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Devotion

A Minion/Villain piece.

A little different from previous posts, this piece introduces a new, recurring character: The Minion. After all, what is a Villain without a Minion, or a Hero without a Sidekick?

“Where were you? The Villain’s voice was cold.

Caught in the middle of removing their coat, the Minion looked up, finding their Mastress sitting in a chair by the bay windows. Dusk was falling, staining the sky plum and citrine as a curtain of depthless indigo descended over the world.

“I was running errands,” they said, hanging their coat and scarf on the rack. “Some of the supplies were low, and I thought-“

“Come here,” the Villain interrupted, waving at them to approach.

Obediently, the Minion came to stand at the Villain’s side.

“Why did you not tell me?” The Villain’s tone sent a thrill of warning through the Minion’s chest.

“You were busy,” they said truthfully, hands stuffed in their pockets. “When I got back with the supplies you were still locked in your office, so I met someone for dinner.”

“Who did you meet?”

The Minion hesitated, fearing to say too much.

“A friend.” It was true, to a point, but they didn’t want the Villain involved in their personal life more than they already were.

Without warning The Villain surged to their feet and wrapped their hands around the Minion’s neck, driving them to their knees. The Minion didn’t resist, merely met the Villain’s gaze with something like resigned trust.

“You are mine!” The Villain growled, squeezing just tight enough for the Minion’s eyes to widen in surprise. A moment later they released the Minion’s throat with a scoff, only to grip their cheeks instead, digging their nails in. “Do you understand?” They hissed. “Mine, and mine alone.”

The Minion inhaled gently, relieved to have the Villains hands off their neck. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, nor would it be the last. Still, it was unsettling.

“Say it.” The Villain’s voice was harsh, their expression difficult to read.

The Minion blinked once, slowly, holding the Villain’s unwavering gaze.

“I am yours.” They said softly, devoutly.

“And?” The Villain dug their nails in harder. The Minion suppressed a wince.

“Your wish is my command, Mastress.”

A tense moment passed, neither so much as breathing.

“Good.”

With a flourish the Villain released the Minion, leaving red crescent moons etched into the skin of their cheeks.

Slowly, so as not to provoke them, the Minion rose to their feet, assuming a neutral stance.

“Mastress?”

The Villain pressed their fingertips to the bridge of their nose, eyes closed.

“It’s been a long day,” the Villain sighed, as if carrying on a previous conversation. As if nothing untoward had happened. “I require a drink. You know which, I take it?”

“Of course.”

The Minion was about to leave when the Villain stopped them with a gentle touch on their shoulder. Pausing, the Minion turned, their chest a mere breath from the Villain’s.

“I haven’t told you this enough, darling,” the Villain murmured. “But you… you are the reason…”

The Minion raised a hesitant brow when the Villain didn’t continue.

“The reason?”

Forgoing an answer the Villain pressed their lips to the Minion’s, lingering just long enough to convey a vague sense of desperation. Grinning as they pulled back, the Villain savored the warring expressions on the Minion’s face; confusion, desire, fear, concern.

“Why, you’re the reason I remain so fabulous, despite the Hero’s best efforts to make me otherwise.”

The Minion nodded, a bemused smile on their mouth.

“It’s my pleasure, Mastress,’ they said, their expression settling back into carefully practiced neutrality. “Shall I get your drink then?”

The Villain waved their hand dismissively, the kiss already forgotten.

“As you will, my dear.”

Bowing slightly, the Minion departed. When they returned the Villain had resumed their seat by the window, staring out at the night-enshrouded cityscape below them. Without a word they set the drink on the table at the Villain’s elbow.

“Do you require anything else, Mastress?” They asked.

The Villain merely waved their fingers. But rather than cupping their chin again they took the Minion’s hand, staying their departure.

“Stay here tonight,” they said. Their thumb traced idly over the Minion’s knuckles. “I want you ready for tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mastress.”

The Minion returned the pressure of the Villain’s grasp before slipping their fingers free.

“If you don’t need anything else, I’ll turn in, then.”

