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.
CHAPTER TWO
Due to the apparent success of their mission, Agent X and his privately owned mercenary crew were awarded funding from the government to continue their villain-purging endeavor. Even though the government had nothing to do with the initial attempt on Deimos’ life, the continued killing of villains could only benefit them. They had admittedly let the movement get out of hand due to their fear of how the public would react if they intervened. If some third-party had their own vendetta against these crazy protesters, who were they to stop them?
With newfound fervor, weapons, and tactics, Agent X and his team swept through villain organizations across the globe, killing any villains or henchmen they could find. Those that were lucky enough to escape with their lives were forced into hiding, changing their names yet again in order to slip back into the society they once tried so hard to escape from. Unknown to Agent X, Deimos was one of those lucky few.
When Deimos fell from the warehouse rooftop that fateful night, he landed in a dumpster that a recently deceased henchman had forgotten to empty earlier that week. He was immediately knocked unconscious, suffering from two broken legs and a badly damaged spine. Siren and the three henchmen she had managed to save, Terry, Glenn, and Harold, hurriedly recovered Deimos under the cover of night. They were able to keep him in a stable condition, but the fall had left him partially paralyzed from the waist down.
In the months after his fall, Deimos couldn’t bring himself to invent anything that might assist or even fix his paralysis despite his ability to do so. He blamed himself for his henchmen’s deaths and for the deaths of all of the villains that followed. It was because of this guilt that Deimos felt he was undeserving of the ability to walk. It was the punishment he gave himself for his inability to protect the ones he loved.
Time passed, as it tends to do, and years of Deimos’ self-denial turned into fear—fear that if he were to continue developing inventions at any capacity, the few loved ones he had left would be put in danger yet again. So for thirty years Deimos did nothing but keep his head down and blend in as a model citizen.
A lot happened in those three decades, both for Deimos and for the citizens of the world. Another aspect of time, other than its relentless passing, is its ability to make people forget, or at least enable them to give less of a shit about something. Villains and their message of progress were glazed over in the history books. The movement was oversimplified to a time of unrest when outrageous people in equally outrageous outfits protested against the government. Even Deimos began to forget—not so much about his past, but about who he was. Controlling fear is one thing, but living under it can do strange things to a person. His outgoing, inspiring personality had reverted back into the oppressed, meek nature that plagued him when he was a fatherless child.
In an attempt to find a semblance of normalcy, Deimos and Siren decided to continue their engagement and were married in 1991. It was a small ceremony, with only their ex-henchmen Terry, Glenn, and Harold in attendance. At the reception, which took place at their favorite bar, The Leaky Beaker, the old crew began to plan their future. Ultimately, they all agreed it wouldn’t be right to move away from the city they lost their friends in. So, in a resigned acceptance, they all decided that they would live out the rest of their lives in Los Rebeldes.
Although Deimos had relieved his henchmen of their duties, Terry, Glenn, and Harold vowed to never be more than a short drive away. Terry, the youngest in the group, was a high school student when he joined Deimos’ crew. After Deimos’ fall he was still in his late teens, so he decided to return to school and eventually became an investment banker. After thirty years, he had long since scored himself a few high profile clients and was able to make a decent living while working out of his condo only several miles from where Deimos and Siren lived.
Glenn, who’s life before villainy had consisted of picking pockets and running scams in New Jersey, decided to become a car salesman. It wasn’t necessarily honest work, but that was the way he liked it. Within a few years he was able to branch out into his own dealership, which became relatively successful by undercutting the surrounding competition.
As for Harold, who was the rest of the group’s senior by a good ten years, finding work without any past references other than villains proved to be more difficult. Luckily for him, his parents were lavishly wealthy and decided to leave him in their will despite his abandonment of them when he joined the Villain Movement. After they eventually passed, Harold was able to receive his inheritance without giving up his identity by using documents Terry had forged for him. With it, he purchased a retirement community and lived off the profits while also living within the community itself.
Unlike the henchmen, Siren had an actual talent that she decided to put to use. She was surprised to find on her first round of applications that she was offered a teaching position at a local elementary school as a music teacher, which she eagerly accepted. She soon discovered that she loved working with kids, and it didn’t take long for her to get over her fear of public speaking. The realization finally struck her that she was talking to a bunch of children whose opinions meant very little to her, advice that all people should take when speaking in front of any group.
Deimos had a tougher time locking down work than Siren did. After several years of bouncing around performing IT services, he eventually settled down as a software developer with a company called Starflame Industries. Starflame Industries was a tech company that was so boring and produced software so irrelevant that it was a miracle they even existed. However objectionable those traits may seem for any business trying to compete in a capitalistic society, it was the perfect cover for a retired villain.
