Victory is Mine

[Jintor]

I've been in this business for a very, very long time, and if there's one thing I've learned, it's this: You. Always. Lose.

What can I say? It's the truth. Whatever madcap plot, whatever zany scheme you've hatched. They're always there. They'll take you down. They'll save the world.

Jerks.

How many times have I gone up against them, those caped crusaders, those colourful, costumed fools? I've fought men who could fly, and women who could hurl fire from their fingertips. I've built a Quantum Uncertifier, I've launched rockets out of Mt Rushmore, I've carved my name into the moon with a giant laser. I suppose, all up, I've nearly conquered the world six or seven times.

But 'nearly' doesn't cut it. Because you always lose.

Here's the thing, though. It doesn't matter how many times they beat you, how many bruises they give you, or how many jail terms you serve. They'll never kill you. It's what makes them, them. They'll just lock you up, and throw away the keys. It's a good thing people like me make our own keys.

So you come back swinging. And you say to yourself, well, maybe I've lost every time. Maybe something critical, something vital, has always gone wrong. But not this time. No, not today. Not this time.

And then there's nothing to do, except to throw back your head, and laugh.

----

 

[Jintor]

Nine-thirty am. Cars stream around my van, some of them honking angrily at the vehicle parked pretty much in the middle of the road. Goddamn motorists; no sense of compassion or sympathy for some unlucky driver with an engine problem. I mean, my hazard lights are on and everything. Some people give me the bird as they drive by, surprisingly personal road-rage directed at the thirty-something-year-old idiot behind the wheel.

An interesting thing. Villains don't care much for secret identities, in general, but I kept mine. The benefit of circumstance, admittedly, but it's not as if it were the most difficult thing in the world. Engineering an army of fighting robots was harder, for god's sake. A made easier by the fact that my other halves didn't exactly need to hide things from friends or family; it was more important to have other things, like an unimpaired credit rating, a lack of a criminal record, and boltholes and backups all over the bloody world. And it?s nice to be able to go out for tofu without getting attacked, you know?

Take off my helmet, and I'm just another man in a world filled with weirdos - no visible mutations, no identifying marks. I had my fingertips burnt off years ago, and it's not as hard to change eyes, hair, or faces as you'd think. No, it's good to have that kind of security when the shit hits the fan, when you're back in the slammer waiting for that tiny, inevitable slip-up that means soon you'll be home, or at least a home, powering down your robot duplicate and sliding smoothly back into another temporary life. It's another starting point.

Of course, you make a different identity every time you finally ditch one. It's not that hard to just cut and paste a few details into two, three databases, and suddenly there's one new person where a second ago there was none. Everything's digital now, and that makes everybody's life - or lives - that much easier. Including all of mine.

So I'm about to jettison this identity in a pretty spectacular way - I think it's my sixth or seventh identity so far. This is always the best, most enjoyable bit about having a secret identity, the bit where you let go, the bit where you can stop pretending and stand up and tell the world who you really are. That you've fooled them all again, ha-ha, and look who's back, with a grudge and a laser gun and a belt full of gizmos? That's right. Me.

I run my hands over the instrument beneath my dashboard, flicking switches, twisting knobs. The box that's taped underneath is from a mini-toaster, true, but everything inside was designed and engineered by me. Wires wrapped around wires, intricate, delicate circuitry, little sparks of electricity arcing around into one beautiful, cohesive whole. I haven't even field-tested this thing; I don't need to. I designed it, so it'll work. It'll work wonderfully.

Traffic is starting to back up behind me; horns are blaring, fists are waving. Sooner or later some idiot is going to come up to my window and try and pick a fight, or a cop will wander along and see if there's anything he can help with. I should get a move on, and fast. Time waits for no man, unless that man has time powers or a time machine or something. I don't, not right now, anyway.

As I tap the complex code into the keypad that will turn my little miracle box on, I glance over my steering wheel at the glass doors of my target: the Metropolitan Municipal Bank. Not a huge bank, as banks go, but good enough. I need capital, and recognition. There are safer, secret ways of doing this sort of thing, but that's not how I roll. It won't give me what I need. And how better to rub it in their faces?

The box does its thing. As if by magic, the lane ahead of mine magically clears, one car stopping an entire five to six meters behind the next car to give me a straight run at the bank. It's not magic, of course - it's science. A directed ultrasonic frequency broadcast that rips right through your eardrums and down your spine, hitting the buttons marked 'do not enter' without you even noticing. You really can do almost anything with science, if you try hard enough.

Lights flicker, pulsate wildly, and suddenly the van isn't parked in the middle of a busy road, but inside the bank foyer, somehow facing outwards against the crystalline hole I've just punched in the glass wall. People are screaming, flailing around - I haven't run anybody over in my initial jump, which is good. You don't want to be sitting in human guts and stuff when you're making your big escape. I kick the door open and clamber out, all mad eyes and bright, brittle smile.

