Super?

Those Days Are Gone

       I can't remember a certain point in my life where I just woke up and decided to be evil. I believe that people are always born with a darkness inside of them; it's just their environment and the people they surround themselves with that nurses that darkness into something more... tangible. Something villainous.
       I don't like to think of myself as a bad guy. I mean, I don't get off on it or anything. Being a villain isn't all it's cracked up to be. I'm not one of those egoistical monologuing fools who call themselves something stupid like Death Fang or Black Night. I don't wear a cape. (Okay. I have a uniform. So sue me.) I think of my work as just that... work. Some people drive to Starbucks for their morning caffeine, and then hole themselves up in an office all day to pay the bills. I drive to Starbucks for my morning caffeine; then spend the rest of the day prowling around, looking for trouble to pay the bills. I'm like everybody else, just more exciting. I'm probably the most exciting sociopath you'll ever meet. Seriously.
       My point is, I'm not doing this for fun. Being a villain isn't a hobby, it's my life--- as sad as that sounds. Okay, so it felt a little nice when the first newspaper popped up with my picture smack dab on the front page. Mysterious new villain goes toe-to-toe with Birchwood City's finest! In case you were wondering, "Birchwood City's finest" is this annoying superhero, who calls herself Crimson. If the name wasn't any indication, her costume- or lack thereof- is all red. She's pretty lame, but everyone loves her. Probably because she likes to parade around and say things like, "It doesn't matter that I have superpowers! I'm just like you guys!" while wearing a costume that closely resembles a swimsuit. She went public with her civilian identity, Taylor Garcia, a few months ago, and now the press won't shut up about her. She's kind of an attention hog. I mean, there are like, fifteen other supers in this city alone, and not one of them has gotten as much of a lick of attention as she has- just because she fights crime in a one-piece. I aim to change that. People won't remember Crimson. They'll remember Eris, the villain who defeated her.
      ...Oh. And the syndicate I'm working for. They'll (probably) be mentioned too. Kind of defeats the whole "strong and independent" vibe I've got going whenever I have to report to "Boss," but hey, I'm not complaining. As long as the paychecks keep coming, I'll be happy to stir up some more chaos on the streets. It's what I love doing most. (Ok, so maybe I do have some fun.) Who wouldn't? What's that one quote? "Love what you do and you won't work a day in your life" or whatever? I like working for the syndicate. I can overlook the stupid name they have going for them (seriously, who calls themselves the "Dark Lords" anyway?) and my lovely colleagues who whisper, "Daddy issues," when I pass by. I can handle that. I can handle anything. I tell myself this every day, especially now, when I'm standing before Boss awaiting my next assignment. He's got a crazy glint in his eyes. That usually means he's got something big planned, which may or may not include me jumping off of a twenty story building. As a bomb detonates behind me. And bullets are flying past my face. And Reggie wants me to order him some fricking Taco John's. This is all simultaneously. So when Reggie gets the crazy look, well... Let's just say he's not going to suggest that I steal something from the local Goodwill.
       "Er. Sir? I'm assuming I'm here for an as-"
       "I want you to kidnap someone for me. A boy," Reggie blurts. Unlike most stereotypical crime ring leaders, Reggie isn't what anyone would call physically intimidating, or even remotely untouchable. He's got a bit of a high-pitched voice, he's real gangly, and he twitches a lot when he gets worked up. But I know better than to underestimate him and generally anyone as psychopathic as Reggie. He may not look like much, but one wrong comment and a bullet will be coming out of the back of your head. I don't know how he does it, but he even scares me a little. Guys like that, who literally don't give a rat's tail as to whether you live or die, no matter if you're their best friend or some random punk off the street, scare me.
       "What interest do we have in a boy? Is he the son of a diplomat or a government official of some sort? Is he-" I'm prepared to inquiry more, but Reggie stops me with a single lift of his pointer finger. There's an icy cold expression on his face, and it chills me to the bone.
       "It's none of your business. If I want the boy, I will have the boy, whether the capture is handled by you or someone else. Understand?" He gives a sweet smile. To anyone else, that smile would be heart-warming. Reggie can rock that adorable nerdy look once in a while. But to me, that smile is a threat. My heart isn't warming. It's palpitating. I'm almost shivering, even though the room is stifling- in more ways than one. His office decor makes one wonder how that much chrome can really be comfortable.
       "Of course," I breathe, struggling to regain a polite smile, "sir." When he loses all interest in beheading me and instead shoves a thick file against my chest with disdain, I take the opportunity to walk/dash out of his sterile office. I can feel him watching me even as the glass door swings shut silently behind me. Another trickle of ice runs down my spine and I only relax when I'm in the safe confines of the hallway. Well, relatively safe. There are some odd supposed-to-decorative spiky maces and staffs with the syndicate logo printed on them all arranged neatly in a vase like they're part of a fricking plant or something, and at least seven security cameras swivel to watch my every move. And then there's Sebastian. He's sitting against the wall, legs outstretched, laptop balanced on top of his thighs. The glow of the screen reflects against his thick Coke-bottle glasses, and I can't see his eyes enough to tell whether he's happy or nervous to see me. It's hard to tell with Sebastian.