Deimos’ coworkers only knew him as his new identity—Damien Briggs, the quiet, socially awkward developer shoved in a back cubicle. He took solace in the fact that the only person that people try to avoid more than a software developer is a crippled software developer. He used this to his full advantage, often exaggerating his disability to make those around him so uncomfortable that most of his coworkers didn’t even look in his direction anymore. His job was filled with tedious work that to an unparalleled genius like Deimos was the equivalent of shoving square pegs into round holes for eight hours a day, but it was work nonetheless and Deimos was committed to pay his dues.
Despite the simplicity of this new life and all of its shortcomings, Deimos and Siren still managed to find happiness. They adopted a dog, regularly met with their three loyal friends, and loved each other as much as ever. All things considered, they were reasonably content, but they could never fight the feeling that life should be much grander.
◊ ◊ ◊
On one particular morning in March of 2019, Deimos’ alarm blared at 5:30 a.m. like it had every workday for the last twenty years. Except it wasn’t a workday. It was Saturday and Deimos’ boss was forcing him to come in anyway.
“Goddammit,” Deimos grumbled.
He rolled over to grab his cell phone and turned off the alarm so that it wouldn’t wake Siren, who was sleeping soundly beside him. Then, he silently and painstakingly propped himself up into a seated position. This was difficult for Deimos as the muscles in his legs had atrophied to such a degree that they were practically nonexistent. The inability to move his legs and the fact that he was now in his mid-fifties did nothing to help Deimos get out of bed early that Saturday morning.
He pulled his legs out from under the covers and over the side of the bed. Reaching past his bedside table, Deimos grabbed his leg braces. These locked his legs onto his hips in a forced straight position, enabling him some limited mobility when paired with hand crutches.
After locking his legs in place, Deimos grabbed his hand crutches and pulled himself out of bed. Immediately, their small terrier Professor Paws began sniffing and licking Deimos’ feet. Despite his inability to feel the dog’s tiny tongue darting in and out of the space between his toes, Deimos was still thoroughly disgusted.
“You need to have more self-respect for yourself,” Deimos whispered to Professor Paws. “I’m going to take you outside regardless. There’s no need to subject yourself to such humiliation.”
Professor Paws gave Deimos a look that may have said, “I already licked under the fridge and my own asshole twice this morning. Don’t think you’re so special.”
Deimos understood this look as Professor Paws needing to relieve himself and rushed him outside. Professor Paws darted out the back door and quickly set to his business.
Deimos looked around and sighed. Despite thirty years of moving from crap hole to crap hole, it was still hard for him to accept the fact that he was a broke nobody. He and Siren could only afford to rent from the bottom of the barrel, which meant they had to deal with landlords who didn’t care that the paint was peeling from around the windows or that the grass had long since died. Still, Deimos was happy they found an actual house available for rent in their price range. Anything was better than the apartment they lived in five years prior when their upstairs neighbors with three dogs and four young children decided to put in hardwood floors.
Professor Paws finished his business and he and Deimos went back inside. They were greeted by Siren, who was now awake and making coffee. Time had been much kinder to her. Even at fifty-five she had the smooth, glowing skin of a high schooler on prom night. No longer did she sport the punk-rock hairdo. It was now a natural, wavy brown and hung past her shoulders. Despite this, her style had remained mostly the same and she wasn’t wearing much more than a torn Led Zeppelin t-shirt. She still rocked a choker, but it was one she picked up at a local flea market and provided no enhancements to her vocal abilities.
Siren approached Deimos with a cup of coffee and kissed him on the cheek.
“Hey, hot stuff,” she said, handing him the coffee. “Why are you up so early? Got big plans for us today?”
“Sorry, I forgot to tell you,” Deimos replied, gratefully accepting the steaming cup. “Gary needs me in the office today.”
“What? Babe, it’s Saturday,” Siren retorted. “Why do you even listen to him? He still calls the Internet ‘America Online’ for Christ’s sake.”
Deimos felt genuine pain upon hearing ‘America Online’ and physically cringed. Like most people in management, Deimos’ boss Gary had been promoted to a position that required skill far beyond his mental capacity. Lacking managerial instincts as a manager can be chalked up to poor social skills, but being technologically inept in a tech company takes a rare form of dedicated ignorance.
“I know it’s frustrating, but this is the way my department is structured. I’m the only one who knows what needs to be done before launch next quarter,” Deimos said.
“I just think you could be your own boss, is all,” Siren replied. “It’s obvious you aren’t happy there. Maybe you could develop an app or something that people would actually want to use.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Deimos said before downing his coffee. He placed the empty cup in the sink as if to put away the topic. “I really should be getting ready.”
Siren blocked his exit by bending over in front of him and picking up Professor Paws. She put on her best ‘pouty face’ and held the sleepy pup toward Deimos.
