@ziptiesnfries' sideblog for posting about super-related shenanigans—in particular, the OCs from my novel-in-progress. The Hero's Villain follows teenage telekinetic Wren Argent, aka The Phantom Prince, as they investigate who framed their mom for villainy.
Character Guide | hero/villain prompts
Writing
Heads up: there is no set "canon" for these characters yet. This blog is my sandbox, and things are subject to change. I'm always open to requests!
Fifth Time's the Charm - In which Vivienne has had Wren’s memory erased over, and over, and over…
Motherhood - A character study of Vivienne Thorn.
Absences - Wren reminisces about their mom, Stella.
Crime Polycule AU - Crack AU where Axton Vale marries both Loren Bruce and Vivienne Thorn, and they're all raising a child together.
(Try Not To) Kill All Your Friends masterpost - A series in which Vale forces Phantom into an apprenticeship. (This version is unfinished and no longer being updated, but I'm still toying with the concept.)
A bit of nuance that appeals to me with living weapons are characters that are made for more delicate work.
They are still dehumanized, expendable, and have no life outside their purpose, but that purpose is espionage and social manipulation as well as murder. They have an inconspicuous name rather than a number. They can take care of themselves. You’d probably find them charming.
Living weapons that could operate on their own, undercover, for years. Who could escape and seem perfectly normal, even if it’s just another act. Who know to hide their injuries or else they’ll be “decommissioned”, but will expertly misdirect any questions along with just gritting their teeth and not showing that it hurts.
I guess I’m thinking about Black Widow. Still think it’s neat.
need more stories with fuck up villainous healers. healer who becomes the villain team's resident torture expert because they can extend the pain out for as long as needed through the power of full HP restores. healer who fights terrifingly dirty and fears for nothing because she can rapidly recover her own wounds on the fly. much to consider.
It's honestly a shame that so many stories usually have one main Villain, but never really a Team. You'll have it on the Heroes' side of course, but there is one bad guy to defeat.
But imagine the whump if the Villain side also has a found family group, but you know. Evil.
Just the Team capturing one of them, the rest freaking out. One getting hurt or even dying, the Hero side watching the Villains also break and be protective of their own...
One time, when I was eight or so, I lost my mom at the grocery store. I’d been staring at a stack of the reddest apples I’d ever seen, and when I turned to ask her if I could have one, she was gone.
For a frozen moment, I wasn’t sure what to do. It was the sort of thing I’d had nightmares about but never thought I’d experience in real life. I did a full 360, but I couldn’t see her curly ponytail, her blue sweater, or our mostly-empty cart. Panic filled my lungs, and I released it in an ear-piercing wail that alerted every adult in the vicinity that there was a child in distress.
Including my mom, who’d been behind the enormous stack of apples, where I couldn’t see her. She abandoned the cart and rushed to scoop me up. “I’m here, shh, I’m here,” she murmured, hurrying me out of the store so I could calm down outside.
She must’ve been embarrassed, being the mom of the screaming kid in the produce section, but if she was, she didn’t make me aware. I just held her tight, breathing in her citrus shampoo, smearing snot and tears on the front of her sweater. I wouldn’t learn the word catharsis for another few years, but that was the most accurate word for it: That was scary, but I’m safe now, because my mom is here.
Every morning, I wake up hoping beyond all hope for that feeling—a phone call, a letter, even one of those League pigs at my door saying, “We made a mistake. We know your mom’s innocent; we’re sending her home.” I still expect to see her everywhere I go. Whenever I see a woman with a curly brown ponytail at the JCU library, I feel the urge to call out to her, the word Mom sticking in the back of my throat. Sometimes, when I drag myself through my bedroom window at 3 a.m., bruised and bleeding and clutching my mask in one hand, I pause because I’m certain I heard her snoring. But it’s always just the refrigerator kicking on, and the realization crushes me every time.
