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Chapter 5: A Calculated Risk

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Will Stronghold

—

There’s a one in five hundred thousand chance that you’ll be struck by lightening, one in ten million that you’ll be president of the United States. The overall odds of being canonized are twenty-million to one, but I think my odds are far steeper than that.

Chances are that, given a reasonable opportunity, Warren will try to kill me. I can accept that. There are many people who wish me dead, and more than a few of them live within my own base. He’s just one more.

When I set Warren free from his cage, I calculated the risk as somewhere between the chance of a child with two normal parents being born with superpowers, and the chance that I will meet my end by unnatural causes. Supervillains don’t tend to die of old age, so I’d say those odds are pretty high.

But, regardless of the odds, it was worth it. That look of surprise, mixed with suspicion and gratitude is something I never thought I’d see. It’s good to keep him off balance. If he never knows what to expect, he can never prepare for what happens next.

Nevertheless, it’s a temporary reprieve, and we both know it. I left the collar tightly locked around his neck; even if he someone managed to discover the codes allowing him access to the outside, without his powers he would be easy prey to the villains lurking beyond these walls. If nothing else, Warren does have scores upon scores of enemies.

Somewhere nearby, I can hear the shuffling footsteps of Gwen Grayson. I ignore her, fine-tuning the repairs to one of my many ray guns. I replace a plate, carefully manipulating a tiny screw. Then I repeat the process, until all the nicks and kinks have disappeared.

There’s some irony in the fact that I, the most powerful super-villain in the country, inventor of dozens of deadly and horrific weapons, would have failed Mad Science without Gwen’s help. I never thought I would need the information and, more importantly, I was a little preoccupied with my beautiful lab partner.

She’s not so beautiful anymore, but I suppose I could still ask Gwen to fix my weapons and armor. She could, undoubtedly, do it in an instant – assuming, of course, that insanity hasn’t caused her to lose control of her powers.

She’s still watching me. I can hear her soft, steady breathing, and can almost feel her hateful glare. I’ve long since given up on wondering what thoughts cross her twisted mind. I should have killed her long ago, but I didn’t. I think I have a thing for keeping former foes as prisoners.

—

Warren Peace

—

It’s like a game – you pull on the handle of one door, and maybe it opens. You pull on the handle of another, it stays locked and you move on.

Devastator’s base is a maze, a labyrinth of locked rooms and doors. For the most part, the rooms I am able to enter are empty or recently vacated. What does Devastator need so much space for?

His minions, the few which there are, avoid me like the plague. Sometimes I see one of them, mostly in the distance, down a dark corridor or entering a locked room. I pass a brushed metal door.

I count to three before pushing on the handle. To my surprise, the door opens slowly into a long but narrow room, full of antique equipment, all covered with a layer of dust. There’s one set of footprints, going to the back of the room and then doubling towards the front.

They’re too small to belong to Will. I follow them to the back of the room and look up at the shelves. There’s a gap, a missing item. The only thing to mark its existence is a slightly lighter area on the wall and shelf, an area missing the dust that covers the rest of the room.

A shadow blocks the thin, cold light coming from the door, and I turn to face someone who I never thought I’d see again.

“Royal Pain. I heard that you escaped prison, but I had no idea that you were here.”

—

To Be Continued

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Not Today

Chapter 4: The Price of Order

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She heard the news at a wedding. Warren Peace, the superhero now known as Phoenix, had been captured and by none other than Devastator himself. Evelyn Frost adjusted her skirt, running the statement through her mind once, then twice, testing for the truth.

It had been a long time since her and Warren had been on speaking terms. Nevertheless, she had never wanted him captured or dead, especially at Devastator’s hands. It seemed a lifetime ago that Warren had taken her to the prom at Sky High.

Evelyn allowed herself a slight smile. He had been so cute back then. In fact, he was handsome even now, in a sort of dark and wild way. But Peace was unpredictable, dangerous even. She knew that better than anyone.

And it was his hotheadedness which undoubtedly put him in the situation he was in now. Evelyn knew the rumors were true when the black cars arrived. The Bureau didn’t summon her on the basis of loose talk, only fact.

Her heels clicked loudly against the black tiles of the waiting room.

“Evelyn Frost?” The secretary put down the phone. “The council is waiting for you.”

She nodded and made a sharp turn down the indicated hallway. Evelyn caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror and paused to adjust her hair. Taking the lipstick from her purse, she drew a perfect line across her bottom lip, and then the top.

