Quirks and magic

Chapter 24: Some Assembly Required

The office room was cloaked in darkness and dust, sparse of all decor and furniture aside from a single desk, chair, and a black safe that rested underneath it. The walls were equally bare, with only the simplest of analog clocks being supported by a single nail and thin strand of wire, filling the room with an incessantly methodical ticking that accompanied the darkness quite well.

Suddenly, the space in the middle of the room began to warp, twisting and distorting in such a way that the spatial torsion would've been apparent to anyone else who may have been in the room, regardless of its current lack of light. The space twisted until the smallest of tears formed, belching out a vaguely humanoid shape. The man grunted with a kind of discomfort that could only be lessened after years of experience with such unorthodox displacement. The rift spat out a red handle, followed by a crimson satchel, the rift slowly dissipating and ultimately disappearing into the confines of the bag. The leather flap gently closed shut, and the distortion was no more. The room returned to a state of pitch darkness and ticking, now punctuated with a man's ragged, nasally breath.

Brigand threw his hoodie—what was left of it—back, running one hand through his short, blonde yet slightly singed hair as he fumbled toward the wall for the light switch, a routine that he was fairly familiar with after so many months in this new base of operations of his.

His hand soon found the switch, and Brigand kept his eyes shut as he flipped it up, letting his eyes adjust to the sudden influx of light without resorting to inadvertently blinding himself. Once he felt adjusted enough, Brigand cracked his eyes open, his view filtered through the yellow lens resting on the bridge of his slightly deformed nose. He shrugged the magical satchel off his shoulder with a huff, letting it drop onto his solitary desk almost noiselessly.

Noiselessness was important to Brigand, especially in his line of work. He took a great deal of pride in the efficacy of his abilities and the efficiency with which he could bring about desired results for his employers. It was why he'd been in such high demand for the last couple years. Demand was so high, in fact, that he'd hardly had any time to carry out pro bono work for his own enjoyment, such as when he'd managed to sneak into Avengers Tower just a few months ago and pilfer from that pompous Stark's own Iron Legion. Damn, that was a fun night; he'd have bragging rights in the merc community for years, and not even Taskmaster would be able to look down on this particular accomplishment.

Even better was that the incident was never reported to the media, likely at Stark's bequest. All the better, Brigand thought: the No. 2 Pro Hero could maintain his ego, but deep down, Brigand would know that the man would always be just a little bit more paranoid because of his feat. And to Brigand, living in Stark's head rent free was worth the lack of media attention. Besides, reprogramming the numerous drones he'd snatched to suit his own purposes was reward enough, too. Good thing he'd laid claim to this abandoned warehouse along the Upper Bay; big enough to house his trinkets and trophies, and equipped with just enough security so as to not attract the attention of busybodies or the authorities.

And he'd soundproofed the walls, too. Again: noiselessness was important. Noise means ruckus which means attention which means eyes and witnesses which means heroes and cops which means prison.

Brigand plopped down at his rickety desk; he definitely wanted to unwind and ruminate on the day's events before he contacted the League of Villains again to inform them of his success.

League of Villains, Brigand mentally scoffed. They were a nobody group as far as he was concerned, just another fledgling crime syndicate with few members and no notable ones, save for the mist man Kurogiri, whom Brigand vaguely recognized. It would only be a matter of time before Hero Society ripped open whatever rocks and logs they were hiding under and they would scurry away from the light, fleeing like the cockroaches they truly were. But hey, at least they had the money to afford his services. And that was all that mattered in the end, wasn't it?