PROLOGUE
Heroes don’t exist.
Sure, there are hundreds of stories about brave individuals answering the call to adventure. For reference, check any of the works by Homer, Tolkien, or whatever coked-up nutjobs made the 1986 movie Labyrinth. You will find that all of those stories follow a similar path that some self-righteous author had the gall to name as The Hero’s Journey.
What a load of bullshit.
Allow yourself a moment to ponder on the following thought experiment: Say one of those heroes sets off on their quest and meets an untimely end, be it by the hands of one of their foes, by a wild animal during an ill-timed shit in the woods, or anything in between. Bottom line is somewhere along the way this hero screws up and dies.
In real life, this scenario happens more often than not. If you need any evidence, go ahead and Google how many people died by taking a selfie this year. Accepting the folly of man as fact means that for every story of a ‘hero’ successfully completing their quest and finally getting laid, there should be dozens of other, much shorter, stories about some poor sap setting off on an adventure and dying an unsuccessful virgin loser. So why is it that libraries are full of heroes and not of Johnny Everyman?
Because history is for the winners. Nobody wants to read a book about Johnny facing off against Hercules because Johnny gets his teeth kicked in during the first act.
“But Hercules was on a quest from the Gods! He must be a hero, therefore invalidating your initial statement!” some idiot might say.
Well, poor Johnny was on a quest of his own. Hercules killed his father, John Everyman Sr., and banged his mom. Johnny was well within his rights to want to attack that loincloth-loving meathead. It wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t compete with someone who had defeated a nine-headed hydra the week prior. When all is said and done, who gets to decide which quest is more noble and deserving of praise? Who decides which character becomes the hero? Whoever writes the books, that’s who.
The worst part isn’t even that these authors are leaving out key details of the story. No, it is that they have the audacity to call whoever lost a villain. Villain! A word literally invented to brand someone as an asshole for all time simply because they lost to the other guy. This is exactly what is meant by stating heroes don’t exist, only assholes on the right side of history.
The subsequent pages will take a closer look at one of the other guys. A villain. Someone with the same motivations of any ‘hero’ but has been wronged by the malleability of history. However, before delving into that, you first need to know how the term ‘villain’ entered the mainstream. Some of the following information may be familiar to you, but these are irrefutable events that did, in fact, take place and provide important historical context to the story.
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In 1938, two brilliant chemists by the names Otto Hans and Fritz Strassmann discovered nuclear fission. They briskly informed the scientific community that it was now possible to create inconceivable amounts of energy by using only small amounts of radioactive material. This discovery was thought to have been the beginning of a new scientific age. Optimistic theories of a nearly limitless energy source rang throughout the world. A future with flying cars and sassy chrome robots no longer seemed like science fiction.
Unfortunately, some assholes on the right side of history decided the effects of fission would be better suited on a battlefield than in a reactor. Why, you ask? Well, in the early 1940s there was this little skirmish taking place called World War II. Some asshole on the wrong side of history named Adolf Hitler was nearing completion of his latest technological marvel dubbed the Landkreuzer P. 2000. This five hundred-ton behemoth of German engineering was not only set to be the single largest tank ever created, but British spies uncovered that it would also be the world’s first transforming battle mech. It was Hitler’s grand vision to personally pilot this two-story mecha tank to Germany’s victory, but of course most of you should remember that part from History class.
In hopes of never letting Hitler’s monstrosity see the light of day, a few Allied countries gathered their best and brightest to begin the deadliest group project ever conceived—the Manhattan Project. Based on the fission research started by Otto and Fritz, the scientists involved in the Manhattan Project worked tirelessly to develop a new type of superweapon before the P. 2000 could take its first, unholy step. The scientists knew they would never be able to out-engineer Germany in time, so instead they took an easier approach; blow up Hitler’s shit back to the First Reich.
Combining sugar, spice, and a healthy dose of uranium-235, the first nuclear weapon was born. Before the Axis powers had time to goose step to safety, a coordinated attack by the Allied forces dropped atomic bombs on Berlin, Hiroshima, Rome, and then Berlin again for good measure. Thus World War II ended in a few quick flashes on October 3, 1947.
