Super Villain x Henchman Reader
New story idea...
Bills. The bane of your existence.
Rent. Rates. Groceries.
All the bills you have to pay to keep a roof over your head and food on your table.
Well, you know how that one famous saying goes: "Nothing is certain except death and taxes."
That certainty has driven you to the edge of desperation and back.
Driven you to move to one of the more crime-ridden parts of the city, chasing the lower rent.
Driven you to take on dangerous but well-paying jobs that operate in a, how can you say, less-than-legal capacity.
Cargo hauling for stolen goods.
Burglary lookout.
Get-away driver.
Drug runner.
A server in a 'front' business.
Security at a shady club.
Working in a fake ID workshop. (You quit that one pretty quickly because the air con was broken and you could not stand the unbearable heat. Which worked in your favour, because the police took down that particular workshop days after you quit).
But the jobs that paid more weren't always stable positions and didn't promise steady work, (plus there was always the threat of getting arrested ... and/or killed).
Finally, you found a role that was in theory, stable, well-paying and potentially less dangerous (if you played your cards right and kept out of sight of any heroes).
You became a supervillain's henchman.
A goon.
A minion.
An underling.
A low-level administrative operative in a costume.
You feel a little silly. Dressed in a hooded black suit and wearing an open faced balaclava under a ridiculously bright neon masquerade mask. A tarot card peeking out of the vest pocket.
But it's not the worst uniform you've had to wear, and it comes with many benefits.
Number one: it is surprisingly comfortable. It also has sturdy seams, very deep pockets, and is surprisingly stain-resistant.
Number two: the mask grants anonymity, you can use an alias and it's seen as standard procedure. No one has to know your name, which means when you leave it will be a clean break (hopefully).
You would think working for a supervillain would be all danger and violent dealings, but no...your roles include:
lurking menacingly on corners waiting for deliveries
guarding doorways
watching security cameras
regular warehouse work (if moving weapons and dangerous chemicals could be considered regular work)
fetching coffee and lunch orders
taking phone calls
administrative duties
marketing
saying "yes sir" and immediately carrying out any orders given by a supervisor.
Whatever the hell else your boss wants you to do
Altogether a mixed bag of boring or criminal tasks.
No day is the same when you work for one of the most notorious supervillains in the city.
The Twilight Oracle.
According to the news, this terrifying faceless villain overturned the natural order and completely took over the criminal underbelly of the city in one month; spreading their new reign of terror and control. With the power to predict future events and control the very shadows themselves, The Twilight Oracle has quickly risen to public enemy number one.
Bank robberies. Heists. Assassinations. Kidnapping for ransom. Entire gangs were wiped out in a single night. Entire shipments of stolen weapons disappeared from the police radar, only to make their way back onto the streets in the hands of The Twilight Oracle's henchmen.
Despite how terrifying the news made it sound, you were incredibly lucky; your frequent job-hopping had saved you from ever getting involved, whether directly or as a bystander.
Until now.
The job advertisement had seemed innocuous enough, right up until you made it to the second interview.
The mundane interview for the boring office job had given way to a stack of NDAs and a scary masked man attending your second interview.
The man informed you that your resume had been flagged as a "perfect fit". A perfect fit for what the man wouldn't say.
Long story short you were hired on a contract basis. One year doing odd jobs as a "henchman" and then you'll be free to quit or continue, you decide.
It all seemed, weirdly accommodating. Not to mention the contract looked startlingly legal. Sure it was minimum wage, but it came with a payment plan into a private pension and dental, oddly enough.
Plus you don't want to be killed and end up on the news as a missing person (or heartbreakingly never make it and be one of the nameless lost fading into the background), so, until you can find an out, you take the job.
Your first day as a henchman was strangely normal.
You walked into a nondescript office building and were promptly put to work. You fetched coffee, ran papers from one person to another, replied to Facebook messages for some shell companies, and collected lunches for your colleagues working on phones.
