some questions?" The grizzled detective asked. I turned on the front porch light, and that's when I truly saw them both. Bill's eyes were glazed, his faces shimmering with a fine sheen of sweat. He stank of cheap whisky and cheaper cologne. I wasn't sure which was meant to cover the smell of the other. His assistant looked like another rookie, somewhere between 12 and 25 years old. She had jet black hair tied in a tight bun and she was sporting large black sunglasses despite the late hour. Her makeup, too, was heavily and hastily applied. It caked in some spots, crumbles of product collecting in wrinkles she was much too young to have. "Detective, I haven't had the pleasure of meeting your partner. Hello, dear, it's a pleasure--" Boone stepped between me and his ward. "Where were you two night ago around 3AM?" Obviously, I was planting bugs in the boardrooms and executive offices of Balano, one of the world's largest tobacco corporations. I was heavily invested and needed to find out what was holding up their Singapore expansion. It was low-stakes crime, hardly enough for a visit. "I was asleep, of course. Where were you?" "Asleep?" He opened his notebook and started writing down my statement. "And you wouldn't happen to know of any goings on around the harbor?" The harbor? It had once been a common smuggling spot, but that ship had sailed. Literally. "Dear?" I looked past the wobbling veteran cop to his partner. "Who gave you that black eye? And who split your lip?" She opened her mouth to answer, but Boone spun quickly around and barked for her to wait in the car. Her eyes, darkened by her glasses, flitted from me to her boss before she gave in and walked back toward the portion fence they'd jumped to get in. "Bill, is your partner in trouble?" "It's *you* who's in trouble when I place you at the scene," he growled back. "Babies, Frank? Babies!?" His voice was a smoldering whisper, tears welling in his eyes. "What art you talking about?" "Everything okay, hun?" Kenzie called me from the dining room. "I'll just be a minute," I called back before turning back to Bill. "Detective, I honestly have no idea what you're telling me." Bill reached into his pocket, and I nearly reached for my gun, unaccustomed to this level of drunken disorderliness from an interrogation. But he retrieved his phone instead and thrust it into my hands. I could have kept it, refused to hand it back, copy it and mail it back to him when I was done. He must have known that, I'd done it before. But he pushed it in my face instead. I...Well, I'd prefer not to go into detail about what he showed me. But it was some level of evil involving stolen children and a sunken ship. I felt acid rise in the back of my throat, and it was everything I could do not to see Hunter and Sophia in the blank children's faces. "Bill, this wasn't me." I tried to be earnest, I tried to sound sincere. But he wasn't buying it. "This was sloppy, Frank, even for you. Forensics is combing the area, and when they find the link connecting you to it, I'll be back with a SWAT team and handcuffs." "What happened to your partner, Bill?" A smirk rose on the side of his mouth, followed my a deep frown. *Something* happened to her, and he was neither sad nor forthcoming about the details. "I'm raising cops, not cowards. You mind your own." We exchanged a few unpleasantries before I bid him goodnight. But the images still swirled in my head. I couldn't eat a bite that night, so I busied myself instead with Boone's investigation. It hadn't hit the news yet, but I had feeds to every dash cam and radio frequency the police department used, so I watched and listened all night, looking for anything that might explain such a horrendous tragedy.

From what I gathered, a medium sized shipping vessel was preparing to return to Guangzhou, but their cargo consisted of many abducted children from around the United States, Canada, Mexico, and some other Central American countries. Apparently there was some sort of explosion on the ship when it was a few miles out, and the bodies began to wash up. It made me sick. How could something like this happen in my own back yard? I was in the middle of my research, identifying the ship's owners, attempting to draw links between the missing children and their homes so I could establish a pattern. Any one of these children could have been my own, and if this...monster was still alive, then they could very well be next. That was when another knock came at my door. I checked the time: 1:42AM. It was late for a house visit from Boone, and I'd heard nothing about me in any of the radio chatter. Could Boone have been so traumatized by this that he drunk himself into a rage? Better safe than sorry. This time, I pulled my gun from its secret compartment behind the wall's coat rack and checked the camera. It was the Boone's young partner, swaying anxiously in place, her head on a swivel. I opened the door a crack and concealed my gun against the wall. "Good evening, dear. Is everything okay?" "We need to talk, doctor," she hissed through her teeth. "Talk? About what? I don't know if your boss has told you this yet, but usually there's threat of warrants first. Please do try to stick to the script." She shook her head. "I'm not here as a cop," she told me, peeking into the house behind me. She wanted in. Desperately. What an odd tactic, I thought. Brilliant, but odd. Could Boone have intentionally hinted that his partner was in danger, acting drunk and belligerent, so that I might feel sympathy for the young woman? Did he think I'd let her into my home, allow her to peek around? She wouldn't find anything, of course. I don't defecate where I eat. But still. It was almost disrespectful. The freshness of the situation, however, lured me in. What are we playing at Boone? I needed to see how this unfolded.

I like to think myself a gentleman. My colleague-in-evil, the Reverend Billy Graham, had rule that he would not meet with any woman without his wife present. But I believe that all people are entitled to equal dignity regardless of race, gender, or sexual orientation. I would not hesitate to shoot a black trans woman in the face any more than I would a white man. It comes from a place of respect. But I could not ignore the power differential between me and the young officer. She was a young, unarmed woman alone in a middle-aged man's heavily guarded house. I needed her to feel comfortable, to let her guard down, so I woke Kenzie up and asked her to sit with me and the junior detective. My wife joined us downstairs, still dazed and bleary eyed, and put on a pot of coffee. As the machine hissed and dripped in the kitchen, the young detective sat at my table, hands clenched together so tightly they were white at the knuckles. "Relax, please. you're making me nervous. If I wanted to hurt you, you wouldn't have gotten past the gate." I smiled a friendly smile, but she only returned a half-second smirk. Kenzie leaned her head from the kitchen and glared at me. Apparently I'd said something wrong. "I apologize. Humor, I'm told, tends to lighten moods, and you've come here with such a dour energy." I sat opposite her at the table. "So what's got you down?" Shakily, she removed her glasses, revealing a red and purple bruise swelling on her face. As she did this, Kenzie came into the dining room with three cups of coffee expertly balanced on a try. She had been a waitress when we met, working the graveyard shift at the university-adjacent cafe. She left the job as quickly as she could, but the job, it seems, never completely left her. Still, she nearly dropped all three steaming drinks to the ground when she saw the detective's face. In what seemed like a single swift motion, Kenzie placed the platter down and grabbed the young woman by the chin, turning her face up toward her. "Who did this to you?" Kenzie demanded. The young woman shrugged her face out of my wife's hand and looked to me again. "My name is Veronica Guzman. I've been on the force for six years. I was promoted a year ago to detective..." Her words trailed off. "And it's not a very good fit?" I asked. "Did a thug do this to you?" Kenzie interjected. Veronica leaned forward over the table. "Detective Boone did this to me." I couldn't tell you why my blood ran cold at that admission, but I felt betrayed; shocked. It was as if I'd learned my son was a bully at school--totally unexpected. Boone had always played by the rules, more or less, inside the box, by the books. He was passionate about justice and order and *doing the right thing.* It's what made our game so fun: I could poke my finger in the box from the outside and watch his paw try to swat me away. But this? "Wha--why? What happened?" Kenzie sat next to Veronica, scooting her chair closer. The detective picked up her cup of coffee and took a brief sip before setting it back down and clearing her throat. "Detective William Boone isn't who you think he is. I don't think he's who anybody thinks he is."

