Hi I'm Vince,
I'm 27, I'm a Scorpio, I'm a pacifist, and my religious views would be described as Apatheistic. Apparently I've come from an alternate timeline.
I appreciate open and respectful conversation.
This blog is my only blog and it's based nearly entirely on humor.
I do not attempt to profit off of my followers (except donations via paypal and clicks on the single banner ad on the top of my page, both are optional and non-intrusive ways to offer me support if you enjoy my blog or just me as a person).
This means this blog does not reblog, promote, or otherwise advertise any products or people.
Tumblr used to be a physical place. It was a large theater built inside of a cliff. The cliff was by a stormy seaside town where all of life began. One night, there was a hurricane, and the Tumblr theater collapsed. This unleashed the Tumblr people upon the town, and thus began the world.
what super expensive indulgence would u get for urself if u suddenly came into a bunch of money?? assume all bills/mortgages paid, all friends helped: what treat are u buying just for u?? for me it would be a quilted lambskin chanel bag in iridescent pink
You, a supervillain, answer a knock at your door, only to find your superhero nemesis shivering, bleeding, scared, and slightly dazed (as if drugged). They appear to have been assaulted. The hero mumbles “…didn’t know where else to go…” before collapsing into your arms.
The common global consensus was that billionaire philanthropist James Whittaker was a good man. A man who housed the poor, fed the hungry, healed the sick, all that good stuff. Solarch of the Protector’s Guild shook his hand on TV for millions to see.
Proper advantage for, Reagan decided, the most dangerous man in the world.
Smaller superheroes like herself, deprived of the Guild’s bird’s-eye view, saw with two solid feet on the ground. They saw investigators and journalists disappear. (Sometimes they’d come back - weeks later, having forgotten they were looking into James Whittaker at all.) They saw soldiers, current and former, volunteer for secret projects and never be seen again.
They saw Roxxann Morgan, James’s wholesome tabloid sweetheart, bear a striking resemblance to the only bloody, blurry picture ever taken of the nation’s deadliest crime lord.
Reagan saw almost none of that herself. She had been on a team, and the dot-connecting and divining was left to others.
Now her team was gone, her lair reduced to nothing, and she had been lucky to be a speedster. Lucky to get away.
A greener hero would’ve gone to the Guild. They were the greatest superheroes in the world! They would put a stop to this for sure.
Reagan knew better.
Going to the Guild was too much of a risk, with what she’d seen.
She had no family, none that would help with this, at least. She’d lived in the lair. All her friends were dead. And at best, the police would laugh at her.
There was just one option.
It was a cushy summer abode, built with love and won by money, and the light at the door flashed red when she knocked.
Reagan shivered, as blood from her gash and from her lips ran and dripped onto the porch. She opted not to stand over the expensive-looking welcome mat.
The light flashed green, then blue, and the door opened.
She hadn’t expected James Whittaker himself to answer.
He looked entirely unassuming – tall and thin, youngish (late 20s, as best as she could guess), brownish (he could’ve been Hispanic, Middle-Eastern, or Polynesian – the subject of a disturbing amount of debate), with curly black hair that cascaded out to the sides and down a little past his neck. In that way, he looked like a really tall mushroom.
He wore jet-black slacks and a jacket (which was strange nightwear), under which was a somewhat rumpled t-shirt that read, “I AM FASTER THAN THE SPEED OF SOMETHING SLOWER”.
All in all, not the typical image of a supervillain.
But those eyes. They were… old, older than his body by a long shot. Deep and brown and rich with knowledge and wisdom… and just a glint of mania. It made her nauseous.
Well. More so, at least.
“I’m sorry,” she choked, a trail of blood spilling from her mouth. “Didn’t… know where else to go.”
And then she collapsed.
***
Reagan had, in all honesty, not expected to wake up after that. James Whittaker was crazy. He and his crime lord girlfriend stole heroes and ordinary folk off the streets, experimented on them. If the stories were to be believed.
James Whittaker did not take people in from the cold when they were bleeding and desperate, and wrap them up in blankets by the fire.
The voice was deep and rich, not that of Mr. Whittaker. Reagan started, and sat up, and turned to find a massive man standing over the couch.
He was built like a pro wrestler. Or three pro wrestlers stacked up on top of each other. Chocolatey bronze skin, hair white as snow, easily seven and a half feet tall and completely jacked, Reagan could tell, sporting massive defined musculature through his XXXXL hoodie.
On said hoodie was printed a number and a word: 5 – HERACLES.
