Dehydrated Rambling

Snippet 1 (complete): Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13 (epilogue)

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Whumpee stood for a moment, listening to the steady sound of Whumper’s feet thumping down the hallway in an even, unhurried cadence. Once they faded into nothingness, Whumpee immediately went to the window, inspecting the glass and frame. There was a lock on it, indicating it once was able to open, but the seems had in some way been secured shut. They heaved their entire body weight against it, attempting to drag the slider even an inch to the other side, going as far as to put one foot against the inside edge for purchase.

When that didn’t work, they pulled back from the wall, chest heaving, eyes wild, hands aching. They turned their attention to the contents of the room next, searching for something they could use to break the glass. They were able to take in the rest of their surroundings then, from the painted walls to carpetted floor. 

On the wall opposite the window, a wooden door stood, ostensibly locked, in the corner. The materials looked average for an interior door, something they could kick through with enough time and effort. The difficulty there would be keeping away from Whumper once out of the room, as the ordeal would doubtlessly result in a great deal of noise and splintered wood. 

To Whumpee’s other side stood a four poster bed, ash-grey wood, outfitted with a cream canopy and draping curtains. The bedding was the same color, with lavish pillows and thick, fluffy blankets in complimentary pastel shades. The carpet below their feet was soft and plush, almost inviting.  On the other wall, beyond the bed, stood a standard wood desk, this one a lighter pine with a smooth, lacquered finish. A small dresser of the same wood was at the end of the bed. Whumpee ripped open the drawers, rifling through their contents in the vain hopes of finding anything they could use to defend themself. The clothes they shoved to the side were new, neatly folded, their size. The terror really only compounded at this point. 

Whumpee shoved themself away from the dresser. They stood. They stalked toward the desk. They found nothing — not so much as a pen. They had no shoes, no phone, even the clothes they woke up with were tattered and dirty compared to when they last remembered. 

The day had been normal. Nice, even, from what they could remember. They’d finished work early; the most vexacious project of the year completed and went off without a hitch, and they were settling in at their favorite cafe to relax and get in some reading. It’d been so long since they were able to curl up with nothing but a book and blanket and tea without the worries of their life. They couldn’t remember which barista had served them their evening decaf then. They went to that cafe almost every day, it was the one thing that got them through most long, ardous tasks at work and assignments they took up in the hopes of getting out of more tedious ones. They knew every barista at that cafe, had memorized the names of every one. Why couldn’t they remember who was behind the counter that evening? 

They chalked it up to whatever Whumper had done. Some kind of head trauma or drug or something that meant those precious last moments of normalcy were shrouded in some kind of nebulous haze; it nagged at them in the back of their mind. They should forget about it, try the door, even if it was locked, and see if it had any more give than their memory. It felt important, though, to remember. 

They shook their head and began studying the hinges. 

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Whumpee's head was still spinning when Whumper gripped the duct tape looped around their wrists and yanked them off the floor. Whumpee rose with a cry of pain, struggle momentarily forgotten when Whumper pulled at the newly wounded skin.

Another moment later (Whumpee hadn't been paying attention, damnit, they had been too focused on the pain), the blanket from earlier covered their eyes, thrown over their head just before Whumper hoisted them over their shoulder.

This, at the very least, hurt less, even as they rested their hands on Whumper's back to keep them stable while they kicked out. They could catch themself, they just had to get out of Whumper's grasp, had to get their head free, had to think for a second.

Whumper's upper body shifted as they kicked a door shut. The air around them grew warmer, if not more stuffy, and whatever Whumper dumped them on was soft. Footsteps. Whumper let them down and stepped back. Whumpee's adrenaline shot higher. They'd hardly had a chance to struggle and they were already winded. How were they going to get out of this?

Whumper put an abrupt end to their musings by pulling away the blanket. Ostensibly it was to blind them when they were outside, as this interior was decidedly far too different from the interior of the shed to have been connected. Of course, their own poor sense of direction made them unlikely to find their way out of that stupid blanket, let find help.

The second abrupt change to their senses that night overwhelmed their eyes with light. Whumpee searched the room immediately, scrambling into a corner so that Whumper couldn't sneak behind them. Wait, wasn't being cornered a bad thing? They needed something, anything -- a window interrupted the wall nearest them. Whumper must have noticed their focus.

"It's bullet proof, you know," they said, stepping back from Whumpee. Their words fell on deaf ears. The only thing Whumpee could hear then was their own breathing and the sound of their heart pounding in their ears. Whumper let out a heavy sigh.

"I can see you're still rather disoriented. Take the night to get yourself comfortable. We'll talk in the morning." The words didn't sink in until the door snapped shut behind Whumper, lock clicking into place.

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Tag list (add yourself here): @phoenixpromptsandstuff

The first thing Whumpee registered was the cold. It was everywhere, bone-deep, from the air on their face to the sinking feeling in their chest. It was nothing near where they last remembered being, their normal café just a block down from their house, having stopped by on the way home from work. Warm wood tones and slow jazz playing over speakers replaced with cracked, dusty floorboards and eery silence. Even the air felt thick, oppressive, haunted.

Their mind scampered, eyes darting from surface to ceiling to crevice, investigating any shadow-obscured corner for a hint of what brought them there, where they were, what had happened. They chanced a shift of their arms to find that they were bound by what felt like duct tape. Their eyes widened at the realization, even as they tried to use their bound arms to push themself up off the floor.

Across the space, a door began to rattle, lock clicking and rusted hinges squealing in protest as they swung open for what sounded like the first time in years. Whumpee's eyes shot to the now open doorway as they prepared themself for a fight, body tense, shaky, aching after however long they were on the floor for.

A shadow filled the space left open by the door, illuminated from the back by the same full moon that revealed a heavy mist and what may have been the silhouette of trees. Whumpee shivered again. Something clattered to the ground, a curse rang out, and then the room was bathed in light, a single swinging bulb from the ceiling shining down upon the figure across from them.