Nodding idly, the Villain continued contemplating the view, knuckle pressed to their lips in thought.

Taking the silence as a dismissal, the Minion headed for their bedroom, the door on the far side of the room. They stepped through and were about to close it when they paused.

“Good night, Mastress,” the Minion said.

“Good night, my darling. Sweet nightmares.”

The Minion smiled and closed the door.

Grey

A Hero/Villain Piece

In which a new, recurring side character is introduced: The Sidekick.

“So it comes to this,” the Villain sneered. Defiance flashed in their bruised eyes as they glared at the Hero from their knees. They took a deep breath, refusing to grimace as their ribs creaked. The Hero could hit hard when they wanted to. And if they were properly motivated. The Villain relished the satisfaction of a job well done, despite the pain. They had finally found the Hero’s weakness. At the cost of a few broken ribs and ruined coat, sure, but they knew how to plan for the future now.

“Doesn’t it always?” The Hero asked. They looked impassively down at their nemesis. Blood covered the Villain’s face and stained their once impeccably white shirt. The sleeves were torn at the shoulder, soot and dirt was smeared across their chest, and their pants were ripped at the knees, their boots scuffed beyond repair. The remains of their coat lay in tatters around them, the fabric little more than threads.

“Well, yes. But I’m usually the one standing over you crowing my victory.”

The Hero ignored the Villain’s jape, and turned to look at the wall behind them.

“Are you alright?” They called.

“Y… yes!” Came the quavery reply. From around the corner appeared the Hero’s Sidekick. They were battered and shaky on their feet, but at least they were alive.

Seeing them, the Villain laughed, a harsh, maniacal cackle that frayed the Hero’s nerves. They’d heard that laugh too many times, and it never boded well.

“Stay where you are,” the Hero barked as the Sidekick approached.

“But they’re-”

“DO WHAT I SAY!” The Hero’s voice took on a quality that surprised the Villain. The Hero sounded… Frightened? Furious? That was interesting.

With a look that mirrored the Villain’s sentiment, the Sidekick stopped just out of reach. They wrapped their arms around their torso, shielding the cuts and bruises the Villain knew were visible through their thin, ripped shirt. After all, the Villain had inflicted them personally.

Silence filled the warehouse, the sounds of the night-enshrouded city reaching the trio as if through a fog. It was one of the Villain’s favorite locations in the city. Just central enough to run the risk of getting caught, but just far enough out of the way that it was unlikely for screaming to be heard.

“I’m surprised,” the Villain rasped, breaking the relative silence. “I didn’t expect you to actually try to kill me.” They coughed, spitting a gob of bloody phlegm on the ground, disgusted with their mortality.

“You changed the rules when you brought them into this,” the Hero said, jerking their head at their Sidekick. “It was supposed to be just you and me. No one else.”

“Oh my darling Hero, such naiveté. It was never just about us.”

“What do you mean?”

“How can you say it was only ever about us with an entire city out there?” If it didn’t hurt so much the Villain would have gestured to encompass the surrounding metropolis. As it was, they sat up a little straighter, staring the Hero in the eyes. “It’s always been about them.” The Villain nodded at the Sidekick, who flinched as if they’d been struck. “About how they perceive us. How we affect them.”

“It’s not. You’re wrong,” the Hero whispered, anger flickering in their eyes. The cuts on their knuckles cracked open as they clenched their hands; blood trickled down their fingers.

“Am I?” The Villain laughed again, coughed, and sagged back onto their heels, supporting themself with an arm braced on the ground. Monologging was difficult with broken ribs. “Tell me, my Hero. When has anyone from the city ever asked about you, personally?”

The Hero’s silence was answer enough.

“Exactly. You see, it was never about us. It’s always been about our game, and what that game brings to news feeds and conversations. They don’t care about us. Hero, Villain. It makes no difference. We’re just actors to them, never mind that we live and walk among them. Even your lovely fragile Sidekick over there thinks so. Look at how they adore you, worship you, as if you’re nothing but an idol.”

“Then why did you bring them into this?” The Hero asked, eyes flicking to their Sidekick. They watched the exchange with rapt attention, proving the Villain’s point.

