The Little Escape
Buildings were exploding under the melting sun. The sky was red and pink and the shade of magenta of a bleeding heart. It was quite beautiful, actually. From down there, people looked like ants, moving in silence.
Villain was contemplating the scene from above, feeling strangely peaceful, when something poked his arm:
“Wake up. Night shift.”
He mumbled before reluctantly opening an eye. In front of him, there was a TV’s black screen, and behind that one of these white walls landowners were so crazy about, as impersonal as marketable. Himself was on an old couch that had seen better days, probably when dinosaurs learned to fly. There was a crack on the floor, and...stuff...more or less describable...everywhere else on the floor. Some were his, some belonged to Hero. His host was walking around, now fumbling in the kitchen. Villain groaned and scratched his neck and complained:
“Did we really pass the last night binging soap operas?”
“Yep.”
“Can two grown men get lower?”
Hero appeared in his sight, yawning behind a large cup of coffee:
“Every day. Check the news.”
Villain stared at the TV’s screen in answer. It’d been switched off since long ago. Hero paced the room, picking up plates and newspapers while somehow pocketing his keys and finishing his cup. He wasn’t making a very good job at cleaning the mess. Then again, even spotless, it’d be a depressing place, though much better that Villain’s. Their employers had found that a cave suited his character better than a home. It was beautiful and dark and wet, the ground was so uneven no furniture could stand for long, and it was best not to mention the bathroom at all.
Maybe he should have accepted the evil lair inside the volcano.
“Come on! We have a fight in two hours. Hat shop. You want a run-on?”
“I cause trouble, and you save the day.”
“Of course, but there’s some one-liners-”
He crossed Villain’s eyes and decided not to end his sentence.
It was Hat Shop Time. Villain went first, barging in his cape and black tight suit, threatening all the smiling employees with his stun gun while collecting beanies and caps and fedoras. Then, when he was ready to make his escape, Hero came and shrieked to “unhand these beautiful, wonderful accessories, you’re not worthy of them”. They fought, gave each other some carefully planned scratches, letting Villain pulling off a miraculous escape without his loot. Then it was the CD store’s turn, followed by the bakery and one or two bookshops.
It was a busy day. They only had five minutes for lunch. Villain bit once into his bagel and stopped there. Hero, who had inexplicably found the time to gobble two wraps and was on his third, sent him an interrogating glance.
“Do you sometimes wonder about what we’re doing?” he asked.
“We do a lot,” protested Hero. “We help the local economy. Sales boom every time each time you steal from a shop. We have a steady income and fame. It could be worse.”
“We’ll never be able to have a house.”
“No one does now.”
“Do you have friends? Do you have the time to party? To have hobbies?
Hero devoured the last bites and wiped his fingers:
“Well, we already meet lots of interesting people in our work, don’t we? I give autographs to children, people give you their fanfictions-”
“It’s all a lie.”
“No, it’s pretend. Would you rather real people getting hurt?”
Villain dragged his hand over his face:
“That’s not what bothers me. A villain should question the status quo. All I do is reinforcing it.”
“Is that so bad?”
“It’s not what I’m supposed to do.”
Hero shrugged, putting back his gloves as well as he could. During their break, they were sitting in the back of their corporation’s truck so people couldn’t risk seeing them together off the clock. It was hard to see anything in the flickering light, and harder to decipher Hero’s expression.
“There’s the only thing I’m able to do,” he whispered gently. “I gotta put food on the table. Let’s go.”
Villain watched him as he went out of the car. Hero’s shoulders weren’t hunched; he wouldn’t let that happen.
The next mission of the day was meeting Mrs. Cream. Her necklaces clanked when she greeted them. Everything glittered on her from her dress to her shoe buckles, and she had the happy smile of people who never needed to worry about their next meal. Her jewels aren’t selling like they should, so she settled them behind her tiny desk and explained:
“I thought a little kidnapping wouldn't hurt anyone; I don't want to put any employer at risk, so what about me? Try to be gentle, of course, haha.”
“Haha,” they answered automatically.
“I am known in town, so it should give all of us a little visibility boost.”
She winked at them and kept talking, but none of her words reached Villain. His sight blurred. A nondescript person was on front of him, talking about visibility and stats, a smirk on its lips, unreachable, all-powerful, and he could do nothing but lowering his head and thanking it for the great favor of being used-
It held out its hand smiling, knowing it won, and Villain punched its face.
It screamed. In a flash, she went back to be Mrs. Cream, who'd always been sweet and kind and patient and thanked them for the help. He watched her stumble and fall on her chair. Hero appeared between them, horrified, and rushed over her while she began to cry. Villain just stood there, unable to move.
Adrenaline was still pumping in his blood, and he felt good. He didn’t remember the last time it has happened. His blood sang so loud it was almost obscene.
It was bad and inexcusable and for once he'd acted just because he felt like it.
He left and no one stopped him. Maybe Hero yelled at him, but if he did, Villain had no memory of it.
A couple of hours later, Hero slammed his apartment’s door, cheeks red and bags under his eyes, and he screamed:
“You!”
“Me,” said Villain.
He had answered without thinking, then realized what he’s whispered, pinched his mouth as if he’s just tasted a rare wine, and repeated once more with satisfaction:
“Me.”
“What you did- you are- you’ve done a horrible thing!”
“I know.”
“Mrs. Cream is a lovely lady!”
“I know.”
“You don’t look like it- you should feel bad!”
“I know.”
“The boss is furious and he wants to see you as soon as possible.”
There was no answer to that, so Hero was forced to use his eyes and watch what is happening. The room was much cleaner. For a minute, the thought that his colleague had done a little spring-cleaning as a way to say how sorry he is crossed his mind, but he shook that off. It wasn’t cleaner, it was emptier. Villain was filling suitcases.
“What are you doing?”
Villain raised his head and gave him a peaceful, if a little vacant stare.
“It’s rotting,” he said.
“What are you talking about?”
“My soul. It’s molding. It’s gonna go worse if I keep on like this. I’m going.”
Hero said nothing. He didn’t help, he didn’t try to stop him. He sat on the couch with an ashen face. The door closed on him as gently as possible.
On top of a hill, Villain turned back. Down there, the town was glittering uselessly, unchanged by his departure. Buildings were not exploding, and the sun was not melting, but he was away.
Good enough.
He sat and waited. After a while, something moved to his right, huffing under the weight of too many bags.
“Took you long enough,” whispered Villain.
Hero shrugged, his gaze also wandering on the setting sun gliding over the rooftops.
“I’m scared. I’m scared stiff. But it’d be even scarier to face another day without you.”
He sat down, pulling off one of his bags from his shoulders:
“Besides, if you go on a rampage, who’s gonna stop you?”
Villain nodded without a smile. Hero’s hand was in reach and he took it.
*
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