Whumper shivered, movements exaggerated by the dramatic lighting. Their eyes settled upon Whumpee, then, and rushed towards them. Whumpee tensed for the moment it took them to get from the entry of the shed to where Whumpee sat in a heap on the ground core muscles straining to keep them upright. All Whumper did, though was offer a blanket and a look of something not unlike concern on their face.

"You poor thing -- I'm so sorry. I was getting the house ready, I wasn't expecting you so soon -- you must be so cold." Whumper wrapped the blanket around Whumpee's shivering shoulders. Warmth seeped from the blanket, leeched by the frigid surrounding air, almost like it'd just been taken out of the dryer.

"Let me get you up--" Whumper drew a knife -- wicked, serrated, and flecked in something that may have been blood. Whumpee's heart pounded in their ears and they began to writhe and maneuver themselves farther away from the blade on instinct; Whumper kept them still through a vice like grip on their arm. Whumper held their tongue between their teeth in concentration, brows furrowed. Whumpee could smell the coffee and sweat and rubbing alcohol.

Whumpee felt the metal of the knife graze their arm and jerked forward in panic, driving their forehead into Whumper's shoulder. It threw them to the side long enough for Whumpee to pull free of the rest of the tape, cutting themselves in the process.

They slammed into the floor before they had the chance to inch closer to the door, pinned to the dusty wood once again by Whumper's weight and unrelenting grip. Whumpee let out a squeak of surprise, wincing as the wooden ground scraped against their cheek.

Whumper seemed hardly phased, though, yanking Whumpee up by their hair and exposing the back of their neck. The cool, humid night air sent more chills down their spine -- although, that may just be the knife -- and they momentarily lamented the loss of the blanket.

"Careful, now." Whumper reached for the blade again, examining the new streaks of red from the brief struggle. Whumpee had barely even noticed the crimson trails down their arms. They were no longer duct taped to whatever had kept them down -- Whumpee hadn't wanted to take their eyes off Whumper long enough to glance behind them -- but they were still bound together.

Whumper looked back from the blade, flicked it back into half, and slid it into a pocket. Their eyes refocused on Whumpee, still trying to stand. Their head was still spinning. A deflated sigh. "We'll do this the hard way, then."

A/N - Different tag list for this because it's a different genre. To be added to my master tag list, please click [here]

Henchman ambled down the well-worn path, squinting their eyes against the threads of sunlight that slipped between the trees and splashed over the rustling forest. Thick, glossy leaves offered cover from the piercing light and oppressive heat. The dry air meant any time out of the sun was time out of the heat, and they accepted it gladly. The shirt that hung off their shoulders, two sizes too big, at least kept their skin from burning.

The soft, rhythmic cracking of branches and dry grass drew their attention away from the greenery in front of them and the chirping song in the sky to the formerly empty path, winding between tree roots and fallen branches. Henchman sighed softly to themselves. After everything, this at least was familiar.

They were prepared, then, as they turned their attention away from the path behind them and found Villain standing nearby. "Evening," Villain offered playfully.

"Afternoon, really. I thought you and Right Hand were still discussing reparation logistics."

Villain inclined their head. "I was. What, sick of me already?" They strolled closer, offering Henchman their arm. They took it with an ever-lessening second of hesitation. Henchman went to turn away, though Villain stopped them before they could get far with a hand on their chin. "I thought you were supposed to be resting."

"I am well enough to walk. Surely, you trust me enough for that?"

"You had two fights with Hero within a day, if that much. Surely you understand why I may be concerned?"

Henchman hesitated for a moment. They remembered so little of their capture, the barest bits and pieces, fragments masquerading as memory; it would take very little to convince them it was a dream, nothing more.

Though, come to think of it, with all the news Henchman had watched through their recovery, as there wasn't much else they could do, they never heard anything about Hero. Even with Villain staying close to home, there were plenty of other enemies of Hero League that could be trusted to go knocking in their absence.

"What happened to Hero, anyway? I haven't been hearing about them in the news." Silence. "I saw them in their… base, I guess it's called? They were pretty banged up; more so than they were after our fight." The surrounding birds offered the only reply. "I haven't seen them on the news," Henchman finished, then turned to face Villain. Their slow stroll stuttered to a stop. Henchman craned their neck to look Villain in the eye. "What did you do?"

Villain turned their head to meet Henchman's gaze. "What I had to."

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Thanks for coming along for the ride! It's been... 3 years for me to finish this...

"What is wrong with you?" Medic snapped. Villain responded with a heavy sigh, resting their head on their hands. Not a moment after their office door closes and they're already being critiqued. At least they were keeping their voice down, though that was more for Henchman's benefit than Villain's.

"All is not well, I take it?" Right Hand asked, slipping through the door. The moment they took note of Medic's face, their expression morphed into a knowing smirk. Villain silenced them both with a glare.

"Is it truly so inconceivable to you that I'm merely relieved that my employee is safe? That I do not have to add another tally to the dead? And yes," Villain continued, "I was worried. Happy? I was worried about Henchman, who decided for some reason that they should take on Hero by themself, who was then abducted--"

They cut themselves off sharply and lowered their head once again. "I have asked many people to die for me. It has become routine enough, as morose as it was. I am accustomed to demanding loyalty. What I am unused to is Henchman's... zeal? Enthusiasm? What would you call it, anyway? Throwing yourself into danger for the sake of someone else without being asked, I mean."

Another of those damn knowing glances. Medic opens their mouth, seemingly confident in whatever response they were going to give before Right Hand silenced them with a quick motion. "If nothing else," they began slowly, "I would believe it to be faith. Devotion to... to a purpose, to a notion, to a movement. Trust that what you have given them, however scarce, is a true reflection of your intentions."