A satisfied smile crept across the Villain’s face.

“The game was growing stale. The masses’ attention was wavering. It was time to bring in a new player.”

Without warning, the Hero drew a gun from an inner pocket and leveled it at the Villains’ chest. Their carefully neutral visage cracked, their face filled with loathing.

The Villain’s eyes widened in fear for but a second before they schooled their own expression into unconcerned indifference. But the Hero saw the fear. Had they been looking anywhere but the Villain’s face, they would have missed it.

“Oh come on, really?” The Villain taunted. “Since when-“

“Since you made it personal.”

The Villain shrugged, the movement coming across as nervous rather than nonchalant. “It’s always been personal, my dear. Why do you think I chose you? Why I chose them?”

“Why?”

“You’re interesting. More interesting than other Heroes I’ve broken in the past. You’re resilient in a way that I admire. You remind me of me.”

“I’m nothing like you.”

The Villain chuckled. “We’ll see, my dear. We’ll see.”

The Hero didn’t say anything, but kept the gun leveled at the Villain. The Sidekick looked from one to the other, trepidation and confusion etched on their young face.

“Go on then, do it!” The Villain surged to their feet so the barrel of the gun was inches from their chest. “You don’t have what it takes, do you? To kill someone in cold blood? Not unless you’re defending yourself or someone you love.” The Villain spat, ’love’ sounding like it burned their tongue.

An ugly sneer contorted the Hero’s face as they struggled to keep their hand from shaking. They swallowed, and the Sidekick pressed a hand to their mouth, their eyes riveted on the Hero.

After tense moment the Hero lowered the gun, never breaking eye contact with the Villain.

“I knew you couldn’t do-“ the Villain’s taunt morphed into an agonized scream as the Hero shot them in the leg, the crack of gunfire echoing through the warehouse with deafening violence. The Villain fell back to their knees with another scream as their leg buckled.

“Oh my god!” The Sidekick yelled in horror.

The Hero glared down at the Villain. An unexpected, not wholly unwanted sense of pleasure bloomed through them as the as Villain writhed in pain at their feet for once.

“You talk too much,” they said, failing to suppress an ironic smile.

“That’s no reason to shoot me!” The Villain groaned, holding their bleeding, mutilated thigh with a white knuckled grip.

Chuckling, the Hero crouched down and took the Villain’s jaw between their fingers, pressing the barrel of the gun lightly against the Villain’s cheek. Their pleasure only grew to see genuine fear and doubt cross the Villain’s face.

“Perhaps not,” the Hero said, their voice icy. “But kidnapping and torturing my Sidekick is.”

The Villain growled, and jerked their head away. The Hero let them, standing in a fluid movement.

“You said the game was growing stale,” the Hero continued. “But you’re not the only one who can change the rules.”

With a turn the Villain reluctantly appreciated, the Hero strode away.

“Come on,” the Hero said as they neared their Sidekick, gently taking their arm. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“But what about them?” The Sidekick asked, looking back at the Villain as they headed for the nearest door.

“Them?” The Hero looked over their shoulder, eyebrows raised.

The Villain snarled, lost their balance, and fell on their side with a grunt, blood oozing between their fingers to stain the concrete beneath them. “Don’t worry about them. Let’s go.”

The Hero and Sidekick were at the door when the Villain spoke up.

“Don’t leave me here, damn it!” They cried, desperation and pain tingeing their voice.

“You’ll be fine.” The Hero waved a dismissive hand, turning their back on their nemesis. “You always are, aren’t you? I’ll be disappointed if you don’t make a miraculous recovery.”

Without looking back the Hero guided their Sidekick outside, the Villain’s enraged, pained scream echoing after them.

***

Fifteen minutes later the Villain staggered to their feet, leaving a trail of bloody bootprints in their wake.

Reaching the nearest wall, they sagged against it for support while they caught their breath. Their… everything fucking hurt, but their other injuries were pale trivialities compared to searing pain of the bullet wound.