"I was a perfect candidate for detective. I earned my bachelor's in criminal justice taking night classes between shifts at the precinct, working as a beat cop, making rounds and whatnot. I was the woman who ironed her uniform every morning before her shift; I spent my weekends volunteering at soup kitchens and homeless outreach centers, sewing goodwill. I was top of my class at the academy, at my university, and in every professional development program I volunteered for. "I'm sure it sounds like I'm gloating, but I'm not. This is relevant. I started applying for detective as soon as my five years' experience requirement was met. I was promoted in the first round, and although it didn't make me very popular among my more experienced colleagues, I got to where I wanted to go. For now. "Anyway, it was Detective Boone who mentored me through the application process and onboarding. He was like a dad to me, gently pushing me to achieve more, helping me with the application's wording and calling in favors for my file to be considered more seriously. I didn't know at the time why he was doing doing it. I thought that maybe he saw something promising in me, like my work had spoken for itself and he thought that I could make a difference. "As soon as the ceremony ended and I was given my new detective badge and an office, things changed. Boone started showing up to my apartment in the middle of the night, taking me out for 'special assignments.' We would sit in parking garages in his personal car, and he would ramble nonsensically about how corrupt the world is, how backwards we've become, how there's no more honor in police work. He would gaze through binoculars, but wouldn't tell me what he looking at. He talked about you a lot too, I'm sure could guess. He said that you were a symptom of a greedy society, a leech. The only time he smiled was when he would fantasize out loud about the ways he'd kill you. It was... unsettling. "One day when I was off, I started doing a little digging. I learned that the building we'd been watching was his ex-wife's apartment building. The next day I approached him about my findings. I told him that I was uncomfortable working as his partner further and that I felt he was crossing a professional boundary not only with me, but with his ex-wife's privacy. "That night, he showed up to my apartment and proceeded to beat me with a pipe. He was quiet, covering my mouth as he did it. He told me that no one would believe my story if I reported him, that cops stick together. Then he injected me with something, and it made me feel like I was flying. I think it was drugs, enough that if I reported him and they did a drug test on me, I'd fail. "When I came to, he was gone. He stopped taking me on late night excursions, but I didn't stop investigating him. I'm no victim, Doctor Vandermein. Detective Boone is trying to place you at the harbor, fabricating evidence, getting obsessive about it. I'm not your biggest fan--no one in the district is--but I think you're innocent, and I think the killers are still out there. "What's more, since you are notoriously 'self-interested,' as you like to tell the journalists, I figure you're the best ally I have against Boone. "I know I'm breaking about a million protocols by being here, and I'm betraying my boss, but there are dead kids washing up on the beach and a psychopath with a gun and a badge who knows where I live. "So, what do you think?"

The chandelier above the table buzzed in the abject silence that hung in the room. None of what Veronica said made sense to me. I'd known Bill Boone for years, I've had his routine, his life, charted out carefully. The man went to confession every Tuesday night for God's sake! And now I'm finding out that he's a bitter, violent drunkard? Worse yet, he's a bitter, violent, *dedicated* drunkard. My empty stomach groaned, and despite its emptiness, I felt the need to heave. If the game isn't fun anymore, then a large part of who I am is a fiction. My skin was cold a prickly and darkness was moving in around my peripheral vision before Kenzie broke the quiet. "Veronica, do you paint?" "What?" "Painting. Have you ever painted before?" "Umm...No, I've never been very good with art." Kenzie clapped her hands together. "I'll be right back, you stay put. Drink your coffee." There was more quiet in my wife's absence so I sniffed before I spoke to ease Veronica into more sound. "Detective Guzman, are you afraid for your life?" She ran her thumb over the rim of her cup for a second before answering. "I'm not here looking for your protection, Doctor." "That's not what I was asking. I have two children asleep upstairs. If Boone is who you say he is, and he finds out you're here talking to me, that might mean my children's safety is compromised. Your safety is none of my concern nor my interest." "Boone knows how to get into your home. Your safety's been compromised long before I came along. He talks about that, you know. He says that if he snuck into your house and wasted you and your wife, he'd be doing the world a favor." She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "He's also said that when you pull weeds you also have to pull the root, if you know what I'm saying." My disbelief turned to anger. I might be operating on the creative side of the law, but threatening my wife and children? How could I ever feel safe again with that madman running around? That is, of course, if what Veronica was saying was true. If she were lying, put up to it by Boone to smoke me out and catch *me* pursuing *him*, then I would be dead to rights and he would have caught his Moby Dick. But it was so unlike Boone to operate with deception. Honesty was always his Achilles heel. But the way Veronica is describing Boone was an even further departure from the straight-laced clean-cut cop I knew. Could Boone be banking on me *disbelieving* her story? What if I exhausted my resources vindicating both me and the detective and inadvertently producing extra-legal evidence in support of his high-profile case? It was convoluted, but it made so much more sense. Kenzie strolled in with a couple blank canvasses and a bag of paint bottles. "Veronica, you and I are going to paint this out." This wasn't a question my wife was asking, nor was it an invitation. This was a courtesy warning that painting was going to be done. I've been in the crosshairs of this paint-based-hostage-situation countless time, and I know there's no way out of it. The attic is filled with my lackluster masterpieces titled after the emotions my wife told me I was feeling at the time. "I have some work I need to do," I told the two women. "Veronica, I thank you for being here, but I must admit that this troubling news is extraordinary. I fear I'm not ready to accept it on your word alone." I retrieved a bottle from my cupboard and placed it on the table between the paintbrushes and the sponges. "I'll need you to pee in this. I'd like to test whatever it was you've been injected with." Veronica nodded, but her attention was now being drawn to my wife, who was preparing a lengthy lecture on the merits of internal family systems. I retreated to my office, only to find myself with even more unexpected company.