The slow cadence of Right Hand's words drew Villain's eyes away from the smooth wood of their desk and back at the two standing in front of them. Right Hand spoke again, "Would it not be time, perhaps, for you to trust them as well?"

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Henchman jerked their arms away any time Medic attempted to draw nearer, beginning to disentangle themselves from wires and tubes in a clear, unspoken threat. They had vague memories of standing before, which seemed far to herculean now to even attempt, but managed to swing their feet over the side of the bed before Medic sighed heavily and forfeited their wordless battle. 

“Fine, fine, just lay back down,” they grumbled. Henchman immediately began to ease back into the comfortable, shapeless mass of pillows built up behind them. “Villain doesn’t need any more reasons to kill me.”

“What?”

“It’s been about three days since the beginning of the attack from Hero League. You were taken into their custody almost immediately, Villain left to find you after the battle ended a couple hours later, and they returned with you a day and a half later. You’ve woken up a couple times since, but not long or coherent enough to really talk.”

“And I’m in… Villain’s room.”

Medic folds their lips together for a moment, considering their next words carefully. “Yes. The infirmary was pretty roughed up during the attack. There was a fire in that wing of HQ.”

“But the explosion in Villain’s office—”

“This wing was secured most quickly. Hero League was more searching for information; they didn’t want to destroy anything valuable. Most of the fighting took place along the outer wings.” Medic’s look was half warning, half exaspiration. They paused for a moment, stopping their fuss over monitor screens and bandages to meet Henchman’s eyes. “They were worried about you, you know. Villain, that is. I thought I was prepared, what with how they acted after you tried to take on Hero, but this was something else.”

Medic stood again before Henchman could say anything. “They’re going to want to talk to you. Should I let them know you’re awake?” 

Henchman nodded before they finished processing the question in its entirety, and Medic left the room. They returned not even a minute later, this time behind Villain, who boasted plenty bandages of their own. Villain was still smoothing down the front of their suit when their eyes met Henchman’s, and they greeted them with a slight clearing of their throat. “Henchman. It is good to see you awake.”

Medic cleared their throat as passive aggressively as possible whilst maintaining plausible deniability, drawing Villain’s attention. Henchman answered quickly in an attempt to redirect the inevitable glare. “Thank you. For both your concern and the rescue.”

While it had all the tact of a giant trying to lock pick, it worked well enough. Villain returned their attention to Henchman, clearing their throat again. Finally getting a good look at Villain’s face, Henchman’s eyes landed on the patches of reddened skin between the bandages peppering their face. The bruises on Henchman’s own face twinged in sympathy. 

“How are you doing?"

Henchman hesitated for a moment. It was normal enough for Villain to appear more or less callous on any given day, and they made an attempt at remaining civil with members of their inner circle, concern like this for someone so far below them was... unusual. Not even after their most recent tussle with Hero did they show this level of concern. It was easier to be pragmatic, though, then to address that.

"I'm alive. I'm home in one piece. My wounds are seen to." Henchman looked around the room again. "I... appreciate your allowing me to stay here."

"Ah, right, yes, of course--" Villain cut themselves off, face glowing. Anger, assumedly, at the destruction of their home. Or, for one delirious moment, Henchman wondered if it was not anger, but embarrassment. Embarrassment that something like that could happen under their watch, in which their base destroyed and lowers injured.

"Well, I'm glad that you're awake. I'll leave you to rest, then. I'm sure Medic will take care to help you recover in the meantime." They left with a slight dip of their chin, and Medic trailed behind them in a huff.

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Tag list (broken because it's been a hot sec, let me know if I should take you off/put you on) : @nameless-beanie, @crow-with-a-typewriter, @portrayalrooms

The sheets were warm, room quiet, their wounds bandaged. A quick once-over told Henchman that they were alone in the room at the moment, but pressure marks in a nearby armchair, notably with the same color and texture upholstry as Villain’s desk chairs, told them that the emptiness of the room was a rather recent development. The distant sounds of Right Hand and Villain in a heated argument outside the door, though, was not. Their voices were quiet, yet each traded unintelligable words in harsh tones that were recongizable through the thick walls of inner Headquarters. 

Henchman was curious, senses dulled slightly by the amount of pain killers, and even if the pain in their head had yet to subside, laying in place while a quiet battle waged outside the door would not give them the necessary peace to heal. Neither would the constant wondering of why. Henchman was familiar with Villain and the runnings of their business-like operations. The enormous risk would not have been warranted, even considering the information that Henchman held. While not insignificant, they were not a member of Villain’s inner circle the way that Right Hand was. 

Their mouth tasted bitter at that thought. Likely just the medicine, they supposed. Either way, Villain and Right Hand were not stopping any time soon, so Henchman tentitively laid one foot on the soft gray rug. Step after step, Henchman neared the door but came no closer to understanding the angry words the two traded. Their fingers hardly ghosted along the brass handle before the door swung away and opened into the hallway. Villain’s brow was furrowed, lips thinned and eyes narrowed how they always were when they were mad, yet the expression eased into something calmer upon searching Henchman’s face. 

“I’m sorry,” Henchmen said, though from the looks of the two, their speech was slurred to at least some extent. Henchman found that hypcritical, because even as Villain’s mouth moved, expression morphing into one of concern, their words were no more intelligable than they were from when Henchman laid in the bed across the room. Even so, Villain appeared unmoved by the swaying of the ground that threatened to knock Henchman off their feet, instead reaching out their arms to steady them. The ground swayed for a moment longer, then the power went out, and everything went black. 

When Henchman awoke, it was to the inside of the same room, if not with a few changes. The lights were too bright, machines too loud, their body in too much pain despite the copious amount of painkillers that Medic supposedly had access too. Henchman would have to ask them what they did to upset them enough to skip out on the pain management. They raised their hand to their face, feeling tenderly at the bandages that wrapped around their head. The arm itself was also bandaged heavily, more white gauze than visible skin, and Henchman grimaced. The bandages must have been changed recently; nothing seemed to stain the outside yet. Henchman cast another look down their own body. 

