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  STEVE BEAULIEU PRESENTS:

  A SUPERVILLAIN ANTHOLOGY

  Cover Design by Steve Beaulieu

  Print and ebook formatting by Steve Beaulieu

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Authors retain all rights to their individual stories.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in reviews, without the written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Foreword

  © Copyright 2017 by Nick Cole

  Supervillainy 101

  © Copyright 2017 by Chris Pourteau

  Tick Tock

  © Copyright 2017 by Christopher J. Valin

  Vying for Power

  © Copyright 2017 by Greg Wilkey

  Ghosts of the Flames

  © Copyright 2017 by Aaron Hall

  Rejected

  © Copyright 2017 by M.K. Gibson

  The Winter Witch

  © Copyright 2017 by Susan Faw

  Counterclockwise

  © Copyright 2013 by Ed Gosney

  The Gala

  © Copyright 2017 by Morgon Newquist

  The Heart of a Clockwork Girl

  © Copyright 2017 by Michael Ezell

  Djinn 2.0

  © Copyright 2017 by Jessica West

  Hawksaw’s Formulation

  © Copyright 2017 by A.J. McWain

  Prisoner of War

  © Copyright 2017 by Steve Beaulieu

  CONTENTS

  FOREWORD: NICK COLE

  SUPERVILLAINY 101: CHRIS POURTEAU

  TICK TOCK: CHRISTOPHER J. VALIN

  VYING FOR POWER: GREG WILKEY

  GHOSTS OF THE FLAMES: HALL AND BEAULIEU

  REJECTED: M.K. GIBSON

  THE WINTER WITCH: SUSAN FAW

  COUNTERCLOCKWISE: ED GOSNEY

  THE GALA: MORGON NEWQUIST

  THE HEART OF A CLOCKWORK GIRL: MICHAEL EZELL

  DJINN 2.0: JESSICA WEST

  HACKSAW’S FORMULATION: A.J. McWAIN

  PRISONER OF WAR: STEVE BEAULIEU

  This book is dedicated to:

  LEN WEIN.

  Without you, we wouldn’t have that short, fuzzy, lovable mutant with the killer claws or that disgusting giant swamp-dweller.

  June 12, 1948 - September 10, 2017

  FOREWORD

  BY NICK COLE

  Back in the early days of Film, during the era of Silent Movies, they would put up a a card before the film. White writing, black background. It read: “You may cheer for the Hero, and Hiss the Villain.”

  I was an actor for a long time and I’m here to tell you, hands down, the best roles are villain roles. And the best actors play villains.

  In King Lear I played the murderous Duke of Cornwall. I schemed, raved, gouged out another Duke’s eyes and had a terrific sword fight. In other words... I was really livin’ it up.

  That’s what villains do. They take the road less travelled in order to suck the marrow out of life to the fullest it can be sucked. Regardless of the crimes perpetrated, schemes foiled, mayhem caused, and insanity that must ensue. These femme fatales and megalomaniacal maniacs are firing on all cylinders, grabbing all they can while the casino burns and the klieg lights scan the dark skies.

  Let’s speak about Insanity.

  Yeah, you’ve got to be a little crazy to go all super-villain. It never ends well and it starts with you having to justify your actions. Anyone can see that it will end badly. Because most people don’t just say, “I’m going to do some wrong today.”

  No. They’ve got an architecture. Reasons. Wrongs that must be righted. Real or imaginary. No. The villain often has a long list of grievances that must be redressed. Even if that method involves explosives and bank robbery.

  And that’s where the texture comes in. One note villains, parading through a novel, or movie, chewing scenery, pulling heists and ranting gran-eloquently, must face their reasons. Their textures. Their Rosebuds. There’s got to be some depth that explains why they’ve turned out so badly.

  It’s easy to cheer for the hero. It’s you after all. But to truly hiss the villain, he has to not just be wrong... but believe with all his might in absolute wrongs making things right as he ties our damsel to the tracks, or demands “One Million Dollars.”

  Got to.

  Within this Anthology you will find an exploration of those reasons. But be warned: If they start making sense, put the book down. Go hold a puppy. Teach a child to read. Pay for someone’s meal. Talk to someone who looks lonely. Know that God loves you. Those things make the world right, even when it looks so terribly horribly wrong.

  And now... you may cheer the hero, and hiss the villain.

  SUPERVILLAINY 101. An Introduction to Anarchy

  BY CHRIS POURTEAU

  SUPERVILLAINY 101.

  AN INTRODUCTION TO ANARCHY

  BY CHRIS POURTEAU

  Halleck

  HE HEARD LOCKS BEING THROWN down the corridor, then gruff voices. Plodding boots followed by a lighter sound, the clack-clack-clack of high heels.

  Stilettos, he fantasized. Six-inchers. Spikes nipping at the cold, concrete floor.

  They sounded anxious, the spikes.

  Excited?

