Chapter 98 Yeah.

Chapter 98: 98 Yeah.

Even though I’d hit something of a dead end with Delirium—at least until Rhea managed to magically pull a usable location from that holographic transmitter—that didn’t mean I could just take a break.

I still had Psyren’s big underworld premier to orchestrate. And a crucial part of surviving your debut without looking like a total amateur was the costume.

Which was why I found myself standing in the dark hallway of the chalet at exactly five in the morning, aggressively rapping my knuckles against Psyren’s bedroom door.

A muffled, agonized groan vibrated through the wood. Something heavy hit the floor inside.

"Psyren. Up. Now," I called out.

A solid minute later, the door cracked open. Psyren stood there in an oversized band t-shirt, her pink hair sticking up in gravity-defying cowlicks, looking at me with the sheer hostility of a feral cat dragged out from under a warm porch.

"Boss," she croaked, her eyes barely open. "It’s pitch black outside. The sun hasn’t even hit the snooze button yet. Who are we murdering?"

"Nobody. Get dressed," I said, entirely unsympathetic. "We have an appointment."

She blinked sluggishly, leaning her head against the doorframe. "At five in the morning? What kind of sweatshop tailor works at five in the morning? Why can’t we just do this in the afternoon like normal people?"

"Because we aren’t going to a normal tailor," I said, turning on my heel and heading for the stairs. "Coffee’s in the kitchen. Be at the door in ten minutes, or I’m dragging you out in your pajamas."

She actually made it in nine, though she spent the entire walk to the Crown dragging her feet and grumbling about labor violations.

I tossed her a travel mug of black coffee as she slumped into the passenger seat. I put the car in gear and drove us out of Sunset Oakland, the streets entirely dead except for the occasional street sweeper and garbage truck.

"I don’t get it," she mumbled into her coffee. "Who even is this person?"

I didn’t answer. I just kept my eyes on the road until I pulled the Crown into the parking structure of the downtown transit hub, killed the engine, and stepped out.

Psyren stumbled out after me, clutching her mug like a lifeline, looking wildly confused. "Wait, why are we leaving the car? You literally own a car. We were just in it."

"Parking in the fashion district costs more than necessary, and the traffic is a nightmare," I said, steering her toward the ticket turnstiles. "And our tailor is a lot to deal with."

I ignored her steady stream of sleepy, irritated questions until we were finally seated on a brightly lit, nearly empty commuter train headed straight into the city’s high-end district.

The fluorescent lights buzzed obnoxiously overhead, casting a harsh glare over the handful of exhausted office drones sharing our carriage.

Psyren slouched into the hard plastic seat, glaring at the dark tunnel walls zipping by outside the window. "Alright. We’re on a train. Now tell me who the hell is making me wake up before the birds do."

"Her name is Edna," I said, leaning back and crossing my arms. "She’s arguably the most sought-after designer in the super-community. Heroes, villains, mercenaries—if they want armor that actually works and doesn’t look like garbage, they go to her. But she’s very particular, very mean, and very French."

Psyren took a long, moody sip of her coffee. "Whatever. I still don’t get why we even need to go. There’s nothing wrong with my current look."

"There’s nothing wrong with your current look," I assured her as the train rattled over a junction, "if you’re auditioning for an evil eighties multiethnic street gang. But we just need a bit more... oomph."

"What? You think I don’t pack enough oomph like this?" she said, giving her breasts a teasing bounce under her jacket.

I tried not to stare, which was moderately easier since I wasn’t driving, but it was still damn distracting. "Er, not as such. I think it looks good. What we want is something more ’villainess’. And more than anything, you need a mask."

"What? And hide these looks from the world? Oh boss! Don’t tell me you’re keeping me all to yourself," she giggled, the caffeine finally starting to hit her system. "I think Abba did a whole song about that."

"That’s not what I meant," I sighed. We still had a few stops to go, so I figured I’d explain myself a bit more. "Listen. Professional villainy has rules. And rule number one is always wear a mask."

"Because of the acid burns?"

"Not as often as you’d think, but still pretty common," I admitted. "No. It’s for the secret identity."

"Really?" Psyren said with a sharp laugh. "A tiny piece of fabric is supposed to keep the feds from figuring out who I am?"

"Honestly? No," I said.

"What?" she said, sitting up a little with a perplexed frown. "But, you just said..."

"Listen," I said, shifting to look at her properly. "The harsh, unglamorous fact of this business is that no one actually cares who we are."