It’s been eight months, fifteen days, and five hours since I last saw my mom. I can never tell if I’m any closer to bringing her home.
thinking about apprentice whumpees (when am i not?) and specifically being the apprentice, pet, favoured second, heir-in-training, etc of the head of a hierarchical organisation. according to them, you're above everyone else. but if Everyone Else gets unhappy with this arrangement and takes it out on you, you can't go to the boss for protection or comfort because what do you mean, someone so far beneath you insubordinated you, and me by extension? and you let them?
i like fucked up little heirs and spoiled brats and teacher's pets and so on and so forth especially when either the protection their position affords is stripped away or their position was harmful in and of itself
The character relationships in The Hero's Villain would probably be best illustrated by a complex visual web—but, in lieu of that, here's a quick reference for the characters on this blog.
Villains (& adjacent)
Wren Argent, aka The Phantom Prince | they/them, he/him | 16 y/o | telekinetic Supervillain - A determined, sarcastic teenager who's hell-bent on finding out who framed their mom.
Axton Vale | he/him | early 50s | crime lord - Insurance magnate by day, overlord of the city's underground by night. Cutthroat yet surprisingly honest. Phantom's biological father.
Loren Bruce, aka Doctor Professor | he/she/they/whatever | early 50s | villain medic - No-nonsense, universally-beloved doctor of the city's villains and criminals.
Lizard | they/them | 15 y/o | medic-in-training - Adoptive child of Doctor Professor who aims to follow in their parent's footsteps.
Vivienne Thorn, et al. | she/her | mid 40s | shapeshifter spy - She is whoever she has to be at any given time; also Wren's biological mother.
Technowhiz | he/him | mid-30s | tech genius - Most prominent (and most destructive) villain currently active in the city.
Drew Sawyer | he/she ? | 19 y/o | power: intangibility - Disgraced former hero, incarcerated former villain, bitterly angry at the system and himself. Former apprentice of Vivienne's.
Heroes (& adjacent)
Fenix | she/her | 16 y/o | power: flight - Sidekick to Wonder Man, nemesis to Phantom; battling some nagging doubts about the Hero League.
Catlin | she/her | early 40s | healer - Medic of Jet City's heroes, although she never wanted to be. She's often cruel to her patients, which the League turns a blind eye to.
Wonder Man | he/him | early 40s | power: flight - The larger-than-life superhero who keeps his dark side hidden from the public eye.
The Gold Knight | he/him | 19 y/o | power: telekinesis - Junior hero who takes his job extremely seriously. Former friend of Drew's.
Bolt | she/her | 15 y/o | power: superspeed - The newest hero on the team; the gravity of the job hasn't quite set in yet. Sidekick to Avia.
Avia | she/her | early 40s | power: flight - Strait-laced, by the books; dedicated to protecting the city above all else.
Cosmos | he/him | late 40s | power: teleportation - A jaded older hero who's counting down the years till his retirement.
Civilians
Stella Argent | she/her | mid-40s - A college professor with a fascination for heroes and villains; currently incarcerated. She's also Wren's adoptive mom.
Joanna "Jo" Argent | she/her | mid-40s - ER nurse by trade; Stella's uptight sister by birth; Wren's legal guardian by necessity.
Ariel Becker | he/him | 16 y/o - A bubbly genetics nerd who's ecstatic to be interning at BioCorp this year. Wren's best friend.
Michaela Wadell | she/her ? | 16 y/o - Charismatic student athlete with a serious mean streak.
The most important thing Vivienne had learned as a spy was the art of knowing when the jig was up. In this unique case, she’d had a lot of practice: the moment she heard Wren plodding down the stairs, each footstep taken as though punching through a man’s ribcage, Vivienne knew the con was over.
When she turned, Wren stood at the foot of the steps, still in their pajamas with the back of their hair sticking up—so incredibly like Axton’s was in the morning, Vivienne thought; boyish, in a way—and some kind of paper crumpled in their tight fist. Their knuckles were white, expression murderous.
And yet Vivienne greeted them with a smile, shutting the book she’d been reading. The word denial flashed through her consciousness as she rose and said, “Good morning, my darling. How did you sleep?”