'Ladies and gentlemen!' I yell, above the screaming, and punctuate my opening with some laser blasts into the ceiling. Stun setting, of course - there really isn't ever a point in random killing, or at least random deliberate killing. Like that singing Doctor says, it's inelegant. It does shut them up, though. 'I hate to interrupt your business here at this fine establishment,' I continue, gesturing expansively around the lobby, above the heads of cowering patrons, 'but I just need to make a quick withdrawal and I'll be on my way.'

An idiot guard behind me is moving, ever so slowly, one hand inching towards the pistol at his side, so I blast him into a wall without turning around. A few stifled screams cut off as I wave my gun casually in their direction. 'Anybody else?' I ask, rhetorically, and gesture over my shoulder to the robots. Thin, nearly skeletal, you can tell I had to make them on the cheap. They leap down from the van in pairs and head behind the counter, snatching at bricks of cash, golden jewellery, ripping watches off people's wrists. I wish I'd programmed them better.

Weirdly enough, this is actually my first real bank robbery. The first time I rose to prominence I bypassed this stage entirely, blowing open Fort Knox and severely buggering up the gold price for everybody around, bought a few hundred thousand shares in the noble metal on the cheap - through proxies, naturally - and sold them again after the gold was 'recovered' by that idiot Bruiser and his pals. I let them have it, of course, but they claimed the victory and amongst my idiot peers, I've never lived it down. Not that it matters; I could have bought and sold any twenty of them they cared to name.

I stalk up and down the foyer in silence, cape billowing behind me magnificently, as the crowd meekly submits to my unspoken will. Someone is raising a cameraphone; I wave the ray gun in their direction, and the hand drops back to the floor instantly. I don't really care, of course, but you have to give the appearance that you do. My picture is going to be on the seven o'clock news regardless.

Time is ticking past, with any luck. Everything's going according to plan.

And then suddenly I'm halfway across the bank, people screaming and dodging out of the way as my face scrapes against cold marble and I slam headfirst into the wall. It... hurt? Not even bullets hurt anymore, not since the last set of modifications. That can only mean -

'Hold, Villain!'

Oh, just great. A Hero.

---

The technical term for what I am - what we are - is 'Enhancile', but most people like to go with 'The Gifted'. I'm not sure why. Probably a leftover from the days when Religion was the dominant thing on the planet and if you were even a little better than anybody else, it was because someone - YHWH, Allah, Ra, Zeus or whoever - had given you a little something that pushed you up, made you superior, made you something else. There's a few of those guys around, claiming that God or Angels or the Devil or Thor made them this way, which I suppose is fair enough. I know a guy, Vector Eight, says he got his powers from aliens. It's not so different.

Other Gifted don't claim to have really have been Gifted, as such, though they still wear the name, accept the title. Some claim luck, or chance; victims of a horrible lab accident, hapless witness to a meteorite strike. Others refuse the name entirely, calling their Gifts curses instead - maybe they had their powers forced upon them by others, strapped into an operating table or blasted with a mutation ray. Still more Gift themselves, buying expensive gadgets, training to the limits of the human body. There's so many ways to become an Enhancile, these days.

This bozo doesn't look like a cyborg, or a robot, but you can never tell these days, what with nanotechnology and silicon skin and whatnot. Still, my own enhancements aren't picking up any electronic signals or short-wave emanations. I don't know him, his looks or his name; probably a small-timer. I find myself smiling, despite the throbbing ache in the side of my head. I'm on a first-name basis with the few people on the planet who have the ordinance to take me out.

Still, that punch did sting. I eye the idiot warily as he strides towards me, all brazen confidence and insufferable righteousness. Who does he think he is, with his home-made costume and a stupid lion's head logo on his chest? Who does he think I am? Then I remember - I'm not wearing the helmet, not right now. I left it in the van, so I could reveal myself just before the getaway. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

'Surrender now, villain,' the fool calls to me, posing for the cameraphones, 'And I'll see if I can work something out with the cops. Get a suspended sentence, maybe. A first-time bank robbery isn't a major charge, you know, especially one as clean as this-'

I spit, clambering up from the ground, watching him stop mid-speech, take an involuntary step back. I doubt he's ever had anybody get up from his first punch, probably his last punch too in any given fight. He's probably a solid seven, maybe an eight on the power scale. 'You don't know who you're dealing with,' I snarl - and it is a snarl, throaty, with as much menace as I can put into it.

'No, you don't know who you're dealing with,' he says, still gamely smiling, though his eyes have narrowed somewhat. A paragon of wit, this one. 'I don't believe I introduced myself properly,' he continues, watching me watching him. 'I'm Lionheart.'

He says it casually, but you can tell by his posture how I'm supposed to react. 'Lionheart?!?' he wants me to exclaim, my voice perhaps rising an octave, turning into something approaching a squeak. He'd like to think that his name strikes fear into the hearts of nefarious scum such as myself. You can see it in his gleaming smile, his fearless stance.

I punch him in the face.

Lionheart goes flying, a reverse of my situation a few minutes ago, slamming into a potted plant and out the window. People are screaming - they always, always scream, it really gets on your nerves after a while - and running away now, sure that I'm occupied, and I am, I really am. I'm trying to multitask, a hard job with my head still somewhat foggy and my fist stinging from the impact. Where are my robots?