“We all took bets on how long you’d be out,” Heracles continued. His voice seemed almost unnaturally deep. “Icarus was closest.”
Without even looking, he tossed a rolled-up wad of dollar bills across the room, and Reagan observed four other men at the dining table, all with similar printed hoodies.
#6 – ICARUS – sporting golden hair, gold-tinted sunglasses, and folded gold wings, caught the money in his palm and slipped it into his hoodie, grinning.
Opposite him, #2 – THESEUS – tossed in another wad of money, and sneered.
#3 – ACHILLES – tossed Icarus a smaller wad of money and made a face at Theseus, who elbowed him in the rib. Which didn’t seem to faze him.
And #1 – PERSEUS – simply sat at the end of the table and watched. He didn’t seem to have made any bets.
“Impressive, aren’t they?”
Reagan tensed up. This was the voice of Mr. Whittaker, who stood at the end of the darkened hallway, rubbing his hands together, his eyes sparkling with pride.
“You’ve met some of my proudest work tonight – the peak of human bioengineering. I had them take a look at you and scope out your trajectory. Where you came from.”
James walked up to Reagan and sat on the couch opposite hers. He was contemplating – fingers laced together, his lips forming a small frown.
“You’re with the Y-Squad.”
“I’m all that’s left of the Y-Squad,” Reagan snapped.
To her surprise, James held his hands up, almost apologetically.
“Icarus and Theseus checked out the lair. Or, what was left of it. Seems you’re right about that.”
Reagan looked at the floor, lip quivering.
“I’m sorry.”
…She hadn’t expected that. Her eyes welled up with tears, but she looked up at him anyway.
And he seemed genuinely apologetic.
She didn’t buy it. “Why do you care?”
“Because destroying superhumans – robbing this world of their potential – goes against everything I stand for.”
Reagan found herself too intrigued to cry. This… hadn’t been the treatment she expected, not at all.
“So if you’re wondering why you’re still alive, there’s your answer,” James continued. “Killing you might be the smartest thing to do, but… it’s just such a waste.”
He paused for a moment, as if contemplating the atrocity of it all.
“And, I’m curious,” he continued. “I know you small-time hero types don’t trust me. Just like you said, if you could go literally anywhere else, you would.”
Reagan swallowed.
“So… why did you come to me? The Bad Guy.”
“I can’t go to the Guild,” she blurted out.
At this, James raised an eyebrow. “Why not? I mean, not that I blame you, but… whoever killed your team, any reasonable hero would say they’re best left to the Protectors.”
“Someone in the Guild is dirty. Or, at least, someone who helps make their tech.”
For a moment, James’s eyes widened. He seemed to be considering this.
As if he hadn’t before.
“And how do you know this wasn’t me?”
“You’re not a member. You don’t really work with them. You don’t have access to their designs. But the black hole device that ate my lair was Guild-issue. I’ve seen them used before, for cleanup and… stuff.”
“Huh. They’re government-funded, the Guild. Can you think of anyone who would’ve wanted Y-Squad dead?”
Reagan hugged her sides. No, she didn’t know. She didn’t interface with the Guild, or their representatives in the government. All she knew was the squad was constantly turning down assimilation into the Guild network.
As probationary members, they’d have access to a lot more resources.
They’d also be government stooges.
“Most of the Protectors are kind of mired in politics. They don’t want the world to know it, but… they have handlers nowadays.”
James laughed to himself, a high, unnerving noise.
“If you did something that pissed them off… Big G would come after you. By which I mean the government agency that handles the Guild.”
“I know what you meant,” Reagan spat.
“Y-Squad wouldn’t be the first team the government’s sent someone to take out. They have a whole set of assassins trained specifically to kill supers. They’re all named after types of Solitaire, I think. There’s Klondike, Spider, Grandfather…”
“Bullshit.”
James looked up at her. “Excuse me?”
“They’re not perfect and everyone knows it. But I studied this stuff. They’re not monsters. They’re not capable of the things you claim. They’re not malicious enough, they’re barely competent enough.”
James stared for a moment. “You think I wouldn’t know? With the resources I have? The things I’ve done? You think the U.S. Government hasn’t sent somebody to kill me?”
Reagan said nothing. She just stared.
“Those names I know are actual government agents who’ve been in my homes and offices, assigned specifically to end me. And every one of them succeeded.”
Reagan’s expression faltered, morphing slowly into disbelief.
“But I got better.”
“…You’re superhuman.”
James grinned. More smug than wicked.
“May I show you something, Ms. Carlisle?”