For a moment, Wren only stared at her. Then they said, low and oddly toneless, “How many times?”
Her stomach sank, but the smile didn’t drop, not yet. She cocked her head. “I’m sorry?”
“Yeah, you should be.” They threw the crumpled paper at her feet. It was the dust jacket for the copy of Alice in Wonderland they kept in their bedroom. They’d bought it themself at the thrift store, Vivienne recalled, although she knew they wouldn’t yet remember doing so. They replied through their teeth, “The note was dated from five months ago. I woke up in the hospital three weeks ago. So how many fucking times?”
Finally, the smile fell. Vivienne tsked as she retrieved the ruined dust jacket from the floor, catching sight of the handwriting on the reverse side of the flap. “I knew you must’ve left yourself a note,” she muttered. After the last two memory wipes, Wren had been far too quick on the uptake. Vivienne had taken to tearing apart their room before she brought them home, looking for clues they may have left themself about their previous life, anything at all that might make them suspicious of the backstory Vivienne had fed them about getting in an accident. She’d never been able to find what had clued them in. A dust jacket, Vivienne mused. She was as impressed that they’d thought of it as she was disappointed that she hadn’t.
Tears welled in Wren’s eyes. The frames on the walls began to rattle. “How many times?” they shouted.
She set the note aside, thinking she’d have to burn it later. “Four,” she answered.
Their face crumpled, a hand flying to their mouth. They swallowed and composed themself. Still, their voice came out shaky. “You can’t keep doing this, Vivienne.”
“Au contraire, darling.” She spoke lightly, and took a step toward them. “It seems you’re the one who can’t keep doing this. Aren’t you tired?”
The house was very bare bones, now—both because items had been broken in previous fights, and because Vivienne had taken into account Wren’s knack for improvised weapons. When the picture frame flew at her head, she dodged toward Wren, a hand wrapped around the syringe in her pocket. They twisted away, quick on their feet, and began running for the kitchen.
She sighed; she hated it when they did that. The fights always got much uglier once they got their hands on a real weapon. That was why she kept the knives padlocked—although locks only slowed them down.
Her legs were still longer than theirs, though—maybe Wren had a few more inches to grow, she mused idly; she and Axton were both taller than them—and she caught up easily, looping an arm around their midsection. She slipped the syringe from her pocket, but her wrist twisted as though wrenched by a ghost, and it dropped to the floor. She deftly avoided the elbow Wren jabbed in her direction. “Darling—” she sighed.
“Let me go!” Their voice cracked. A shoe whacked the back of Vivienne’s head. She only grimaced and held her child tighter. Five times, the telepath had said. That was as many times as he’d do the memory wipe (a memory lockdown, really; simply gathering everything prior into a large vault and throwing away the combination, was how he’d described it) before there was a risk of permanent damage: personality changes, dizziness, nausea, problems with short- and long-term memory … None of that had happened to Wren yet, aside from some passing dizzy spells. As for personality changes …
Vivienne understood their hatred of her, as only a daughter with a deep-seated resentment for her own mother could. She didn’t blame them, per se, but she often begrudged them for it. Wren was so much more than she’d ever imagined they’d be: fiery, cunning, powerful, guarded … The rare moments when they seemed as delicate as a spiderweb, though, enthralled her the most. But even when freshly memory-wiped, they had never let her in without tension in their shoulders, like they knew it was against their nature but could no longer explain why. They were, to their core, stubbornly themself.
She wondered—of course there were no guarantees; of course it was ill-advised—but she wondered whether the fifth time was the charm. Perhaps she’d disassemble all those walls they had up, and they’d finally bond with her, like a child should to their mother. Perhaps on the fifth try, they’d stay willingly.
Various small objects still pelted her back, but each passing blow was less focused. “Let me go, Vivienne!” Wren’s voice cracked, and her heart broke for them—or maybe for herself; it was hard to tell anymore.
She pressed her cheek to their hair, holding them tighter. “I won’t abandon you again, love.”
