Hello, I'm not sure if you're taking requests, but I absolutely adore your writing! Do you think you could do anything about detective who was wrongfully locked up for villain's crimes?
The detective's gaze snapped over at the familiar voice.
Their heartbeat kicked into overgear, breathing going shallow.
No matter how much they wanted to baulk, or punch, no other part of their body could move. They were locked into the chair with thick manacles, a heavy inhibitor-collar cold around their throat. The chains rattled.
"Yes, sir," came an anxious reply. "Are you..."
"I'll take it from here," the villain said, to someone outside. "Thank you. You can shut the door on the way out."
"Take the gun at least, for god's sake." The guard's voice cracked with terror. "You must know what they're capable of."
The villain accepted the gun, after a beat, smiling sweetly at the guard.
The guard shot the detective a look, unable to meet their eyes, then scurried away. The van door slammed shut, sealing with a series of heavy clicks.
Nobody would hear the detective scream through the prison transfer van's reinforced, soundproofed sides.
The villain studied the gun in their hand with the mild amusement and curiosity of a monster dangerous enough to have never needed one,
They'd never seen the villain, only ever heard them, in their various phone calls and voice notes as the detective chased them up and down the country. The reality seemed so spectacularly harmless for the damage done, for their growing number of abilities.
Super strength. Super speed. Healing. Telepathy. The villain collected powers, somehow. The detective had no idea if the department's list was up to date anymore.
The villain looked up at them, after a beat, catching their eye.
"Hi," they said. "It's good to finally properly meet you, detective."
The villain's smile dropped. They tossed the gun carelessly aside.
"God. They really are terrified of me, aren't they?" the villain murmured. Their gaze continued roving over the trappings, cruel and excessive as they were. "I'm a little surprised they left you your eyes. What if I managed to manipulate someone through blinking?"
The detective wished they knew the blinking morse code for 'fuck you' and 'die'.
The villain sauntered over, and the detective couldn't have shrank back even if they wanted to. The villain ran their thumb over the metal muzzle, seeming thoughtful.
The detective's fingers twitched, uselessly. Their heartbeat quickened further.
"I'm not going to hurt you," the villain said, softly, with a click of their tongue. "What would I gain from that, given the circumstances?"
Well, if they thought the villain died in custody, nobody would look for them again, that was for sure.
The detective didn't expect the muzzle to click, too, and come away beneath the villain's hand.
"There," the villain said, "that's better, isn't it?"
When the muzzle was pulled away, the detective drew in their first proper breath in what felt like weeks. It came in shaky and left shakier. They swallowed hard.
"Why are you here? Seems risky, given you've somehow got away with everything."
The venom in their voice didn't seem to bother the villain in the slighest.
"I'll admit," the villain said, "when I first started framing you, I liked you less."
The villain liked them now?
The villain caught the detective's chin, examining the inhibitor collar. "That must hurt. I've heard it hurts if you don't actually have any abilities for it to block."
"If you care that much, take it off and let me go," the detective snapped.
"I understand why you're upset with me. Being in my place, I'm sure you can understand why I was so keen to avoid it."
The detective could, but that didn't make it better.
When they first took the job, their main priority had been to bring the villain to justice, no matter the cost. Now they thought they knew why someone would do horrific things to avoid being strapped down like an animal, left to rot or be experimented on in some awful, forgotten place forever.
The detective would do anything, say anything, to escape.
At some point, around the second week, they'd started to wonder if anyone could possibly deserve the sort of treatment they got when people thought they were the villain.
The detective could taste bile in their mouth. "Why are you here?" they asked, again.
"Because they'll figure out you're not me, eventually," the villain said. "When they run their tests and it eventually becomes clear that you cannot do what I do, that your blood, your cells, don't work like mine do."
The detective's brow furrowed, hope warring with unease. That didn't seem a reason to visit. A reason to kill them, perhaps, but certainly not a reason for the villain to show their face and-
"-this isn't your real face," the detective said. "You can shapeshift."
"Very good. Clever. You always were the only one who stood a chance of catching me."
"Is that why you framed me?"
"Is that why you...like me now?"
The villain shrugged. "I think it's impossible to know someone as intimately as we have come to know each other, and not love them a little bit."
"Really? I don't have that problem."
The villain smiled. A fainter thing. They dragged their thumb over the detective's lower lip, making their breath hitch.
When they were the villain, when people thought they'd done what the villain had, nobody touched them. Certainly not kindly. Everything was orders and careful distance and cattle prods, should the detective twitch in a way that could be construed as menacing.
But, when they were the villain, everything they did was considered menacing. Even if they just begged for a sip of water. A break. A moment to stretch.
The detective's throat tightened. Damn them. They dropped their gaze from the villain's all too knowing one.
Of course the detective had that problem too.
"They might not let me go even if they figure out I'm not you," the detective said. Some faith in their justice system splintered. "People would panic to think you're still out there. It would be an embarrassment for the department to tell the truth."
"If you're still in there in a decade, I'll make it obvious."
"Well, there's always the risk that you'll go straight back to hunting me when you're free, isn't there?"
There was that risk, yes. The detective wasn't sure what they'd look like, who they'd be, on the other end of their incarceration. Of all those tests that the villain alluded to like something.
"Easy, detective. Breathe."
"Don't tell me to breathe! You framed me! You're - my life -"
"-You would have stolen mine," the villain said. "You would have left me to rot forever and called it a victory. A promotion."
"I didn't know they'd do this! I didn't know it would be like this!"
"And now," the villain said, "you do. Sorry."
"I'm sorry it has to be you."
That, the detective could believe.
The villain leaned in, pressing a kiss to the detective's forehead.
"Hang in there, champ," the villain said. "And decide who and what you want to fight for when you get out."
"I-mmph." The muzzle was shoved unceremoniously back in place.
The detective could have screamed for it.
The villain straightened, taking a last inspection of the restraints, before stepping back.
"Be seeing you," the villain said, and returned to the gun. They picked it up again, then knocked on the van door to signal they were ready to leave.
The detective tried to tell the guard, the stupid useless guard, who they were letting go. How wrong they were.
"Maybe a sedative," the villain said, calmly. "Just to be on the safe side with the journey."
Then, with a last glance back and a wink, the villain was gone.
