a supervillain writing experiment (3)

Five years ago, the world was turned inside out and vomited back the wonder it had swallowed, like a bulimic purging a meal too rich for them. Now we all live in the half digested remains of a world that once was glorious. Nothing is pure, nothing is clear, we are all scarred, some of us more than others. We have all seen the stories on the television about the former superbads who decided that enough was enough. Monsters that came back out after those ten dreary years and decided that they didn’t want to hide in the shadows anymore. They all talk about those, the amnesty act, the pardons offered to people in exchange for counselling and treatment. We have to forgive, the heroes told us, and we have to give people a second chance. Break the cycle. Allow people a new start. And people trusted them, because suddenly we had our heroes back. We had an Idealist again that could stand in front of the congress and give a speech powerful enough that the vote was a landslide and grown republicans openly wept in the benches. We had hope, she told us. We had a chance to make something out of this. Something new. Something better. She asked us all to stand together.

She didn’t talk about the other side. She didn’t talk about us. And I know that I am not alone, not by a long shot. See, that is the case with any upheaval. So many people plod along with the crowd that you never have any idea how they will react once they are separated from the herd and forced to relearn the rules. Some of us just decided that rules were no longer for us. Trust me; it’s not an easy step to make. People have a hard time believing that someone that used to be on the side of angels would willingly cross into the darkness. If I came out openly to the people I work with, I would be shunned. Suspected. Possibly killed, at the very least tortured because these are not men and women you fuck around with.

This is why I have Yasmin. Yes, I did name her after the doll, because I don’t care what her real name ever was, and neither does she. I found her in a hospital two years ago, catatonic and comatose. We have an agreement her and me, I use her empty body, and in return she does not waste away in a hospital bed. Not that she has signed any papers, it’s been years and I’ve yet to find any traces of thoughts in that pretty skull of hers. She’s gone, so I doubt she’d mind I’d help me to her leftovers. I got her an apartment right on top of mine, because to truly slip into someone’s mind (or lack of it) and possess them, I need to be close. Close enough to single out their thoughts from the hive that is humanity. We have a system set up. During the days I go about my life. I pay bills. I shop. I work out. I steal money. But by nightfall I lay my body down to sleep and slip into hers. I take her swimming to keep inactive muscles in check; I take her to beauty parlours to keep her beautiful. I take her shopping to keep her representative. And I take her to Joes.

Joes (no apostrophe) is a bar, with a difference. There are bars like it all over the world, some are pretentious and calls themselves things like Darkside, or the Black Hole. But most are like Joes, discrete and quiet, unwilling to draw attention to what goes on inside. To all appearances, Joes is a seedy bar in a seedy district, a place you go to get drunk and not much else. It’s not a friendly place, and few but the ‘regulars’ stay there for long. Joe has a tendency to hire the scariest down and outs he can find to keep strangers from staying put, and it works. There are far better place for a drink within walking distance. Unless you’re bad. Unless you’re one of us. Because then the door at the back will open, and reveal the real Joes, securely concealed beneath a layer of scramblers thick enough to fool anybody that does not know exactly what they are looking for.

The scramblers are another reason I take Yasmin to Joes, because scramblers like this leaves me with a headache that will plague my head for days. But tonight I am safe and secure in her non-powered body, my telepathic talents busy driving my vehicle of female flesh. I have nothing to conceal, no powers to dampen, and the scanners flash a pleasant green as I blow a kiss to the guard at the door. I have to say I’ve come to enjoy it. Attractive women do get treated differently, and by now I am as familiar with her body as I am with my own. It took practice, but I have the gait, and I have the smile. And by now, I have the reputation. I have put my neck on the line; I have done enough illegal things that no undercover legal would have had the stomach for them. I’m officially one of them, I might not have powers, but there is always science, and for a girl with the right kind of smile, there are always men of science bending over backwards. Like Dr Mortus.

“Ah, good evening mademoiselle.” Dr Mortus bows before pulling out my chair, as always the perfect picture of a gentleman though I know that he was born in Detroit and has never left the country. Still, his degree is legit, and his mind is as sound as his manners. And, unlike many others in his business, he showers, dresses smartly and sports a ridiculous little moustache that I suspect he actually waxes.

“I have what you asked for” I smile sweetly, crossing my legs to make sure the slit in my skirt reveals just the right amount of stocking. I suppose I should feel insecure in my manhood dressing up like this, but it’s an act I’ve actually come to enjoy. It’s not as if I let them touch me after all. I look around the darkened room, but the tables in this section offer a certain amount of privacy, and an early Tuesday night have left the place almost deserted. I reach into my ridiculously expensive handbag and slide the padded envelope over to him.

“I never doubted you” he says in that ridiculously faux-french accent. Still, his hands tremble like a kid on Christmas day as he reaches in and carefully pulls out the electronics I stole from the Quartet’s headquarters. “Ah, ma chérie, this is perfect. The glove will be ready on schedule.”

I find it amusing that when faced between the choice of technology or cleavage, he goes for technology every time. This is the reason why most mad scientists are single I assume, if you devote your life to science there is little room for anything else. “And it will work according to my specifications?” I lean forward a little, running a red-nailed finger around the rim of my glass. I have caught his attention again, the mouse once more transfixed by the snake. I take a moment to sip my drink, and his eyes follow from hand to lips. Sucker.

“It will surpass your wildest expectations mademoiselle.” He kisses the hand I hold out for him, and I smile sweetly to suppress the shiver down my spine. “Two weeks from now, and it will be ready for testing.” My frown must have registered, because he quickly continues “It is impossible to get done sooner. On my honour.”

I sigh and empty my drink. “I will hold you to that promise my dear Doctor. I am on a schedule here as well.” I allow myself to look worried; I know that he already suspects I am a go-between for somebody else. Perhaps someone with a limited patience. Perhaps I might get hurt if he delays. But the truth is that I have a deadline. Every villain needs a grand plan, and I am no different in that respect.

You have to keep up the traditions after all.