They were dressed in a classic hospital gown of thin, checkered fabric that did little to stave off the cold of the room. The sheets of the bed were clean, but tables flanked the frame, lined with different wires and cords. They were attached to a monitor on one side, and an IV on the other. They squinted their eyes against the light, looking around for a way to dim the lights. They’d never been in Villain’s private rooms before; very few, if any other people had. To their understanding, Right Hand would occasionally meet Villain in their outer chambers for emergent reports, but even those were quickly taken to their nearby office.

Henchman shifted in the enormous bed again, using their arms in whatever way they could to lift themselves into a sitting position. The pressure along their wrist resulted in another blinding flash of pain. The sound that came out of Henchman’s mouth, which they will not be discussing, thank you, was loud enough to draw medic out of wherever they were hiding, sticking their head into the room. 

“You’re awake,” they said, then walked over and helped them lean up. Henchman had just enough mental capacity to recognize new scratches all across Medic’s face, continuing down their neck and arms, visible between their gloves and rolled-up sleeves. 

“Unfortunately,” Henchman quipped. Medic’s brow furrowed despite Henchman’s attempt at humor, which fell flat when done with their hoarse voice and ravaged throat. 

Medic hushed them. “Try not to move. You’ve got a concussion and broken bones everywhere.”

“Which is why I’m… here?” Medic’s hands stilled. They hesitated, refusing to look away from the equipment set up on the table beside Henchman. “I thought it was just the chandelier that got broken,” they offered uselessly. 

Another moment of silence. A shake of Medic’s head. They swallowed hard. “Hero League did some damage to Headquarters. It’s nothing you need to worry about, it just means that my base of operations has shifted for the time being.”

“Were others hurt, then?”

“You’re the patient I’m focused on right now,” Medic replied, busying themselves once again. They went to wrap something around Henchman’s arm, who stopped them with their opposite hand, still thrumming with pain.

“Medic. What happened?” Henchman hesitated. “How long has it been?”

Another moment of hesitation. “I can’t explain this all to you right now. It will be explained in time, after you’ve had a chance to recover. You’ve been through a lot, now let us worry about the rest.”

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Henchman wasn't sure how long it had been since they last opened their eyes. During somewhere between an especially long blink or absolute coma, they'd moved. Or rather, they'd been moved, and ostensibly by someone other than Hero, who seemed to still nurse wounds from their fight with Villain.

All Henchman really knew for sure then was that they were cold. There was no bed in their cell, no blankets, just a cold stone floor with cold stone walls, punctuated with cold metal bars and deep cracks. The prison (?) they were in resembled much less of the proper government infrastructure that they were expecting and more of an abandoned, dystopian bunker. Henchman was pulled from their thoughts by a shiver.

Against their better judgment, they leaned their head against a wall, easing the weight on their neck in an attempt to limit the pain. It didn't really work, but their position against the wall, still laying on the floor, let them feel the occasional vibrations of a slammed door or nearby stomping footsteps.

Were the heroes fighting? That might explain why they're being so loud. Maybe it was villain, who had come to take them home. Henchman vaguely remembered a conversation with villain, sometime shortly before they wound up here. Something about hero, though they couldn't remember exactly what.

They thought for one hopeful -- albeit delirious -- moment that Villain returned their affections. Something about feeling nervous, then relieved -- something slammed in the distance, just loud enough to make pain shoot through Henchman's head, and they figured it may have been their concussion instead. Either way, they could no longer tell if it was reality or a dream; their memory had become too fuzzy to separate the two.

With another shiver, Henchman drew their knees to their chest, warming themself up the best they could. All they had were the clothes on their back, tattered and stained with blood. Glass was sticking out of one of their sleeves, they thought. Maybe that was the concussion, too.

They weren’t sure when they awoke, but when the did, it was to screaming. Everything was weaving in and out of itself, and they wondered half-heartedly if it was the concussion or the blood loss. They promptly found they couldn’t bring themselves to care, not with the constant blinding pain throughout their head with every shriek, and every flash of agony with any movement. They found no respite, even in breath. 

They understood, on some plane of existence that they remained oh so slightly tethered too, that someone was trying to grab them. Someone was trying to shift them away from the wall, lift them from the stony ground and into warm arms. Henchman attempted to turn away, because everything hurt and the warm place in their mind meant they were finally away from a freezing, dark cell and back where they were supposed to be, in their office back at Headquarters, where they could watch Villain walking around with Right-Hand, discussing Hero League’s latest movements and pretend that they were paying attention to their work, not the individual in front of them, imaging themself in Right Hand’s place. Where they were somewhere familiar, somewhere warm, somewhere safe. 

Eventually, their dreaming wore off. It took a while to realize that, though, because when Henchman finally opened their eyes again, they were not in a cell, or their bedroom, or the infirmary of Headquarters. They actually hadn’t been there, before. It was a bedroom, that much was clear. They were laying in a large canopy bed, black satin sheets all around them, warm and soft and smelling vaguely of sandalwood and pine. The pillows were soft, the blankets were warm, and the wood was beautiful, a dark, warm tone that reminded them of Villain’s desk—

A dark, warm tone that reminded them of Villain’s desk. Maybe that conversation was not entirely a fever dream after all? 

cw: injury, blood, general violence

Villain groaned as they awoke. Their head was spinning, dark spots dancing across their vision as they slowly pushed themselves upright against Medic's orders.

"You're going to hurt yourself--dammit, Villain, just listen--"

"Henchman," Villain said, although their tongue was about as deft as marshmallow coated lead--that is to say, not at all. They put one hand on their throbbing head and placed the other on the ground to steady themself, then promptly yanked it back into their chest as if burned.

