twolfewriting

[twolfewriting]

Concept #109

Hero had found Villain to be rather stressed over the last few days. Turned out it was the annual agency visit at their base to rate their standards/level of villainy. Villain asks Hero to let them ‘kidnap’ them to help boost their score.

[twolfewriting]

The Dastardly Villain Chaos

Chapter One: What Makes Heroes

 The boat waded in the darkness. The emptiness of the void stretched outward endlessly, the starless sky blending seamlessly into the black water creating a deep endless nothing as far as Harold could see. Only the swaying of the rental boat beneath his back and the occasional pop of white foam on the water gave any hint of the tangible world. A white shimmer rippled beneath the tide, giving the water a magical gleam, but he couldn’t be sure if it was real or not.

Out here, Harold could imagine he was sailing through space, thousands upon thousands of miles away from his life—from his fears. He pictured himself drifting though the universe. He could almost see the Earth in the distance; a mess of blues and browns muddled by a thick swath of mist.

Everything began to lose its meaning. Water and sky and space started to combine; their assigned purpose being lost to the absurdity of reality. Staring out at the sky, Harold could feel his sense of self slipping away from him, drifting off somewhere out into the night as his consciousness joined the oneness of the void.

Time and space, sky and sea, and him. He wanted to drift away, to just keep sailing forward until reality unfolded and the universe forgot his name.

But he still had a job to do.

Harold could just barely make out the shape of his hands as he raised them above his face. Light from the city behind him colored his skin faintly in the darkness, forcing him to confront the fact that he still existed, that his wretched being had not yet dissolved into particles.

If the light can still reach my hands, I’m not far enough away yet, he thought to himself. With a sigh, he pulled himself to his feet and made his way to the engine, legs wobbling slightly from lack of use.

The boat whirred to life as Harold yanked on the motor. Water churned angrily over the thick silence as he drove forward. He flinched when he heard something scrape across the floor, followed by a sharp thud. Glancing over his shoulder, Harold saw that the Doom Donut, jostled in the movement, had slid into the back wall of the boat. He gritted his teeth and pushed ahead.

After a few minutes passed, Harold cut off the engine and went to inspect his machine. The Doom Donut was a blocky device, about three feet tall and wide with a large hole through its middle. The floor beside it had been scuffed up pretty bad, but the machine itself appeared to be unharmed. Harold sighed.

Facing this way, the light from the city raged at Harold’s senses. It shattered the illusion of the void, sitting on top of the darkness so insistently that Harold wondered how anyone managed to get any sleep in its cocoon. The city exuded life, so much so that it looked to Harold as if it were pulsating—as if it were a sleeping beast, breathing in the distance.

Sitting on the beach were an array of buildings, all cluttered together and disorganized. As time when on and sea levels rose, many sat too close to the shore, just begging to be washed away by the tide. Most people, noticing this, would make the decision to build farther back, to a safe distance.

But not SaxonCo. Their company was eating up all the property it could get its hands on in Marxville, monopolizing the economy, and building left and right without a care in the world. They had been caught several times exploiting the use of slave labor overseas, ravaging the environment, and working their employees to the bone. Charges had been brought up against them, all with the same result: either the case was settled outside of court, or SaxonCo won their case.

But this wasn’t even the worst of it. Harold could still remember all the years ago, lying in a hospital bed, waiting endlessly for the torture to stop.

They’re up to something. I couldn’t prove it then, but maybe I can stop it now.

Harold wasn’t surprised when a new hotel, Libertas, had sprung up on the beach, all gleaming spires and twisting angles. The building was lit up brighter than any other on the beach, crying for attention despite having not been open yet, and it was going to create a buffet of victims for SaxonCo.

Construction on the building had been fast—too fast, and the hotel sat dangerously close to the water for the sake of an oceanside view “you simply couldn’t resist”. It was as if they were tempting fate, as if they were tempting Harold.

Admittedly, fate had a stronger resolve than Harold did. He couldn’t resist the call of the building. To the rest of the world, it said: “Look at me! Stare at me with awe and wonder!” But to Harold, it was just begging to be knocked down.