Now, this history lesson is in no way meant to argue that Hitler does not deserve to be called a villain. Millions of innocent people died by his hands and he was undoubtedly an asshole deserving of the title. In fact, while we're here, why don't we go ahead and put it down on paper. Fuck Nazis.
Despite the atomic bomb’s clear effectiveness in ending the war, it also caused the deaths of hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians who simply had the bad fortune of being alive in the wrong place at the wrong time. Do the scientists involved in the production of such a weapon also deserve the title of villain? How about the generals who gave the orders, or the soldiers who dropped the bombs? Of course not. They won, and winners get to write the books. However, this was when things got interesting and the meaning of ‘villain’ changed forever.
Five well-respected scientists who weren’t invited to the Manhattan party were so disgusted by the catastrophic invention of their peers that they formed their own coalition, aptly named the Peace Project. Their goal was to create a peaceful countermeasure to this new all-powerful superweapon in hopes of ending war for good. Keep in mind, these scientists were leaders in their respective fields and citizens of the Allied nations. They had full support from the scientific community along with the honorable motive of peace among mankind. For anyone not paying attention, these scientists were checking off all of the hero boxes.
In the months leading up to the Peace Project’s first press conference, the media found itself divided. While some heralded the project as the answer to humanity’s cry for peace, many rightfully held concerns that whatever it was the scientists were working on would simply become the next atom bomb. Unfortunately for them, irony was listening and decided that an opportunity like that was too good to pass up.
On July 17, 1969, one week before the scheduled press conference, there was an unexplained detonation from within the Peace Project lab. The resulting chain reaction was much more massive than any explosion ever created by man, killing the five scientists and destroying all of their research. The blast was so immense that it completely annihilated San Nicolas Island where the lab was based. The resulting tsunami and heatwave caused billions in damages to the surrounding California Channel Islands. Even more devastating was that the nearby city of Los Angeles was irradiated, taking thousands of lives and leaving the city unlivable.
Due to the secrecy surrounding the project, there are no official statements regarding the stage of development the Peace Project was in before the lab was destroyed. In fact, nobody knows the details of what this peaceful countermeasure was actually going to be. Depending on who you ask or what books you read, the Peace Project was developing a laser defense grid, a complex SAM missile, some new form of energy using fringe sciences, or any other number of insane conspiracy theories people cooked up over the years. Unfortunately, the truth was lost in the blast and all we are left with is speculation.
Nobody knows for sure what those five scientists were working on in their lab that fateful day, but what we do know is that they all perished before finishing their quest. In short, they lost. So with nobody left to fairly write their history, they were condemned as villains for all of time. That’s right, those five bleeding-heart scientists with nothing more than a dream for world peace were branded as villains right up there next to Hitler.
The U.S. government was so appalled by the damage caused by the Peace Project that they wanted to ensure nobody attempted anything that dangerous ever again. As a way of ridiculing those involved, the government posthumously stripped the scientists of their names. All records of them were legally altered or destroyed and they were forever branded as The Forsaken Five.
Like many decisions made by the government, this was a complete failure and had the exact opposite effect than what was intended. As one might reasonably suspect, taking away citizens’ names pissed people off, specifically other scientists. By this time, the ‘70s were rolling around and an anti-government mentality was already picking up steam due to news coverage of the Vietnam War. A movement began, small at first, in which highly respected scientists started changing their names out of solidarity to the five that lost theirs. Typically, these scientists would change their name to something related to their field of study. For example, a physicist might change their name to Doctor Atom, or an engineer may go by The Gear.
It didn’t take long for the movement to gain footing. More and more scientists joined in, but they weren’t simply changing their names. Some began working on research previously banned by the government, such as stem cell healing and gene manipulation. Others took bigger risks, using their unique inventions to steal from federal banks in order to fund more illegal projects. Regardless of their actions, all of them had the same goal; to better humanity while pissing off the government. It was only natural for this new wave of protests to be lovingly referred to as the Villain Movement.
It wasn’t until a small group of scientists decided to take over the radiated city of Los Angeles that the Villain Movement went fully mainstream. Three radiation science professors from the University of Michigan known as The Beam, Captain Carbon, and Miss Splice invented a device that was capable of reducing the radiation of Los Angeles down to livable levels. Given that the city was abandoned, they figured it was up for the taking. The city was renamed to Los Rebeldes and proclaimed as “a sanctuary for all the lost and rebellious souls of the world.”
