Rise of the Supervillains

by Jaron Lee Knuth

  And then, as quickly as it surged into his body, it flushed out. The lights dimmed, the sounds faded, and his muscles relaxed.

  “Andre! Andre!”

  Mickey was yelling, grabbing onto his shirt and trying to shake him, but Andre's body wasn't moving, like it suddenly weighed as much as a car. Andre blinked his eyes and sat up.

  “I'm okay, Mickey,” he said, his voice sounding deeper than before. He coughed and tried to clear his throat before he said again, just as deep, “I'm okay.”

  “Are y-y-you sure? You were f-f-freaking out. Like you were having a s-s-seizure.”

  “Yeah,” Andre said, looking around the room to make sure he had all of his senses back. “I mean... that was intense.”

  Mickey hesitated, then asked, “Did it w-w-work?”

  Andre looked down at his hand and said, “I don't know.” Then he looked up at mickey with a smile and said, “Let's find out.”

  He stood up and placed both of his hands onto a desk. He closed his eyes and tried to picture the stainless steel changing on a molecular level, shifting from the shiny gray to yellowish gold. He focused, as hard as he could, trying to push his thoughts out through the palms of his hands. When he opened his eyes, the desk hadn't changed.

  “I d-d-don't think it worked.”

  “Quiet,” Andre snapped at him before closing his eyes and trying again.

  He tried to focus even harder, imagining each molecule changing from steel to gold. Each atom shifting its position from where his hands touched the desk, all the way to the feet of the desk that sat on the floor. But when he opened his eyes, there was no change.

  “Damn it!” he screamed, slamming his fist into the desk.

  The desk flattened like a semi-truck had fallen onto it. Andre stared at the piece of metal on the floor, then looked down at his fist, his mind unable to grasp what just happened.

  Mickey stepped up next to him and said, “H-H-How did you do that?”

  “I have no idea.”

  He stepped over to the next desk and with the slightest effort, lifted the entire thing over his head. It felt like it weighed nothing, as if someone had turned the gravity off inside the room. He flicked his fingers, every so slightly, and the desk went flying across the entirety of the gigantic laboratory, lodging itself into the far metal wall.

  “Sh-Sh-Shit!” Mickey spit out. “How did you d-d-do that?”

  Andre looked down at his body, shocked by what it was capable of.

  “Mickey, I don't think that chemical does what Doctor Chem thinks it does.”

  “What d-d-do you mean?”

  Andre shook his head, letting the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. “I don't think that chemical gave him his super power. I think it just enhanced something he already had.”

  Mickey tilted his head to the side with a quizzical look on his face. “You th-th-think he already had chemical p-p-powers?”

  Andre nodded, still looking down at his own body. “Yeah. It makes sense, right? He just wasn't aware of it. It was why he was able to 'accidentally' create this chemical. And when he spilled it on himself, it enhanced the power that created it.”

  Mickey picked up the other vial, the liquid shaking inside as he tried to hold it steady. “So you're s-s-saying it made you stronger?”

  Andre poked his skin with his finger and said, “Stronger. Faster. Tougher. Everything I was before... but more.”

  Mickey kept staring at the vial, his eyes shaking, like tears might fall from them at any moment. “Do y-y-you think it would w-w-work on me?”

  Andre glanced over at his friend, seeing the look in his eyes. He knew what this meant for Mickey. If it could turn his disability into a true super power, if it could increase his erratic speed boost into true super speed, he wouldn't only have a SPMD, but he'd have something he could control.

  “Take it, Mickey,” Andre said. “It feels amazing.”

  Mickey struggled to get the cap off, so Andre grabbed his hand and steadied it. Mickey smiled and thanked him, then held the vial to his lips. He took the shot like Andre did, and then waited.

  “N-N-Nothing's happening,” he said with obvious worry in his voice.

  “Just wait for it,” Andre said with a grin.