Happy to oblige.

Harold’s fingers found the switches on his device in the dark, metal nubs snapping upward with a satisfying snick. The Doom Donut shuddered and groaned before settling into a soft hum. The air became charged with static, and the hair on Harold’s arms stood up alert. Shivering at the sudden chill in the air, Harold hefted the machine up to the lip of the boat with a grunt. He leans against the rail slightly, clinging to the Doom Donut as though he were afraid it might slip away.

The dark water lapped at the walls of the boat, which strained against the weight Harold had put on it, bringing him ever closer to an all-consuming cold ocean. He swallowed, but his mouth continued to fill with saliva, and he began to feel dizzy, his face flushing.

Surely, he wasn’t backing out now. It had taken months to construct the Doom Donut, and it had consistently drained his time and his funds. What was he doing out here if not finishing what he’d started? What was his purpose if he didn’t do what he’d set out to do? No. He had already decided.

Harold was going to save the world. And he would start with this godforsaken city, even if it killed him. Even if it killed all of them.

When Harold’s eyes met the building again, he could feel it mocking him, daring him to chicken out and go home. Without looking away, he let go of the Doom Donut.

It hit the top of the water with a heavy crack, sending some of it up into Harold’s face. He pulled away from the wall with a gasp, eyes stung by the salt water.

Harold rubbed his eyes, scowling at the sea for betraying him. Didn’t it realize he was the good guy here?

The water bubbled as the machine sank deeper and deeper beneath it.

Gosh, I hope that lands upright. If it lands on its side, this’ll have been a massive waste of time.

He contemplated the success rate of jumping into freezing water, in pitch black darkness, swimming to the bottom, and correcting the situation by hand should it come to that. It wasn’t great.

With this in mind, Harold decided to run a quick test before heading back to the shore. He pulled a small remote, about the size of his fist, out of his cargo pants pocket. It had three switches on it that were the same size and shape as the ones on the Doom Donut. A small screen, like that on an old school calculator, lit up green and asked for a code, which Harold typed in on a small number pad beneath the switches. The code ensured that the device was never activated by mistake.

69 69 69, enter, and then Harold flipped the switches.

Almost instantly, Harold is lurched backward as the boat pulled back harshly. Losing his footing, Harold’s butt hit the ground hard, and he had to throw out his arms to stop himself from being flung into the wall. Flailing for something to hold onto, the remote goes flying from Harold’s hand across the deck.

Shit!

The boat spun wildly on the water, waves pushing it forward and backward, one after the other, coming with more frequency and more power every second. The water was being pulled from both directions, flowing rapidly through his device, which could only mean that it had landed just fine.

That’s great! Truly excellent! Even better if it doesn’t end up freaking KILLING ME.

Waves were cresting over the railing now, water washing over Harold’s head. He had just gotten a grip on the bench seat when the icy spray tore him away, his fingers slipping and his body rolled uselessly backward. He gasped as the back of his head made sharp contact with the wall, sparks floating in his eyes.

Something smacked hard into his leg, and Harold bit his tongue roughly to stop from calling out. He tried to make out the offending object in the darkness. His hands slapped the ground blindly, splashing pathetically until he finally felt it—the remote.

The boat swayed roughly, causing Harold to slide again, but this time he shielded the remote, curling his body around it as he is forced across the vessel. The boat dips so severely, Harold almost goes over the rail before it begins the rock back again. Harold hooks his foot on the back of a post and fumbled for the switches.

Ok! That’s enough! Experiment done!

The switches flipped.

The boat hit the top of the water harshly before sailing toward the shore. All the tension that had built up beneath it propelled it forward, and Harold realized it wasn’t going to stop before he hit sand. He shielded his face.

The shore met Harold as unhappily as he met it, the boat hitting the land sideways and spitting Harold onto the shore. He rolled out over sand and seaweed, shells scrapping at his arms.

