Confessions of a D-List Supervillain (3 page)

With the left leg actuator finished, I take a break and bring up my favorite first-person-shooter on the main screen, after checking to make sure the bitch downstairs is still confined. I miss Vicky. After committing my first robbery in the MARK II, I called her. She was going to fly out for a celebration and take my presentation for building moderately low-cost powersuits to the Overlord himself. I would have had a backlog of work that would make me filthy stinking rich and Vicky was going to resign after she got the deal approved. It was the perfect plan. There was just one small problem standing in the way of that happily ever after.

Vicky was in the Overlord’s Omega Base when he triggered the self-destruct, trying to destroy the Olympians and the West Coast Guardians. They all escaped, naturally. She didn’t.

The new buyer was this sleazy suit named Paul. Paul also liked my work. In fact, he liked it so much that he had some of the Overlord’s in-house guys take the pulse cannons apart and reverse engineer the design to manufacture them without any markup.

That’s Darwinism in the villain food chain. There really wasn’t much I could do about it either. Even the bad guys were finding ways to screw me. That forced me to resume the other side of the business, while trying to land the next big contract. I went back to being a goon for hire.

General Devious recruited me into her Heroes Outmatched by Rampaging Destructive Executioner Squads. Yeah, I was a member of that idiotic HORDES group. The idea of over a hundred villains trying to work together didn’t pan out as well as everyone thought.

Against all four Guardians groups, the Olympians, and countless other solo heroes, things went from bad to worse. It’s the only time I ever actually fought against Ultraweapon. There’s not even really a long story to what happened. That fight consisted of less than a minute of me getting my ass thoroughly kicked. It took three months to get the suit right after retreating as fast as I could – at less than half-speed.

Whoever upgraded those force blasters on his suit did a helluva job. I started on the MARK III that night, worked feverishly for two weeks, and then quit. I woke up and smelled the coffee. The bitter truth was I didn’t have the brainpower or the budget to compete with Promethia’s Research and Development department. There was no way I would ever be able to beat Ultraweapon.

So, I went into semi-retirement, pulling the occasional job just to fill the coffers. I did custom orders for the lower-level criminals and tried my best to stay away from the larger crime organizations, and more importantly the upper echelon of heroes. Chickenshit? Yes, but it kept me out of prison while I struggled to make a living.

Chapter Two

Songs That Get Stuck in Your Head

As the first week with my prisoner comes to a close, I’m seriously contemplating fulfilling her request, stunning and dumping her somewhere, like she wants. Becoming a true hermit is sounding more appealing by the hour.

I trigger the external sound feed and hear her screaming, “Will you shut that damn song off!”

“Oh, did I leave that song looping for the last six hours? I’m sorry.”

“At least play something that isn’t shit!”

“Biz would be offended. I love this song. In fact, guess what’s on tap for the next six hours?”

Biz Markie’s
Just A Friend,
it's a guilty pleasure song if ever there was one. I'm not bragging, but I do a mean karaoke version of it. Surprisingly, Stacy stopped her usual death threats and went into great detail about how much she hated this particular song.

Naturally, I've been, giving her “Da Biz” ever since. Part of me is trying to get her to focus on something other than trying to get another bug attached to her neck. Then there’s the other part, the one that’s had to put up with her crap and is sick and tired of it. Okay, I’m a spiteful little man. I accept that I have issues. That’s not the point. Ms. Mitchell is damn lucky that I don’t have homicidal tendencies.

“Are you going to use the knockout gas again tonight?” she hisses as the song starts up again.
Was that a plea?

Maybe I’ll switch it out with the live version I’ve got around here somewhere. Either way, I’m lying. I’m actually drugging her food and waiting a bit before releasing some compressed air. What bad guy has tanks of chloroform hanging around at their “backup” base? Even if I had that kind of money, I’m nowhere near that anal, but I’m beginning to wish I was.

“Look, I gotta sleep too, princess. There’s that old cliché about the bad guy falling asleep and the hero escaping. Happens way too often in my line of work, so forgive me for taking a few precautions, okay?”

“I’ll bet! You’re probably in here indulging in some sick fantasy time, you prick! I know your type. I saw them enough even before I got my powers.”

“Newsflash, you were hot, but now you’re not even lukewarm. Go and look at yourself in the mirror. You haven’t showered in three days, you’ve only changed your clothes once, and the toothbrush is still in its plastic case. There was a time when I thought you were the hottest thing on the planet. Right now the only thing you could attract is some flies! Have some damn pride, woman! I’m hoping you hit rock bottom before you start growing fungus.”

Stacy starts screaming and goes quickly from raging to damn near incoherent. I go back to calibrating the new headgear on the Mark III armor. I’ve hit a minor snag in all of this. I’m running out of synth-muscle. Of course, there was plenty back at my main base. Or at least there used to be. All that’s left now is a big, smoking crater.

