For The Greater Good

For the Greater Good

(Hero POV)

I walked into the warehouse alone. No weapons, no mask, no backup.

Every rise of my feet felt like a climb up a mountain, every fall feeling like a step off a cliff. I could have sworn I didn’t take a single breath as I walked into the wide open space, crates and barrels scattered around in a typical warehouse fashion. The lights that remained on buzzed from the corner of what appeared to be a break room and from various machinery peppered by the garage-like doors.

I didn’t know exactly where I was going, just that I was supposed to be here, at this exact time.

I arrived on the block two hours early, and spent every last second before 2 o’clock alternating between pacing and curling up into a ball and rocking myself on the empty sidewalk. I finally stepped into what I estimated to be the middle of the space, virtually incapable of taking another step. My muscles quaked and I considered if I should just give in to the exhaustion and lie right here until someone came and got me. My pride suggested I stay upright, so I settled for a comprise of leaning heavily against the nearest weighted crate. I crossed my arms in what should have been a nonchalant appearance, but it was really just to keep my hands from shaking by my sides.

I took a few deep breaths and checked my watch.

2:02

God, I wanted to laugh. If there was any humor left in this situation I would have. I tried to keep my mind blank, waiting. But as the minutes ticked on, my determination waned.

I couldn’t leave.

Wouldn’t.

Lightheadedness swam through my brain, and I relented and lowered myself to the floor as black creeped in around my vision. I laid flat on the concrete ground, kicking my feet up onto the slats of the crate I was previously leaning against. The lights above me were dim, but I still closed my eyes in aversion to the brightness. I needed dark, calm. I needed to be anywhere else but here.

I checked my watch again, then pillowed my hands behind my head. Tears welled up in my eyes against my will.

2:05

Screw pride. Pride went out the window a long, long time ago.

I let the thin little salty rivers run freely down the sides of my face to pool uncomfortably at my ears. I was surrendering to my enemies, why not surrender to the tears too?

An eternity passed before footsteps finally echoed around the building. I didn’t bother to get up, not even to move. I didn’t bother to stop crying either, in fact the tears may have only gotten stronger as I stayed rooted in place.

“Sorry for the delay, we had to make sure you weren’t followed,” a voice announced itself. I didn’t turn towards it.

“You doing alright down there?” It asked, sounding infuriatingly genuine.

“Perfect. Never better,” I choked. There was no hiding the crack in my voice now.

“Shit dude, I didn’t think this would get to you that bad.”

What did you think was gonna happen? I was just gonna skip to your door with a couple of flowers and some handcuffs all gift wrapped for you with a wide ass smile on my face?

“Do you…need a minute?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

A minute or two passed before I gathered what was left of my composure. The tears stopped flowing and my head stopped swimming. I removed one boot after the other from the ledge they rested on and started the slow journey back to my feet.

“Ready?” The voice I finally matched with a sight asked. Henchman.

I sniffed, wiping my nose on my sleeve before nodding solemnly. This was by far the most courteous capture I’ve ever had the pleasure of falling victim to, hilarious given the circumstances.

“I’m gonna pat you down,” he warned, and I nodded my acknowledgment. Gentle hands brushed my body and found nothing, as promised. A light touch gripped my arm and pushed towards a path between the crates.

“Let’s go.”

We walked in silence for a while, I was too close to the emotional edge to break it. Henchman had no such reservations though.

“I could tell the guys the extra time was from a fight,” he suggested lightheartedly.

I merely shook my head.

“Yeah you’re right, probably a bad idea.”

Despite myself, a small smile crept past my lips. His words brought the only comfort I’d felt all day.

With every step I could feel my clarity returning.

I was going to be fine.

We walked out a side door and outside into the gravel, where it appeared a caravan awaited. I might have been flattered if I didn’t feel so damn helpless.

“One Hero, clean as promised,” I was presented to the arc of people gathered in various states of masked.

“You were supposed to secure them, Henchman,” Villain looked me up and down, then shot at annoyed look at the man at my side.

Henchman did not reply, only looking from me to the crowd closing in around us, then back to me and returning to Villain knowingly. So I definitely looked as bad as I felt; it was nice to know my face was making its debut red-blotched and tear stained no doubt with the edition of heavy bags under the eyes.

Villain simply shook his head, then stepped forward to grab me.

“Wait,” called another voice, and I struggled to identify its origin until a blue and gray clad person stepped forward. “How do we know it’s them?”

He stared at me in blatant disbelief, and I found the energy to be a little offended.

Like anyone else would do this. Like I would take the risk to let them.

Various people exchanged looks, and I struggled to believe that no one had actually thought this part through. Several looks pinned me down expectantly, and I also found the power to be a little bit annoyed.