By the time The Pretenders released their self-titled debut album in January of 1980, Los Rebeldes was already the fourth most populated city in California. Great thinkers and like-minded individuals flocked from all over the world to become a part of this ever-growing movement. What was once viewed as a way to protest the government had blossomed into so much more. Villainy had become a way of life.
When the rising popularity of rock music began to mesh with the flamboyant fashion sense of the ‘80s, villains took on bigger and more grandiose identities. They became celebrities in their own right, far outranking the mere movie stars, athletes, and musicians. Beyond the Villain Movement’s general fan base, some villains amassed hundreds, even thousands, of die-hard supporters that left their jobs and families to offer whatever services they could toward any particular villain’s cause. Those that did this were referred to as henchmen* due to their willingness to comply in illegal activities and the gang-like outfits they wore to match whichever villain they followed.
As the ‘80s drew to a close, villains were already a dominating force in society. No longer did citizens feel bound by the decisions of their governments. They could forge their own paths, change the world for the better, and look cool as hell doing it. Villains were finally on the right side of history.
*A side note to any readers with qualms over the pronoun used in henchmen: Please understand it had nothing to do with the follower’s sex, and was in no way meant to promote gender discrimination. In fact, over half of all villains and henchmen were women.
CHAPTER ONE
It was the summer of 1989 and twenty-five-year-old Deimos was about to become the first villain to hold the world hostage. For years this had been viewed as an impossible task and was regarded within the villain community as an irresponsible fever dream. To convince every world leader that their countries faced simultaneous, unmitigated destruction required tact, timing, and an astronomical amount of resources. But there had never been a villain like Deimos, and he wasn’t planning on destroying anything.
In anticipation of Deimos revealing his world-altering invention, dozens of his most loyal henchmen gathered to his temporary lair tucked away in the Manufacturing District of Los Rebeldes City. The nondescript brick warehouse stood among rows of other equally bland warehouses in the area, except this one had an actual working weather machine inside.
The weather machine, a pronged, chrome tower, was wrapped in a complex array of wires and protruding radar dishes. No other villain in history had even come close to building one despite it being a popular topic of conversation at many ‘villains only’ bars. Drunken discussions for its uses varied from creating superstorms to devastate coastal regions, revitalizing the Sahara desert with unnatural downpours, and simply making it snow indoors to impress their henchmen. These discussions would usually devolve into violent arguments ending in someone getting a heat ray to the face or a genetically modified guard dog biting their ass, then the bartender would buy everyone another round and they would move on to discussing how hard it is to fight in leather pants.
Deimos’ weather machine stood buzzing pleasantly at the rear of the warehouse on a wooden stage. Also on stage was Deimos’ fiancée and partner in crime, Siren. She was an especially unique villain. Not only did she graduate top of her class at UC Berkeley, beating Deimos’ GPA by a hundredth of a point, but she also possessed the ability to sing at a wider range of frequencies than most people. While that might not seem impressive on paper, Siren’s abilities allowed her to incapacitate anyone within shouting distance.
It wasn’t as if Siren possessed any inhuman powers. Her ability started simply as a party trick while she was studying opera singing techniques, but it quickly grew to be so much more. When paired with a voice amplification device, she could even vibrate steel beams in buildings by shouting the correct resonant frequency for a long enough period of time. This was why Siren always wore a choker that Deimos had built for her, which amplified her abilities one hundred times over. It also happened to pair quite nicely with her punk-rock hairstyle, only furthering her resemblance to Joan Jett.
Siren nervously eyed the small army of henchmen forming before her as more followers arrived at the warehouse. Despite the henchmen’s undying love for Siren, public speaking was more of Deimos’ forte and she couldn’t wait for him to arrive. She was beginning to regret his flair for grand entrances and cursed his showmanship under her breath.
Thankfully she didn’t have to wait long, as two minutes later Deimos strutted center stage. He was greeted like a rock star ready to perform and could easily be mistaken for one with his tight jeans, black leather jacket, and perfectly coiffed hair. His henchmen, who all wore matching black and red tracksuits, cheered wildly for their revered leader. Behind Deimos, colorful lights and pyrotechnics flashed in sync to “Money for Nothing” by the Dire Straits.
