Podcast of a Teenage Super-Villian

Chapter Seven: The Nature of Villainy

Late into the night, Gideon scrambles two eggs and a handful of tortilla chips together for me. It's a trick to fill up your stomach and add a little crunch to your meal, he tells me, especially if you're on the cheap. He sprinkles crushed Lays chips over his dish, which is unorthodox, sure, but he assures me he likes a little salt-and-potato-kick with everything he eats. And it works; I'm full. And when we finish, he unravels a padded bedroll and I collapse in the sturdy cushion, hands clasped behind my head.

"Tell me about yourself," he says as I stare at the ceiling. Starlight wends splashes on the old stucco, and I watch the glints shift and disappear behind patches of cloud. A half-hour has passed and neither of us is asleep. As the darkness spreads its inky fingers into the apartment, Gideon's breathing quickens, quick and ragged like it was in the alley. And my eyes are pinned open wide. Everyman? I think. Everyman. It had to be Everyman. Of course, they want to take away his powers, and of course, they're in the right. No power like his should belong to any single person; he could create monsters. And besides, he's hoarding it all to himself. Millions are dying, all of which he could save, millions are suffering while he lies in bed, quiet and calm except for those long, gasping breaths. I pitch myself on my side and stare out past the balcony window. These same stars see over Silver Dollar, but they're different here, colder.

"I'm a bad person," I say. "I made a lot of mistakes, a lot of them I don't regret."

He shifts on his mattress, and the scream under his weight. His shadow spreads, long and thin, pointing at me like the spindly hand of some judging thing. "Edgy," he repeats. I like his voice like this, hoarse and quiet. A quivery laugh bubbles up from the back of his throat. It's a soft, muted series of sounds. Like the plink-plink of falling rain.

"I'm not edgy."

"Mmm-hmm. Says the boy who wears all black, beats people up, and mopes about being a bad person while he's a superhero."

"I'm not a superhero."

"Then what are you?" His voice falls into a whisper. "Aside from being a bad person?"

"A good actor."

"And?"

"Unemployed."

"And?"

"Scared."

We play this for a few more minutes. He feeds me 'and's until I have no more answers left to trade him. Lonely, self-hating, evil, violent, angry. Scared. I repeat 'scared' until he falls into a contemplative quiet and I twist the cracks in the ceiling into words. Loner. Loser. Lost. He turns over, the mattress giving one more squeal and the sheets shuffling against his body. "Night, Edge-Lord."

"Good night, Gideon."

His quick breathing has finally slowed. I watch his shadow ballon and fall, listen to that even, calm sound of the evidence he exists. It should soothe me. It doesn't. I stumble to a stand over the pad, arms crossed over a bare chest. The vanilla smell of Gideon's apartment fills me with a feeling that's gotta be the opposite of what it's meant to summon: coldness. The distinct notion that everything which is supposed to calm and confort in this world is as synthetic as what comes out of an aerosol can. 

I take an experimental step toward the window, staring at that chain of glowing steel on the horizon. Somewhere, hidden under swells of city glitter, is the organization I seek. This organization out to steal the one person I promised to protect. I turn my back to the city, haul a long, dirty breath into my lungs, and let my eyes glide over Gideon's sleeping form. He looks young like this, with the sheets pulled up to his nose, his face hidden by a head full of curls. Here, unconcious and still, he's about as helpless as he was in that alley when he had his head pressed to the pavement.