With a grunt, the Villain pushed themself off the wall and kept going. As much as they wished they could call death and destruction down upon the city in petty vengeance, they knew that revenge was a dish best served cold and well prepared.

Looking at the door through which the Hero had left, a satisfied chuckle shook itself from the Villain.

During the Hero’s righteously indignant exit, they failed to remember their Sidekick. The Hero had been so determined to have the final word that they didn’t notice the youth glance back at the Villain, didn’t notice the look of reluctant, misplaced sympathy filling their eyes.

Oh, yes. The Villain thought. This time revenge is going to be sweeter than your cries of pain, my dear.

“You want to play that game, do you?” The Villain hissed, fear and pain replaced by furious determination.” They took another hobbling step forward and fell to their hands and knees with a strangled cry. Gritting their teeth, the Villain forced themselves to their feet, to take another step. A glint caught their eye, and the they reached down to retrieve a steel pipe. It was thin, if a little heavy. It would have to do for now. “Fine, we’ll play that game.” The Villain took an experimental step, using the pipe as a cane. They didn’t fall. “And before we’re finished, you’ll wish you had killed me when you had the chance.”

Ghost 1

The beginning of something that may or may not continue. Title pending.

The sun shone incongruously. Had Laila been in charge, it would rain all day every day, but particularly today. There was something offensive about the way the light played on the spring leaves, of how the birds warbled and sang in the trees.

Laila huffed and went back to tying her herb bundles. She ignored the weight of the pale eyes she knew were watching her. They were always watching her. Had been watching her since that night, 9 months ago, when she’d failed the one thing she’d sworn to do: heal and preserve.

Jonash had been an old friend of hers, shared childhood memories binding them more tightly than blood. As with all people they had drifted as they’d gotten older, but never far enough away to truly forget about each other. She was accepted to the University of Science in the city, and he had joined the city watch.

Then the war came. She left for the battle fields as a healer, he a soldier. They had been in the same regiment, and spent many hours in each other’s company when they were able. When the war ended, Laila returned to the city and established a healer’s den with her commission and repute as a savior of many. Jonash remained with the watch for a month before wanderlust got the better of him, and he departed the city to become a member of the Ranger’s Guild.

Months, then years passed, and still they kept in touch.

Until his replies had grown shorter and distant. Until he’d stopped replying all together.

Laila, accepting his absence with a stoic heart, was content with the fact that he had finally met someone else and moved on.

And then he appeared on her doorstep in the middle night, bleeding and with an expression that frightened her. He swore at her in a language she didn’t know before falling at her feet, pale with blood loss and pain. She’d done everything she knew to do, even resorting to using what little magic she possessed.

It wasn’t enough.

After four hours of her trying desperately to save her friend, she held his head when he died. She closed his light blue eyes, unnerved by the hatred and fear she saw there. As she took her hands away something cold ran up her arms and through her body, leaving her feeling clammy and unclean. When she turned she came face to face with Jonash’s ghost. She screamed once before noticing that he was yelling and gesticulating at her. But he made no noise. He charged her, hands outstretched to strangle her, but they, and then the rest of his incorporeal body, passed through her entirely, leaving her retching on the floor. For some reason his spirit had remained, unable to leave the plain of the living. The ghost tried to leave and made it as far as the front doorstep before being pulled back as if on a string. He tried the window with the same results.

Laila tried everything she could to communicate and free Jonash, but it was all in vain. The priests had never heard of such a condition, the scientists wanted to study him, and the mages’ spells and incantations only hurt Jonash, much to their irritation. Magic always succeeded when science failed. Or so they had believed.

And so 9 months had passed. Jonash was invisible to all but Laila and those gifted with the Sight. And as he was unable to influence the world around him in any way, all he could do was stand around and watch Laila.

“If you’re done staring at my ass, maybe you could stand in the door and deter people from coming in?” Laila said. She had too much to get done today to be interrupted with petty calls about impotence and spots.

She was met with what she called a sulky silence, and threw a rueful smile over her shoulder at the ghost. Jonash looked up from examining his fingernails and drifted to the door, rolling his eyes. Though Laila struggled with the fact that she had failed to save her friend, she was glad that his ghost wasn’t covered in blood and gore. He looked as she assumed he had before receiving the injuries.

