As the city’s official supervillain, my greatest obsession is obviously its hero. His photo is beside my bed, on my desk, in my wallet. It’s not weird.
I claim, frequently and repeatedly, that my ultimate goal is his demise. But every time that goal is within my reach, I make sure to give him the time and opportunity to escape. Rambling, theatrical monologues usually do the trick.
If he suspects I’ve been letting him escape, he’s never pointed it out, and if accused I would deny it adamantly. Without him, I could easily conquer this city. But without him, why would I want to?
There’s little I cherish more than our fights. Matching wits and physical skills. My proximity to him. It’s the only time when I can touch him, taste his breath, if only for an instant. Out of everyone I’ve battled, he’s my only match.
A day comes when he’s not up to his usual standard. He seems distracted, almost, preoccupied. He can’t seem to meet my gaze as we do battle. I’d be offended, but I notice he seems to have lost weight – an almost imperceptible difference, but I’m very observant.
I let him win – usually, I go for a truce, but I don’t want to discourage him further if something’s really troubling him. I know his secret identity, of course, and I’ve known it for years. I learned it long ago, when our rivalry was young, and still naive enough to think that his eventual defeat was my actual goal. Even then, part of me knew that I would never dare to use it against him. I never have.
He’s a lawyer. That’s interesting to me. I wonder if his thirst for justice is in any way spurned by the injustice he must witness in the courtroom every day. In that regard, I can relate to him. By day, I work for social services, and I’ve seen injustices that make my stomach curdle just to think of them. As a villain, I can take actions that my mild-mannered altar ego would never dream of.
Tonight, I float by his window, which I’m well aware is a creepy thing to do. Supervillains are above creepiness. But I need to make sure he’s alright.
His apartment isn’t what I expected. Everything about him is larger than life, but it’s humble and cozy, his bed made with plush lavender sheets, a small television in the corner. Photos of family and friends on his bedside table, a stack of books.
He comes in wearing pajamas, a cup of tea in one hand and what must be his latest paperback in the other. He’s wearing glasses. His hair is floofy. He looks small like this, fuzzy, and I’m reminded how much I’m invading his privacy. But I can’t look away.
I watch him read for over an hour, turning pages and sipping his tea, like he’s an ordinary man and not someone who’s moved buildings and stopped planes falling from the sky. Finally, he finishes his tea, and sets his glasses aside on the bedside table, book-marking his paperback like it’s something precious.
He lies back and looks up at the ceiling, and a wistful look overtakes his beautiful features. He’s looking at something, a fixed point on his ceiling. I have to crane my neck to follow his gaze, and –
It’s me. On his ceiling, above his bed, is a photo of me. Clipped from the newspaper, it looks like. I recognize it as my very first bank robbery. My costume choice was hideous back then.
Suddenly, I’m taking stock. I feel like the air’s been sucked from my lungs. For all the times I’ve let him escape my clutches with a poorly timed monologue, for all the times I’ve held back – I wonder if he’s been holding back, too. He’ll stop me if I’m committing a simple robbery, but if I’m burning papers that bind struggling people to unnecessary debt, I’ve noticed he’ll arrive just a little too late. If I’m dangling a corrupt business mogul out a window, he’ll stop him from falling to his death, but he’ll help expose his crimes and bring him to justice afterwards.
All this time. All this time, could he have admired me the way I admire him? Could he have –
I do a little dip, nearly dropping from the sky. I feel dizzy, like the ground’s been yanked from beneath me, even though it’s already stories below.
I can’t tell him what I’ve seen tonight. I can’t pause our usual battles to discuss our feelings together. But I can’t ignore them, either.
What to do. That’s the question. What. Do I do.
The next day, I take the day off of work, but not for my usual villainous activities. I spend a lot of time stressing over what I should wear, but ultimately settle on the sweater vest and tie I usually wear for workdays. I want him to see this side of me.
I go back to his building, just as a handsome lawyer is leaving in a perfectly pressed suit and reading glasses, a folded newspaper under one arm and a coffee in his hand for his morning commute.
When he sees me, he gives a double-take. I know he recognizes me, and my breath hitches. I’m putting myself in something of an awkward position by doing this, I’m aware, and a vulnerable one. He could arrest me like this. He could expose my secret identity.
And this is the first time he’s seen me without my cape, I’m pretty sure.
But his expression softens. I could swear I see the corner of his mouth quirk up in a smile.
“You look familiar. Haven’t I seen you before?”
My heart feels fluttery, and I’m disgusted with myself. But I can’t believe that fond tone of voice is directed at me. “I think so.” I look around. “I’m, um. Thinking of moving to this area. Nice view of the water, and. And everything.”
Years of eloquent monologues, and I’m reduced to this.
“Well. We should get coffee some time.” He’s smiling properly now, and it’s blinding. It always has been. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