  Suddenly, Mickey's eyes rolled back in his head. His body vibrated, shaking faster and faster. He clenched his teeth together, but that only caused them to rattle against each other. His muscles weren't constricting like Andre's, they were wildly flinging his limbs around. Andre tried to hold him down, to help him steady himself, worried he might hurt himself, but he didn't have enough hands. Andre climbed on top of him, pinning Mickey's legs down with his knees, but Mickey's head kept shaking, bashing the back of his skull into the floor. Andre could see a pool of blood growing around the broken tile.

  And then Mickey stopped.

  His body went limp.

  His eyes blinked a few times, opened, and he groaned in pain as he said, “That sucked.”

  Andre climbed off of him and let him sit up. Mickey rubbed the back of his head, then looked at the blood on his fingers.

  “Oh, man. No wonder I have a headache.”

  “Mickey? You're not... I mean... you don't have a stutter.”

  Mickey looked over at Andre with confusion, then smacked his lips a few times before he said, “I don't? Hey! I don't!”

  He jumped to his feet, a blur of motion, startling Andre who took a few steps back.

  “You were right! This feels amazing!”

  He glanced across the room, dug his feet into the floor, and took off. Except Andre didn't see him move. He was just suddenly on the other side of the room.

  “Whoa!” Andre yelled. “How did you-”

  Mickey was standing right in front of him, appearing out of nowhere with a giant smile on his face.

  “This is so awesome!” he yelled. “Ican'tevenexplaintoyouhowthisfeelswowthisiscrazyit'salmosttoomuchtohandleIfeellikeeverythingexceptmeismovinginslowmotionwhoawhat'shappeningtomeeeeeeeee-”

  His words continued to build speed until they were a blur, like a constant drone instead of single words. His body vibrated again, but he wasn't moving. It was like Andre's vision was shaking, but the room was standing still. Mickey reached out for Andre, who took a step toward him, to steady him, but when he touched Mickey's hand, it wasn't there. The blur became more and more translucent, until Mickey just faded away. Andre screamed out his name, waving his arms where his friend once stood, but his screams echoed off the walls of the laboratory. There was no one there to answer back.

  Andre was alone.

  34

  HECTOR

  The military aircraft settled gently onto the landing platform of the Grand Citadel. Hector and Miguel readied their weapons as they opened the cargo door. Miguel held an assault rifle, and Hector wielded a pistol in one hand and his sword in the other. When the ramp lowered onto the platform, the two of them hurried out of the aircraft, fanning out to either side of the stairs that led toward the main doorway. It was closed, but Hector wasn't about to knock and hope the guards inside would open up. They both stowed their weapons and pointed their watches up toward the series of open windows that covered the outer wall of the Citadel. A single push of a button, and small grappling hooks launched out of the gadget. A twist of the watch, and the device yanked them into the air, allowing them to easily climb the outer wall.

  When they reached the window, Hector peeked inside and found a hallway that stretched around one of the upper floors. Two guards passed by, wearing their traditional armor, but they were just making the rounds, not really searching for danger. As soon as the guards passed the window, Hector leapt inside, and put a silenced bullet into the back of each of their heads. He reached out and grabbed both their bodies before their armor clanged onto the tiled floor, instead slowly lowering them. He waved his hand to signal that it was safe for Miguel to enter, and his son leapt to his side, pointing his rifle in the opposite direction, always watching his back.

>   “Let's move,” Hector said, motioning toward the west wing.

  They both knew who their prime target was, it was just a matter of locating him.

  When they made their way to the end of the hall, a door opened and a servant girl stepped out, holding a pile of towels. Hector put the barrel of his gun between her eyes and pulled the trigger. The back of her head sprayed against the wall and they continued on.

  At the bottom of the next set of stairs stood two more guards. Miguel took them out from the top of the stairs with his rifle, but Hector cringed as their bodies fell, their armor slamming into the marble floor. They paused, waiting in the shadows for someone to check on the noise. When a servant peeked her head through one of the arched doorways, Miguel took the shot, killing her before she could let out a shriek.