Harold coughed roughly, trying not to inhale sand as he sat up. He had landed, luckily, on a dark undeveloped part of the beach. Unluckily, this meant both he and the rental boat were worse for the wear then bargained for, and he dragged himself up to inspect the damages. The boat wasn’t wrecked, but . . . he wasn’t getting his security deposit back. He sighed, and then coughed as sand shifted into his lungs.

Miles out to sea the ocean became calm once again, but the threat of Harold’s device remained, weighing heavily on his mind.

Well . . . it works.

Not just in theory. Not just in his fantasies. It really, actually, worked.

Could he still go through with his plan knowing that?

Because it wasn’t just SaxonCo who would be affected by Harold’s plan. The whole beach would be in danger, and everyone on it.

Marxville was a desolate place, filled with desolate people. All the factories filled the air with a sharp acidic taste, and the sky was rarely clear. The people who lived here hopelessly dragged themselves to jobs that consumed their every waking hour only to stumble home sick with concern that they still hadn’t worked hard enough to put food on the table and pay electricity. They didn’t deserve what was coming and Harold’s heart ached with pity.

And yet, pity was easy enough to replace with hatred as his eyes swept across that building again. It was a beacon in the night, a symbol of all the wrongs that needed righting. His teeth gnashed against his inner cheek.

Someone needs to stop them. Someone needs to put them in their place.

But still . . .

Harold shook his head. People are always going to be in danger with that company around. At least this I can spare them what . . . what was done to me, he told himself.

 Suddenly, Harold could see himself vividly. He watched himself activate his device; watched as every building was wiped off of the beach, watched as people were swept under the waves, as children screamed, as water filled their lungs. Everyone, everything: gone. It’d be so easy.

 Dizziness flared through Harold’s head, clouding his thoughts, and he swayed on his feet. The images rocked through him heavily until he found himself on his knees, vomiting into the sand, his stomach forcing every last bit of bile out of him. He gasped harshly, sucking in the cold air, but it was sweat that clung to his skin, heat that touched his cheeks. His shoulders shook, and he feared he wasn’t going to be able to get to his feet again, dry heaving relentlessly.

I don’t want that, I don’t want that, I don’t want that.

Frantically, Harold checked the beach. Everything was still there. A few feet over, his remote lay in the sand untouched. Though it had felt real enough to be a memory, the images that had burst to life in Harold’s head were just images and not memories, as he had feared. Just thoughts.

But it was so real . . .

Harold shook his head aggressively, coming to sit in the sand. He bowed his head, elbows on knees, and ran a shaky hand through his hair repeatedly to soothe himself.

Though he knew it hadn’t happened for real, the urge to replay the scene in his mind was strong. He fought against the impulse, knowing that it would only make it worse, but images still flitted in and out of his head, causing panic to spike in him.

I have to go over it, if I don’t how can I be sure it didn’t happen, or that it won’t happen?

But that was just it, wasn’t it? He couldn’t be sure. Because he had a mission, and he had no idea what was going to happen.

But I don’t want people to get hurt! I want to help people—god, I just want everyone to be safe.

Tears stung the corners of Harold’s eyes, and he rested his head on his arms. He had to do this. He’d been over it time and time again, this was the only way he could help them. If SaxonCo wasn’t stopped . . .

Fear wound around his every muscle, clouded his every thought. He couldn’t let that happen. He had the power to stop it, and he had to use it, even if he hurt people—it was worth it to stop them from doing far worse.

Harold wished there was someone else to do it. Someone who could just come in and save the day for them all, who would see what they were doing and put an end to it. Someone who would’ve saved Harold if they had only known.

But there was no one else. It was just him. So, he had to be the one to try, had to be the hero he needed all those years ago. And he would’ve rather died than go through that.

He would concede to his fear. Embrace it even. He would let it guide him and pretend that meant he was brave.

Harold trained his eye on Libertas, reminding himself that this wasn’t about him, or any one person. This was about the greater good.

Maybe that was what made heroes. Maybe all Harold really needed to be was afraid. Maybe everyone did.

And they will be.