  Yes, of course excited. The scoop of a lifetime. The birth of a career. She must be giddy with anticipation.

  Heavy keys moved tumblers inside the door lock. Outside the interrogation room, shadows flitted across the barred window. The lock slid free and metal screeched on metal. He imagined the montage of emotions playing across her face when she entered: fear and anticipation and promise and hunger. Hunger for him and what he could bring her. A game-changer of a story. A Pulitzer, maybe.

  Murphy stepped through first.

  “You secure, Harold?” the big man asked.

  He held up his wrists. The chains snicked link by link through the iron ring until they pulled taut at the floor mount. As if to say, I’m entirely secure and you have nothing to fear.

  He imagined Murphy taking inventory as the big man scanned the Spartan room.

  Table and chairs, bolted to the floor. Check.

  Heavy chains securing the prisoner at ankles and wrists. Check.

  Psychopath sentenced to die at dawn. Check.

  “Do you imagine a rescue is coming?” he asked Murphy. “Do you play out scenarios in your mind where my followers break into this prison and kill you to save me?”

  In the corridor, the stilettos kvetched. They sounded nervous, like a horse’s hooves before a race. How her heart must be racing behind that slim, perfect bosom.

  Murphy swept one massive paw backward, a warning to the woman behind him. The stilettos stopped. “Nothing ain’t gonna save you now, Harold. You gonna sleep like the dead, this time tomorrow.”

  The prisoner regarded Murphy with his full attention. Unblinking, he said, “Really, Murphy, do the dead sleep? Aren’t they just … well … dead?”

  The big guard paused a moment longer, then, “Guess you gonna find out firsthand.”

  “Please, Sergeant! I have a limited amount of time!”

  He closed his
eyes. The voice he’d come to know so well. A little more strident than the teleprompter demanded in the evenings, but still—the quality, the pitch. The slight, nasal hum when she said time betrayed an East Coast upbringing.

  Perfection.

  Murphy motioned forward with his paw.

  Clack-clack-clack.

  And there she was, fantasy made flesh. With the look he’d anticipated—the confident gaze of the predator-reporter armed with the First Amendment and a need to know.

  “You be careful, now, Miss Stone,” Murphy said. “There’s a reason your chair is bolted to the floor too. No closer, understand? I’ll be just outside.”

  “Yes, yes, thank you.”

  With a final, hard look at the prisoner, Murphy exited, pulling the door closed behind him.

  No tumblers this time, he noticed. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Stone. I’m a big fan.”

  She fidgeted as she sat down, trying to adjust to a chair that wouldn’t move. He imagined her doing her own mental inventory like Murphy had.

  Voice recorder, batteries charged.

  Pen and paper, to look official.

  Don’t forget to ask The Big Question.

  Sheryl Stone seemed at last to center herself. “Why am I here, Mr. Halleck? You’ve avoided interviews since your capture. All the way through the trial and all those appeals. Why now? Why me?”

  Halleck said sweetly, “Isn’t every condemned man due a last meal?”

  Stone

  Reaching to engage the voice recorder, her hand stopped in mid-air.

  “Is that why I’m here, Mr. Halleck?” she asked. “Eye candy for dinner?”

  He smiled. Less sweet, she thought. More cunning.

  His eyes angled thirty degrees downward. “Like I said”—He rested his arms on the table, chains dragging forward. His stare became even more acute—“I’m a fan.”

  The chill began behind her breastbone, then spread upward and outward along her limbs. It was all she could do to suppress a shiver.

  “If you think staring at my cleavage is going to put me off my game, you don’t know me very well, Mr. Halleck.”

  As his gaze rose to meet her own, his eyes were vacant and lethal, at once engaged but absent of compassion. As if he were peering at her from an empty room, spare and lifeless like this one, deep inside his own head.

  “I watch you every night,” he said. “The way you deliver the news is, well … satisfying. No one quite enumerates the day’s tragedies like you do.” His gaze drifted to her hand, still awaiting final orders.

  She pushed the recorder’s button. “You still haven’t….” She cleared her throat. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why me? Why not one of the national anchors? I’m just a local.”

  “Ah, but you’re my local.” The smile returned as he flicked a glance at the little red light on the recorder. “I predict you’ll go far, Ms. Stone. Your impact on the minds of the masses—well—it’ll be absolutely massive, if you can abide the pun.”

  After a moment, she said without thought, “That’s kind of you to say. But—”

  “Do you know where the word news comes from, Sheryl? May I call you Sheryl?”

  She picked up her pen for something to do with her hand. “Um, I’d always heard it’s from the points on the compass. N-E-W-S. Travelers would carve them on a tree to show where danger was along the trail—”

  The look on his face made her stop.

  “Alas, that is absolutely wrong, I’m afraid. An old wives’ tale. It’s actually from medieval times and, quite literally, the plural of new. As in, ‘I have something new to tell you. Wait there are multiple things. I have something news to tell you.’”

  “How … interesting.”

