C.A. Jacobs

caffeinewitchcraft:

gingerly-writing:

“You could save the world.”

“I could,” said the villain, “if I wanted to.” Behind them. the city burned.

“But you won’t.” The hero’s voice was hoarse with defeat, blood trickling from their lips. “You won’t.”

The villain’s shrug was silhouetted by the flames. “Convince me.”

Sharon doesn’t have a plan today, no schemes, no heists, no kidnappings, nothing. She’d thought she’d take a walk through the city, let people see her dressed up as Ominous Halo, let them remember that she’s here and she’s not leaving, no matter how many heroes they throw at her, not without reminding them of all she represents.

And, sure, the best way to do that is to actually be the Class B Supervillain the League has ranked her. She could probably rob a bank or maybe deface the capital again, but, honestly? She’s really tired after a long day of being Sharon, working as a dispatcher in the third precinct, and she doesn’t have the energy to trap a kitten in a tree, much less anything else.

It’s good that she doesn’t have a plan, in the end, because the city is already burning by the time she makes her way into downtown. Fire, ruin, and debris are tricky to plan around and it’s really never any fun without an audience. And since the only people she can see are either dead or actively running away, an audience is in short supply.

“What,” she asks aloud, voice echoing through her synthesizer, the dark rings circling above her head vibrating with each syllable, “happened?”

She’d gotten home at 8 am, slept until 6 pm, come out at 7. Between the end of her shift and now, something’s swept through Chicago, painting flames and gouges as far as the eye can see.

There are supposed to be heroes. Chicago isn’t one of those little, podunk towns that only had small-timers and police offers to depend on when evil came knocking. Chicago is huge, with nearly 20 active heroes and who knows how many vigilantes. It’s got it’s own League Chapter, it’s own structure, it’s own emergency systems after the New York breach of 2008.

Her eyes scan the sky through her aviator glasses, the edges fitting along her cheeks to prevent them slipping off in battle. There are no heroes leaping from the skyscrapers, no rescue choppers circling, no tell tale sound of a superhero zooming in to save the day.

Fuck.

Keep reading