[twolfewriting]

Me @ myself

me: god if this author doesn’t update I’m going to DIE

also me, an author with several WIPs:

[twolfewriting]

Slight delay on the update, thought I'd have it posted by yesterday but decided to rewrite the chapter.... Again. So it'll probably be another week give or take a few days, but it'll be so much better and worth the wait.

The story, iT cOmEtH sOoN!

XD so that's something to look forward to.

[twolfewriting]

The story, iT cOmEtH sOoN!

XD so that's something to look forward to.

[twolfewriting]

Zeke: So... why did you where fencing equipment to our fight?

Harold: I saw it and wanted to. I don't wear it nearly enough.

Zeke:

Harold: Do you like it?

Zeke:

Harold:

Zeke: Yes.

Harold: :3

Harold, later: Propriety is a social construct.

Zeke: I know, Harold.

[twolfewriting]

Harold: *is driving like a madman*

Zeke: *clutching the "oh shit" bar*

Harold: Aren't you, like, impenetrable?

Zeke: *flinching as the drive over a pothole* That is actually a common misconceptio--on! *another pothole* I am very much moral, very much hate pain, and vet much afraid to die right now.

[twolfewriting]

Heros friend, after being invited over to talk about her growing concerns with the villain, knocks on the door of an ominous looking laboratory.

Hero, answering the door : Oh good you made it.

Friend: is that villain behind you? Just relaxing on your couch??

Villain waves.

Hero: well yeah.

Friend: what??? Do you like, live with him?

Hero: well yeah, we've been married for like three years.

Friend: WHAT???

[twolfewriting]

"I wanted to swallow her darkness. Sever it from her skin with my teeth and lick the blood off her flesh until she was raw and new and pure and blissful, smiling at me with my blood in her mouth. We will devour each other. And finally, we might begin to feel complete."

- T. L. Wolfe, about a woman I can't reach.

[twolfewriting]

Harold: Let me guess. Your best sport in high school was football.

Zeke: . . .

Harold: I fucking knew it.

Zeke: Oh? Oh, you wanna start? Well I bet you're best sport was STEM.

Harold: Fencing actually.

Zeke: Ha! I-- wait, really?

Harold: To be fair I was also in STEM, but that's not really embarrassing.

[twolfewriting]

"Petition for Selfharm" by T.L.Wolfe

Being smart and being sane aren’t mutually exclusive, Always holding on for life when my grip is so elusive. Peroxide. Gauze. Tape. A blade: Never thought this list would be what made my day Bearable; unbearable, the pain I feel twisted and wrapped up inside my skin, Every second a condemnation before I get the chance to sin.

My mind–on fire. Heart racing. Throat closed. My hands: still shaking; “pretend to be composed!”

I can’t afford the price of the release of this pressure, Building under my skin, is this my forever? Just a few minutes, hours, days, getting colder, Just long enough alone to make some memories on my shoulder�� No–my wrist, I insist, im tired of this game: The one where I keep hiding just how much im in pain.

I want you to hear me, see me, fear me, stop Telling me im fine, I’ve never had it hard enough. Im unhinged, can I show you, did you hear me, do you see? Have you ever understood how hard it is to be me?

[twolfewriting]

The Rise of the Dastardly Villain Chaos

By T. L. Wolfe

Prologue Draft

The building was in ruin. Rubble fell in a cataclysmic landslide of manmade stone, daylight stealing in through what were once walls and a ceiling like a robber through unlocked doors. A massive beam broke free from the calamity of it all, swinging down in a trajectory of terror toward the mere moral bellow.

The man froze in abject horror, a scream trapped in his throat, creating sound no stronger then a small whimper as he came face to face with the moment of his death. He looked away, bracing himself for it's impact.

But the beam never struck.

The man opens his eyes into slits, wondering if perhaps the beam has missed him. His eyes widen; mouth drops open.

Above him stood an unmovable force disguised as a man. It held the beam, a heartbeat away, this mighty, righteous being, preventing the raw force of mortality from claiming the workman.