Of course their lack of foresight would become my responsibility.

Nonetheless, my eyes roamed the crowd, before pinning down an unsuspecting figure in a suit with red chrome outlines. I pointed to them, before pulling down the collar of my shirt to reveal a thick pink scar stretching horizontally about an inch below my collarbone. Chrome stepped closer through the crowd to see, then nodded his approval. Villain stepped forward to grab me once more, but he was stopped by someone decked out in forest green.

“Your hand,” they indicated, and I brought up my arm to reveal the back of my right hand and yanked down my sleeve so they could trace the jagged scar carved down to middle of my forearm.

“That enough? Are y’all convinced?” I spun around, pinning several people right back with their own gazes. I seemed nothing like the person on the warehouse floor.

No, with every passing second, I was feeling more and more like a hero.

I guess they were in fact convinced, because I was finally escorted into an SUV and placed in the middle of a bench seat sandwiched between Villain and a larger man I barely recognized. The whole process was pretty ego-inflating honestly.

Unfortunately, Villain did finally get his wish of restraining me after the car had rolled to a stop and I was transferred into a building via an underground garage.

I didn’t think.

Couldn’t.

My fate was in the hands of my enemies, and I had just handed it over.

Pinned

(Mild blood/injury description)

The hero had put up a good chase, but not good enough.

And so Villain sat, pinning them to the forest floor. The face of the hero beneath them was scrunched up and they were breathing heavy, both probably after effects of the pursuit and subsequent collision with the ground.

“That little chase certainly wore you out,” the villain taunted as they watched the rapid rise and fall of the hero’s chest.

The hero did not waste precious oxygen replying the villain, instead training their eyes on the lush canopy above them.

The villain opened their mouth to continue their mocking of the defeated hero, but something stopped them.

They felt a touch of dampness, and looked down to see blood seeping from under the hero’s clothes into the villain’s pant legs.

Well that was interesting.

“Where’d you get that?”

“It’s not a good fucking day for this,” the hero groaned, throwing their head back and disturbing a collection of dead pine needles in the process.

“Hm. Too bad.”

The villain focused their gaze on the blood-soaked waistband directly beneath them. Their calculating eyes scanned the stains to look for slashes that might indicate where exactly the blood was coming from. This was made difficult as the hero continued to struggle and wince beneath their weight.

“You’re gonna make it worse,” the villain pointed out in a neutral tone, their grip tightening in a silent warning.

The hero seemed to finally accept this, letting their head fall back into the dirt, resignation etched into their face as they pointedly avoided looking at the villain atop them.

Once the villain was convinced they had truly stopped struggling, they lifted their hips to sit a few inches further back towards the hero’s legs, taking pressure off the wound.

The hero let out a sigh of relief, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge the move.

When reinforcements finally arrived, the villain took the time to properly inspect the hero’s wound. Held between two henchmen and hauled to their feet, the hero glared defiantly at the villain as they approached.

The villain paid the scowl no mind as they lifted up the fabric of the hero’s shirt to reveal a significant stab wound in their lower abdomen. The bleeding had already slowed, and it appeared from the layer of crust and dried crimson mixing with a fresher red that it had been at least a few hours since the injury was acquired.

The villain knew they certainly were not responsible, as you typically don’t sustain a clean stab wound from twigs and rocks in the forest.

They didn’t bother to question the hero about it again, knowing their response would be something along the lines of ‘go to hell.’

It didn’t matter, the villain would find out who had laid hands on their hero one way or another.

Small Mercies

(Context: Hero is restrained in a previous event and abandoned, Villain comes back to find them post-event)

[Warnings: blood, graphic fatal injury (of unnamed characters), helplessness/desperation]

The building was far quieter than it had been a few hours prior. The villain walked into the decimated room, scanning for the hero that they had come to collect. The floor was covered in debris, tables turned over and chairs askew with broken legs. They turned towards the center of the room, where they had gotten Hero cuffed to a vertical bar that used to hold a booth in place. Villain was moderately surprised to find they were still there, though not for lack of trying, if the ring of bruises adorning their wrist like a bracelet was any indication.

They were unmoving, head resting on the beam and cuffed hand slung slightly in the air.

Impressively, they appeared to be sleeping.

That just wouldn’t do.

Villain kicked a piece of debris and they startled, eyes shooting open and locking on the criminal. For a second, they attempted to scrabble back before a glance at the cuff hooked into a rivet hole had them going still again.

Villain waited until it appeared they had some semblance of their bearings in the waking world before they continued to approach. Hero’s eyes never left theirs, tracking their movements like a cornered animal.

Villain stopped cautiously, completely out of reach, but the hero made no move to do anything but glare.

