Chapter 99 Meeting.

Chapter 99: 99 Meeting.

"Um... wow, boss. You got... kinda intense there for a second."

I exhaled heavily, running a hand through my hair to bleed off some of the tension.

"Yeah," I said, leaning my head back against the vibrating window of the train car. "Yeah, I guess I did. Sorry about that. I’ve just... seen a lot of guys go full villain. It’s a real temptation. But it’s like being on drugs. You think you can ride the evil high only as long as you need to, but inevitably it all comes tumbling down and you wind up in a supermax prison or dead from some streeter looking to make a name for themselves. And you know what? You deserved it. Because bad guys always lose in the end. It’s how the script is written. And we’re professional bad guys."

"Then, why do you do it?"

"Hm?"

"Yeah," Psyren said, eyeing me curiously, her head cocked to the side. "Why are you a villain, boss? Seems like the pay isn’t great and you’re always on the verge of going psycho. So why do it?"

That stumped me for a minute. I hadn’t really dug down to analyze the reasoning in a very long time.

I mean, you’d think after a past life in the mob I wouldn’t want anything to do with evil. But all it taught me was to avoid being owned by anyone.

Why was I a villain? It certainly wasn’t that glamorous.

Being a professional loser wasn’t exactly an inspiring calling, and most of the money I made went straight back into the whole business of schemes.

You had to keep up standards, after all. Doomsday devices and abandoned warehouse leases didn’t pay for themselves.

"Well... I guess partly, I just like it," I finally said.

"You do?" she asked curiously.

I nodded. "I do. I love being the villain. I love the capes. The drama. The overly wordy speeches and using my powers in a massive, collateral-damage-heavy fight with supers. It feels good. It feels fun!

"And... at the end of the day, I really do love what I do."

Psyren gave me a surprised look. "You do, boss?"

"Yeah," I said. "I do. I like the performance. I think they’re important and they do good in the world, when all’s said and done. Sure," I shrugged, "some heroes are massive dicks, and most are owned by corporate brands. But you get a percentage of narcissistic jackasses in every business. People need to believe in heroes, ya know?"

"Then, why not be a hero?" Psyren asked.

"I was just never really cut out for it, I guess," I said, watching the tunnel lights flash by. "I mean, I could do the hero thing, I suppose. But the world needs a villain to remind them why there are heroes in the first place. And I’m good at being the antagonist. It’s got more style. Maybe it’s a weird thing to take pride in, but I like being a good bad guy. It’s fun and fulfilling. I get to plan evil schemes, carry them out, be bombastic and dramatic, use my powers, and make heroes look good. I could probably make better money doing something else, but I’m not in it for the money, Psyren. I’m in it because I love this job. Genuinely."

"Well, I’ll let you in on a secret, boss," Psyren said softly.

"What’s that?"

She giggled and leaned over, resting her head on my shoulder so I could hear the faint, staticky hiss of her psychic dampening headphones. "I’m a pretty big fan of yours."

I couldn’t help but snort at that. "Thanks, Psyren. Ah, and here we are."

The train doors hissed open, and we stepped out into the early morning chill.

We walked the remaining two blocks through the high-end fashion district, passing rows of pristine designer boutiques and boutique coffee shops that probably charged twenty bucks for an espresso.

Finally, I stopped and gestured to the storefront in front of us.

Psyren stopped dead on the sidewalk. Her jaw fell open, her pink eyes widening in sheer disbelief. "This... this is Madame Edna’s?" she gasped.

I glanced at the structure. "Yep."

"I’m getting a costume... from a shack?"

She wasn’t entirely wrong to ask. Sitting on a prime piece of real estate in the wealthiest district in the city was a dilapidated, weather-beaten wooden shack.

It had a rusted corrugated tin roof, paint that had been peeling since the late nineties, and a faded, aggressively unremarkable wooden sign hanging by a single chain over the door that just read EDNA. It looked like a stiff breeze or a moderately aggressive pigeon could level the place.

"Look up," I told her.

Psyren tilted her head back, her eyes tracing the roofline of the shack, and then kept going.

Looming directly behind the wooden hovel was a towering, hyper-modern monolith of brushed steel and tinted black glass.

It was regular corporate fortress shit—clean lines, polished windows reflecting the rising sun, and an aura of obscene wealth. But jutting out of the ground floor, grafted directly into the pristine, multi-million-dollar glass lobby like a wooden tumor, was the shack.

"That was her original shop," I explained, hands in my pockets. "When she finally hit the big time and bought this entire city block to build her headquarters, she absolutely refused to tear down her first workspace. So she just forced the architects to build a fifty-story fashion empire attached directly to the back of it."

It was a frankly psychotic architectural flex, a giant middle finger to the zoning board and every snooty neighbor on the block. But in the high-stakes, ego-driven world of super-suit tailoring, you really had to admire the dedication to the bit.

You’d think heroes and villains would be wary of getting their tactical gear from a woman eccentric enough to do something like this, but Edna was a legend for a reason.

"Wow," Psyren breathed, staring at the bizarre fusion of rot and riches. "So, we’re really getting a costume from Madame Edna?"

"Well, we’ll see," I said, leading the way toward the shack’s creaky wooden door. "She has the final decision on who she takes as a client, and she only agreed to a meeting..."