Putting it away, she straightened her back and entered the room. The Bureau of Superheroes was governed by an elected council, composed of the most respected heroes in the country. Her mother, Emma Frost, had once sat on the council.

Evelyn hated to be reminded of how far she was from living up to her mother’s legacy.

A council member, sitting near the middle of the half-circle spoke first. “Evelyn Frost, do you know why you’re here?”

“I could make and educated guess, but I’d prefer not to.”

One council member turned to whisper in another’s ear. In that instant, Evelyn would have traded anything for the power of super-hearing. Instead, she crossed her hands behind her back and waited for them to continue.

“Witnesses have reported that Warren Peace, also know as Phoenix, was captured by Devastator and taken to his base approximately three days ago.”

“You must understand,” another council member began, “that there is very little we can do… officially. Devastator is too powerful, too influential. That’s where you come in.”

Evelyn nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

“We need you to infiltrate Devastator’s base and plant this device.” A folder was passed to her by an underclerk. She flipped through the maps and diagrams, before concealing it within her jacket. “You may attempt to free Peace, but if he won’t come willingly…” The rest of the words were left unsaid, but Evelyn understood.

“May I speak freely?” Several members of the council nodded and she continued, a little hesitantly. “Warren…” Evelyn took a deep breath. “Warren isn’t a bad person.”

“Yes. But he also follows no orders, no rules. Warren Peace follows only his own conscience. That’s a dangerous thing in a soldier.”

“Warren doesn’t consider himself a soldier.”

“No, he considers himself a hero. But a hero who can’t be controlled is as dangerous as any villain.”

Another spoke. “Save him if you can. But if for any reason you’re not able to, you should understand that the Bureau does not hold you responsible for his fate.”

Evelyn lowered her head briefly.

“I understand.”

—

To Be Continued
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Not Today

Chapter 3: An Untitled Tragedy in Three Parts (Part 1)

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The world is a tragedy to those who feel, but a comedy to those who think. — Horace Walpole

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Will Stronghold

—

Torture is an interesting thing. It breaks some and makes others malleable, even cooperative. In certain people it only hardens resolve, making the victim cling even tighter to their principles. I know this from experience. Some supervillains torture indiscriminately, but I am not one of those.

I don’t hold back out of kindness or any sense of nostalgia. I know myself better than that and, more importantly, I know Warren better than that. I would be willing to bet my fortune on the fact that he is, even now, planning some sort of escape.

I could torture him, but he expects that.

It was always expected that I would become a great hero and follow in my parent’s footsteps. Instead, I have become one of the most feared villains in the world. I’ve killed more superheroes than I can count, and that’s not even including civilians and sidekicks. I’m in the running to be the greatest mass-murderer of the twenty-first century. At this rate, my record might even hold into the twenty-second.

Warren, on the other hand, was always expected to be a powerful supervillain, just like his father. You can see how that turned out. Warren was always determined to defy expectations and to walk his own path. That’s how he wound up locked in a cage in my laboratory.

It took me a long time to realize that expectations are the past trying to influence your actions. Warren may choose to defy them, but they don’t apply to me. I haven’t forgotten the past.

I’ve obliterated it.

—

Royal Pain/Gwen Grayson

—

Nobody notices me. Nobody notices Gwen, either, and we’re very good at sneaking. We have to be. There’s no other way to survive this place.

We’re good at building things and finding things out. That’s why Devastator keeps us alive. One day, we’ll know too much, and Devastator will decide that it’s time for us to die.

Maybe that day is today.

I can hear them talking. Maybe I’ll sneak closer, just a little closer, and watch. Let me tell you what I saw, so that you can know a secret, too. Do you remember what they used to say about secrets and three men and having to kill two of them? I think I killed all three. I don’t remember. Dead men look pretty much the same after a while, you know.

Shhhh! What’s wrong with you? Why won’t you be quiet? We’re going to get caught.

They’re at it again. Look.

—-

“You’ll pay for this. Maybe it won’t be me, but someone will stop you.”

“Like who?” Devastator is speaking. I don’t need to see his face to know that. All I can see from my hiding place is his boots. The boots are made of black leather, with dull brown flecks. The little flecks may be dried, but I know they’re blood. I can smell it, taste it.

I wonder if Phoenix’s blood will taste any different from the others. Maybe, if I beg long enough, Devastator will let me try it. I doubt it. He’s keeping this one all to himself.

The boots are still talking. They’re giving a standard supervillain speech. It’s not as good as mine, but it’s familiar, common. I’ve heard it a hundred times before. “The Bureau of Superheroes is too afraid to even make a statement against me. You were always the thorn in my side, the last obstacle in my conquest of this city.” The blood sings a little chorus, drowning out the rest of what Devastator says. “… What do you have to say to that, hero?”