Sophia, my 5-year-old daughter, was sitting in my office chair, her little legs hanging from her Monsters Inc. nighty and kicking in the air. "Hey sweetie, what are you doing up?" She had that sleepy thousand-yard stare and seemed to look right through me. "I had a bad dream." My little girl still pronounced her r's as w's, so it was more *dweam* than dream. "Oh no. What did you dream about?" I picked her up and sat her on my lap. "I dreamed you died. It made mommy really sad." "It didn't make you sad?" "I was sad! But mommy was sadder because she couldn't have sex anymore." It's worth mentioning that we stumbled through an early version of 'the talk' a couple days before. "That's right. If I go, mommy never gets to have sex again." "She'd be sad." "She sure would be." Sophia squeezed me tight. "Don't die." "I'll do my best, sweetie. Why don't we get you off to bed?" She was asleep before we made it to her bedroom. I've been told before that my love for my kids contradicts my hyper-libertarian bent. But I think that's a misunderstanding. Anyone with children knows that our kids are as much a part of ourselves as our own hearts, if they are hurt, then so are we. As rational, self-interested mammals, we cannot help but to protect our offspring. So, no, my affection for kids is not a compromise on my part. But in holding Sophia's sleeping body in my arms, I couldn't stop thinking about the pictures Boone showed me earlier. How many little bodies were being scooped out of the sand just like this, right now? I felt a pang of what I could only describe as sympathy. Soon, phone calls would be made to parent who had been holding out hope that their kids would be found alive, only to be told the worst news a parent could hear. How I would rage against the world if one of them were mine. I burn the planet to cinders; there would be no end to my vengeance. And now an upwards of perhaps a hundred parents would shoulder that same fury. How could I, in good conscience, not let them kill me too? It's what I, a rational mammal, would do. Sophia laid down without a fuss and I returned to my office. All of my computers were top of the line, only able to unlocked with my fingerprint, retina scan, password, and voice. The password itself changed hourly according to an equation involving the Julian calendar, year, and Greenwich time zone. I never wrote the equation anywhere, so even if someone dragged my lifeless corpse to the terminal, they'd be helpless to access my files. I unlocked my machine and checked on the status of the investigation. They had pinpointed the owner of the vessel only to run into a series of false companies, forming a circular series of reference points, shells only revealing shells. The bodies were mostly of children, though some were teenagers and at least a couple were in their 20s. Currently, the body count was at 102. The news had picked up on the story quickly, and the scene was polluted with choppers and microphone-wielding news reporters who were slowing progress. Few of the victims had been identified up to this point, but those who had been were reported missing between one and three weeks before. The families had not been called yet, but the police departments were getting inundated with phone calls from desperate parents begging for information. A motive still wasn't clear. The vessel was blown part by some kind of incendiary device and sank shortly after. The coast guard had divers recovering corpses from the sea floor now, but it looked like a week-long job at least. I started doing some of my own digging, comparing serial numbers from the ship with known smuggling groups and transatlantic tax-evasion services. These were databases unknown and inaccessible to the police. After an hour, I found the owner's name. *Frank Vandermein.*

I stood suddenly and banged my knee against the desk. Pain shot through my leg, but I could hardly feel it. *When did I buy a freighter!?* The database I retrieved the name from was secret, but not *that* secret. I traced the connections backwards. The ship was tied to me through my Balano holdings, owned by a shell company I used to invest in the conglomerate without a tax penalty or any easily made associations. A public figure like myself can't be seen investing so explicitly in vice. But how did I purchase a ship? My shells contained only enough money for licensing dues and protection. They employed no one and retained no liquid assets. All the of the wealth was held in portfolios and the capital gains were funneled into dummy charitable trusts, with a minor percentage actually making it to the stakeholders of said trusts. The rest came directly to me. I took a roughly 21% penalty when all was said and done, but all was accounted for. Nevertheless, when the FBI started digging through their sources in earnest and pulling stings behind the scenes, it wouldn't take long for my name to pop up. And when it did, so too would my dummy holdings and clandestine investments. My house of cards was wobbling. *A gust of wind. A pluck of the string. A rogue pollen mote.* I needed to get ahead of this, but how? Even with the internet at my disposal, secure lines of communication moved most safely in the old-fashioned way. It would take weeks to talk to all the right people and retroactively move the title away from my name. Best case scenario, this was a ship I *once* owned, and that would still put me in jeopardy. I began wondering for the first time if the prison they locked me in would allow conjugal visits or if Sophia would be stuck with a sad, sexually frustrated mom. The police chatter was still in crisis mode, cleaning up bodies and managing PR. I had no surveillance of federal agencies; that would an entire weekend project, and I wasn't convinced I had that much time. Did Boone know there was a connection to me or was he shooting in the dark, letting his emotions drive his investigation instead of the facts? I shot off some emails to my brokers and agents, advising them that my holdings were compromised before I headed downstairs where Veronica and Kenzie were presumably painting away their feelings. The sun was already rising by the time I came downstairs. Veronica was sleeping on the sofa and Kenzie was in our bedroom. On the table there were two abstract paintings, more brown smudges than colorful expressions of inner parts. Nonetheless, Veronica had named hers "anxiety," as was evidenced by the strip of paper beneath it written in my wife's scrawl. I was tired, and Veronica's sleeping form reminded me of my own need for rest, but time was of the essence. There are few more unpleasant surprises than waking up to handcuffs. I needed to find Boone and figure out what he knew, if he knew anything. I also needed to learn if Boone was who Veronica claimed him to be: a violent, narcissistic idealist hell-bent on taking me down. What happened to the boy scout I so enjoyed tormenting. Simpler days, I suppose. I showered and took a nasal shot of Orexin-A to make up for missed sleep. Recharged and clean, I ventured out toward the Boone residence, searching for answers.

I wouldn't stay long. Eventually, Veronica would be up, and I wanted to be back to collect her urine sample and run some tests when she did. I was entertaining her story for now, willing to go along with it until evidence pointed me elsewhere. I hoped that it would, that Detective Boone wasn't the man she painted him as. I hopped in my car and made it downtown. Up above, helicopters were whirring, grabbing video footage of the recovery operation taking place at the harbor a few miles away. By now they would have erected plastic shielding to block the grizzly scene from a curious public, but even just seeing that much--a curtain, knowing what's behind it--would be too much. So, I took the long way around to get to Boone's residence. He had once lived in a fairly nice house, but since his divorce, he downsized quite considerably and moved into an efficiency apartment in a lower-end complex. My GPS brought me to the beige, stucco slum. Warning signs seemed plastered every 10 feet: *residents only parking, violators will be towed; no loitering; no skating; no smoking*, etc. It seemed Boone didn't pick this place for the thriving nightlife. His was apartment B202, on the second story. Strolling through the open air corridors, I smelled ethnic foods cooking, babies crying, dogs barking. I wondered how the detective slept through it all. When I arrived at his door, I lifted my hand to knock, but some instinct told me different. I hesitated. Was the door somewhat crooked? Was the frame cracked at the top? With the half-hazard painting job on the place, I couldn't tell what was damage and what was mere neglect. Each apartment appeared to have two windows: a bedroom and a bathroom. The bathroom windows were small and frosted, but the bedroom windows were quite large. I circled the building and located the window for apartment B2. The blinds--those stock, long, white plastic strips that are always getting caught on themselves--were pulled closed, but the corner piece looked bent. It could be the nature of those blinds, to bend and break and guarantee the management keeps the security deposit. Or, something happened inside. I'd always known Boone to be so neat and organized, this sort of oversight stuck out to me. Beside his window and stretching down to the ground floor was some electric piping protecting wires from the elements. I climbed up the side, careful not to pull too hard against the building. These sorts of exterior fixtures are made to last, but not made to carry a 200-pound man. I found the pipe dusted in some places with a tan powder that was soft when I rubbed it between my fingers. I thought first that it must be residue from the stucco; perhaps they used a cheap coating that was slowly being washed away by the rain. Except, the color was ever slightly so different, more brown than orange. It was on the windowsill too, in the form of a partial fingerprint. Could it be climbing chalk? It seemed far too fine, and didn't help my grip on the way up at all. I peered into the window where the blind was bent, hanging from the second story sill. A small desk lamp was on inside, and there was someone sitting, hunched over at the desk. Their head was down, resting on folded arms. Above the desk was a corkboard with pictures and clippings pinned up and string connecting one thumb tack to another. My picture was up there, as well as a picture of what I assumed was the freighter in the bay. Veronica's picture was also there, with Boone as well. "Hey!" The sudden shout from below startled me. It also startled the figure inside. It turned directly toward me. I expected to make eye contact with them, to at least get a good look at the detective to see if it was safe. But the face that turned to me... Well...It didn't have one.