After a brief moment of revel, Deimos held up his hands to quiet the crowd. As the music and cheering died down, Deimos snapped his fingers and a nearby henchman tossed him a microphone.
“Thanks, Harold,” Deimos said with a wink.
He turned to address the crowd. His voice now issued from speakers lined along the warehouse walls.
“And thank you all for coming! Wow, what a turnout. Of course, I’m sure you all would have come even if this wasn’t a mandatory meeting.”
The henchmen laughed, knowing full well that was true. Their loyalty ran far deeper than the $4.50 an hour they were making simply for attending.
“For starters,” Deimos continued, “let me say how incredibly proud I am of all of you. You acquired every part needed for this device faster than any of our past endeavors, and with zero casualties! I know we were all worried about Brady but he really pulled through. Why don’t you take a stand, buddy?”
Deimos pointed to a henchman in the front row who had casts on both of his arms and legs. The henchman was clearly confined to a wheelchair but didn’t dare defy a request from his beloved boss. He attempted to balance himself upright with every ounce of strength his broken body could muster. However, the injured henchman could only manage to strain his head forward briefly before finally falling back defeated into his chair. He was rewarded with a raucous applause for the attempt.
“Love that effort! It’s good to have you here, man. Sorry again about that faulty grappling hook,” Deimos said, turning back to the crowd. “Now, onto the matter at hand. I’m sure you all know I started this little venture at the young age of eighteen. Back then I was laughed at, mocked, and just treated rather unprofessionally. But you all stuck with this crazy kid and his dream and together we became the first villain organization to successfully take the president hostage!”
A spotlight illuminated a framed, poster-sized photograph hanging behind Deimos. It depicted himself, Siren, and a smiling Ronald Reagan. The throng of henchmen cheered wildly.
“Yeah, give it up for Ron! He was such a great sport. And it was all uphill from there!”
Spotlights illuminated four other large, framed photographs lined along the wall behind Deimos. He announced each one like an energized game show host listing off various prizes.
“Erupting Mount St. Helens! Finding the Titanic, then stealing it! Meeting Sting! And who could forget this summer in space on the International Bass Station?”
The henchmen responded to each of their past achievements with fervent applause. The excitement levels in the room were reaching dangerous levels, but Deimos had the oratory expertise of an impassioned John F. Kennedy and knew exactly what he was doing. He held onto their cheers for as long as he felt he could, building the tension ever higher before unveiling the name of his latest invention.
“Here we stand together on the eve of our greatest endeavor to date!” Deimos proclaimed, pulling out a small sealed envelope from his pocket.
His henchmen were all but foaming at the mouth as he opened the envelope and pulled out a small note card.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…”
Deimos read the note card and frowned. He turned it over expectantly but was equally disappointed.
“What the crap, Glenn?” Deimos asked. “Weather Machine? That’s the best that Marketing could come up with?”
“Sorry boss!” a nervous henchman replied from the front of the crowd. “We couldn’t settle on a name.”
“Seriously, people?” Deimos deplored. “Somebody must have a better idea than Weather Machine. We’ve been working on this for six months for shit’s sake! Okay, let’s handle this real quick. Who named the last invention?”
The crowd of henchmen looked around at each other, shrugging. Siren leaned toward Deimos and tapped him on his shoulder.
“Harold chose the last name,” she whispered. “It was for the henchmen-transporting watercraft, the Motley Cruise Ship.”
Deimos turned back to the crowd.
“Okay, Harold was the last to choose so why don’t we go down alphabetically? John, you’re up buddy. What do we call this thing?”
Again, the henchmen looked around in silence. John was nowhere to be seen. Siren leaned toward Deimos and once more tapped him on his shoulder.
“John went home with a tummy ache,” Siren whispered gently.
Deimos fumed. He gritted his teeth and pinched his brow searching his mind for any name that could be better than ‘Weather Machine.’ The name of a villain’s device was almost as important as how badass it looked. In fact, most of Deimos’ image was built around the rock and roll motif that inspired the names for his inventions. Failure to come up with a name for his greatest invention to date would forever be a smudge on his so-far perfect record. His mind drifted to “Rock You Like A Hurricane” by the Scorpions, but he knew that was a dead end and he was running out of time.