“It’s not—” Their chest heaved with a sob as they clawed at her arms. “—not abandonment if I’m fucking running from you!”
No, of course not. But what kind of a mother would she be if she just let Wren leave? Or if she let herself give up? “Just let me explain,” she murmured. “You don’t know the whole story. I know you haven’t remembered everything yet.”
At that, their body went slack in her arms, and they began weeping in earnest—an expected part of the cycle, by now, but it still managed to tug at Vivienne’s heartstrings. “Oh, sweetheart ….” She moved to kiss the top of their head—
—and they slammed backwards, her nose crunching under the impact from their skull. She tasted a burst of blood as her eyes pricked with involuntary tears, and Wren took off at a dead sprint towards the kitchen. “Bastard,” she hissed, and ran after them.
By the time she caught up, Wren was almost to the knife drawer, and almost was more than sufficient for someone with their abilities. The padlock flew off of its own accord, and the drawer yanked open. As Vivienne entered the kitchen, the only two knives she kept in the house levitated into the air and shot towards her.
She backpedaled through the doorway and flattened against the wall. Not a second later, she heard a dull thud, then a clattering against the tile. She popped out of her hiding place to find one knife embedded in the drywall, the other on the floor. Without hesitation, she wrenched the blade out of the wall and turned to Wren.
The counters were set in a U shape, and Wren turned to vault over the side that led to the back door. Vivienne grabbed their shirt collar, threw them to the floor, and descended on them, the knife stopping a hair’s breadth from their throat.
They froze, and she took the opportunity to pin their wrists above their head. They didn’t dare resist. She had to admit, they looked rather cute like this—fear filling their eyes, their hands slack in her grip. “You wouldn’t,” they whispered, sounding not at all certain. “You wouldn’t go through all this just to—”
She pressed the knife into their skin, and a thread of blood appeared across their throat. “Try me, sweetheart,” she replied blithely. “We both know that when it comes down to it, I look out for number one.” Wren kept their mouth shut, a muscle twitching in their jaw as their eyes flicked to the knife. She didn’t have the heart to be offended that they believed her; she’d say whatever it took to keep them. “I just want to talk, Wren. I won’t erase your memories again; you have my word.”
They didn’t look like they believed that, either, but even they had to recognize they were out of options. “Fine.”
Slowly, she removed the blade from their throat and let them up. They inhaled deeply, rubbing at their neck. “God, if I had a dollar for every time you held a knife to my throat …” they muttered.
Vivienne pursed her lips and went to retrieve the other knife from the floor. “You can’t possibly remember that already.”
They dragged themself to their feet. “I didn’t have to,” they said, bracing themself against the counter. “You threatened me so easily.”
It crossed Vivienne’s mind that perhaps she was too broken to be a mother. She had two knives in her hand and was still mentally calculating the distance between Wren and the abandoned syringe in the hallway—which was well over ten feet away; they’d be unable to manipulate it from where they stood now, but the potential for danger would occupy a space in her mind until she retrieved it. Wren, to her, was almost an optical illusion. From one angle, they were the beloved child she’d fought so hard to recover; from the other, they were a threat, and she responded to them the same as she’d respond to any other attempt on her life. It wasn’t at all how she’d imagined motherhood would be.
She didn’t think she could tolerate it any other way.
“Alright, darling.” Vivienne deposited the knives on the kitchen counter—lightly gripping the handles, the blades turned away from her body—and smiled at her child. “Let’s talk.”
point #1: i just compiled a document of every piece of writing i've ever posted on this blog, and it's 37,000 words long! all of it being of very dubious canonical quality. a writer's job is to write and rewrite, of course.
point #2: as i was searching through my documents, i found a few character studies/AUs i never posted that might be interesting to put out here, so ... be on the lookout, i suppose 👀
superheroes make the best living weapons. they're widely adored by the public, and even though they don't have license to kill - a weapon isn't any less dangerous for being non-lethal, is it? no matter what they do, it must be warranted. after all, they are the good guys.