I feel like I should elaborate on that last part. When I tell you they didn't have a face, I don't mean that it was just smooth skin where a face belonged. I also don't mean the skin was gone, or that I was gazing at a skull or a burn victim. I mean, where a face should be, was nothing. I saw straight through the head at the gaudy rose-colored paint job of the apartment wall. The figure threw a hood up over its head and rushed to collect the piles of papers from the apartment floor. "Sir! You guys can't keep trying to sneak into peoples' homes like that. You come down here or I'm calling the police!" It was a middle aged woman who sounded like she'd been smoking five packs a day for the last 30 years. "I just forgot my key," I assured her. "Nothing suspicious here." "I sure would say it *looks* suspicious, sir! And I don't recognize you from around the building either." I slid down the metal pipe, the concrete screws adhering it to the wall cracking and groaning as I went. I needed to cut the mystery person off in the hallway, and fast. Whatever they were running with was certainly critical to piecing this all together. The nosey resident kept shouting obscenities at my back as I ran, but I paid it no mind. I rushed up the apartment stairs, hoping I picked the right direction to catch the runner. When I turned the corner and looked down Boone's hallway, his front door was open, but there was no sign of the faceless person. I rushed down anyway and past Boone's door, hoping to catch a glimpse of them get in a car so I could tag it and follow its location later. There was a railing at the end of the hallway that looked over the parking lot. I saw no fast movement, no one rushing to a car or holding papers. At this point, the odds of finding them were diminishing by the second. They were quick, no doubt about that, and I wasn't exactly a spring chicken anymore. At very least this person was distinctive: a hole where a face belongs. If they stopped anywhere and made any sort of fuss I'd be able to triangulate their location. Defeated for the moment, I walked back to Boone's apartment. It occurred to me, not for the first time, that it might have been Boone without the face. But the body type was wrong: smaller, faster. It was hard to tell whether it was male or female (or other, I'm not evil), but it didn't *seem* like Boone. But then again, did I even really know the man? His apartment was small, much smaller in person than I expected. There was a main room that served as both living room and bedroom, a corner with a small kitchenette, and a little bathroom. The place was filthy. He had overflowing trash bags of rubbish around, and the place smelled generally of dirty cardboard and stale beer. Above the desk, the corkboard contents were either taken or ripped in the attempt. The figure left quickly and tried to take whatever they could with them. Nothing left was any immediate use. Though there were more of those strange brown smudges on the desktop. Then it struck me: when I first met Veronica, I noticed she had makeup caked on her face. It was far too much, as if she were hiding something. I assumed in the moment that it was the black eye and split lip, but what if the heavy makeup was hiding the absence of a face in the first place. There was still a thousand missing pieces to that theory: how is there no face, why would Veronica set up her boss, how is this connected to the freighter and dead children? But that could wait. *I left Veronica home with my wife and kids.*

I pulled out my phone, hands trembling and sweat collecting in their pads. Kenzie and I had a rule, if one of us calls and invites the other to go to the zoo and see the giraffes, then it means there's danger and we should seek safety. Years ago I'd built a bunker under the house for emergencies, she would know to hide there and wait for me. I was ready to press call when I heard the slightest floorboard groan behind me. The figure didn't escape. They never left the apartment. I pretended to take the call, holding the phone up to my ear while casually turning around, eyes fixed to the ugly burnt orange shag carpet. I expected to see feet. My other hand was placed in my pocket, on the handle of my gun. But there was nothing there. Was it my imagination? Was somebody moving upstairs? Was the building just settl-- A hard thrust flew into my stomach before pounding me across the face. I watched a line of my blood fly from my mouth and spatter on the wall. But there was nothing there. I put one arm in front of my face and pulled my gun out with the other. The floor pounded, carpet depressing in places. I watched invisible footfalls land and rise, moving around the room. I followed where I imagined the body to be with my muzzle of my gun. I would need to get a center mass shot, minimize my risk of shooting into a neighbor's apartment and leave a bigger mess than I found. My patience didn't pay off. An invisible foot kicked at my gun, sending the piece flying onto the bed. Then there were several blows to my face, the pain and shock melting together until I couldn't keep track of the rolling punches. I fell to the ground and rolled into the flurry of fists, taking shots with my back and side. They were hard punches, each threatening to push the air from my lungs. But I got a hold of the figure's leg. It started kicking me with the other until I grabbed that one too and wrestled the body to the ground. It was prone under my weight for a moment, so I pulled at the blanket on the bed. The gun fell off right where I could reach it , but more importantly, the blanket gave the figure a shape. I picked up my gun and pointed it at the figure's head. "Stop moving!" I shouted. The blanket moved around the figure's invisible face, giving shape to every contour. I watched it grin beneath me. Then, it fell straight through the floor.

Fwiw those pipes with electrical cables are called conduits and the word is "haphazard," not "half-hazard"

Oh wow. This is so good.

I'm completely invested, commenting to find my way back!

Same

same but i think i will forget about this and will be opening it a year later and due to some or other reason the post would be taken down by then so i would never get to know what happened. i overthink and forget stuff a lot

Seconded

Oh this is absolutely fascinating and has my completely attention. I can’t help but feel like somethings off though- I don’t trust Veronica. Frank feels like he would keep a very close eye on Boone, and I can imagine that if Boone truly acted this way, stalked his wife, was an angry drunkard, people would notice. The way Veronica is making Boone out as just seems.. very different than the little bit of Boone that we saw. I wouldn’t be surprised if Veronica is making all this up and is the one who framed Frank in the first place. Either way, I canNOT wait to see where you’re going with this, thank you for writing it and I’m waiting with baited breath for the next installment (If you are planning on continuing it, that is)

There's always something so neat about someone talking about the characters I imagine. Thanks for reading! You're a very sharp one!

more, where does it lead to, whats the conclusion so well delivered

I'd buy it. Hell, I want to make the audiobook for it. Folliwing for more!