There are two sets of shoes now. They’re close, closer than they should be. Maybe Phoenix will try to escape. He’s opening the cage? He shouldn’t do that. He’s insane, but I don’t question the master. It’s not my place.

Another voice. That must be Phoenix again. There’s no one else here except for me, and I’m not talking to her. “I don’t have to say anything. I think what happened to Layla says it all.”

Devastator is furious. “I didn’t kill Layla!” He shouts, throwing Warren against the cage bars. I’ve never seen anyone make him so angry and live.

The hero gets to his feet, a little unsteadily. He wipes his mouth. There’s blood on his sleeve. “No, instead you betrayed everything she ever believed in.” Devastator grabs him and hits him again. Then he takes him back to the cage.

He’s locking him in? I thought he was going to kill him. That’s boring. But interesting. Actually, it’s just interesting. This prisoner is different, special. He means something to Devastator, so he means something to me.

Maybe we can use that.

Phoenix is in the cage now, leaning against the bars at the back. I can hear his breathing – it’s labored and shallow. He thinks he has it rough. He doesn’t know how lucky he is.

After a while, Devastator turns away and leaves the room. His boots go with him. He’s still angry; his footsteps are harsher, heavier than normal. He’ll probably go kill someone.

I think I’m going to go hide somewhere else now.

—

To Be Continued

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Chapter 2: Me, Myself and I

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Gwen Grayson

—

My name is Gwen Grayson.

No, no. That’s not how it goes. Let me start over.

My name is Royal Pain, but nobody calls me that anymore. In fact, no one has called me that since Lash came to the dungeons. He didn’t last long, but it was long enough for me to remember who I was, and who I was supposed to be serving.

I liked being called by my name. For a while there, I’d almost forgotten it. In this place, I’m just Gwen or Grayson or simply ‘you’.

You take out the trash. No, not you. We. We’re going to take out the trash.

I laugh, and it sounds thin and high. I’m beginning to think that I’ve become as insane as that hideous gremlin who raised me. Living two lives can do that to you; I have no idea how Baron Battle can stand it, the whole dying and living and dying again. Even though, I suppose, I only lived once and never truly died.

We. We never truly died.

We’re taking out the trash now. This trash is heavy and smells like burnt flesh. We have to drag it to the trash chute. Maybe this time Devastator burnt enough off the corpse that it’ll fit down the chute, and I won’t have to go dispose of it myself.

Or, rather, Gwen won’t have to dispose of it. Royal Pain doesn’t do chores. I didn’t do them in prison and I won’t do them here. Gwen can live in filth and disease. Gwen can be humbled and humiliated by the Stronghold brat. Royal Pain will wait and think, plot and scheme, until she has her revenge.

And then we will both be free.

—

Warren Peace

—

The floor tiles have tiny lines between them, a subtle pattern which I only just noticed. I raise my eyes to the top of the cage. While the bottom bars of the cage are bolted to the floor, the joints on the top look like they are welded to each other. It’s an obvious weak point in the design.

Will is wrong if he thinks I’m going to die in this cage, like some sort of neglected pet.

I rub at my neck, twisting my fingers to reach under the collar. I’m sweating, and my neck itches every time the collar shifts and chafes. Before today, I had never realized how humiliating wearing a collar is; if I live long enough to buy a dog, I’ll find some other way to tag it.

My powers aren’t working. Maybe it’s the collar, maybe it’s the room itself. I’m betting on the former – it wouldn’t make any sense for Devastator to install a suppressor which would also affect his own abilities.

I hate him. No, I really do. I’m not just saying it this time.

The lights are beginning to dim. They are probably tied to a day/night cycle, which means that I’ve been here for hours. I wonder if Will sleeps. For all I know, he could have invented a device which allows him to stay awake all the time and terrorize the city twenty-four hours a day.

Actually, he’s probably just leaving me here out of spite. Trying to make me feel unimportant, forgotten.

Nice try, Will. It’s not going to work on me.

I’m not like you. I don’t need other people to make me feel needed. What I do is important – I know this implicitly, without being told. I don’t need others to guide me, to help me tell right from wrong.

I guess you did.

—

Layla Williams

—

If I had lived to see this day, I would have been twenty-seven years.

That’s pretty old.