Deimos sighed and shrugged dejectedly to the crowd.
“Fine. If there aren’t any other suggestions, I guess this is called Weather Machine. For those of you that weren’t here during construction, it is exactly as it sounds. It’s a big tower-type thingy that controls the weather. Tonight, when we threaten the UN with our demands, we’re going to have to tell them that along with having the ability to create such a device, we lack the collective cognitive ability to come up with a better name than Weather Machine.”
A young female henchman from deep in the crowd coughed awkwardly and raised her hand. Deimos looked at her, confused.
“Yes?” he inquired. “This isn’t Sunday school, Linda. You can speak up.”
“Well, could we call it the Purple Rain Machine?” Linda propositioned in a cracked voice.
Deimos’ eyes lit up as he mulled this over.
“Like that Prince album, but it’s a rain machine?” he asked.
Linda nodded her head earnestly as nervous tears filled her eyes.
“My God, that’s brilliant!” Deimos said, much to the henchman’s relief. “We’ll have to make a quick run for some purple spray paint, but still great work! You know what? You’re promoted! Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce Linda, your new branch manager, and the Purple Rain Machine!”
The crowd of henchmen exploded into cheer. Those surrounding Linda patted her on the back and offered their congratulations. She blushed deeply.
Siren approached Deimos with two champagne glasses. He took one and held it up to the crowd to quiet them down.
“Let’s get real for a minute,” Deimos said, grabbing Siren’s hand. “I look around tonight and see myself surrounded by more than coworkers. I see friends, family, and the greatest love a man could ever hope for. I am so grateful for each and every one of you. Thank you so much for making this kid’s dream a reality, and here’s to the next seven years!”
Deimos and Siren raised their glasses to the applause of the henchmen. They kissed passionately to even more uproarious cheers. This was set to be the greatest night of any of their lives and, thanks to the Purple Rain Machine, the air was quite literally electric.
With all the cheering and celebrating filling the warehouse, nobody was able to hear the two dozen armed mercenaries shuffling into formation outside. No one even heard the front door as it was smashed in by a battering ram. It wasn’t until the first gunshot went off that they realized they were being raided.
At the furthest end of the warehouse, a swarm of mercenaries burst through the splintered wooden door with their weapons drawn, faces masked, and assholes puckered. They were trained to kill and quickly set to doing just that. A barrage of bullets fired from their automatic rifles at the unsuspecting henchmen. Even though the henchmen’s jumpsuits were bulletproof, nothing is that bulletproof. In a matter of seconds, hundreds of armor-piercing rounds tore through the henchmen’s suits like an overeager teenager in a cheap condom. The twenty henchmen standing in the back row fell dead, but their sacrifice gave the remaining henchmen enough time to react and run for cover.
A stray bullet ricocheted and grazed Siren’s left quad. She fell onto Deimos, screaming out in pain.
“Take care of them!” Deimos shouted to his henchmen.
He positioned himself under Siren’s arm and hurried her to the back exit. The henchmen quickly drew their standard-issued stun guns, the Electric Ave Pew-Pew, and fired electrified pellets from cover. The glowing, cyberpunk-styled weapons were wonky but effective and easily stunned the first wave of mercenaries through their thick body armor.
The next wave of mercenaries immediately spilled through the door, this time being led by a spy in black tactical gear. The spy spotted Deimos escaping with Siren. He motioned to three mercenaries and they all took chase as the others provided cover fire.
Deimos slammed open the back door with his free hand while supporting Siren with his other. The two rushed into the darkened alley behind the warehouse and the door shut behind them, drowning out the mercenaries’ gunfire. Each limping step toward safety shot searing pain through Siren’s leg but she grimaced through it.
Before they could get far, the door behind them clanged open and the sounds of gunfire returned. They turned to see the spy in black rushing toward them with his weapon drawn. Deimos pulled Siren down behind a nearby dumpster as the spy and his lackeys opened fire on their position.
The bullets clanged noisily on the dumpster but didn’t pierce it. Deimos looked to his left at an adjacent alley. He thought he might be able to sprint across without getting shot but there was no way Siren would be able to, given the state of her leg. Deimos turned back to Siren but before he could speak she grabbed his face and kissed him passionately.