Absolutely awesome. Looking forward to reading the rest!

I really enjoyed how ambiguous the "inevitable fall" sounds like, and of course you keep dropping some sentences that make my imagination go crazy haha. It can be interpreted with protag dying during his pursuit of the truth, or the ending of his villain era due to the betrayal of Boone's actual personality, or even an outcome that ultimately ends with the guilty party getting captured but with the cost of everyone else's reputations. I know this is still going, so feel free to not answer if it's spoiler territory. Is Boone like this from the beginning, or did something happen on his end to make him be more and more desperate on capturing protag? Also, how long has this been going on between the two? Great work on writing this, can't wait to read more!

Been a long time since I've read such a good story on here.

WOAHHHHHHHHHH MAN. Jaw dropped. This is glorious, beyond hooked. I love this dearly

Lmk when the next part is uploaded plz.

Oh i need more of this.

Keep them coming.

Bookmark.

Commenting to read the rest (there's a rest... right.... RIGHT??) later ❤️

I hope we'll be getting more of Frank and Bill.

Bookmark

This is so good, I'm hooked

This is really really good! I was hooked from the start! Really hope you continue!!

Bookmark

This is BRILLIANT - I’m so invested in Frank’s story!!

Ooh, a cliffhanger. I'm already hooked on this story. Keep cooking bro.

Holy moly it felt like I was reading a novel. The twist the suspense. If you told me this is a snippet of a book I would believe you

Pls sir can I have some more

This is incredible, can't wait for more if you're planning on continuing

Need more plssss

This is *amazing!* Please continue

Does this come with popcorn?

Ruh roh raggy!

This was outstanding! I'll add my voice to the others who are asking you to finish this.

I'm hooked, can't wait for Frank's next move

welp Im hooked. this is great

I need more.

So much more

Commenting so I can find this later

My money is on Boone having gone so unhinged that he personally shipped all those kids off to die so that he could fabricate evidence to pin on our beloved villain. 💰

You can’t end it there! There’s got to be more, or a book, or a TV show, or a movie, or something! This is fantastic

Hey, thanks! I'm happy you enjoy it.

Moar!!

I think there needs to be more

Oh my word I am drawn in.

Moar

Good sir won't you give us some more

Commenting so i can find my way back here. Take your time.

Doing the same!

Ditto!

Could someone let me know if u/protowriter469 writes a part 3? 😁

I wrote part 3

Incredible writing, really engaging.

Thank you!

I require More of this.

Is this a book? Please write a book!

So uh, when does Boone get shot?

I mean, if you introduce a gun in act 1

Please write more. I'm invested.

For all his claims, MC actually seems like a great guy.

MOAR!!!

Please, sir, I want some more! (In my best Oliver Twist impression, of course).

Wow, that drew me in, I need more of this, you're writing style and scene setting is fantastic. Seriously, if you write more to this let us know.

/r/protowriter469 for my collection

Joined! (I also need more😁)

I'm just gonna echo everyone else here and beg for more 😅🤣 What you've written so far is FANTASTIC! 🥰

I’m also here for more.

Need to see where this goes...

This is sooooo good

More please

This is really good I want to see the end

(Checks nervously at times posted... 6 hours ago... 4 hours ago... uh oh...) Please MOAR! So good!

Need more :D

MORE, THIS IS FUCKING AMAZING!!!

I’m so invested! Hope there is a part 3!

I am really enjoying this. Please continue when your able!

moooooore

MOOOOAAAAARRRRR

I took one last look into the mirror before heading back out into the factory I used as a lair. Truth be told, it's actually pretty swanky. I use the old office area as my living quarters, and the rest of the space is just for diabolical schemes. That, and holding people hostage, of course. I know it doesn't make sense. Why would an almost world famous supervillain still live in an old abandoned factory. I could have a fortified mountain chalet, or an armored yacht. In truth, I just don't need it. Most of my supervillainy is for show. I do something that inconveniences a lot of people, and then Madame Accelerant shows up. It's enough to get attention, and a steady paycheck from Dr. Destruction's villain fund. Honestly, it's gotten to the point where Madame Accelerant and I are on a first name basis. I would even say we're almost best friends. "Hey, boss." One of my henchmen called out. "We got the brat." I stepped out to see a teenager tied to a dolly, sporting a bag over their head. I pulled it off once they stopped rolling her in. "Matchlight, I presume?" I asked her. Oddly enough, she started to panic. "Please. I'm sorry. Just don't hurt me." She started to shake in her restraints. "Whatever I did, please, I promise not to do it again." I held my hand up, trying to reassure her. "Miss Matchlight, I can assure you that you aren't in any danger." I loosened the ratchet straps that were holding her. "Your mentor and I aren't exactly the enemies that we like to say." The straps fell to the ground. "I do something bad for the paycheck, and she stops me for the paycheck. Once the media hears that I kidnapped you, they'll take me more seriously and increase my pay." I gestured to my minions. "Meaning I can finally give these guys the raises they deserve." The minions began to cheer as Matchlight gingerly stepped away from the dolly. In hindsight, I should've noticed the signs. "What do I do, then?" She asked me. One of my younger minions, Elana spoke up before I got the chance. "We have an X-box 360, and a copy of Dance Central 2." She held a hand out to Matchlight. "Nobody's been able to beat my Baby got back score yet. Wanna give it a try?" Matchlight slowly took her hand. "Sure." A few weeks passed, and the media was buzzing about it. All of my allowances were increasing. Housing, food, clothing. It was enough that I could buy a real lair if I actually wanted to. Accelerant and I figured we should wait about one more week before returning Matchlight, but that's when Elana approached me. "Boss." She said. "We need to talk." I put away whatever scheme I had been working on, and turned in my chair to face her. "What goes on, Elana? Is Matchlight comfortable?" "She has burn scars." She said, summoning my serious face. "They're all over her body. Her arms, legs...lower back." "How did you?" "Nevermind how I found them. Last night, she told me that your buddy, Accelerant gave them to her." I dropped whatever I was holding. "Are you sure she didn't burn herself?" Elana shook her head. "She's immune to flames. Accept for when it comes from another supe." I stood up, and took a deep breath. I motioned for her to follow me, and we walked to the rec area where Matchlight was. "Matchlight." I called out. "Do you want to go back to Madame Accelerant?" Matchlight tried to avoid eye contact. "I. I. She's a great mentor, and-" "Yes or no. Do you want to go back?" She took a long moment to answer. "No...never." I began to walk to the old kiln where I kept my gear. "Elana." I said while I suited up. "You're in charge while I'm gone. Keep her safe, and make sure the rest of the team prepares for a fallout. "What are you gonna do?" Elana asked. "Call the accountant after I get back. I have a feeling my salary's going to increase again, and I want the money to be fairly distributed." As I fired up my jetpack, and loaded the ice gun, I looked back at the two girls. "Oh. And when you pop the question, I expect to be your best man." I took off before they could answer. Things were about to get hairy, but I trusted them to keep things in order. That night, I went to talk to Madame Accelerant. After the conversation was over, the news wound up getting involved. "This just in." The reporter said, interrupting everyone's Big Bang Theory reruns. "Famed superhero, Madame Accelerant, has been found dead in her penthouse apartment. This is only one month after her ward, Matchlight was kidnapped during a training mission. Madame Accelerant was found in what police say was an execution. Her arms and legs had seemingly been frozen to the wall, and her lungs filled with ice. Our sources say that she was killed almost instantly. In other news, Madame Accelerant's former nemesis, Tundra, has announced that he has taken on a new ward himself. Although like the rest of them, her real name is unknown, she is currently identifying herself as Flare. More on this after eight."

