Super?

We're Alone In A Death Valley

I'm no beginner to the art of kidnapping. People are stupid; forcing them into your trunk with some rope wrapped around their wrists and some duct tape on their mouth is surprisingly easy. The victims always try to beg once they realize that you're not actually their Uber driver, that the actual Uber driver is hanging by his ankles from a tree branch in Roseblossom Park, or that you're not actually their servant, and the actual servant is whooping it up on his way to Los Angeles with a briefcase full of Benjamin Franklins. So yeah, I've had some experience with kidnappings. I'm quite good at them. I've long perfected the art of lying and deceiving- I've been doing it since I could talk. (Not that deceiving always requires words to be spoken...) I've just never kidnapped a child before.
I assume you have to go about differently kidnapping a child. The duct tape is necessary, sure, but I'm sure there are more humane ways to restrain them than using rope. And he can probably ride in the backseat, if he stays good and out of sight. Or who knows, maybe I can forfeit the unpleasantries and just trick him into thinking that I'm his long-lost aunt coming to drive him to Disneyland for some family bonding. Kids are stupid. They'll believe anything. At least I hope they do. I don't have much experience with children, to say in the least. And my "superpowers" aren't exactly helpful when it comes to engaging in play with a prepubescent. I can't just pound some sense into them, or create an illusion to make them think that I'm just your everyday nanny on the block with some juice boxes in tow. (Hmm... Now that I think about it...)
I scheme various ways of taking this boy, Dominic, as I make my way down the long narrow hallway to his first grade classroom. Being in an elementary school again sends shivers up my spine. I try to never dwell on my childhood, but being back here with the cracked plaster ceilings, the stuffy air, the yellowed drinking fountains, and the rows of midget lockers... It brings back vivid memories I would rather go away.
Back when I was going into rehab and they were trying to get me to go to therapy, my idiot therapist would always ask me how horrible elementary school could possibly be. He thought he knew everything there was to know about trauma and PTSD and bullcrap like that. He thought he was all that just because he had a pHd hanging on his walls. Needless to say, I never went back to rehab. And the therapist can't speak anymore. I may or may not have cut out his tongue. (Now he can't tell me I'm a psychopath anymore.)
I reach that all-too-familiar brown wood door with the little square of glass centered at the top, and a plaque below with the teacher's name engraved on it. Mrs. Dohaugn. What a stupid name. Then again, you'd have to be stupid to voluntarily choose to teach these little brats for a good chunk of your life only to receive a laughably meager amount of money. Mustering all of my bright-and-perkiness, I plaster a winning smile on my face before twisting the door open by the dinged-up brass knob.
Primary colors assault my eyes. Paper strewn up on the walls. More ABC's and 123's than anyone could possibly tolerate. A giant bathtub full of pillows. (What?) Tiny multicolored plastic chairs crowd in a circle, each seating a bored-looking brat. A rather obese brunette woman with way too much eye makeup sits in the middle of the circle, rotating to show the annoyed twerps some picture book content. I assume her to be Mrs. Dohaugn.
"Um, hi!" I try my best to look sheepish and shy, tilting my head and lifting up one shoulder, giving a small smile without looking up too much. Mrs. Dohaugn turns around as abruptly as she can manage, and I can see her chins wiggle like jello. I think I might be sick.
"Who are you?" She demands, looking rather frazzled. Her voice is alarmingly low and masculine.
I'm your liposuction surgeon. You had an appointment set up today? What? You didn't ask for an appointment? Oh, it says here that your family signed this. And pretty much every person you know. It's more like a petition, actually. Please.
"I'm Nancy O'Donnell," I crow enthusiastically, and stride over to her, budging a few kids out of the way so I can get into the circle and outstretch my hand for her to shake. She eyes it suspiciously before hesitantly placing her own hand in mine and pumping it once or twice. Even her hand is fat. Not to be rude. I have nothing against fat people. (Well... I take that back.) I just don't understand why anyone would choose to be weak like that. Would choose to be vulnerable and looked down upon. I just wish people like that would show some willpower for once and actually try to lose weight. Ok, so I sound like a total female dog. But I'm a villain, so, guess what? I'm supposed to sound like one.
"The nanny?" She asks skeptically, eyeing my perfectly wavy hair, my bright lipstick, and my huge sunglasses.
"Well," I laugh lightly, "I prefer the term 'caregiver,' but yes." I give a sanctimonious smile to her, and her scowl just deepens.
"Whatever," she snaps irritably. I almost sympathize with her. I'd have her winning personality too if I ever had to try and teach something to these little trolls. "Dominic!"
The little curly-haired boy lifts his head up and gives me a cherubic smile.
"Yes?" When he talks, you can see a few of his teeth missing. For some reason, I almost feel something deep down in my mangled heart that aches when I see his innocent grin. I quickly stamp out that affection like it's a cockroach, and reach for the little boy's hand. Just another target, I think as I look down at the smattering of freckles dancing across his caramel-colored cheeks.
"Your mommy hired me to take you to your dentist's appointment, ok?" I tell him sweetly, acquiring that baby-voice that everyone acquires when they talk to someone under the age of nine. I hate that voice. But I have to play the part. But God am I wishing that I could just take some rope and a smoke-bomb and get the heck out of here. Pleasantries like this make me want to rip out every single one of my hair follicles.