Bits of metal scattered across the foyer floor, mixed with broken, shattered glass, dirt and fake nylon leaves. Gears and circuits sparking, robotic arms severed and bleeding machine oil on the ground. He took half of them apart when he hit me that first time - must have been some kind of full-body charge. Well, at least he didn't send me flying with one hand. At least most of the cash is in the van.

He's leaping back in through the window, smug overconfidence gone and in its place a mixture of anger and fear - anger at himself, for letting him punch him; anger at me, for punching him; and fear, because the thought is edging in that I just might be out of his league. I wave a hand and my remaining robots make a desperate grab for any more cash within reach and jump in the van. As the engine begins to whirl, he charges right at me again, as if I can't see him preparing; I swivel and clip him on the back of his head, sending him sprawling.

Glass crunches beneath our heels as we circle warily, my robots throwing open the back door of my van, the crowd almost entirely gone except for the few hangers-on that want to see someone get beaten up today. I could make a getaway right now, if I wanted, but something in me wants to make this... a scene.

The hero's speaking. 'You might be strong,' he mutters softly, his guard up, watching me warily, 'and you might have all these fancy gadgets... but where's your brain, huh, bub?' A right cross; I duck it easily, move to throw, but he's already back and pacing, arms up and ready. 'Where's your mask, huh? Some genius you are.'

The words rise before I can stop them. 'Genius? Genius?!?' Goddamnit, I always do this. I never had the knack for banter. I overextend my punch, trying to stop myself from talking, and Lionheart hits me twice in the chest and dances back. I barely feel it. 'I am a genius, fool! You should be kneeling before me!'

Honestly, I don't know what I'm saying anymore. A wild mix of boasting, stuff I've seen on TV or read in comic-books, references to old speeches by the classic villains. Nothing new, nothing smart. I am a genius, damnit, but I'm just not good with dialogue. Lionheart lets me know what he thinks of my speaking skills, a derisive sneer gracing his face and mocking laughter on his lips.

And suddenly I'm angry. Really angry. Angry at myself, a little, for not predicting his arrival, not making better robots, not being prepared for the punch, for spewing out inane one-liners and cardboard cliches. Angry at Lionheart, for hitting me, for being here, for not cowering at my feet in fear. And just angry at the world in general, weeks of frustration at the stupidity and the ridiculousness and the unfairness of this world leaking out of me. It's palpable. I see Lionheart hesitate, looking at me suddenly with cold fear in his eyes, and then I'm on him like a storm.

It doesn't take long. He might have power behind him, but he obviously hasn't had to brawl like this before, a mad, desperate scuffle in quarters too close to draw his power-punches. I hit him in the face, again and again and again, and then I brace myself on his shoulders and grab one arm and twist. His howl of pain sends some of my audience fleeing, their thoughts visible even to non-telepaths; oh god, he's going to lose! There's blood all over one of my sleeves, but I don't care; it's not mine. This is the kind of fight that should be in a climactic rainstorm, but all I can feel is the soft caress of the air conditioning as I pound Lionheart straight into the floor.

Finally, it's over. I leave him lying in the rubble of what used to be a counter, before I flung him bodily through it. His home-made costume is tearing in a dozen places, blood is dripping from his broken nose and the cuts on his forehead. I left him his stupid little domino mask, as if it hides his identity anyway, but there's one last thing I have to do before I go. He's still awake, I can tell, but he's pretending to be unconscious. He's way out of his depth, and he knows it.

A snap of my fingers, and something is hurled out of the back of my van. I catch it with one hand, without turning around, staring down hard at Lionheart's blood-covered face. I run my finger down my collarbone, finding the tiny device concealed there, snap the switch. As the optical illusion covering my face - my real face - begins to flicker and dissolve, I watch the 'unconscious' man's eyes widen in fear. I lower the thing in my hands over my head, revelling in the moment. It's a helmet, a shape that hasn't been seen in years, that this poor newbie probably never expected to see for real in his lifetime.

'Hello, Lionheart,' I snarl, voice-synthesizers kicking in, amplifying my voice to a terrifying roar. 'I'm Overlord.'

And then I'm gone.

---

 

[huntingbear]

tl;dr....nah just kidding
that's good stuff

 

[Sheepo]

Haha, I really liked it. A lot like what that Soon I Will Be Invincible you mentioned a while back sounds like. I still need to pick that up.

 

[staticprimer]

Good stuff, I hope you continue it.

 

[Jintor]

Haha, I really liked it. A lot like what that Soon I Will Be Invincible you mentioned a while back sounds like. I still need to pick that up.

It's pretty much the same deal, I'm kind of really copying themes and concepts at this stage. It's a really good book, by the way.

 

[Sheepo]

Well is this going to be continued? Because it's good, whether it's original or not

 

[Jintor]

Yeah, I'm working on it.

 

[ríomhaire]

I've read half of this and I keep meaning to read the other. What I read was really good Jantor!