"Shouldn’t they?"

"Nope," I said, unable to quite keep the dry smile away. "The Clark Kent Effect. See, you’d think so. You’d think the world is dying to unmask the bad guy. But who am I? Really? I’m nobody."

"What? No you’re not! You’re Miles, boss!" Psyren said indignantly, her loyalty flaring up in that uniquely psychotic way of hers.

I was flattered, but she missed my point entirely. "Right! Exactly. But who’s Miles?" I said. "I’m just some guy. Some guy who occasionally forgets to pay his water bill. But if I wear a mask? Ah, then they can dream."

Psyren’s nose scrunched up with confusion, which I had to admit looked incredibly adorable in a lethal sort of way. "I don’t get it."

"Nobody really wants their iconic superhero to just be Clark the reporter," I said, pointing a finger at her. "If they see my actual face, they’ll just say, ’Who’s that? Do we know him? Where did we see him before?’ But if they don’t see my face, then they can imagine I’m anyone. I could be the corrupt CEO of a major corporation. I could be a rogue black-ops supersoldier. I could be some ancient, nefarious enemy they couldn’t even dream of! The mask adds mystique. Sure," I shrugged. "Even before smartphones and the internet, it wasn’t impossibly hard to unmask someone. They did a ton of that back in the eighties. You’d be amazed how many super psychos hung out with Andy Warhol. Or... maybe you wouldn’t. But if someone really wanted to unmask me, they could probably do it. But see? No one really wants to know the unfamous, boring person under the mask. It’s much more fun to dream."

"But I am kinda famous," Psyren said.

"True. But the you who’s you isn’t going to be the one robbing armored cars. The mask is going to be famous. You’ll be Psyren, the unstoppable supervillainess! Not Psyren, the girl comparing egg prices in the grocery store."

Psyren’s brow furrowed in thought. "So the mask is like... a psychological barrier that separates my villainess persona from me?"

"Bingo," I said, proud of her for catching on so fast.

"But what if I want to be the villainess persona?" Psyren asked.

And there it was. I knew that question would come up. It always did with the new blood, inevitably.

"You can try," I said slowly, my voice dropping a fraction of an octave. "But no one’s ever made it work long-term. It’s a spectacularly slippery slope when you start living as the character."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," I said, staring straight ahead at a glowing advertisement for hemorrhoid cream on the train wall, feeling the muscles in my neck start to knot and tense. "You start off thinking it won’t be so bad, living as the bad guy all the time. You’re good at it. You think you’ve got the self-control not to go off the deep end. You start small, maybe wearing the costume when having sex, or when you go out to the clubs. Finding some fans. Showing off your powers a bit to skip the line. And it all seems cool. Seems fine.

"But then, things start slipping. You start thinking about how good it would feel to act like a villain more often. Maybe you can keep some minions around. Maybe it wouldn’t be so wrong to put up a bunch of menacing gargoyles on your apartment building.

"Then before you know it, you’re acting the villain outside of work. You’re using your powers to toss around traffic on the highway so you can get home faster. And then you’re not antagonizing for hire anymore. You’re doing it because it’s fun. Because it makes you feel big. Powerful. Unstoppable! You can crush anyone in your way. The world will kneel before you. You’re the villain dammit! Who’s gonna stand up to you? Who’s got the balls to fucking stop you?

"And then the next thing you know, you do something terrible. Something horrible. Maybe you just disintegrated some old lady at the laundromat and kicked her dog. Maybe you killed a mime or tore apart the bank and actually stole the cash because you needed some spending change. Maybe you try and make a play for the eastern seaboard or you started a land war in Asia. Whatever it was, suddenly you’ve got all the wrong kinds of attention from cops, heroes, and fuck, maybe even the government. Then you’re on the run. You’re not a freelancer anymore. You’re the bad guy. You and the mask are one and the same, and there’s no going back. You have to be the villain now. There’s no choice, other than a concrete box under a desert or getting killed. And it all just... falls apart."

I finished, the heavy silence stretching out in the sterile train car, broken only by the rhythmic clattering of the wheels on the tracks.

I abruptly realized the metal handrails running along the ceiling of the carriage were vibrating aggressively with a low, threatening hum.

I forced my powers down, unclenched my jaw, and glanced over to find Psyren staring at me, her mouth slightly open, her pink eyes wide.

I cleared my throat, adjusting my collar. "Right. So, yeah. That’ll happen."