  Room by room, hall by hall, they inched their way through the Citadel, systematically eliminating every threat and every witness. When they reached the long hallway that stretched toward the throne room, Hector peered around the corner, spying four guards milling about outside the closed doors. He knew he could never make the shot at that distance with his pistol, so he signaled for Miguel to move up.

  When his son was right next to him, he whispered, “Four targets. Think you can do it?”

  Miguel nodded his head, his face stern and cold. They switched spots and Miguel dropped to one knee, holding the rifle straight up in the air. He took a breath and spun around the corner. The rifle let out consecutive bursts of fire, the rattle of bullets falling against the floor as the gun shook in the boy's hands. When he was finished, he stood up, and Hector stepped out from the corner. He saw the bodies laying in a pile at the end of the hall, the doors to the throne room covered in splattered blood.

  “Nice work,” Hector said, patting Miguel's shoulder. “Two in the chest-”

  “One in the head,” Miguel finished.

  Hector smiled. He took a moment to feel the experience. Everything was happening so fast, he didn't want to forget what it was like to be there, standing only a hallway away from his goal. And being there with his son was the best compliment to the situation. Miguel was the perfect partner. The perfect soldier. The perfect weapon. They worked like the left and right hand of the same person, always in unison, always moving toward the same ends. The lessons were over. It was time to apply everything he had taught him, everything he had learned himself. It was time to end the Zharkovs.

  They rushed down the hall, Hector unsheathing his sword, readying himself for the kill. When they reached the halfway point, a door opened behind them, and they both spun around. A woman with the unmistakable gold skin of the younger Zharkovs stepped out, and Hector gripped his sword tightly in both hands, but he suddenly recognized her as the wife of Azakor Zharkov. Before she had even noticed them, Hector motioned toward Miguel, and the boy took the shot. Her gold flesh broke open, spraying the same red blood as any human against the wall. When her body fell to the floor, Hector made another signal with his hand. Miguel stepped up to the body and fired another burst into the woman's head, making sure she was dead. When he was finished, they turned and made their way down the rest of the hall.

  As they reached the doorway, Miguel shouldered his rifle and picked up one of the dead guards, lifting his hand up to the control screen for the door. He pressed the man's palm against the screen and the doors unsealed, slowly beginning to swing open.

  The throne room was gigantic, with pillars lining the long rug that led to the throne. Groups of servants were scattered about, most of them standing in silence, waiting to be beckoned by the man sitting on the throne made of black meteor. When Miguel and Hector stepped in, Miguel fired instantly. Switching his rifle into full-auto, he sprayed the room, emptying his clip into the large groups of servants.

  As soon as he did this, the Imperator stood up from his seat, peering across the room to see what the sudden commotion was about. Hector dug his heels into the floor and readied his sword, his heartbeat racing with anticipation. He waited for the man to launch himself at them with overconfidence, but Padamir looked confused, as if he had never seen someone get gunned down before. It was his wife, Magda, that acted first, lifting herself into the air and swooping in a large arc around the throne room.

  “Miguel!” Hector shouted, pointing the flying woman out, but Miguel was reloading his rifle, having spent his entire magazine killing the mobs of servants.

  Magda dove at him, slamming into Miguel and knocking him to the floor. His rifle went spinning away from him. Magda rose into the air, and turned her attention to Hector.

  “A sword?” she said, her voice sounding appalled and amused at the same time. “Who dares enter the Imperator of the Zharkovian Empire's throne room brandishing weapons? Do you have any idea-”

  Hector drew his pistol and fired, unwilling to listen to yet another royal speech. The woman dropped out of the air and crashed into the floor, her body crumpling into a limp corpse.

  The Imperator finally acted, shouting his wife's name and rushing to her side. Hector was shocked by the man's speed, bursting across the room to his wife. Hector took a step back, threw his gun to the side, and readied his grip on his sword again.

  “Miguel!” he shouted his son's name again as guards rushed into the room.