“Go on. I got this,” Siren said confidently.
She turned the gem on her choker 90 degrees to the right. It clicked into place, powering on the resonance amplifying device Deimos had built into it. Deimos nodded knowingly. As soon as he heard the mercenaries reloading, he took off down the side alley and out of sight.
“Take care of the girl!” the spy shouted as he sprinted after Deimos.
The mercenaries pointed their freshly loaded rifles at Siren’s position and cautiously approached. Behind the dumpster, Siren took a deep breath and released it slowly. She promised herself that if she got out of this alive she would fire whomever forgot to empty the dumpsters that week. After a brief moment of disgust, Siren started to sing.
Beginning with a series of different pitched hums, Siren easily found the resonant frequency she wanted and belted it out at the top of her lungs. The choker amplified the frequency a hundredfold, causing the metal in the alley to begin to vibrate. The mercenaries dropped their weapons as their eardrums burst in quick succession. They fell to the ground and vomited profusely as blood drained from their ears. Within seconds, they were unconscious.
Siren stood and surveyed her damage. She limped angrily to the pile of unmoving mercenaries and smacked the nearest one in his face.
“Which one of you assholes shot me, huh?” she yelled. “These are custom leather pants, you dicks!”
Meanwhile, Deimos had climbed up the fire escape of an adjacent warehouse with the spy in hot pursuit. Lights along the perimeter of the building bathed the roof in bright, neon light. There was no place to run to, no walls to hide behind. The only item of note on the roof was a small wooden crate. It stood alone, directly in the center of the flat open space.
The moment Deimos pulled himself over the fire escape he beelined for the crate. He threw it open and pulled out a chrome, blinking belt and hurriedly clipped it around his waist. As soon as Deimos had clipped on the belt, the spy leapt up from the fire escape and fired his weapon. However, his bullet was deflected midair by an unseen force before it was able to reach Deimos.
“You like that?” Deimos asked. “The belt repels all metal at a three-foot radius of my body.”
“Nice toy,” the spy replied.
Deimos scoffed. Spies never appreciated any of the cool inventions he made. He didn’t even bother telling the spy that he had named it Hells Belts after his favorite AC/DC song. The reference would be lost on a square like him.
What bothered Deimos was that this brain-dead spy called his invention a toy. If he took the time to expound even a fraction of the physics that went into generating an electrostatic field without an external power source on a device small enough to fit into a belt, the spy’s head would likely explode from sheer intellectual overload. Deimos made a mental note to run some tests later and see if that was actually possible.
The spy removed anything metal from his gear; his pistol, walkie-talkie, belt, and combat knife were all tossed carelessly aside. He fully intended on killing Deimos that night and wasn’t about to let three feet of science he didn’t understand get in his way.
“So, what the hell are you doing here?” Deimos questioned. “We completely flew under the radar this time, I made sure of it. And there isn’t a chance in hell one of my guys sold me out. By all accounts, nobody should know we’re here. Yet here you are with your soldiers and your guns…” Tears began to well in Deimos’ eyes, a rare crack in the wall of his persona. “You killed my friends. Shot the love of my life! Just who the hell are you?”
“You can call me Agent X,” the spy replied coldly.
“Holy shit,” Deimos sputtered, regaining his composure. “You can’t be serious. That is so lame.”
“Like you’re one to talk. What the hell does Deimos even mean?”
“It’s the Ancient Greek word for dread, the personification of terror. I have a knack for instilling fear into my enemies, and tonight you really pissed me off. So get ready to know fear.”
Deimos flicked a switch on the side of his belt and the lights switched off, plunging the rooftop into darkness.
Agent X slow clapped sarcastically.
“Wow, do you use that line on all the good guys? The dark won’t help you. I already found you once tonight, I can do it again.”
Unbeknownst to Agent X, the darkness was indeed helping Deimos at that very moment. Unseen by the spy, Deimos flicked off Hells Belts and pulled a second device from the crate. At first glance, it would have appeared to be a handheld satellite dish. It had a smooth, curved plastic cone that was affixed to a sleek handle. Deimos grabbed a cord attached to the bottom of the handle and plugged it into his belt.