Shards of shattered glass littered the floor, as did blood, dust, and the fallout of magical damage caused by the heroes. From what Villain could make out through their still-spinning vision, the massive, decadent chandelier crashed from the ceiling to the floor and left a several-foot radius of metal and glass shards--shards Medic would have had to walk through in order to reach Villain.

Right Hand came sprinting back into sight, one arm bloodied and tucked to their chest. They took great leaping strides around the glass and slid to their knees beside Villain, helping Medic coax them back against the wall.

"What happened to Henchman?" Villain repeated, and their eyes narrowed in annoyance.

"That's not what you need to be worried about right now--hold still--" Medic snapped as Villain once again brushed them off and successfully stood, leaning against the wall and Right Hand to steady themselves against the spinning in their head.

Villain clenched their jaw against the pain of walking and stumbled their way through the maze of debris. In addition to their chandelier, the back wall had been blown blown in, meaning that the already large entrance hall doubled in size.

The halls were much darker than they should be, with the lack of windows and apparent lack of power plunging most of Villain's compound into darkness. Villain squinted their eyes.

They may not have light, but they'd stumbled to their office from the front door blind drunk and half-dead, and before long they were leaning against the wall and breathing heavily against the new pain in their chest. The door to their office was utterly destroyed, not unlike the disaster in the entrance hall.

Villain barely noticed. Stumbling, nearly falling to their knees, Villain's wild and desperate eyes searched the wreckage for any sign of movement or life. They found two guards, each struggling to rise, and a third that looked like they'd died on impact. The lights in Villains office were destroyed too, leaving Villain to search in the dark. One of the guards managed to get up onto their knees, one arm wrapped around Right Hand and the other braced against the wall.

The noise drew Villain's attention, and they snapped their head around to focus on the newly-standing guard. "Henchman. What happened to them?"

The guard gave a weak, wet cough, blood spattering the front of their tattered uniform. "H-Hero managed to bust through the door."

"I. Gathered. That," Villain snarled through clenched teeth. "What happened after."

"Villain," Right Hand began, then cut off into silence at Villain's raised hand.

"They... Hero..." The guard gave another wet cough, then crumbled back to the ground despite Right Hand's best efforts to hold them upright. They didn't move again.

Villain turned away from them both. "Hero has Henchman, then," they murmured into eery silence.

The rubble crunched under Right Hand's feet as they shifted their weight, once again clutching their arm to their chest. They drew in a long, labored breath. Villain turned to them, now silent. The room was dipped in darkness. Villain was the first to speak.

"Watch over the compound until I get back. Instruct Medic and their team to care for any and every guard who isn't dead. I'll be back by dawn," they ordered.

Right Hand dipped their head in a nod, eyes widening with realization, and Villain turned on their heel and strode out of the office, shoulders tall.

cw: injury, blood, general violence

Henchman's vision slid into focus amid a world better described as an amalgamation of agony and the very distinct smell of hairspray. They coughed, chest heaving and ribs barking in protest. They spat blood into their lap, then squinted around the room.

Their hands and legs were tied to a steel chair in a strange combination of rope and a silk-like material, tight enough to cut off circulation, so they could barely feel their fingers and toes. Their hair, usually cleanly styled out of their eyes fell into their face, and resisted any attempts to be adjusted when Henchman tossed back their head.

Vision mostly unimpeded (although Henchman's left eye was surely swollen and the color of deep plums), they noticed they were not alone in the small, sterile chamber. One of the heroes sat across a steel table, similar to the chair Henchman was strapped to. That explained the hairspray smell.

Henchman jerked back, albeit belatedly, and held back a small squeak of fear that caught in the back of their throat. They coughed again, then clenched their teeth against the pain and raised their head so that the blood dripped down their chin, and onto their shirt where the hero could see it, rather than in their lap. They reached for words, and they found none.

"I'd be careful with your next words if I were you," the hero said with a deep, rumbling voice, and when their eyes locked, it was an effort for Henchman not to cower at the piercing fury in their eyes.

Henchman settled in silence for a time, parsing out their situation before realizing that the only benefit to that would be a deeper understanding of how severely screwed they were. "Where am I?"

The words came out weak, wobbling, and Henchman felt themselves spit the last syllables as if that could pry the remaining taste of coppery blood from their mouth.

The hero stood, and Henchman realized that it was not any hero, but rather Hero, the one they'd fought the day before--was it only a day? They had no idea how long they'd been out, if Villain was looking for them--if they missed them.

Hero limped behind Henchman so they could no longer see them, and whatever anxiety Henchman felt when they feared Villain was nothing compared to whatever horrors pressed down upon their shoulders and constricted their ribs. A tense silence permeated the room.

"You're in one of our bases, to be held until we no longer have need of you," Hero said, and continued walking around Henchman. Their system flooded with an odd sense of relief when their eyes settled on Hero again.

Henchman noticed several injuries that weren't there following their fight. Hero was limping heavily, for one, and they were sporting a nasty black eye, likely similar to the one on Henchman's face.

Henchman scanned Hero's body, looking for any other signs of injury or weakness--and found plenty. Bandages around Hero's right arm, their dominant arm if their fights were anything to go by. Hero's bruises looked new, despite plenty of time for magical healing to kick in, meaning their magic was either restricted or drained from another altercation.

They had cuts and bruises peppering their face and neck, and judging by their labored breathing, they'd broken ribs, or bruised at the very least. Hero had been in another fight and lost very, very badly.

Was there another villain Hero was assigned to? The Hero League was focused most on Villain because of their infamy, but another up-and-comer could be stretching their forces thin. Could it have been Villain themself? When would they have been able to do that?

Hero snapped Henchman back to reality by slamming a hand against the table. "You will listen to me when I'm speaking to you," they snapped, their eyes narrowing. "These next few months will be much easier for you if you learn to follow instructions."