  They were carrying laser rifles, some sort of Neo-Nipponese technology, but Miguel got to his own rifle before they could acknowledge what was happening. He let loose a wave of armor-piercing bullets, tearing the men apart.

  The Imperator gently set his wife's lifeless body onto the floor and turned his rage-filled gaze toward Hector.

  “You murdered her,” he said, his words fighting their way past his teeth.

  Hector tilted his sword, trying to read the man's body language so that he could determine what angle he would attack from.

  “You murdered her!” Padamir shouted, rising to his feet, his fists clenching at his sides.

  Hector heard Miguel firing again behind him, most likely at another wave of guards, but he didn't dare take his eyes off the man in front of him. He spun the blade to the right, seeing Padamir's leg twitch as if he were about to lunge in that direction, and he was right. The Imperator came at him like a rocket, swinging his fist at Hector's face as he lunged. Hector brought up the blade in a defensive position, deflecting the attack with a short slice. Padamir fell to the floor, gripping his arm as blood sprayed from his wrist, his fist laying on the floor in front of Hector.

  The rush that pumped through Hector's veins was overwhelming as he watched the Imperator of the Zharkovian Empire fall to his knees, his life's blood spewing out from a wound Hector had caused. He stepped closer to Padamir, watching the Imperator weep, his tears falling into the growing pool of blood in front of him. The sight was something beautiful, pure in a way Hector had never witnessed before. He reached out and snatched the crown from his head, giving it a slight glance before he tossed it to the side like a piece of trash.

  “You're going to die,” Hector said, his voice calm and collected. “And I'm the one that's going to kill you.” He turned off the masking technology built into his suit and continued, “Do you understand? It wasn't super powers that took down your empire. It wasn't some cross-breeding monarchy that destroyed you. It was me. A mortal man.”

  Padamir looked up at him with shock and pain and disgust and fear pouring from his eyes. Hector brought his blade up over his head, then brought it down across Padamir's neck, beheading the Imperator of the Zharkovian Empire with a single swing. When he did, the body fell in front of him and the head rolled across the floor, coming to a stop next to his wife's body.

  There was a sudden silence then. No guards rushing in. No gunfire. No screams. All that filled the room was the stillness of death, the stench of corpses, and the wet footsteps of Miguel walking up next to him to stand in the blood of their enemies.

  “Congratulations, father,” Miguel said, looking down at the Imperator's corpse.

  Hector put one arm around his son's s
houlder and as a single tear rolled down his cheek, he said, “Congratulations, son.”

  Neither of them heard Maksim enter, and by the time his wife let out a gasp at the horrific sight of the throne room, it was too late to react. The imposing man had already dropped the golden corpse of Simone Zharkov he had found in the hallway and knocked both Miguel and Hector across the room.

  Hector slammed into one of the pillars, cracking the stone. When he fell to the floor, the pain in his side felt like someone was stabbing him repeatedly. He checked himself, pressing his fingers into his ribs, and counted at least three of them broken. He peered across the room, to where Miguel was laying, and saw his son trying to climb to his feet, but failing, his legs unable to hold his weight. Hector searched the floor, looking for his sword, knowing that was his only hope, but as soon as he spotted it, Maksim stepped between him and the weapon.

  “What have you done?” the man asked as he leaned down and grabbed Hector by the shirt, lifting him off the ground.

  “How did they do this? How did they even get in here?” Maksim's wife asked, her eyes glowing red.

  Maksim slammed Hector into the pillar again and asked, “Who are you?”

  Hector looked over Maksim's shoulder, and saw Miguel trying to crawl toward the sword. He needed to give the boy time.

  “Does it really matter to you what my name is?” Hector asked, his words increasing the pain in his lungs. “Do you really care about that? Isn't there something else you want to know? Something more important?”

  Hector could tell this man wasn't smart. If he could keep him guessing, keep him confused until Miguel got the sword, they might have a chance.

  Maksim's wife stepped up next to her husband and squinted her glowing eyes down at Hector. “Isn't this Mrs. Majesty's husband?”