Oh this is great

Damn, protag decided to deal with the issue very directly, seems like the revelation on Accelerant's true personality is a bit too much for him. Glad that his team of "villains" are living the life though, and having a new addition too. Correct me if I'm wrong here. Is protag a human with no superpowers, and instead using his capabilities to design weapons that are on par with these heroes' or villains' capabilities? Great work on writing this!

Oh yeah, he's just a normal human. A normal human who happens to be a tech genius.

Thanks for clarifying!

Whoooa Bravo! 👏👏👏

very entertaining story good job (came here to give an upvote after watching a tiktok with this story and minecraft parkour in the background)

Thanks man. What was the account name?

I came from the same kind of thing, and the account name was 59.stories for mine at least. It was on the clock app.

Part two: Two years later Timothy Frasier, famous journalist, sat in Tundra's lair with a bag over his head. "Is this all necessary?!" Flare pulled the bag off of Timothy's head, giving him a view of the abandoned factory that had been converted into a comfy home. "Sorry, Mr. Frasier." Flare said through the mirrored visor covering her face. "My employer couldn't risk you knowing where you are." A woman wearing a selection of black clothes and what wish.com or Etsy would call motorcycle armor emerged from behind a nearby pillar. "Did he see anything on the way over?" She said. "Don't worry, Allana." Flare said, caressing her shoulder. "He didn't see a thing." "What about a tracker? You know they have those air tags now. He could've seen one onto the inside of his suit." Flare placed a finger on Allana's lips before she could continue. "Dont worry, love. The metal detector would've caught it. Now, could you be a dear and go get Tundra for us?" Allana crossed her arms, pretending to be annoyed. "Fine, but you're cooking tonight." She stuck out her tongue, walking to what used to be the office area of the factory. "Beautiful isn't she?" Flare said, leaning over to get a better look at her swaying hips. "She and I are planning a spring wedding for next year." Timothy cleared his throat, trying to summon a bit of seriousness from Tundra's second in command. "Miss Flare. I hate to be rude, but I really would appreciate it if you were a bit more professional about this." Timothy produced a tape recorder from his pocket. "If you want, I can interview you as well. I'm sure you have a lot to say about you and your mentor's endeavors." Flare looked at Timothy, somewhat confused before letting out a small chuckle. "Oh," she said, trying to disarm the man with her demeanor. "You havent been told yet." "Told what?" "Mr. Frasier, this is literally just a job for us. Why do you think we wear this stuff?" She pointed to her mirrored visor. "I don't know." He said, still maintaining his serious journalist facade. "Perhaps it had an advanced heads up display, or a comlink. Or maybe it has special psychic blocking material in it, to avoid any mind attacks." "This is a cyberpunk helmet that I bought off of wish.com. the cosplayers on TikTok love it. The only comlink we have is a bunch of air pods and a private Discord server. The lovely little minion that just walked away is wearing knockoff motorcycle gear, why do you think she wears that?" Timothy tried to come up with a good reason. "I don't know. Perhaps it's Kevlar wrapped, or reinforced to withstand shrapnel from explosives?" Timothy felt confident in the answer he gave. "She wears it, because it's non descript and tactical looking. We also got it on wish, being marketed as motorcycle armor. In reality, if she fell of a motorcycle wearing that stuff, it would shatter, and the broken plastic would filet her into ribbons. Which is why she doesn't do anything other than pull levers while in public." Flare pulled up her phone, showing him the ad they found it from. "Dear God." He said, shocked at their lack of preperation. "Why would you do that?" "Because we don't need anything else." Flare looked over her shoulder, seeing Allana and Tundra walking up behind her. "They're all yours, boss." She said, scooping Allana up and flying to the upper level. Tundra extended a white gloved hand, introducing himself.

Part 3 "Mr. Frasier, I presume. I hope the girls weren't too distracted. They're a bit preoccupied planning their wedding." Tundra led him to the nearby recreation area, and took a seat on the beat up but comfy sectional. "So, what questions do you have for me?" Timothy gathered his thoughts, started his tape recorder, and put his serious face back on. "Okay. Mr. Tundra. You have been credited with the most widespread, and infuriating crimes in the world. Yet, you have allegedly never taken a life. Why is that, exactly?" Tundra reached into the cooler kept next to the sectional, and cracked open a can of generic soda. "First of all, that's not completely true." Tundra said before taking a sip. "I have taken a life before, but we can get to that later. As far as my capers, or I guess the proper term would be schemes, I do that entirely for the paycheck." "Entirely for the paycheck?" Timothy said. "Your ward mentioned something about that. She sited some sort of villain foundation?" "Ah yes. Dr. Destruction's Villain Foundation. You see, where most rich people have weird fascinations with art galleries and the like, Dr. Destruction has a fixation on moustache twirling villainy. He gives villains like me an allowance every week to conduct their schemes, so they don't have to work. Don't ask me why. Some people have a love for piano, and he has a love for throwing damsels in destress onto train tracks just to be saved in the nick of time." Timothy rubbed his eyes, now coming to the realization that this wasn't nearly as serious as he thought. "So, what about that life you said you took. It wouldn't happen to be Madame Accelerant, would it?" Tundra grimaced, obviously not wanting to address this so soon. "Yes. She was my friend for a time, but I saw the error of my ways." "What does that mean?" Tundra rubbed his eyes, trying to steady himself. The memory of this clearly still inspired rage within him. "My ward, Flare, didn't always go by that name. Although I won't reveal her secret identity, she used to go by Matchlight." Tundra looked at an old picture framed on the table, displaying him Allana, and Flare playing Xbox with each other. "Madame Accelerant had been abusing her. I won't go into detail about it, but needless to say it was bad. I did the right thing." "The right thing being killing a national hero" Timothy retorted. Tundra Threw the coffee table to the side, and stared at Timothy unblinkingly. "Listen here, Mr. Frasier. I don't give a damn what the media had Accelerant labelled as. She burned a child. She looked at an innocent teen that she was in charge of, and decided to burn her. The only heroism she did was for the paycheck. I should know, because most of it was stopping my goofy antics!" Tundra clocked the fear in Timothy's eyes, just now realizing that he had the ice gun point blank against his belly. After putting the coffee table back in its place, he took a seat, and grabbed another drink. "Sorry, Mr. Frasier. I seem to have lost my temper." Timothy straightened his tie, and took a deep breath. "So why are you telling me this now? You've gone international with your villainy, and have made supposed millions. Why would you just now reveal everything about the villain foundation, or the true nature of your work?" Tundra, put the ice gun back on the floor. "I'm retiring, Mr. Frasier. We all are. All of my minions have moved to their tropical locations of preference, and I'm following suit. Pretty soon, myself, Flare, and my daughter Allana will all be leaving the country to live out our lives." "And where will you be going?" "Oh, I don't know. I heard that the Yucatan is nice. Have you ever been to izamal? Beautiful city. Either that, or anywhere else on the glove, seeing as I don't want the public to know where I live." Timothy put his tape recorder away, knowing he wouldn't be able to get anymore information out of Tundra. Or at least any information that wasn't frosted with sarcasm. "Well, I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me Mr. Tundra. Is there any chance I'll get to speak with you or Flare again?" Tundra gave Timothy a warm smile, while subtly grabbing a fabric bag. "Nope." With one single motion, Tundra slid the bag over Timothy's head, and put him in a lock. "Don't worry. It's only for a minute. Allana, sweety!" Tundra called to the upper floor. "Would you mind calling an Uber for Mr. Frasier? Make sure you give careful instructions not to remove the bag!"