Agent X stepped cautiously forward into the dark, his arms raised defensively. Deimos turned a small knob located on the handle of his device. When he pointed the dish forward, the approaching spy immediately stopped dead in his tracks. Sweat formed on Agent X’s brow as his heart began beating profusely in his chest. He gripped at it painfully.
“What the hell is this?” Agent X grimaced.
“Fear is a complex human reaction,” Deimos replied. “Not everyone is afraid of the same stuff. I found it was easier to make people feel fear. What you’re experiencing right now is a highly concentrated electromagnetic field directly affecting your heart rate.”
The device, which Deimos had named Tears And Fears after the famed British pop-rock band, was something he had designed back in his college days. Whenever he felt like having a day off from classes, one quick burst of Tears And Fears had his professors feeling the world’s worst stage fright and they would quickly excuse themselves. A few tweaks to his original design had made it an effective non-violent incapacitator.
Feeling the full effects of this weapon, Agent X was experiencing blurred vision, muscle weakness, and a severely increased heartbeat. He lunged forward into the dark, swinging wildly. Deimos was easily able to step out of the way of the woozy spy who tripped forward and smashed into the wooden crate. Agent X screamed out in pain as a large splinter of wood pierced through his forearm.
“You son of a bitch! Fight me like a man!” Agent X cried.
Deimos backed up several feet toward the ledge, still pointing Tears And Fears at Agent X. The sight of the bloodied man screaming in pain was almost too much for him. If Agent X withstood another minute of the magnetic field he might even have a heart attack. Deimos had never killed anyone before and never truly intended to, despite the numerous times he had threatened it. In fact, most of his inventions were nonviolent and ultimately used for the betterment of humanity, a trend that seemed to have been lost in the modern-day Villain Movement.
Despite this, Agent X was the only spy who had gotten this close to killing him. He was also responsible for Siren getting shot, which was unforgivable. Deimos knew a day might come where he would have to kill for his beliefs, but staring down at the grisly, gasping man, Deimos couldn’t bring himself to do it. He powered down Tears And Fears and Agent X’s heart rate returned to normal.
“Look, let’s just talk about this...” Deimos began.
Before he had time to finish his peace offering, Agent X lunged at him. He pulled the wood shard out from his arm and wielded it like a dagger. Blood splattered from the gaping wound and squirted on Deimos’ jacket.
“What the hell? This is custom-fitted, you psycho!” Deimos yelled as he stumbled back and away from the attacking spy.
Where Deimos knew the edge of the roof was located, Agent X did not. He lunged forward, missed Deimos, and was sent sprawling over the side of the roof like a confused, bloodied rag doll. Seeing this transpire, Deimos leapt to Agent X’s rescue. He reached out and grabbed the spy’s damaged arm at the wrist. He fell forward and landed on Hells Belts, breaking it. The lights switched on as Agent X swung back into the side of the building. The spy’s already damaged arm slammed into a brick jut. His weakened forearm snapped and his bone tore through the skin above his wrist.
“Augh, fuck!” Agent X screamed.
He stared fearfully at his arm, which was barely held together by a thick chunk of tendons. Deimos looked down at the wound and fought back the urge to vomit.
“Sorry. Let’s be honest, you probably deserved that,” Deimos said half apologetically while trying to maintain his grip on Agent X’s blood-soaked wrist. “Ew, looks gross though.”
A crackling voice came in over Agent X’s dropped walkie.
“Delta Squad to X. The girl got away with a few henchmen, but the rest have been killed. What is your location?”
Dread overcame Deimos. He froze, still gripping onto Agent X’s mangled arm that left him dangling several stories above the alley below.
“You… killed all of them?” Deimos said, biting back tears. “They were my friends. They had families.”
Agent X struggled to shift his weight and grabbed onto the ledge with his good hand.
“Sorry, Deimos. There’s no place in this world for villains anymore.”
Agent X pulled down with his maimed arm, catching the already unsteady Deimos off guard and yanking him over the ledge. Deimos tumbled over the spy. His weight proved too much for the damaged arm and he tore through the remaining tendons, ripping the hand off at Agent X’s wrist.
Deimos fell story after story to the alley below, still gripping onto Agent X’s severed hand, accepting his death.
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