  “Isn’t it? Unfortunately these days, so much of what we see isn’t news at all. Filler in-between commercial breaks for prescription drugs and ambulance chasers. Breaking news lasts for an entire day, now, and so it really isn’t breaking at all. It’s more like … broken news. Useless banter of innuendo and conjecture.”

  “Mr. Halleck, my time here is limited. I have a number of questions I’d like to—”

  “So that’s why I prefer getting the news from you, my dear. Someone I know. How are your children, by the way? Little Susan and Michael Junior?”

  Her heart skipped a beat. She saw—reflected in the patience on his face, in his raised eyebrows—amusement at her reaction to him mentioning her children. She consciously closed her mouth.

  “How do you—”

  “Oh, I know so much about you, Sheryl,” he said, a grin creeping across his lips. “The world has become such a busy, feckless place, don’t you think? Making time to get to know one another is important.”

  “Let’s not talk about my family. I’m here to interview you, after all.”

  “Just trying to be friendly.”

  He winked.

  Halleck was getting the upper-hand here. She could sense it. She felt like a rat being led around corners in a maze by the promising smell of cheese. But she wasn’t one of the bubbleheads who made a career of reading a teleprompter. She’d interviewed the president once, for God’s sake.

  “So, for the piece I’m going to write,” she said, “would you prefer I call you by your given name or what the press called you during the trial?”

  Halleck appeared thoughtful. Then, “Well, Sheryl, this is an exclusive, after all. I bet The New York Times picks it up. And CNN. FOX. MSNBC. All those national outlets.” His smile invaded his eyes. “I bet they all pick it up. What name will sell your story better?”

  “Doctor Death it is, then.”

  Halleck

  “I prefer Professor Death,” he said. “Ph.D. or not, the Doctor version sounds so … well, presumptuous.”

  Stone placed pen to paper and scribbled. “That’s right. You were a professor at the university before embarking on a life of crime. Psychology, right?”

  “Educational psychology, actually.”

  She scribbled again, then glanced at the recorder and put her pen down.

  Good, he thought. Let’s dispense with the props.

  “And what do educational psychologists do?”

  “We educate psychologists.”

  Stone stared. “That was a joke?”

  “Apparently not. Actually, Sheryl, educational psychologists study the learning process. Some people learn by reading, some by watching, some by listening. Some learn interactively, by doing. What are the emotional and cognitive processes involved in how they learn? We study that kind of thing. And, more specifically, how they learn to be what they are.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I suspect you chose to become a journalist—just for an example, to answer your question—because truth is a vital personal value to you. Maybe your father instilled a hatred of lying in you.” He shrugged. “Pleasing Daddy from beyond the grave, perhaps? And now, as a broadcast journalist, you can add your own voice—and other personable qualities,” he said, eyes flitting down again briefly, “to your message. You’re really quite heroic, Sheryl, when you think about it.”

  Stone shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “How does that—”

  “Our lives are most in tune with our inner selves when what we do aligns with who we are. You are a fighter, Sheryl, a fighter for truth.”

  She took a deep breath while trying to hide the effort, he noticed. A feral grin tickled the corners of her mouth.

  “My father died when I was three. Majoring in journalism was a way to read books in college as an English major and still find a job after. And yes, the truth is important to me … as long as it comes with a good story.”

  “Ah, well,” he said with a glib expression. “We can’t always be right. But as you said, Sheryl, the clock is tick-tock-ticking. Let’s not waste another moment. Please ask me your questions. Ask me anything.”

  “Why did you kill all those infants?”

  Stone

  Halleck paused. “You don’t even buy a man dinner
first, do you?”

  “Answer the question, Mr. Halleck. You invited me here. You tell me time is ticking away. You’ve pegged me as a truth-seeker. Tell me the truth, then. Why murder innocent children?”

  “You really should take your time, Sheryl. Truthfully speaking, the pleasure is in the process—”

  “Answer the goddamned question!”

  The emotion in her own voice surprised her. She was starting to feel even more like the rat in the maze. Like he’d lured her here with the promise of an exclusive merely to observe her as she bumped into the walls of their conversation.

  His face became stony. His eyes flattened to flints. “They weren’t innocent. They were Powered.”

  “That’s not a reason.” As the silence stretched, she redirected. “You and the rest of the Legion of Anarchy attacked Team Justice Headquarters. You killed Viking, you killed Scarlet Specter. And then those children … a needless act of—”

  “Moving from reporting to editorializing now, are we, Sheryl?”

  “But Manheim and the others caught you in the end. And here you sit.”

  Halleck opened his palms, spreading his arms wide until the chains pulled tight. “And here I sit.”

  “The rest of the Legion got away, though. Yet, no one has tried to break you out. Not once in ten years.”

  “I admit—I feel unloved.”

  She felt her face flushing red. He was getting to her like a worm crawling through her gut. She thought of her husband and Suzie and Mike, and it helped to center her.