***
The five other superhumans didn’t follow James down the hall. Heracles sat down with the others, and Icarus spread one wing and started cutting the pizza with it.
As James walked, the door to his home office clicked open and swung inward to greet him.
Reagan stepped inside, and the door closed.
“Why are we here?”
“Like I said, I want to show you something.”
He looked up slightly. “Sublevels.”
“Error,” a voice droned, seemingly form the entire ceiling. “Superhuman Reagan Carlisle, alias Blue Bolt, is not cleared for sublevel access.”
“Su Casa Override. Whittaker, James M. Phrase Sulfuric Eveldragen.”
“Confirmed.”
The whole room shook. And started to move.
“…This is an elevator?”
“We’re going south, along with down.”
“Your home office is an elevator.”
“The quaint little piece of art above ground is just for show. We’re going to my real office.”
Reagan studied the walls of the office. Now that they’d gotten decent speed, the only sign that they were moving at all was the shifting pattern of lights outside the window that took up the entirety of one wall.
Another wall was some odd mixture of wood grain and marble, and a third, the one opposite the door, was decorated with quite possibly every kind of stabbing implement and firearm there was. Reagan shuddered.
And she remembered what he’d said.
“So,” she whispered, “you’re a superhuman.”
James smiled again. “Not something I like to advertise. But yes. The first superhuman, as far as I can say. And trust me, I’ve spent thousands of years looking.”
Reagan’s jaw went slack.
“And in that time, I’ve been killed hundreds of times, by American police, British police, French revolutionaries, Aztec ritualists, Spanish conquistadores, Norse pirates, Zulu warriors, Spartan soldiers, Samurai, Genghis Khan’s barbarians, Adolf Hitler’s flunkies, you name it.”
As he spoke, he drew attention to the wall adorned with weapons of all stripes, from every era.
“I’ve been shot, stabbed, gassed, beaten, poisoned, decapitated, disemboweled… once, I spent two months perpetually drowning in the Atlantic. But every time, there was enough of me left to come back. It’s never taken more than 72 hours.”
Reagan’s curiosity for the better of her. “…Were you Jesus?”
“No, I wasn’t- why does everybody ask that? My point is, I’ve seen a thing or two. You have your degree, but I have 36 thousand years of experience. I’ve seen a hundred empires rise and fall, and they all make the same fatal mistake. They all grasp at too much. They never know when to stop.”
Reagan rolled her eyes. “So what, you’re Robin Hood? You’re ‘not so bad as they say’? That might work on the Guild-”
“I’m not a butcher. I’m not Victor Frankenstein. I can’t measure up to the Guild for power, not yet, so yes, I take steps to ensure I’m not exposed.”
“You brainwash people and experiment on them. I’ve heard the stories.”
“I take volunteers. And yes, a lot of them die. But every single one of them knows that risk. They all signed the waiver, and I gave them every chance not to, but they’re used to that risk. Of my half-dozen successes thus far, Heracles worked heavy machinery in a factory that would’ve given OSHA a heart attack. Achilles was a firefighter. The rest were soldiers. And they all signed up to become what they are now.”
“As opposed to what? What choice did they have?”
“To say yes, and become a critical part of history, or to say no, and walk away, no strings attached. Remembering nothing. Right now there are hundreds of firefighters and police officers and war veterans going about their lives, who turned down a part in my project and don’t remember it.”
“So you’re building an army.”
His expression darkened a little. He must’ve caught on to her unease.
“Ms. Carlisle, I don’t pretend to be an angel. I want nothing to do with the angels. The angels are the problem. No one is all good. Not even the greatest superheroes in the world. So I’m building a new super team. A wholly human super team. One to match the Protectors’ Guild for power, one to put our Protection back in our own hands. We can’t trust these aliens and fairies and corporate stooges.”
“You’re going to start a war.”
“Not until I can win it, no. I’ve been killed over 700 times, I know when not to pick a fight. But the Guild can’t be ignored. They just have too much power.”
“And what makes you different from them?”
The elevator dinged, and the door opened.
“Simple,” James grinned. “All my stuff is home-grown.”
***
The cavern was massive, and it had everything.
Automated assembly lines bolted and welded and shaped all manner of machines, weapons and vehicles and even some of the appliances typical of the houses James famously gave away. Some robots flew, some came and went on rails, lifting things and dropping them into boxes with precision only a machine could achieve. A couple of them attached more platforms to the doorway, creating a bridge for James and Reagan to cross.
Some of the machines even looked human, sleek and faceless with an outer layer of a million little shifting hexagons.