Months? Villain would never leave them to rot for months. Perhaps it was the fear, or the utter insanity that prevented Henchman from stopping the laughter bubbling up inside their chest and out into the hero's face.

"Months? You really think you're going to keep me here for months?" Henchman asked. Their swollen eye twinged with pain, and their ribs protested the movement.

"Did you think your Villain was going to save you?" Hero sneered, and Henchman noticed signs of a missing tooth towards the front of their mouth.

Hero kept their mouth shut, and opted to respond with a slow, calm smile instead. Hero cocked back their fist, and with one quick swing, their world went black.

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I genuinely love it so much 😭😅 (ofc it’s completely fine if you don’t 🫶)

P.s Right hand and Medic are r #1 wingmen

Snippet 1 (Part 6)

There was a moment of silence after the admission, as if neither of them could believe the words that'd slipped out of their mouths. Words long, long overdue. A moment of silence was all the two were allowed before a rumbling shook the ground.

The dreamy, faraway expression of shock and disbelief and relief slid of Villain's face in favor of one much more wary. Right Hand entered the room seconds later, chest heaving and out of breath.

"Hero League is at the door."

Villain's brows furrowed. "Which ones?"

"No--like, Hero League. All of them."

Villain's expression locked down. "Tell Guard to keep an eye on Henchman and meet me out by the front gate. Henchman," Villain turned their eyes to the wide-eyed individual beside them, still processing Right Hand's first words. "Stay here and don't do anything stupid."

Without another word, the two rushed off out of Villain's office. Henchman figured better than to follow them, especially when Guard entered the room moments later using an ID card, meaning most of the doors had locked and Headquarters was under lockdown. Henchman heard only faint murmuring above them. Villain's office was situated in the lower level of Headquarters, below ground, as were other important meeting rooms and the location of any records with confidential information.

The front gate, obviously above ground, was situated very close to Villain's office, just on the floor above. Even so, for Henchman to hear anything other than very faint footsteps, meant something was going on.

"I know that look in your eyes, Henchman," Guard warned, "and even if you think you're getting Villain out of trouble with whatever plan you're thinking of, you're only going to make them worry."

"I wasn't going to do anything." Not a complete lie. Guard caught them before they could really form a plan that consisted of something other than pry open the door, make a run for it, and just start swinging.

The two glared at each other until an explosion from above rocked the chandelier hanging above Villain's desk, nearly sending it crashing into the polished wood. Henchman stumbled away from the center of the room and nearly bumped into Guard in their haste, their heart skipping a few beats as they heard yelling coming from upstairs.

They two only had seconds before the door exploded towards them, backed by a flash of fire and heavy smoke. Henchman's head was spinning, hit hard by the front of Guard's armor. Guard rested one arm protectively over Henchman, but from their incoherent mumbling it became all too clear Henchman couldn't rely on them for much more.

Their head was ringing, pressure and a high whining in their ears as their eyes darted from side to side. They remained still for the next couple seconds, scrambling for another plan as more shouts and screams came from the hallway.

Henchman began to scoot away from the door, weak and disoriented as they were. "Henchman!"

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Thank you so much! hope it was worth the wait.

An accumulation of Henchman's nerves, curiosity, and isolation left them reaching for the TV remote and flicking on the news; if they were supposed to stay here, they may as well figure out what's going on outside. They weren't quite sure what to expect when they flipped to the right channel. At worst, they expected a detailed account of how Hero had beaten them to a pulp the previous day, and at best a dull prediction of the weather.

What they hadn't expected was a picture of the hero's face: bruised, blood, and scared. It was such a surprise Henchman merely blinked in silence for the first few moments, utterly failing to digest any of the words coming out of the reporter's mouth. Villain had to have been the one to do it. They hadn't heard of any other villains causing Hero so much trouble, and they knew they were incapable of doing that themself. Hell, in the previous battle, they'd barely managed to land a single hit on the damn Hero.

The TV flicked off suddenly. Henchman turned around, confused, until their focus settled on Villain's face in the doorway. They held the unplugged TV cord in one hand, and a small bag in the other. "We need to speak. In my office, if you don't mind." Henchman nodded numbly, and within a blink they were sat in Villain's office again.

"Hey," Henchman said, then immediately kicked themself, but Villain's lips quirked into a small smile, and when they drew closer, Henchman couldn't help noticing how they smelled of night air and coconut-vanilla body spray, which was their second favorite perfume, but very similar to one Henchman always wore.

"Hey," Villain responded, a teasing light in their eyes as they stopped within arm's reach of Henchman. "Are you feeling alright?" They asked softly, folding their hands together behind their back after dropping the TV cord and placing the small paper bag on the bedside table.

The proximity brought a faint burning to Henchman's cheeks, which prompted them to break the silence. Sitting up straighter, they spoke with a croaky voice. "I'm sorry--"

"Wait."

The Villain's soft voice was all it took to silence the breath in Henchman's lungs and steal the rest of their words off of their tongue.

"If there is an apology in order, it is one of me to you. I believe my anger was misdirected when we spoke earlier." Villain's cheeks were pinker than usual, though Henchman wasn't completely sure they weren't imagining it. Villain cleared their throat. "I... I wasn't angry with you; just frustrated at the situation. I didn't mean to cause you panic."

Henchman wasn't imagining it; Villain was absolutely blushing. Which was good, because so were they. Met with silence, Henchman floundered for something else to say in reply. They should probably attempt their own apology again, or accept Villains, but their mouth was full of marshmallows and their tongue was made of lead until,

"Did I misread anger for anxiety?" Villain offers, and they look embarrassed with themself.

---

I thought I knew them better than that. Villain knew they were making a horrible mess of the entire situation, but Right Hand made it clear on no uncertain terms that if they had to watch Villain beat around the bush with Henchman anymore they'd shave off their eyebrows in their sleep, then make them confess, which was an infinitely worse situation that Villain was doing their best not to image.