"But I jus' went to the dentist's. I got my teeth pulled out," he complains, no longer smiling. Not good. Mrs. Dohaugn's scowl gets carved into her pudgy face even deeper. She looks like a gargoyle.
"Yeah.... Well, one of the dentists noticed something in your teeth and wanted to quick check up on it, ok?" I squeeze his hand in a semblance of comfort, ignoring the sick feeling in my stomach. He sniffles.
"I don' wanna get a cavity!" He wails. I roll my eyes like, am I right? at Mrs. Dohaugn and quickly wind my way back to the door, toting the sobbing six year-old beside me.
"Don't worry. I'm sure it's not a cavity," I assure him, and he quiets as we exit the classroom and walk down the long lonely hallway once more. The only person we meet is an older girl, maybe a sixth-grader, stomping her way out of the bathroom. She gives me a bored look before dashing back to class.
"Is your name Nancy like in Nancy Drew?" Dominic asks me suddenly, his sweaty little hand still gripped tightly in mine. I hide my surprise that he remembered my name.
"Do you read those books? You must be pretty smart." I smile down at him like the nanny I'm supposed to be and his face remains somber.
"My mommy reads them to me. She likes reading me girl books because she's a femy-ist," Dominic replies. I can't help but smile, for real this time.
"You mean a feminist?" I wave at the secretary as we pass out the front doors, and she just shakes her head.
"Yeah. Are you a femy-ist?" The little boy gazes at me curiously. I frown.
"I... I don't know, kid." I think of Reggie. I think of my super-villain persona, named after the goddess of chaos. I think of the little boy I'm kidnapping right this moment. "I don't know."
"I don't think you are," he tells me, peering up at me with those serious hazel eyes. It irks me that a six year-old thinks he can answer a question that I can't even answer about myself.
"What makes you say that?" I don't even know why I'm engaging in conversation with this rugrat, but I am.
"You're a nanny. You're fuh-filling your 'gender role' by taking care of kids like me for a job. If you were a femy-ist you would be doing something in-vay-tiv like being an engineer."
I stare at him like he sprouted horns out of his head. Where's the kid that couldn't even say "feminist" right a few seconds ago? When he sees my incredulous expression he drops his head bashfully.
"I watch TV a lot. My mommy doesn't notice when I do because she's always busy with work," he says by way of explanation.
I open the backseat door for him and he hops in obediently, already buckling his seat-belt. I get in the driver's seat and sit in silence for a few moments before craning my head back to look at him.
"What does your mommy do?" I ask, fishing for details about the mysterious woman who's child I'm taking from her.
"Don't you know? You're my nanny." Smart aleck.
"Right," I say faintly. "I'm your nanny. I, um, just forgot for a moment. I'm new to this job." If only you knew how new. I buckle my own seat-belt, start the car, and reverse out of the parking lot. The car falls silent. The only sound is Dominic kicking the back of my seat in boredom as he looks out the window.
"My mommy saves people," he finally says, his gaze not moving from the window. I frown and look back at him through the rearview mirror, but say nothing else in fear that he'll find out I'm not really his nanny and I actually have no idea who his mother is. I would handle it if he did find out, but I kind of actually like this kid. I don't want to stuff him in the trunk just yet.
"She sounds like a very nice person," I tell him as we drive through town. Even though I've cloaked Dominic from the view of passerby, my paranoia kicks in and I suspiciously check the streets for any buff men in black or whatnot. If this kid has a government official for a mom, I don't want to be found out as his kidnapper in my civilian form. No illusion would help me then, because when panic kicks in I lose concentration and I'm unable to conjure up anything more than a penny on the sidewalk.
"Is your mommy a very nice person?" Dominic asks, pulling his gaze from the street and looking at me instead. I frown.
"What makes you say that?" I counter, ignoring the familiar sick feeling in my stomach. This brat unsettles me. I can't believe. Of all things, I am shaken by a six year-old boy. This day just keeps getting better and better. No way could I have kidnapped the creepy quiet girl or the boy who'd rather play games on my phone. Both would've been better company than this annoying twerp.
"I saw somebody like you once, with little white lines on their wrists. I asked Mommy about it and she said that they were scars from when they tried to hurt themselves. Why do you want to hurt yourself? Was your mommy not nice?" He leans forward intensively. I stiffen, my knuckles turning white from my death-grip on the steering wheel. Why would I want to hurt myself? So many reasons, kid. And all of them would make you wet your pants.
"That's none of your business, you little brat," I fire back instead. "Sit back in your seat." He obeys and goes back to staring out the window, but then I see his lips parting to ask another question in the rearview. "How about you play some games on my phone, huh?" I offer through gritted teeth, tossing my phone back over my shoulder without even looking.
"Ow!" He whines. "You hit me!"
"Cry me a river." I growl back. He stares at me with mystification, looking more like the dumbfounded little boy he's supposed to be, not the one who wants to interrogate me like he's my fricking therapist or something. God knows I don't need another one.
"I thought you were supposed to be nice," he whispers, sounding a little intrigued. Fricking brat.
"Welcome to the real world, kid." I say this as we pull into the driveway of the unambiguous sprawling warehouse surrounded by fields. Also known as the headquarters of the largest super-villain syndicate of the twenty-first century.
"Where are we?" He frowns. "This isn't my dentist's office." He starts to unbuckle as I stop the car, peering around with suspicion.
"Yeah, well. I booked you an appointment elsewhere." I reach for the duct tape in my glovebox. "Now shut up."