Someone Who is Feared
by R. Hyperion.
Supervillain Theme: “The bloodthirsty murderer of revolutionaries.”
…This is probably the roughest thing I’ve ever put up in public. Not just the quality of the writing, but the content. If acts of cruelty and violence trouble you, please don’t read it.
Morning
“Madame?”
The voice I hear is different from yesterday. Frowning, I straighten up and pull my nose out of my book.
The maid startles a little, but immediately recomposes herself. She is stout, curly-haired and freckled—much unlike the girl who carried in my dinner less than twelve hours ago. I heave a little sigh, and beckon her in.
“I must apologize for-for the lateness of breakfast, my lady.” She sets down her tray and drops into a wobbly curtsey. I’m beginning to think that she is not really a handmaid, but a former drudge.
“It isn’t your fault your predecessor quit without telling anyone,” I reply, giving my meal a quick once-over.
Tucked between the teacup and bowl of oats is a small envelope with a familiar violet seal.
For now I ignore it, and tip a sugar cube into my drink. “What is your name?”
“Diana.”
“Well, then. Diana. I have to go out today. My hair,” I gesture, “as you can see, is not in the best shape.” It had been black; over the past few weeks, that had faded to a miserable gray. “You will need to help me bleach and re-dye it this morning. What color should I use?”
Silence. I set my tea down and stare up at her over my sunglasses. She is still frightened, but she doesn’t jump like before. I’m beginning to think that she is not as disturbed by my appearance as she is used to her superiors outright abusing her.
“That wasn’t a rhetorical question. I’d like your opinion.”
Her eyes went as wide as saucers. “Ah-I-well-um…Red!” she blurted out, forgetting the honorific.
“Red?” Of all the colors! I think I’d always dismissed red as too ostentatious. “Why red?”
For a half-second her eyes rest on my left glove.
Ah, I understand.
I grin. “Oh, never mind. Doesn’t matter. Please, go ready all the materials. I’d like to get started right after breakfast.”
Afternoon
I’ve always liked the countryside. Roads carved into lush green hills. Thick, leafy forests. The moist air after a rainstorm, clearing out my lungs.
Though it does get inconvenient when the pavement runs out, because my car can’t handle mud well. So I stop before I get stuck, and fetch my bulletproof trenchcoat. Just in case.
When I roll the glove off my left hand, I’m surprised to find that my fingers are nearly black. They feel okay, though. I wiggle them to make sure.
…Maybe it’s because I haven’t killed anyone in a few weeks.
No more than twenty feet ahead, two teenagers hail me before the trail bends out of sight. One grips a battered old hunting rifle. Ah, this is the right place.
“Hey, this is private property.” The armed one is taller than I am, and he raises his chin in an attempt at intimidation. Cute. “My pop really hates people tresspassing, so you better get out of here before he finds out.”
That is adorable. I keep walking, because in a thirty-pound coat it’s kind of hard to get going again once you stop. “Oh, don’t worry about that. See, the King sent me.”
The little one yelps and tears off around the corner, screeching a warning. The other one lifts his rifle and aims it, steadying himself.
I reach out, letting my cursed arm deform into a thick lash, and wrap it around his weapon—and his limbs. As he melts along with the iron, the boy screams like a banshee. I’m taken aback by how high this kid’s voice is; I honestly figured he was through puberty.
Ah, my fingers are red again. I should have known! Magic always wants for blood.
Now that the alert’s been sounded, a line of stone-faced young men stand between me and their hideout. When they see me they start shooting…but, as is typical, they’ve started firing from too far away to penetrate my defenses.
This is where it gets tedious.
I reach out and wrap my left arm around the closest man’s neck; in thirty seconds it’s eaten through and his head lolls off his body. I gesture with my right hand, and cleanly slice another’s leg from his torso. By now the fear is beginning to deepen into panic, and some of them ditch their weapons to run.
I maim the deserters. Burn their bodies, sever their hands or feet—but I try not to kill them. That would be counterproductive.
The idea is to dispirit, and death would make martyrs of them. Far better to send them back shamed and disabled, crying in their nightmares about a ghost with a red tentacle-arm. That tends to dissuade others from taking up the fight for them.
This place is not really a stronghold so much as it is a small, crooked clubhouse, and as I destroy their findings and carve through the few people left inside I wonder why in the world I was sent here.
Last room. Behind the kitchen counter is a thin, dark-haired man guarding a thin, dark-haired woman. Like the others who hadn’t run, they are injured—but when I try to burn him, he catches my arm.
I expect his hands to melt to the wrist, but his palms merely blister.
Now I understand.
“That is a tremendous effort. I’d applaud you if I could.”
He trembles, but says nothing.
“Are there any more people around here who know a little magic like you do?”
“Even if there were,” he spat, “I wouldn’t tell you!” His eyes are wild with an impotent rage. At least he’s smart enough to know this is a fight he can’t possibly win.
I trace a circle in the air with my right hand, carving a hole in his head from front to back. His paramour screams, until I do the same to her.
Before I leave, I set fire to the house.
Evening
After hefting my suitcase out of the trunk, the closure breaks. Bloodied clothes slide out onto the garage floor, and I curse my luck. Quite loudly.
Only a few seconds later, the door to the house opens and I hear Diana gasp.
I wonder if she’ll cry, vomit, or faint. The smell must be awful.
Instead she drops into that unsteady curtsey and stammers, “W-welcome home, madame. I-I’ll go run you a hot bath.”
…I hope I haven’t scared off another attendant.