The hero known as the Bullet Racer tossed the beam aside, the reverberations rocking the ground beneath the workman, bringing him to his knees. He stared up at the hero, tears streaming down his face absently. The Bullet Racer's hard gaze beats down on the man.

"Can you walk?"

The worker blinks, snapping or if his daze. He nods.

"Then go - quickly!" the Bullet Racer snaps, turning his attention elsewhere. "I'll take care of him."

The man sees him then, panic growing tangled roots into his chest. The person responsible for all this pandemonium.

He stood triumphant, smile half-cocked as he relaxed against the wall, more metaphor than wall by then. He looked like a splotch of ink you might achieve leaving a pen to bleed on a crisp sheet of paper, but the ink collected into masses at the end of his limbs, coming to form monstrous robotic tools of mayhem. He was the terrible creature of destruction, the patron saint of panic; the only man alive who could come close to matching the Bullet Racer:

The Dastardly,

Villainous,

Chaos.

Chaos laughed, sending an icy chill through the room. People froze from their attempted escape to gawk at him, forgetting for a moment the peril of the collapsing building when the person before them posed so much more meaningful a threat.

"Sweetheart, you can hardly take care of yourself," he purred.

The Bullet Racer charged at him, and Chaos just barely evaded him, casting a glaring smile.

The worker knew what came next; an epic fight that would tear this building down. He had to go, now, if he wanted to survive.

Scrambling to his feet, the man fled, along with the countless other people in the building who weren't willing to die to say they witnessed this showdown.

As they raced through the debre into what remained of the main hall, the Bullet Racer managed to catch one of Chaos's arms, and pinned him to the wall forcefully. His face hovered inches above Chaos, and his breath came out jagged and thick.

Chaos's smile had dropped then, and he turned his head away from the Bullet Racer, trembling.

In a low growl, the Bullet Racer taunted him.

"Got ya."

It was then that The Dastardly Villain Chaos; messenger of turmoil - twitching beneath The Bullet Racer's grasp - let out a very sudden, very low, very involuntary, moan.

Chaos slapped his free hand over lips, frantically searching the room with his eyes. He lowered his hand slowly as he watched the last of the civilians pass into the hall. If they had heard what just transpired, they made no move to confirm this.

The Bullet Racer leaned his head down slightly, lip twitching.

"Jesus Christ, Harold, we're working," the Bullet Racer breathes in exasperation, just barely concealing the arousal in his own voice.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry -" Harold begins, panicked, but the moment the last bystander is out of view, The Bullet Racer, also known as Zeke, Harold's boyfriend, shoved Harold up against the wall, smothering him in a deep, long kiss, and, well.

You know what they say about work and pleasure.

It's can certainly make something as innocuous as a dislodged camera on the wall, red light holding steady, an easy thing to miss.

If only the same could be said about the person who would get their hands on that tape...

[twolfewriting]

Guilty Pleasure

I like to read my own stories a lot, cuz they are geared toward me, and cuz I got to choose what happened and it’s super satisfying. I know what I like, you know? And when I’m reading it I’m like “yes!” Or laughing or heart racing, waiting to see comes next, even though I fucking wrote it, and I think everyone will hate it and thinks it sucks but I fucking love my writing. I do.

[twolfewriting]

"The Bullet Racer watched on as the man, known to most as the Dastardly Villain Chaos, threw his arms around the woman, as well as the man standing behind her, out of gratitude for a simple vegan recipe. The woman's daughter, noticing the display, comes to join them, throwing her arms around Chaos's leg. The Bullet Racer wonders if they would still think this was good for him if they knew. He liked to believe they would."

[twolfewriting]

Do your characters every just reveal something about themselves to you in the middle of a scene, and your like, damn that might've been nice to know four chapters ago, but you can't just ignore it either...

[twolfewriting]

They are so in love. And they don't even know it yet. My stomachs in butterflies and they're still shooting glares.

[twolfewriting]

I will finish writing this God damn it. I'm gonna write the whole damn thing and if it's Trash, I'll write it again. One whole shit novel is far better than three half done ones. It's go time.