Your colleagues seemed...normal. They would make small talk with those they knew well. Some had little plants or nicknacks on their desks. Some had strands of dyed hair peeking out from gaps in their uniform. There was even a pack of yoghurt in the break room fridge with a sticky note with the message 'Property of Shannon. Don't touch, Dan!' stuck to it.
Besides the jarring normality of the tasks and colleagues, despite the uniforms and security, you were even given two fifteen-minute breaks, morning and evening, and a half hour for lunch.
At first, you kept to yourself. Speaking only when spoken to, counting down the hours while you complete the tasks given. However, on your last break of the day, you initiated your first non-work related interaction with another colleague.
The central corridor of every other level has a vending machine. After a slightly jarring day, you crave something sweet and packed with calories.
"Excuse me."
The man stood in front of the vending machine, turns at the sound of your voice.
What first catches your attention is the milky white of his eyes, clouded over and unseeing. What you notice next is the fact that his uniform is slightly different, his black mask covers the whole face, instead of only half like yours, and has no discernible constellation pattern to the small silver star-like dots on it (unlike yours, which shows the constellation Taurus - you had been informed that the masks assigned are randomised).
Deciding to just jump right in and get the awkward interaction over with, you start with a question. "Are you buying anything?"
The man doesn't speak, mutely shaking their head in the subtlest of motions.
"Oh. Okay then. Could I just, um, scooch on over here, sorry, trying to buy a snack." You reach past the man to punch in the number for the Snickers on the top level, followed by the number for the bright green can of brand-less sparkling apple juice on the third level. The man doesn't move. Seemingly content to just stand there, head turned slightly towards you, unbothered by the lack of distance.
You silently thank the generosity of your boss for this particular vending machine being broken, the note taped over the cash slot stating that until it is fixed all items are free. It's a small blessing in an otherwise already awkward (in your opinion) interaction. You feel like you might have just run back the way you came if you had to endure the mortification of rustling through your pockets for change.
He subtly shifts to the side as you do, head turned toward the sound of your voice. "Of course." His voice is smooth and deep, like molten chocolate dripping down a cake.
You wonder if your hunger is influencing your comparison. Tapping your foot while you wait for your treats to drop.
You look the man up and down. His shoes are polished. He has a pocket square handkerchief with gold thread on the edge. The lines on his suit are crisp.
'Great, of course I run into the building manager on the first day.' You think to yourself.
His head does not turn when you crouch to retrieve your snacks. Nor when you step away to rebuild the bubble of space that had been briefly broken.
"Did you want to get something?" The words are out of your mouth before you comprehend why.
The man turns again at the sound of your voice. The silvery mist in his eyes gives his gaze a haunted look. "Why...do you ask?"
You suddenly regret speaking. But you have never been one to wallow in regret for long, only ramble until you either escape the pit or dig the whole so deep no one can see you anymore. So you give the answer your brain provides as it catches up, neurons firing at top speed. "I'm sorry. I just assumed cuz you were standing here and you weren't buying anything, and I just wondered if you were..."
"Blind." He curtly finishes for you. "You are correct."
"What? I didn't..." It is only as you shift uncomfortably that you notice the cane tucked into his side. Easy to miss at first glance, it's a thin thing, the same colour as his suit with only a tiny band of white around the handle and end to show it has a purpose.
You fall silent. Clutching your can and bar in your hands like a shield. "Um. So do you...want help?"
"Do I what?"
You cringe at the curt bite to his tone. "Want help typing in the number? I can just ...describe it ...if that feels ...better ..." The phantom feeling of something stuck in the back of your throat silences your voice. You cough. "I mean, only if you were...going to...get something..."
His head cocks slightly. "Really?"
You swear you hear the hint of a smile behind the sarcastic tone in his voice. Your mind berating you for getting involved, legs bracing to just run.
"Um, yeah. I'm sorry if that's offensive I've never, um, before..." You cough to cover the awkward way your voice trails off and instead decide to just say. "Uh, yeah."