       "No wonder you have myopia," I comment sagely as I stroll by, listening to the mechanical whirrs of the security cameras follow me. He jumps a little and looks up, as if he didn't even hear me coming.
       "What's that?" He asks, adjusting his glasses. He looks a bit incredulous to see me, or rather see that I'm actually interacting with him. He's had a puppy-crush on me ever since he joined the syndicate. The kid's got wicked hacking skills, but has the social IQ of Delores, my pet snake. (Don't judge me.)
       "Nothing," I assure him, but grin inwardly. "You in on me with this one?" I flip the thick paper file onto his open laptop keyboard so he can read the lettering on the front page. He anxiously pulls a strand of shaggy brown hair before scanning the pages.
       "Yeah, Boss briefed me before you came in," he tells me finally as he looks up, folding the file neatly and setting it aside. His face doesn't change, and I wonder if he knows how much that stings and makes my blood boil. I can't believe Reggie would consult Sebastian of all people before me.
       "Is that so?" He fidgets, finally looking uncomfortable with his blunder. His eyes flicker to the laptop again. I decide to change the subject, but only because I don't want him to know how much this bugs me. "So who's the kid?"
       "I'm actually not supposed to tell you," Sebastian tells me apologetically, looking like he wishes that his hair was long enough to hide under.
       "What?" I growl. Sebastian watches with wide eyes as I snatch the file and read it for myself. There's nothing but a picture of the kid and his first name. Oh, and the name of his elementary school. Everything else has been redacted with thick black lines covering the text. Pages and pages of black lines. So much black that it's ridiculous. They were just wasting printer ink to prove a point to me. "What the frick?"
       "He said it was important not to tell you," he squeaks, panicked. "He said that he didn't want emotions to get the best of you with this assignment. I guess the target means something to you." He pulls at his hair again.
       "I don't even know this kid!" I screech, and then take a deep breath to calm myself. In a more steady voice, I say, "Trust me. I've never seen him before in my life. There has to be some kind of mistake. Reg- Boss- wouldn't keep this kind of information from me unless it was important." I feel my face flush, and I have to remind myself that I'm a sociopath. I'm a villain. I'm freaking Eris... And as much as it kills me, I have to follow the syndicate's rules. Even if Reggie is rather pig-headed.
       "I guess it was important?" Sebastian offers up weakly. I give him a look of haughty disgust to show him that I'm above that, and proceed to storm down the hallway, high heels snapping on the white tile floor.              
       "Wait!" Sebastian cries, "Don't you need me to fake an email to release the boy from elementary school? And we need to plan! We need to- Wait! Ugh! Maya!" I hear a flurry of footsteps, and a panting Sebastian materializes at my side. I barely slow my pace, and don't even look his way.
       "You call me Eris," I say flatly. "Maya's not my name here." I reach the double glass doors leading outside, and Sebastian runs around with a hand outstretched to intercept me before I can step through them.
       "Where are you going?" He asks softly, still breathing heavily. Jesus. This kid needs to work out or something.
       "To the fricking elementary school,'" I reply, and promptly shove him out of my way. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can come back and prove to Reggie that I'm way above a stupid newbie computer hacker and that if he doesn't give me more clearance, I'll have his head on a stick. (Mm, I'll have to see how that plays out.)
       "I'll get that email!" He promises, looking rather giddy to be able to help me. Poor kid. "What time?"
       "Now!" I bark back as the doors shush closed behind me, and I can't hear him anymore. The obnoxious twittering of a bluejay follows me as I prowl through town in my duct-taped-together Camry. The windows are rolled down, a summer breeze is blowing, life is good. It would be better if I could fricking fly like every other super on the planet, though. You don't see Crimson driving anywhere. Even if she couldn't fly, she'd probably get a fricking chauffeur. She wouldn't even have to pay. Some civilian would be all like, "Let me be your personal driver for free. Because of your service to the city." Service. What service? All she does is kiss babies and stop a few bank robberies and muggings here and there, and suddenly she's being handed the keys to the city. She's not risking her life when she's escorting a few drunken frat boys to jail for trying to swipe an old lady's purse. Some superhero.
       I pull up to Birchwood Elementary (super creative name, by the way) and glance again at the photo of Dominic peering up at me from the ugly, redacted file. Something about his caramel skin, his bright hazel eyes, and his dark, curly brown hair is vaguely familiar, but I can't exactly place it. I shake it away as paranoia and get out of the Camry, flipping on some mirrored sunglasses because I'm that cool. I act like I belong as I stroll up to the elementary school's heavy plexiglas doors and grin warmly at the secretary. I probably look the part of some snobby rich mom with my big sunglasses, my perfectly styled dirty blonde hair, and my crisp white jacket. I can't help it that I'm so well-rounded. I'm fashionable and a genius. Oh, and evil. Let's not forget that too.