They looked oddly familiar, but what really struck her was that there were no workers down there, not a single human.
Except, somehow, Perseus and the rest of the volunteers, who stood and talked over a desk in a laboratory that had been immaculately carved into the stone.
Above the space, two words were similarly carved: “HUMAN TRIALS.”
“Behold,” James said, somewhat sarcastically. “My army.”
Perseus looked up at them, and the other four volunteers stopped talking and followed his eyes. Icarus grinned.
“How did they get down here?”
“There’s another entrance to the south for their transport, and Icarus can fly. I only deployed them tonight because of you.”
Reagan looked slowly between each of them.
“So… Icarus can fly…”
“All their enhancements are my design, borne of technology. And about forty years of patience.”
He gestured around at the whole cavern. “This entire project used to just be called ‘Perseus.’ I went through thousands of volunteers and hundreds of formulas, until eventually, on Christmas Day last year… I had my first success.”
Perseus, hands clasped behind his back, smiled a bit.
“His name was Sergeant Griffin Liu. Enhanced speed and senses and strength. He can pick up microexpressions and small shifts in electromagnetic fields, he can lift a car or jump two stories if needed.”
As he spoke, James gestured to each superhuman.
“I tweaked it just a little bit for each one, once I knew what could work. Rashaun Eckelstone – Theseus – got the senses. He can see through walls, smell copper in the air, read a newspaper by feeling the letters on a page.”
“Before the project, I couldn’t see at all,” Theseus chimed in. “I’d been blinded. What Mr. Whittaker gave me was a miracle.”
“No small miracle,” James replied. “Like I said. Forty years.”
He pointed to Achilles. “Oscar Carlyle – no relation, I promise – was next. He didn’t get the fabled Achilles invulnerability, not for lack of trying, but… he doesn’t feel pain, and he heals almost half as well as me. He absorbs energy, too, which helps with the healing, and… plenty of other fun things he can do with it once he has it.
“Lihau Rogers – Heracles – did get the fabled invulnerability, which is very fortunate because it made the legendary strength that much more impressive. And Enrique Calum…”
He chuckled, sounding somewhat embarrassed, and turned to Icarus.
“I could never get innate flight to work, so I just made him wings. The kind that don’t melt in sunlight. In fact, they’re solar-powered, fully modular, and virtually indestructible. They’re made of the same stuff as my security sentries.”
Reagan recalled the sleek, faceless human-shaped drones outside.
Then it hit her where she’d seen them.
“Those sentries… they attacked the Guild last year. That was you. You ambushed Solarch, Thunderwall and Oberyn.”
“It took eight Guild members four hours to defeat and dismantle my androids,” James confirmed, “but they did. You can’t program instinct. Or the grandly human compulsion to do something frightfully illogical that gets them the upper hand.”
He sauntered over to the desk where the others stood, and picked up the tiniest computer chip.
“I mean, I tried. But for all technology has advanced these past few decades… it just isn’t the same.”
He chuckled to himself. “Or maybe I’m just old.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
Her eyes darted between all the numbered hoodies again, and something else struck her.
“And what happened to 4? It goes 1, 2, 3, 5, 6. Where’s #4?”
James’s expression fell a little. “Well… both those questions have more or less the same answer.”
Reagan’s eyes widened in realization.
“Superhuman #4, designation Atalanta, was killed recently,” James explained. “I was rather hoping you would take her place.”
“You want me to join your circus?”
James sighed. “Just… think about it. I want to help you, too. We can find out who killed your team, together. And you will be part of something beautiful. When Earth takes its rightful place at the center of the cosmos… you’ll be there to see it. I can make sure of it. But only if you want to come.”
Reagan slumped over a little, and reached out searching for a wall, a beam, anything for support.
“I know it’s a lot. I don’t expect you to make any decisions now,” James said. “And I know you think I’m a villain. But I also know your living situations are… tenuous, so you’re welcome to stick around as long as you like. Hell, you can have the house.”
Reagan’s eyes went wide. “…The whole house above ground?”
“Heaven knows it’s not the first one I’ve given away.”
Finally, Reagan found a wall, and collapsed against it.
“Just… make yourself at home, Reagan. Eat, sleep, shower, and ask whatever questions you like. I’ll be here, trust me.”
“When he’s not off schmoozing the Guild,” Icarus drawled.
“Thank you for that. Image is important, thank you very much. But for the most part, I’m right here. Don’t be a stranger.”
He winked, and turned away, all but gliding down a hidden hall, out of sight.
