As the cityās official supervillain, my greatest obsession is obviously its hero. His photo is beside my bed, on my desk, in my wallet. Itās not weird.Ā
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 Iāve been letting him escape, heās 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?
Thereās little I cherish more than our fights. Matching wits and physical skills. My proximity to him. Itās the only time when I can touch him, taste his breath, if only for an instant. Out of everyone Iāve battled, heās my only match.
A day comes when heās not up to his usual standard. He seems distracted, almost, preoccupied. He canāt seem to meet my gaze as we do battle. Iād be offended, but I notice he seems to have lost weight ā an almost imperceptible difference, but Iām very observant.Ā
I let him win ā usually, I go for a truce, but I donāt want to discourage him further if somethingās really troubling him. I know his secret identity, of course, and Iāve 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.
Heās a lawyer. Thatās 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 Iāve 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 Iām well aware is a creepy thing to do. Supervillains are above creepiness. But I need to make sure heās alright.Ā
His apartment isnāt what I expected. Everything about him is larger than life, but itās 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.Ā Heās wearing glasses.Ā His hair is floofy.Ā He looks small like this, fuzzy, and Iām reminded how much Iām invading his privacy.Ā But I canāt look away.
I watch him read for over an hour, turning pages and sipping his tea, like heās an ordinary man and not someone whoās 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 itās something precious.
He lies back and looks up at the ceiling, and a wistful look overtakes his beautiful features. Heās looking at something, a fixed point on his ceiling. I have to crane my neck to follow his gaze, and ā
Itās 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, Iām taking stock. I feel like the airās been sucked from my lungs. For all the times Iāve let him escape my clutches with a poorly timed monologue, for all the times Iāve held back ā I wonder if heās been holding back, too. Heāll stop me if Iām committing a simple robbery, but if Iām burning papers that bind struggling people to unnecessary debt, Iāve noticed heāll arrive just a little too late. If Iām dangling a corrupt business mogul out a window, heāll stop him from falling to his death, but heāll 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 āĀ
I do a little dip, nearly dropping from the sky. I feel dizzy, like the groundās been yanked from beneath me, even though itās already stories below.Ā
I canāt tell him what Iāve seen tonight. I canāt pause our usual battles to discuss our feelings together. But I canāt ignore them, either.
What to do. Thatās 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.Ā Ā
When he sees me, he gives a double-take. I know he recognizes me, and my breath hitches. Iām putting myself in something of an awkward position by doing this, Iām aware, and a vulnerable one. He could arrest me like this. He could expose my secret identity.
And this is the first time heās seen me without my cape, Iām pretty sure.
But his expression softens. I could swear I see the corner of his mouth quirk up in a smile.Ā
āYou look familiar.Ā Havenāt I seen you before?ā
My heart feels fluttery, and Iām disgusted with myself. But I canāt believe that fond tone of voice is directed at me.Ā Ā āI think so.ā I look around.Ā āIām, um. Thinking of moving to this area. Nice view of the water, and. And everything.ā
Years of eloquent monologues, and Iām reduced to this.
āWell.Ā We should get coffee some time.āĀ Heās smiling properly now, and itās blinding. It always has been.Ā āItās nice to finally meet you.ā