Henchman shook their head slightly, then their eyes widened a little as they shook off the silence they'd fallen into. "No, not at all. I just--I wasn't expecting you to say that. I was pretty sure you were pissed at me."

It's a herculean effort to stop the sigh of relief from swooshing out of Villain's lungs, and the burning blush they were hoping Henchman hadn't clocked faded just the slightest bit. Maybe this wasn't completely hopeless. With another slight clear of their throat (a nervous tick they'd been trying to loose since childhood), they unfolded their twitching hands and offered the bag to Henchman. A peace offering, and an apology.

Quick, sharp footsteps passed in front of the doorway, and a flash of Right Hand's silvery hair was all it took to prompt Villain into their next words, uttered so quickly their tongue tripped over itself. "I was angry at Hero because I was worried about you." They were blushing furiously, and focused their gaze to the ceiling because any eye contact with Henchman would absolutely send them sprinting out of the room to take the easy way out. Or, in Right Hand's words: The coward's way out. It was even worse knowing their right hand was most likely listening as they dug themself deeper and deeper.

"It was the whole reason I wanted Hero down in the first place; they showed an interest in you--they attempted to target you, and I'm not sure if it was to hurt me, because they knew I cared about you, or if it was of their own accord, but I put you in danger and probably encouraged you to run out and fight them."

From what they could tell, they'd stunned Henchman into silence once again, though they couldn't tell if that, coupled with the blush on their ears and cheeks, was a good thing or meant Villain was just making a fool of themself.

"I thought I'd pass out on the spot when Right Hand told me where you were, especially when I saw Hero trying to call for backup. I wasn't sure what they'd do to you if they got you in custody. I went back as soon as I could to deal with hero, but they'd already gotten reinforcements and I couldn't get more than a couple good hits in--"

Their phone buzzed on their desk and lit up with a notification from Right Hand. [Slow down]. The bastard was listening.

Villain took another steadying breath, fixing their uniform and closing their eyes for a moment, clearing their throat and running one hand through their hair, bruised knuckles still aching. Henchman's voice broke in before Villain could continue their poorly planned speech. This was supposed to go so much smoother.

"I... I'm sorry, for worrying you. I didn't realize you held that kind of concern for my safety."

Villain collapsed onto their chair, holding their head in their hands as if that could make this entire situation go away. "I'm sorry, for dumping this on you so suddenly. I just... I would hate to see you get hurt again. I really don't know what I'd do without you."

"And Medic being so weird...?"

"I wanted to make sure you took proper care of yourself while I was gone. I guess they went overboard--but you do have a tendency to neglect your own needs in favor of work, and last night was no different."

Henchman blushed a little bit, and Villain felt themselves sliding into a more relaxed cadence as the conversation eased from "confession" to "take care of yourself, you idiot".

"You're one to talk."

That knocked Villain into another bout of silence. "I'm Villain. It's my job to go out and fight heroes--and maybe sometimes with Right Hand, but you're... you're different. Even considering my other employees, you are different. If you were hurt... If you'd died last night... I don't think I would be okay without you. I... really... I really care about you." Wow, great job genious.

Henchman didn't give Villain time to fret about what their expression meant as they replied, "I don't wanna loose you either, Villain."

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The next morning, Henchman sat in the infirmary of Villain's Headquarters, the atmosphere as thick as smoke. Henchman figured Villain let slip to someone what they were planning to do the Henchman as a punishment for what they'd done, or maybe even details of how they'd be tortured or killed, or maybe even thrown out for the heroes to round up like a stray dog, most likely with their tongue cut out and hands broken so they didn't stand a chance at revealing anything they'd learned about Villain

They didn't really know anything useful for the heroes anyway. They knew Villain's favorite color (dark blue), favorite foods (anything with chocolate), allergies (blueberries), their least favorite movie genre (horror) and a couple other things they picked up from being around Villain so much.

They learned why Villain didn't get on well with their parents (they very much had a favorite child and it wasn't Villain) and what'd brought on their anger towards the Hero Agency once Villain brought them into their confidence, sure, but they didn't know much more about plans then the average civilian--that would be Right Hand. Their actual duties consisted of watching over supplies, managing other henchmen and keeping an eye on the overall workings of Headquarters.

Henchman hoped that taking down Hero would make Villain proud of them. Would make them allow Henchman into their inner circle and bring them into their confidence. They'd hoped to get as close to Villain as Right Hand--closer, after bringing down Hero. And instead, they'd suffered two humiliating defeats (and several broken ribs).

It all came to a head when Medic came in to check on Henchman's stitches. in addition to the blunt force trauma of being thrown through a window and into a wall, glass shards stuck into their back and left jagged, stinging wounds that oozed blood well into the night. Henchman sat on their cot, facing away from Medic as their wounds were inspected and re-dressed, and even then they could feel the hesitation Medic's hands, which were usually sure and quick.

Silence hung in the room like a dead man.

"What are they gonna do?" Henchman asked in a croaky voice, just barely above a whisper.

Medic paused. Considered. "What?"

"Villain. What are they gonna do to me?"

Again, they were met with silence. Henchman was sure the stress was worse than any answer Medic could've given until... Medic laughed. They laughed. It wasn't a snort or a scoff, or even a giggle--and they didn't even try to hide it! Medic stepped back for a moment, cackling as Henchman's stomach dropped. Of all the answers they were expecting, that was one they hadn't prepared for in the slightest.

"Oh, God, I needed that. You're hysterical."

"I'm being serious!" Henchman whirled around half way before the agony from the mess that somehow made up their abdomen sent lightning-hot reminders of why that was a horrible idea.

"Stop it, you're gonna hurt yourself," Medic scolded lightly, laughter still dancing in their eyes. "Have you really been stressed about that the whole time?"