No sooner had he taken up his post at the door did someone gasp with surprise at walking through a ghost.

“I’m sorry, but I’m closed today!” Laila called.

“How the hell can a healer be closed?” Came the disgruntled response.

“Unless you or a loved one is bleeding profusely, has a broken bone, or is dying, please come back tomorrow.”

The voice on the other side of the door muttered something. Jonash stepped back through the door to shrug, expression as confused as Laila’s was annoyed.

“If you let me in, I can help you!”

Laila rolled her eyes heavenward and prayed for strength.

“When I want an assistant, I will post a listing at the University,” she said, thinking the person at the door was a hopeful student.

“No, not with that. But I could help you if you nee… No! I can help you with the other thing!”

Laila paused, glancing at Jonash. The ghost shrugged again and leaned against the wall. At some point he’d regained enough solidity to control what he fell through.

“May as well see what the child has to say?” He mouthed.

Laila stuck her tongue out at him.

“What do you mean, ‘the other thing’?” She asked.

The voice on the other side of the door dropped to a murmur. The speaker was clearly pressed up agains the lock: “I can’t speak of it out here, but I think I have a solution to your… mutual problem.”

A glimmer of hope sprang up in Laila’s chest.

“Fine. But make sure no one sees you come in.”

She went to the door and unlocked it. She and Jonash watched, bemused, as a youth slipped through the door with a furtive look that befit a noisy thief.

“Thank you,” he said, brushing himself off. He looked around a moment before his gaze snagged on Jonash. The ghost flashed a nasty smile at the lad, who blanched and turned away quickly.

“You can see him?” Laila asked, surprised. The lad didn’t look like a seer, let alone a mage or a priest.

“Of course I can,” the lad said. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Yes, you said that. But how? And why?”

The lad sketched a bow, sweeping the floor with his hat.

“Clearly I have some explaining to do.”

Jonash mouthed “Clearly,” and reached out and punched the lad in the back, his hand appearing in his stomach folded in a rude gesture.

“If you could refrain from messing with my internal organs, I thank you,” The lad said, suppressing a shudder. Laila just raised her brows in invitation for him to continue. “To answer your questions, my lady,” he said, readjusting his hat. “I am Arthur Marín, and I believe I have a solution to your ghostly prob-”

“You said that before. But I don’t understand how you can s-“

“-lem. And I can see your Jonash because I am a necromancer.”

Sacrifice

A hero/villain piece

The night is cold, the sky a black, star-spattered canvas. The remains of a crescent moon hang low, obscured by a line of skeletal trees; their branches dance in a breeze.

The Hero shivers, drawing his cloak tighter around his shoulders. Though he’s surrounded by sleeping friends, his chest is tight with loneliness. The fire burns low, but as the party departs at dawn, there is little need to stoke it. They will be gone before the sun breaches the horizon. They should be on the trail now. The Monster that plagues the region doesn’t sleep, so why should they? The fact that any of them are able to sleep at all is a wonder to the Hero. Every one of them had seen what the Monster is capable of. It is why they’re here, in the middle of a frozen wilderness. Someone had to put a stop to the Monster’s rampage. Someone had to be worthy of the songs of old.

Sighing, the Hero looks at the faces of their companions, the weight of his decision suffocating him.

A barn owl screeches, the sound harsh and desolate in the dark forest. The Hero jumps, and one of his companions mumbles and rolls over. Under normal circumstances the sound would comfort him. It’s a sound of his home and childhood. But tonight it reminds him of the promise he made upon setting out on this venture. Tonight it fills him with dread.

A log shifts in the fire, casting a soft glow on his love’s face. Of all the company, he is going to miss them the most.

A rustle comes from behind, a branch breaks. The Hero knows it’s time. Standing quietly so as not to disturb his companions, he walks into the darkness.

The Monster is there, waiting for him. Four eyes glow yellow, its upper body and long, double-jointed arms covered in blood; claws and fangs shine like obsidian.