I walk over to a storage closet with a feeling of nostalgia. Inside is the old Mark I. It looks so flimsy and primitive now. That beat-up old black suit doesn’t have enough of Promethia’s chief invention in it either, but the suit I’m wearing does.

What if Stacy escapes and I’m in the Mark I? It’s going to take a good three days to strip all the components out of the II and work it into the new one. Even in her condition, could I take her in the old Mark I?

Hanging next to the suit is an item that evokes a scoffing laugh from me. It’s quite possibly my most ridiculous invention ever. The previous owner of this hideout was a client of mine – Hillbilly Bobby, a country bumpkin with more strength than common sense. He paid me to make him several power clubs – force field generators strapped to two-by-fours. I’ll admit, they weren’t exactly my crowning achievements, but I was pretty short on cash at the time, like always.

Not surprisingly, Bobby ended up in prison. I think it was The Bugler or Andydroid who brought him in. I shake my head and pull out the old Mark I. I’ll spend the rest of the day trying to tune it up and switch into it tonight.

• • •

“Wake up, princess. Don’t go back to sleep on me. What would you like for breakfast this morning? I have waffles and . . . waffles – your choice.”

Stacy is sprawled face-down on the floor next to her cot. She was her usual ranting lunatic self five minutes ago. I struggle with the interface mounted on the outside of the door. This old suit doesn’t quite match up with the controls. It’s just another insult added to injury. I’m also roughly fifteen pounds heavier than when I last wore the Mark I. It’s just like pulling out a pair of pants that hasn’t been worn in years and expecting it to fit. I feel like a cybernetic sausage.

“C’mon, get up. Let’s see that beautiful face.”

After issuing the command three times, I send the breakfast cart in through the access hatch. She’s still not responding. This is what I was afraid of. Do I go in there and see if she’s okay, or do I just stay and watch for awhile to see if she’s playing possum?

Climbing back up the staircase, I get to the main console and bring up the surveillance camera. I skim through the last few minutes. She was awake, screaming and pacing. Stacy starts shaking and then stumbles. She looks like she’s having some kind of a seizure.
Charge force blasters.
Crap, I forgot. This suit doesn’t have the advanced cerebral interface. I whisper, “Charge force blasters.”

I’m running this time; once again it takes me a few tries to interface with the cellblock controller to get the main door open. I finally get in there and approach her. The smell of vomit and urine forces me to activate my filters and I roll her over.

Unless she can fake blue lips, she’s in real trouble. Even in my other base, I didn’t really have a clinic. I do have a first aid kit mounted on the wall in the hallway. That’s about it.

The next few minutes pass in a blur. I manage to get her swollen tongue out of her mouth and “bag” her to get her breathing. The needle on the adrenaline shot breaks on her thick skin and I resort to doing chest compressions with my powersuit to get her heart beating. It takes a few minutes before I can detect a steady pulse. I strap her to a gurney. Stacy might not be able to get out of the restraints in her condition, but I’ve got to be sure. Rigging up a crude monitor, I gather the dirty sheets and leave her cell.

“If this is what freeing everyone else is going to be like, I shouldn’t even bother.”  She doesn’t answer.

Thirty minutes later, the monitors alert me. Stacy’s coming around. I stop what I’m doing and head back down into the cellblock.

Through the cameras, I watch her struggle against the bindings. She collapses after two minutes. Opening the door, I step in hesitantly with my blasters charged and my shield strength at this suit’s peak. A pair of pitiful psi-bolts hit me. They barely register on my defenses.

“Calm down.”

“What happened?” she asks blearily.

“You had a seizure. I think you’re okay, now.”

Her response is a raspy cough mixed with halting words. “I’m not okay. I’m never going to be okay, again. Either let me go or go ahead and let me die.”

I ignore her and grab a sports bottle. “You don’t mean that. Here, drink some water.”

She resists feebly, but I get the straw into her mouth. “I mean it. Give me back to the bugs or just kill me.”

“You were given powers by a bunch of ancient gods. Do you think they want you to give up? Didn’t you swear some kind of oath to them?”

“They don’t matter anymore. Nothing does.”

My career as a motivational speaker isn’t going anywhere. It’s a safe bet that she’s either at rock bottom or she’s hit and started digging. “C’mon Stacy, work with me here. It’s already been a week. Whatever these things make, it’s got to be almost out of your system. Just give me another week. If you still want to leave then, I’ll stun you and dump you somewhere.”

When did I develop a blind spot for damsels in distress? Damn it!

“Do you promise?”

“Sure. I’ll even promise to stop playing that song. Just make it another seven days and if you want to leave, I’ll let you.”

She breathes a huge sigh, before resorting to a threat. “You better not be lying.”

I bring over the breakfast cart and start feeding her. “Just get your strength back. You won’t be any use to your masters like this.”

After finishing one waffle and a few spoonfuls of dried banana chips covered in syrup, she shakes her head and can’t eat anymore. She stares at me for a second, “Why are you in that prehistoric relic?”