"YES!" Henchman was near screaming now, though they weren't sure if it was ager or confusion that raised their voice. "Why wouldn't I be? Did you see how furious Villain was before they left? And I haven't seen them since. I left without permission and acted without orders; they have every reason to be upset. And everyone and everything's been so quiet today, it's like I've been handed down a death sentence."

Medic cleared their throat and the last embers of amusement flickered out. "Yeah, well, you're right about that, but you're not the one in danger. Or at least, you weren't when it mattered."

The tone of Medic's voice was dead serious--terrifying--and didn't help the growing pit of anxiety that had hunkered down in Henchman's stomach. They felt like they were going to pass out, woozy and dizzy and like the world was tipping out from under them.

A sharp snap under their nose anchored them a little more steadily to the bed they were sitting on, Medic having circled around the cot to look Henchman in the eyes. "You're fine, relax. The rest of us weren't supposed to tell you because it was bad, even for Villain, but I don't think you're in for anything more than a slap on the wrist, and neither does anyone else."

And they wouldn't understand that even if Henchman wasn't going to be killed, as thankful for that as they were, even a slap on the wrist as Medic said would destroy everything Henchman had been working towards. Everything they'd been hoping for. They should've known going into the fight that they were putting Villain's trust in them on the line, and they had--to a point.

They never expected they would fail as horribly as they did, nor that Villain would react with the kind of quiet fury usually reserved for their rare interactions with heroes or other members of the Agency itself. They hadn't expected to be sent to the infirmary the way that they were, or to be teleported directly to it from an alley just off the main scene of the fight after barely getting away.

And what they really weren't expecting was what hurt most: The fact that Villain had put them here and walked off without another word. They'd spoken in their office, but beyond that, there wasn't even a threatening note, or a warning given through Medic. They'd been effectively put in time out, knowing what might be coming but not having enough confidence to really prepare themselves one way or another.

“Hey, what did I just say?” Medic says, this time with annoyance in their tone. “Even if I don’t know the details, I know you’re gonna be fine, okay? You’re gonna be fine, and I don’t think you’re clocking Villain’s feelings towards what you did to Hero as correctly as you think you are, yeah?”

Their assessment was fair, if not a little stinging. They’d never been good at reading people, but they’d hoped Villain was the exception. Even with their monotone voice and often stony demeanor, Henchman knew how tired they were in a glance after a fight; knew when to call for Medic or coffee or let them get straight to their personal rooms and block everyone else from entering–something Right Hand was usually supposed to do. 

The entire night, they’d tried not to deliberate too much on Right Hand. They’d tried to ignore the stinging jealousy of the fact that there was already someone that was so close to Villain they could almost read their thoughts. They knew Villain kept a certian amount of professionalism and distance between themselves and Right Hand that didn’t seem to be present between Villain and Henchman, but most liekly because it wasn’t seen as necessary. They weren’t close enough for it to matter in the first place. 

“Okay,” Henchman murmured, and one look at Meidc’s face made it clear to even them that they didn’t beleive them for a second. Nevertheless, Medic stepped away. 

“Okay,” they echoed, with much more confidence. “You seem to be healing well, all things considered, and I have other patients I need to take care of, so I’m going to leave you here, okay? Try not to freak out too much on me, yeah?”

Henchman gave a weak nod, and an even weaker smile. They were sure that Medic could see them spiraling form the outside, but if they did, they didn’t say anything about it. “Yeah.”

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"Do you have any idea how much of a threat hero truly is? How badly you could've been hurt?"

Henchman hesitated once again, but their wince of pain when Villain held their face and drew their eyes to theirs was enough of an answer to soften Villain's gaze. They heaved a sigh, gently releasing Henchman's face.

"What did Medic say--Never mind. i'll go speak with them myself. Don't move."

henchman followed orders, spending their remaining time pondering Villain's actions. The softness of their grip and the tone of their voice, most strangely of all the soft concern with which Villain watched their face. They'd even brought them directly to the infirmary as opposed to their office, and as it turns out had asked Medic not to let them leave until their injuries were documented and treated.

Time managed to pass agonizingly slow and all too fast at the same time, before Henchman heard Villain's quick footsteps beating a staccato rhythm at the door.

...

Henchman's face was pale and laced with an all too familiar taste of fear. Despite the ease of their actions and coolness of their voice (practically a confession, by the way) their intentions hadn't gotten through Henchman's head.

Unfortunate, but a conversation for another time, one much more private and much more comfortable for Henchman.

"It seems you have a much better idea of the threat hero poses now than I thought you did. Fortunately for you, I have some errands I have to run, so here's what's going to happen,"

Villain's hands are twitching at their sides already, so they fold them behind their back to keep the movements from henchman. Villain's sure they noticed, but the wariness on their face keeps them from asking questions. They wouldn't want to know anyway.

"I'm going to take you back to the infirmary, where you will be treated further. I've already spoken with them about the procedure I expect them to follow, so know that I expect you to cooperate with them."

Villain had spoken to Right Hand while Henchman was in the infirmary, ironing out the next steps: Hero's death and Henchman's recover at the top of the list.

They’d wanted to stop, to look at each of Henchman’s injuries individually and see to it that each had been treated and dressed. They wanted to ask if Henchman was in any pain, if they were scared of Villain or remembering their fight with Hero, what could have possibly possessed them to get into a fight with them in the first place.

They were exhausted. They transported Henchman back to the infirmary, giving Medic one sharp look to remind them of their prior conversation. Henchman was to receive treatment for every cut and bruise regardless of if Medic thought it necessary or not.

Then Villain left, if nothing else then to make sure they didn’t do something stupid.make sure they didn’t say something they shouldn’t. It was difficult enough to keep reminding themselves that taking care Henchman’s injuries would only serve to confuse and worry them further. They didn’t need more on their plate.

But how they wish they could.

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Short one today, next part hopefully tomorrow or the next day. Thank you all so so so much for the notes and kind words!!