“Little human comes to me,” the Monster rasps. Its eyes flick over the Hero’s body, searching for something. “Without claw or fang. Foolish little human.” The Monster takes a step forward, surprised when the Hero holds his ground. Too much is at stake for cowardice.

“Aye, I come,” the Hero murmurs.

“A Monster wonders why.”

“To bargain.”

The Monster throws its head back and laughs, chitinous gurgling sound that sets the Hero’s knees shaking.

“Little human is foolish to think a Monster will bargain.” It sits back on its haunches. “But a Monster is curious. A Monster has never had little bargain human. A Monster will listen.”

“If I give myself to you, you must swear to leave the people in peace.” The Hero’s voice is strong, despite his terror. “If you leave, I will come with you and protect you from others.”

“If a Monster doesn’t?” The Monster hums, amused. “If a Monster eats little bargain human?”

“Then my death wish will be the destruction of you and your ilk.”

Wary of the Hero’s confidence, the Monster considers.

“A Monster agrees with little bargain human. But a Monster has condition.”

“What?”

A gleam comes into the Monster’s eyes.

“A Monster gets to eat part of little bargain human!”

The Monster lunges at the Hero and pins him to the ground, talons piercing his shoulders. Saliva drips from its fangs as it lowers its mouth to the Hero’s stomach.

“WAIT WAIT WAIT!” The Hero’s voice is shrill enough that the Monster stops and glares at him.

“Why? A Monster is hungry. Little bargain human prevents a Monst–“

“I can help break your curse!”

Silence stretches between the Monster and the Hero. The Hero strains to hear if anyone in his camp has woken up, but he hears nothing over the pounding of his heart.

“A Monster says nothing about a curse.” Its expression becomes confused and, dare the Hero think it, hopeful.

“Little bargain human knows stories.” The Hero says. “Little bargain human knows secrets.”

The Monster sits up, retracting its talons from the Hero’s shoulders. The Hero winces, but doesn’t cry out.

“If…” The Monster begins, voice husky. “If a Monster takes little bargain human, little bargain human helps a Monster?”

“Yes,” the Hero breathes.

“A Monster has to ask why little bargain human will help a Monster?”

The Hero fights the lump in his throat for a moment, unable to speak.

“Because even Monsters deserve a chance at redemption.”

The Monster studies the Hero, something like sadness creasing its face. After a moment it shakes itself, lips curling back over its fangs.

“Fine. A Monster will not eat little bargain human tonight. If little bargain human lies about curse, a Monster eats?”

“Fair enough.”

“Fair… enough…” The Monster replies, pleased with itself for being so agreeable. Suddenly it sits up, sniffing the air. “A Monster must take little bargain human. Yellow eye comes, and little bargain human’s humans come.”

The Monster lifts the Hero with ease, carrying him before its chest. The absurdity of the situation hits the Hero like a fist. He can barely keep from screaming as spindle legs devour the distance to the hills.

“Monsters aren’t the only ones that crave forgiveness,” he reminds himself bitterly. Glancing around the Monster’s side he imagines his companions waking up, realizing he’s gone. He can’t avoid thinking about pain his love will feel.

Guilt drowning his fear, the Hero whispers an apology to his companions and prays that he is not mistaken.

Evil Tea Party

A hero/villain piece

The Villain stood surveying the view, a cup of honeyed darjeeling held in their right hand. Mozart’s Requime played in the background. They’d always loved the city at night, but… there was something to be said for viewing it from a penthouse. They pressed the china tea cup to their lips, poised to take a sip, when a muffled groan came from behind them, followed by creaking ropes.

“Struggling will do you no good, I’m afraid,” they said without turning. “I tied the knots myself.”

An oath sounded, followed by more futile attempts at freedom.

The Villain smiled into their cup, taking the long awaited first sip.

Perfection.

Turning, the picture of composure, they surveyed their handiwork. The Hero sat tied to a chair, the knots textbook examples of the finest shibari techniques. The gag in their mouth was one of the Villain’s own cravats. The Villain set their cup on the edge of the coffee table.