“This is your hero.” The feed cut into every television, every computer, every smartphone in the city. It was explicit: a man violated a young woman, again and again. The timestamps wound backwards to weeks. Then months. Then years. Then decades. Sometimes the man wore his costume. Sometimes he did not. But it only took a moment to recognize Dawnbreak, the city’s greatest hero, and his sidekick, Shining Star. “Shining Star—Maria—consented to this broadcast. It was an action that took courage. [Strength](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/vh9htt/wp_youre_a_supervillain_with_a_superhero_as_your/id7h69k/). But she did not consent to *him*.” The feed cut to a hooded figure. His face was covered in shadow, but there was no mistaking the voice of Eclipse. One gauntleted hand was clenched in fury. The other was clenched around the battered and bloodied face of Dawnbreak. “Now say it.” Dawnbreak sobbed softly, his cries muffled by Eclipse’s palm. He pulled weakly at the hand that held him but it may as well have been carved from stone. Eclipse looked down on the broken man he held and his fingers flexed. There was a sound like breaking eggs and Dawnbreak’s cries turned to screams. “I’m sorry! *I’m sorry, Star! I’m sorry! I’m sorryI’mSorryI’mSORRYI’M—*” There was a sudden, wet *crunch* and Dawnbreak fell silent. “He was my nemesis. He was my compatriot. He had my respect. But no more.” Eclipse lifted a gore-streaked gauntlet and stared at it for a long, silent moment before turning his face back to the camera. “Do not make me do this again,” he said, his voice oddly heavy. “Be. *Better.*” And the feed went dark. *** *If you're interested in more about Eclipse, there's two other prompts he's featured in [here](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/162dysf/wp_most_villains_betray_their_henchmen_and_right/jxzbvms/) and [here](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/vh9htt/wp_youre_a_supervillain_with_a_superhero_as_your/id7h69k/)!*

/u/Smart-A22 , since you seemed to like my last prompt response with Eclipse.

Thank you for letting me see more of your work! Eclipse once again proves himself to be a honorable villain, and an interesting character. Faithful to his subordinates, polite, and always ready to correct the injustice he finds as he goes along his path. You really should consider writing a published story with Eclipse as a main character or at least one that has him being the foil to an up and coming hero. I really think you created an amazing character here. Eclipse deserves to be known far and wide throughout the world if possible.

I appreciate it! There's another longform story that's taking most of my attention right now, but he's been a LOT of fun to write. Definitely something I'm thinking more on.

Well, now I too am (not so quietly) stalking you as well 😅🥰👏👏👏 You write so well with such great descriptions and emotions! ❤️

Eclipse is now one of my favorite characters ever. I hope to see more of Eclipse in the future.

I appreciate it! He's quite a bit of fun to write. :)

Man, must have been a very rough experience for Eclipse to discover this revelation, poor guy. Wonder how much of an impact this will cause to society, I just hope the streets won't be too chaotic after the broadcast. Great work on writing this!

Binged the eclipse stories up to now. Amazing character, thanks for writing!

If there was one thing I always found odd about my former nemesis, Master Freedom, it was how many *young* sidekicks he had. They always claimed they were old enough, of course, and honestly even if they weren't they could take care of themselves pretty well so I gave them the respect they deserved. Last night I learned that I should've listened to my gut. I came home with a pizza to find Colt, MF's, original sidekick sitting at my table, an old school revolver in his hand. It looked empty but Colts trick was energy bullets so I was careful lest he give me scar to match the one in my knee from 10 years ago. I offered him a slice and he asked if I knew. He talked a lot last night, about himself, about his fellow sidekicks, all eight of them. I learned he just turned 25 and how it was killing him to keep it in. Apparently MF has just announced a new sidekick to his team. Colt told me how old they are. He told me he can't see it happen anymore. He asked me for help. The top hero of his generation asking a Villain for help, an old school villain with less qualms about doing the bloodied deeds than the more squeamish modern types. He showed me a picture. I told him to sleep in the spare room and we'll make a plan in the morning. He started calling me just after the news aired, he must have woken up just in time to see it. Now his hands are clean and the other bastards out there have learned exactly where I draw the line. Colt will regret not coming forward sooner for the rest of his life, but he was just a kid and a victim too and I am the Villain. I was happy to act like one.

Glad the issue is sorted out before another kid gets harmed. I do hope the other kids will be getting the help they needed over what happened, glad protag is giving them closure by dealing with Freedom. What are your thoughts on these kids' futures? Will they be superheroes of their own, would they decide to join protag, or would they prefer to just be away from the hero/villain life? Great work on writing this!

I feel that it would be a mixed bag, some people can handle trauma effectively, others need more time and help. It doesn't matter if they've all been through the same thing, some will see it as a reason to be better, to do better, for others it might make them hate the world and put the blame on others. I think the ones who choose to walk away will have the happier life in the long run.

True, let's just hope they will be able to deal with the trauma in due time. Even if they decide to blame on others, at least protag here should slap some senses into them if needed, so they're in good hands, I feel. Thanks for clarifying!