“I’m upgrading the other suit, for the next time I have to fight.”

Stacy laughs, a sad, bitter sound and says, “You still think you have a chance. We were sent out to collect any people with creative talent. Honestly, you were pretty far down that list. What are you going to do? Upgrade your stealth suite? Increase the power output of your blasters? No matter how hard you try, you’re not going to out-create the rest of the world. You should just give up.”

I stare at her. She can’t see my jaw hanging open in disbelief. “Are you able to read my mind through this helmet?”

“No, I just know you brainy types. It’s exactly what Lazarus does every time someone manages to beat him. He’d ignore me for days on end, huddle with his staff, and they’d brainstorm how to make the suit better. I’m just telling it like it is. If you could have made a better suit before, you would have. Do whatever you want, but I can tell you that you aren’t going to win.”

Her eyes don’t have that malicious gleam like during her earlier taunts. There’s just resignation. I storm out of the room, knowing she’s right. Sealing the door, I stand in the hallway, uncertain of what to do next. The only real difference between me and Stacy is that my cell is bigger than hers.

• • •

Afternoon finds her in better spirits. Stacy seems to be getting her appetite back. I release her from the gurney and she doesn’t try to attack me. When she asks for a fresh set of clothes and heads behind the partition to take a shower, I get my hopes up.

She looks like she’s improved, so I ask, “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah, I can deal.”

Inside my suit, I smile. Stacy is turning a corner. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“Well, it’s only a week. I can get through it. I’ve made it this far.”

The grin fades. She’s delusional. I have a super nut job on my hands. Searching the main computer, I look around for anything dealing with addicts. Not surprisingly, the pickings are slim. I have lots of bootleg software, plans for all kinds of stolen technology, thousands of illegal movies and music files, but my self-improvement section is pretty . . . lame.

Yeah, I’ve known a few addicts in my life, but I didn’t say that I cured any. Generally, I’d say, “Hey, you’ve got some serious problems. You should get some help.”  I fix gadgets, not people.

Lacking any other resources, I go with my gut instinct. I set the clock in her cell to count only three seconds for every four. Her days just got six hours longer. I might not be able to out-create the entire world, but cheating can narrow the gap.

I try to take advantage of her suddenly good nature. “Anything you’re willing to tell me about the world outside would be nice. What are the bugs making everyone do?”

“They’re organizing themselves into work-groups and building factories.”

“What are they making in the factories?”

“I don’t think they’re making anything yet.”

“Yeah, that sounds like the Overlord’s Modus Operandi. Draft an endless supply of labor and put them to work. All the creative people are probably slaving away designing things. The only problem is that there is no one to give the orders to start production. That’s the problem with megalomaniacs, what do they do when they enslave the world? They want more and better weapons. Who would they use them against?”  I snap my fingers. “Hey, I just thought of something, how do those bugs get through your skin? You Olympians aren’t exactly fragile.”

“It’s absorbed through the skin, I think.”

“What about Andydroid, the Cyber Dudes, and the Silicon Sisterhood?”

She pauses for a moment before answering, a hint of guilt in her voice, “They were captured and deactivated, or ....”

I finish it for her, “... or they got the Humpty Dumpty treatment, but somehow you can justify this.”

“It’s ... regrettable.”

Biting my tongue, I cut the intercom off. Regrettable is a word for it, alright. I don’t know why I’m letting this get to me. It’s not like I’m a big fan of any of those clowns. Hearing her casually say that sends a jolt of disappointment through me. Maybe I’d expected more from her. I stare uselessly at the pair of powersuits on my work tables. I’m not in a league with people like Lazarus Patterson. Compared to him, I’m a rube, like Hillbilly Bobby.

Wait just a damn second! That might be it.

• • •

Stacy was right. I can’t out think all of them. All of my designs have gotten progressively more complicated as I looked for ways to improve and add new features. But this suit won’t be used for crimes. That means no stealth suites, countermeasures, or niceties like cargo space. It has only one purpose – to fight.

I remove the force blaster from the right arm. The left will be my sole built-in weapon and the extra space allows me to install more synth-muscle. Next I get a pulse cannon and add a rifle grip. My main weapon will be external and powered independently from my suit. The force field generator from Bobby’s useless wooden club gets attached to a fifteen pound sledgehammer. The simplicity of the design is what makes it so beautiful. The Mark III is going to be a crude tank, and I like it!

The good news is tempered with the bad. Stacy is still counting down the hours until I let her go. There are regular withdrawal symptoms and she still degenerates into a foaming at the mouth lunatic at least three times during her thirty hour “day.”

After the latest bout I opted to give her “Da Biz.”

As the song ends, she screams, “You miserable lying bastard!”

“Beg pardon?”

“I know exactly how long that blasted song is. You messed with the damn clock. You’re not going to let me go!”