"Well then, if you would." The man gestures towards the vending machine, straightening up and gesturing with a slow elegance befitting royalty. The tips of his gloves brush along the glass until they stop on the edge of the number pad's rim.
It takes a few seconds for his agreement to sink in. But then it's like your brain reboots and you start speaking. "So, uh, what did you want to order?"
"I fancy ... a Twix." Oh, he is definitely smiling behind the mask. Amusement is evident in the lilting up-turn of his tone and slow drawling of his speech.
You lean forward to peer into the machine, quickly locating the Twix on the lower level. "Number 102. Your pointer finger is on the 5, so go up and to the left for one. Can you find the rest?"
"I know what the standard layout of a keypad is, yes." His chuckle sounds like bubbling hot chocolate. Sweet but deep. The tip of the glove soundlessly glides over the buttons as he enters the number.
You watch, trapped between the urge to leave and return to the anonymity of your cubicle and the dreadful fear of making a terrible social faux pas by leaving a blind man after offering help.
Is it possible for hands to be pretty?
Fingers flexing beneath pristine white gloves. The silk unblemished and catching the light on the seams. Are those real silver threads or are they just for show?
You're so engrossed in watching the near balletic way his fingers flex and glide, that when a cough comes from behind you, you nearly jump out of your skin.
Holy shit!
You whirl, stepping back and almost knocking into the side of the vending machine. Catching yourself at the last second, you straighten with an embarrassed cough of your own.
Who is this and why are they standing right behind me!?
Another colleague you've not met before stands waiting with his hands clasped in front of him. He's wearing a half mask just like yours, but the eyes are rimmed with a silver fire design.
You wonder why everyone has their eyes covered, except for the blind (who you assume is the) manager. But then again, everyone else has the lower half of their face visible, but his is completely covered. Aesthetic? Security? Who knows.
This new stranger tuts at your stumble, before turning towards the blind man.
As if he senses the new presence, the man steps back, his cane tapping once.
The vending machine rumbles. The whirr of the spirals inside and the soft shoosh then thud of the twix falling cut through the sudden silence.
The unknown man steps forward and crouches to fish out the Twix.
"Wait, that isn't your..." The protest dies in your mouth as he places it in the first man's waiting palm.
You cough. Awkward. Then quickly step back.
These two obviously know each other. Building manager and assistant? Just your luck.
You smile at the assistant. Nodding.
He nods back. Once. Slow. You can't see his eyes, but you feel them scan you up and down. Assessing.
You nod again, rock back, and mutter. "Right. Goodbye. Gotta...get back to work."
The blind man nods. As does the other.
You wave at them - more specifically at the man you helped. But there is no return wave.
Oh, right...blind. Could you be any more awkward?
Trying to cover your fumble by adjusting with your hood doesn't go unnoticed.
The assistant breaths a little heavier as his lips twitch upward, in a manner that screams of suppressed mirth.
But what really makes your heart sink is the sound of a smooth chuckle escaping from behind the full face mask of the other man. His shoulders shake once, as he leans on his cane. It's low and throaty, and it really shouldn't make your stomach flip, but it does.
Wait. How did he see...it must have been a coincidence. He couldn't have seen your awkward wave-fumble. That would be even more embarrassing - just a faux pas cherry on an already too-long interaction.
You turn and march back down the corridor. Too many of your precious break minutes are gone. You need to eat your treats (or save them for later) and then it's back to work.
There's probably more coffee orders waiting for you or something. You can focus on who wants creamer and who can't have dairy, use that to forget about the most awkward interaction with the most handsome-sounding stranger you've ever met.
Once the masked worker disappears around the corner, the man they helped chuckles.
His head turns just slightly, the subtlest shimmer running over the mask as they move. His fingers flex on the cane; two fingers, tapping once.
It is a nearly indiscernible gesture that prompts his assistant to lean in immediately.
The man's voice is calm, almost soothingly serene, but cuts with the undeniable edge of an order.
"Find out their name."
Thank you for reading!
If you want more of this story, the posting schedule is ... undecided / on hiatus.
Happy April Fools!