“You’re undoubtedly wondering why you’re here. Why…” the Villain’s long legs carried them to the Hero’s side in three strides. “Why I chose you.” They gripped the Hero’s chin between their fingers, forcing their head up.

“You want to know, don’t you? I feel your curiosity burning in your blood.”

The Hero’s lip curled into a sneer, a growl rising in their chest.

The Villain shifted their grip, their fingers digging into the Hero’s cheeks. “I chose you for your spirit. A spirit I will enjoy breaking piece…” their fingers drifted over the Hero’s throat. “By…” they continued down, resting on the Hero’s exposed collarbone. “Piece.”

Bach’s Come, Sweet Death started playing on the stereo system, the throaty cello voices filling the space.

“An apt song,” they said, turning and striding towards the table on the other side of the dining room. The Hero’s stomach clenched with dread when they recognized the melody. They began their struggle anew.

Back to the room, the Villain considered the collection of knives laid out on black velvet before them. They touched the handle of a damask butterfly knife, smiled fondly at a stiletto.

“I’ve told you, struggling is–“

A crash interrupted them, followed by the shattering of china.

A muscle feathered in the Villain’s jaw, their smile morphing into a grimace. They turned with deliberate slowness, stiletto in hand, and surveyed the scene. The Hero had fallen over, still tied to the chair. But something else caught the Villain’s attention.

“You spilled my tea.” They said, their voice metallic. “That was rather rude of you. Then again, I’d expect nothing less of a Hero.” Their mask slipped for an instant, revealing the mania that lurked below the surface of their composure.

They’d been fingering the point of the knife, and were by the Hero’s side in a bound. They stood over the Hero, eyes flashing with bloodlust. Then a switch flipped. Inhaling, the Villain straightened their coat, brushed their hair back, collected as can be.

The Hero leaned away, taken back by the unpredictability of the Villain’s actions.

Head tilted, the Villain rested their boot on the arm of the chair, and rolled it to its back with a kick. The Hero gasped as the ropes dug into their arms, stomach, and thighs. Disdain was written across the Villain’s face as they stared down at the Hero.

“You Hero types have no respect, you know that?” They said. They crouched by the Hero’s side, flipping the knife under the Hero’s nose. “No respect for the greater picture. No respect for progression. I grow weary of it all.”

With a flourish they ripped the gag from the Hero’s mouth, tearing the fabric as they threw it to the side.

“Wha-“ the Hero rasped, lips stinging.

The manic gleam had returned to the Villain’s eyes.

“Why, my dear…” Funiculi Funicula began playing then. With a flick of the wrist, the Villain nicked the Hero’s chest, blood welling from the cut as they cried out. “All the better to hear you scream.”

A New Beginning

Hello again.

Sitting here, I have to laugh at the Kat that made this blog nearly 6 years ago. She was optimistic and naive, but a storyteller at heart. Her idea for a reader-based prompt site was somewhat ill-conceived, but not entirely without merit. All she needed to do was commit to the idea, and perhaps this blog would be different from what it’s morphed into. But she was filled with doubts, and wasn’t entirely convinced that she had what it took to be a writer.

Now she knows better. She has lived a little more. She has travelled the world. She has written at least one rough draft of a story, has plotted and half-written about 4 more, and has written any number of short stories, one-shots, scripts, narratives, poems, and bard songs. She is 13 weeks away from finishing college with a BA in Game Design and Art and a concentration in Game Writing (yes, it’s as badass as it sounds). She is a writer, and she believes it with every fiber of her being.

This blog, while it started as something of an ill-fated experiment, is a place for her to share some of her smaller musings. The title, Two Hour Tales, is a comment on the nature of the impending content: everything here will (hopefully) be written in two hours or less, with minimal editing. Things will be messy and error-filled. Things won’t make sense. And yet, sometimes, it’s best if they don’t. Everyone needs a little nonsense in their lives.

So there you have it. Kat has returned, armed with a plethora of ideas and a dedication to provide the world with a little more prose.

I hope you enjoy your stay.