“But it’s Professor’s birthday! How could you leave him on his special day?”
“I thought his birthday was in January?”
“He’s a dog. His birthday is whenever we say it is and I say it’s today.”
Deimos chuckled and kissed them both.
“Sorry. You two have fun for me, okay? Maybe we can all do something tomorrow.”
Deimos hobbled off to get dressed. Siren watched him leave, concerned.
◊ ◊ ◊
Deimos pulled into the Starflame Industries parking lot as the digital clock in his 1996 Honda Civic switched to 6:30 a.m. He was able to drive the ancient piece of machinery by using a handy little device hooked up to his gas and brake pedals. With a twist of the wrist for gas or a quick squeeze for brakes, Deimos could control the car’s speed with his right hand while steering with his left. Despite this being a neat and helpful invention, it wasn’t Deimos who made it. In fact, anyone can purchase them for around two hundred bucks online and they are a necessity for the everyday handicapped Joe on the go.
Once parked, Deimos awkwardly lifted himself out of the car, put on his backpack, and donned his crutches. He stood unmoving for a minute, looking up at the drab, gray building that seemed to suck the color out from the surrounding area. If there was any place deserving of the title ‘Nega-Disneyland,’ this was it. Deimos sighed and hobbled into work.
It is said to not judge a book by its cover. Well, if Starflame Industries was a book you picked up in the library due to its cover depicting a mountain of steaming shit then fret not, for the contents of the book would likely be a ten thousand page dissertation focused on the luster, texture, and consistency of said shit along with a comprehensive history and diet regimen of everyone who contributed to the shit mountain, all printed in size four comic sans font on recycled flypaper. In short, one look at Starflame Industries was all you needed.
Rows upon rows of gray, pictureless cubicles lined the fourth floor where Deimos worked. Fluorescent light radiated off the eggshell-colored walls and cascaded blindingly throughout the office. The design was actually quite brilliant, as it naturally inclined anyone in the office to keep their head down in order to avoid looking at the depressing reality of their situation. This increased work productivity and kept morale at a healthy level just above suicide.
As Deimos settled into his desk, an overpowering aroma of cologne and nervous sweat attacked his nostrils. Deimos sighed and turned around to see his boss Gary standing stiffly by the entrance to his cubicle. He was a stout, balding British man who seemed to pull his fashion advice from the bargain bin at Walmart. Whatever hair was left on Gary’s head had been painstakingly organized in order to provide maximum coverage over the glaring, sweaty dome that housed his pea-sized brain.
“Hey, Gary. How can I help you?” Deimos asked with a sigh.
“You can start by telling me what the hell is wrong with that update you sent through last night!” Gary fumed. “I can’t navigate our damn interface! And if I can’t do it, how do you expect our clients to do it?”
Gary liked to use tech terms such as ‘navigate the interface’ in an attempt to feign understanding of software development. He would often throw them into conversations without any regard for whether or not they were appropriate. Fortunately for Gary, this was one of the few times it actually was, but that didn’t lessen the stupidity of him saying it. The interface Gary was referring to was never going to be seen by a client. It was a graphical user interface Deimos had whipped up for Gary to better understand the software he was developing, sort of like
a picture book for babies. The software itself was an automated program that ran in the background of stock traders’ computers to monitor investments, therefore the client would never see the ‘interface’ that Gary couldn’t ‘navigate.’
“Well, boss,” Deimos began slowly as if he were speaking to a child, “I actually submitted those updates last week, which you approved.”
“I did no such thing! The program is a mess now. Nothing is making any sense,” Gary retorted.
Deimos grabbed a pencil from his desk and squeezed it, pretending he was wringing Gary’s neck.
He forced a calm tone and said, “I feel inclined to remind you that this program won’t be seen by the client. What you’re looking at on your computer was something I threw together for you to-”
“Listen, Damien,” Gary said, cutting Deimos off, “I didn’t get to where I am today by cutting corners. It doesn’t matter if the client won’t see it, the program should still be easy to navigate.”
“But that doesn’t make sense. They won’t be navigating anything.”
“I’m getting real tired of your lazy excuses, Damien. This is a big reason why you’ve never been promoted to management. If you ever want to be the head of this division you should start following in my footsteps. I know you’ve seen that cherry red Chevy Nova parked outside.”
Deimos rolled his eyes and nodded.
“Yeah. I try not to show it off too much, but she’s pretty sweet, right?” Gary goaded. “So if you want that car, that life, you best be listening to what I say. Now I want you to redo the update and fix the interface. Is that clear?”
Deimos clenched his jaw. A vein formed in his forehead, but he nodded compliantly.
“There’s a good boy,” Gary said smugly.
He turned and waddled away, his head held high. The pencil in Deimos’ grip snapped.
Villain (Book 1): Villain 1 Page 3