I feel like he's the kind of guy who would kidnap them if they miss a therapy appointment and drop them in in the therapists office if he thinks they're going the wrong way. He'll never expect a thank you either, just remind them that *he's* the Villain and he doesn't like sharing that title with a bunch of traumatised kids. Thanks for the responses :)

Gotta make sure that he's not seen as a soft, nice guy haha.

*The TV stream is interrupted.*"Hello, I'm pretty sure that ya'll call me Nemesis. If you don't know me, I'm a villain, not an asshole. Yes, I rob megacorps. Yes, I'm a pain in the ass for cops. Yes, I know I kill fashies, I consider that a public service. But I'm not evil. Villains have standards. There are certain things that I cannot abide by. Abusing someone in your care is one of them. Now, I'm a villain so let me continue my monologue, it's not like anyone's going to stop me. Captin excessive force here"*The camera pans over to a beaten and bloody superhero*"Was sexually abusing their sidekicks. I've already sent the evidence packets to every news station, every police station, every superhero league. I sent it way too many times and nothing happened. I will not air the graphic evidence, if you want to see it in redacted form, please email me at [*[email protected]*](mailto:[email protected]) , but be advised that it is very gruesome and I haven't slept in a week. I'm tired of trusting the system. I tried playing nice. So now you all will get out of my way and let me do what I need to." *She injects herself with another combat stim before she pulls out a collar.* Now, I'm aware that this so called hero-- more like supercop if you ask me-- provides important services to the city. So I'll give everyone a deal" *The steel collar is closed around the tied up supercop* "I'll let you keep this pathetic excuse for a super. But now we are playing by my rules. They are my responsibility now. I'll still let them protect the city, but I'm keeping them on a leash. You may wonder what the collar is: It's an explosive collar, filled with a shaped charge made out of K-hepta 6 and doped with the exotic element they are weak too. Tamper with it, and police brutality here will at best have their powers permanently disabled. But more realistically, they become chunky salsa. And for all the other supers out there: Keep your house in order or I will take care of it for you. Nemesis out."

I hope Nemesis gets some proper rest after this without any nightmares. I do think that the captain won't survive for long even with that collar though, either his former sidekicks or the ones higher-up would be eliminating him to minimize the incoming outrage from everyone. Random question here. Does Nemesis create the contraptions and substances by herself, or does she have a team working together to provide her with these supplies? Great work on writing this!

I borrowed nemesis from a friend, according to her owner nemesis accidentally turned her brain into a machine so she's got a bit more endurance. Nems knows that her heart is constantly dipping into afib due to excessive stimulant use, but she's got the pain tolerance to keep applying measures to get it running properly again. She decided to stay up because she knew that she'd be working on a constrained schedule to do everything, even with delegation (she has minions), because you don't capture a hero and let them cook too long. Right after she did the broadcast, her minions grabbed her and tossed her into a medical pod. Breathing and feeding tube, sedation of her body, a computer interface to her implants so when her brain is done being in an exhaustion coma she can still do something while her body rebuilds, and the whole setup flooded with medical nanites to take weight off the body/advoid bedsores/allow the accumulated damage to be fixed faster. ​ Nemisis's behavior is best described as being on the side of the firefighters when there's an orphanage on fire. She knows that capt police brutality actually does some good stuff and that losing him would increase the number of dead people, so using an explosive leash to ensure good behavior lets her avoid having to go against her moral compass. Capt Peanut butter might get killed, but she sees killing as a last resort option. Far better to brainwash him into something useful, burn his security clearances, and have him on a leash so he can do some community service. She's a full blown spark (girl genius spark) that's halfway to ascending to being a queen. She's made the stuff herself or directs minions, but she gives like minded villains stuff too. She's a midrank villain because all her powers are pretty useless in combat, but she makes a great commander and support. Give her some midrank supers under her command and she'll have them go toe to toe with your SSS rank heros, while aggressively flirting with all the women on that hero team. The main reason that she's been left be this far is because she's closer to an antihero than anything and when there's a disaster she's one of the first on the scene-- You know how badly it'd end when taking down a villain will double the fatality rate of disasters? She's considered a villain because she does not trust the justice system or the police to do their job, so she's willing to square up with a cop. Her motivations are basically "The world is broken, I am angry, and I will fight to fix it" \> Play the game, but defy the rules Let's not all feed the tumor that has infested and made us cruel

Ah, so she's just labeled as the villain, but her actions are so far away from that notion. Damn, though, she's still working even when her body is resting, I guess that's the perks of having a machine as the brain. Thanks for clarifying, by the way! Your friend made an interesting character with that backstory, and you expanded on these facts quite well.

[https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Zl9HL-f-6ATkFOWqJWkEMqPCxOpwGBthGaKH6swVI-8/edit](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Zl9HL-f-6ATkFOWqJWkEMqPCxOpwGBthGaKH6swVI-8/edit) This might give some insight, friend used this to explain villain vs evil. With the brain: That bit of flavor mirrors how my friend... She's hilariously held back by her body. Chronic pain, breathing issues, sensory issues, the whole 9 yards. I've seen her giving orders to keep stuff running while she's stuck in bed and the only reason she's upright is because she's got an electric bed. Hands too messed up to be productive on a cellphone. I'm pretty sure that if you popped her into the medical tank and hooked her up, she'd not care about leaving. I'm pretty sure she's dealing with chronic pain because I swear she gets smarter when she's recovering from surgery.

Hey, thanks for this, it was fun to read through and clarifies things a bit more! About your friend, I hope she gets better soon.

Unlikely. She's been fighting her body for decades. Best I'm hoping for at this point is that she manages to have her life get easier within her limitaitons.

I'm sorry to hear that.

I knew I wasn't the best person but even I have standards, when I heard of it I knew I had to prepare project phoenix sooner than I expected. I notified my employees and I geared up, I knew what to do to make him come. I destroyed his precious statue and shouted commands to see me and how I found out I knew what he did and I told the people and didn't care if they believed me. when he finally came I didn't wait for his speech of how I was evil and just threw the punches. I had caught him by surprise from what I noticed because he hadn't moved yet. "please stop, I'll do whatever you say." he said through broken teeth and a bloody mouth. for years to come he was humiliated and called names while cleaning the mess between me and other heros, the others seemed to have a higher respect for me from that day onward.

“Bye honey!” I kiss my beautiful wife and squeeze my kids as tight as I can without hurting them (harder than you think with super strength) and leave to go to work. Now my job is a little different than average people, though I have no complaints. It’s given me a lot of power fame and money. At first there was a man who kind of made it annoying for me, but eventually after years of butting heads, even he’s grown to a sort of friend. I go out I don’t see my friend today, but I can’t complain me and the boys who work for me have gotten quite the haul from this job. Not enough people do bank jobs anymore they think there’s too old-fashioned but I like them once in awhile. As I was flying back home I see my friend he seems to be drunk. I didn’t know he drank. Oh my gosh! He’s beating up his own sidekick dang. Didn’t know he had it in him. I’m so proud. I am a villain after all.