Maybe, by twenty-seven, I would have been married. Maybe I would have had kids and a house with a beautiful garden. Maybe my kids would have had powers, too. Maybe they would be able to fly, or control the rain. Or maybe they would have been sidekicks and would only have the power to grow different colors of flowers. I would have loved them anyhow.

I used to imagine my wedding. All our friends would be there. Magenta, Zach and Ethan would stand on the left. Warren would stand by himself, on the right. I might have been a real super-heroine. I could have protected the animals and the environment. Mom would have liked that.

Maybe I would have saved the world. Maybe things would have been different.

Maybe none of this would ever have happened if I, Layla Williams, had lived to be twenty-seven years old.

—

To Be Continued

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Summary: Many years in the future, Warren Peace finds himself at the mercy of an old friend. Warren X Will slash.
Author: Seren Maris
Genre: Angst/Tragedy
Rating: T

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Chapter 1: Tempt Fate

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Will Stronghold

—

The last time Warren and I spoke, and by that I mean really spoke to each other instead of screaming threats, was five years ago.

It was two years after our high school reunion. He may be brash but he’s not completely oblivious; things were changing, and we both knew it. I tried to tell him. I tried to make him understand.

It wasn’t my fault. I never meant for it to happen.

The second statement was more true than the first. I’m not going to say that I lied to Warren that day, any more than I lie every day when I wake up and look in the mirror. But it wasn’t quite the truth either, and we both knew it.

Part of being an adult is taking responsibility for your actions, he told me.

Hearing those words from Warren Peace was strange, humorous even. It was something Layla would have said. She should have been telling me these things, but she wasn’t there, and nothing I could do would change that.

The next time I saw Warren was the day the Bureau of Superheroes took him for questioning about the escape of Baron Battle.

It was all over the news. The supervillain had escaped after serving barely one of his life sentences. Some people argued two (Baron Battle had apparently died in prison, and was subsequently resurrected), but the point remained – Baron Battle was free, and the Bureau had neither the resources nor the firepower to recapture him.

The day they came to arrest him, Warren had a stoic, distant look on his face. He left without a fight, saying nothing to the reporters that swarmed around, shouting for his statement.

The Bureau released him three days later on lack of evidence. They also never completely trusted him again.

I’d like to say that that was the day Warren stopped trusting people. But I think it happened long before then, maybe even the day that my parents destroyed his family and sent his father to prison.

And now, fittingly, the father is free and his son is captured, locked in my prison. I take a closer look at my arch-nemesis, the hero who has sworn to fight me until his dying day. I had hoped that this Warren would be different than the one I was friends with, way back then.

If he was different, maybe it would be easier. Maybe then I would I break every bone in his body, as he screamed for mercy. Or maybe I would just kill him and throw his body into the ocean. I had hoped he would be different because then, when I looked at him, I could see only an enemy.

But this Warren is the same as the one I knew. Maybe he’s little older, a little wiser, but aren’t we all? He has the same eyes, the same stubborn posture and the same angry glare.

He hasn’t changed a bit.

—

Warren Peace

—

Devastator flinches when I call him Will – he doesn’t like being reminded of his given name. That’s why I do it, even though I probably should be begging for my life right now.

I’m too proud for that, too stubborn.

I idly wonder if he’ll snap my neck if I call him Stronghold.

My father once said that a short life with dignity is better than long life of humiliation. That was easy for him to say, since he could reincarnate and live sequence after sequence of short lives.

It’s not so easy for someone like me, who has only one life and one chance at getting things right. I don’t believe in hell, but if I had to choose a deadly sin, pride would be the one.

If I had to choose one for Will, it would probably be wrath, or maybe envy. For all I know, it could be greed.

I’m not sure I know him well enough to tell.

—

Will Stronghold

—

The laboratory is quiet – too quiet. I speak to fill the void.

The words, like most which leave my mouth, are cruel, intended to cut and wound. “I see you’re still fighting evil and defending the weak. Aren’t you tired of playing hero all the time, Phoenix?”

“I don’t play hero. This isn’t a game, Will.” Warren scowls and crosses his arms. “Why did you save me, anyhow? I thought you didn’t take prisoners.”

“Even I make exceptions. I mean, you must be worth something to someone,” I say. “Of course, I’ve heard you haven’t been doing so well lately. Is the life of a superhero too much for you, Phoenix? The stress finally dragging you down?”

“The fact that my father is Baron Battle and that I was once best friends with the most dangerous super-villain in the world doesn’t do much for my reputation.” Warren replies dryly.

Touché. The hero wins this round.

It bothers me that Warren still has the sharper tongue.

—

To Be Continued

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