Part of the villain had expected them to start throwing daggers the second they made themselves known. It was their specialty, after all. A quick glance to their belt revealed the answer as to why they hadn’t.

Every loop and sheathe was empty. All their blades were gone.

As if sensing the impending question in the Villain’s gaze, the hero flicked their eyes behind them and to the right. When Villain’s gaze followed, they saw several bodies strewn on the floor, each impaled by a knife or two.

There also appeared to be a rather fresh puddle of blood in front of the restrained Hero. Following the smear of it around the beam, another body laid, this one clawed and disheveled. Sticking out of its windpipe was none other than a fountain pen.

Clearly, Villain had not been the first to come back for Hero.

Upon closer inspection, the hero looked absolutely exhausted. Crusted blood covered their free hand and a small amount was sprinkled on their face and smeared—like they had tried to wipe it away. Their eyes were wary, but in a way that suggested they could do nothing to act on their caution.

Villain knelt, ignoring the biohazard on the floor and taking the metal cuff in his hand. The lock was scratched and the links were scored but they were still functional—again, obviously not for lack of trying.

“Is this thing made of titanium or something?” Hero joked weakly.

Villain shot a quick look to the hero, their posture still completely defensive, knees drawn up to their chest. They pulled out a key, inserting it into the side of the cuffs that was attached to the beam. A twist and a click later and Hero was no longer tethered to the rebar.

They didn’t pull their hand back immediately as Villain might have expected, instead leaving it limp, held up only by the grip Villain maintained on the metal. Villain reached for their other hand, pulling it from their knee and locking the open side of the cuff over Hero’s previously free wrist.

They let them, but the hatred in their gaze intensified greatly as the metal cinched closed.

Unbothered, Villain produced the key again, and Hero eyed them suspiciously as they slid it into the mechanism clamped over their mottled wrist. After freeing the injured hand, Villain rose to their feet, pulling lightly at the side of the cuff they still held.

Hero struggled to their feet, bracing themselves on the beam for a minute before allowing themselves to be led away by the wrist.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That was…not what they had expected.

They had had plenty of time to imagine what would happen when—if the villain came back. Terrible thoughts interrupted only by the terrible reality of another group closing in.

When they realized they had thrown their final blade, they knew that it was over. They may have been able to stop one person with their bare hands and some pocket junk, but Villain was different.

The adrenaline that had allowed them to lodge a writing utensil into that trachea was long gone. In its wake, it left total and utter exhaustion.

For better or for worse, Villain seemed to know that.

Hero was taken from the building, confused by the horrors that hadn’t been realized, and dreading the terrors that might yet await.

A ‘Cat-napping’

(Prompt by @autocrats-in-love : The hero stared at the villain with fire in their eyes. The villain feigned innocence, raising their eyebrows in surprise./“What brings you to my home?” The villain asked with fake confusion./“Give. Me. My. Cat. Back.” The hero said, loading their gun.)

Pistachio was missing.

Hero knew it from the second they entered the too-quiet apartment, hanging up their keys as an uneasy feeling settled over them. There was no ‘meow’ to greet them, no paws pattering against the floor to come demand their afternoon meal.

Pistachio would never miss a meal.

The hero did not even need to glance at the note left on the kitchen island. They knew exactly who was responsible. They also knew that there would be hell to pay for this egregious act of feline abduction.

They grabbed their gun from the bedroom safe and checked to make sure it was loaded.

One busted down door later, and the hero stared at the villain with fire in their eyes. Villain feigned innocence, raising their eyebrows in surprise.

“What brings you to my home?” They questioned with insincere confusion.

Hero was in no mood to play pretend.

“Give. Me. My. Cat. Back.” The hero ordered, pulling back the slide of their pistol with a click and chambering a round.

Villain stiffened in their chair, casual features flashing with fear at the hero’s abrupt action.

“I hope you’re here to negotiate-“

The cold metal of the barrel dug into the underside of the criminal’s chin, effectively shutting them up. Hero had been on them in a second, and it was clear they would be pulling no punches today.

“I’m here to do no such thing. Where is he?” The deadly-serious hero demanded.

Villain didn’t speak, but their eyes betrayed them, flicking to the doorway that led out of the living room and into a separate common space. Hero abandoned the fearful villain in favor of locating their furry companion.

The room they entered was…not what they expected. Perhaps they had imaged their feline son would be caged in a dingy basement, fed only the driest of cuisine, and endlessly yowling to be saved.

Instead, they laid eyes on a pet-lovers dream. A gigantic cat tree covered one wall, blurring the line between tree and straight up castle. On a lower branch, some kind of brush-plus-laser-pointer contraption could be seen.

Villain entered the room behind them, but stepped back when Hero threw them a glare that had them thinking it might be time to start picking out headstones.

Against another wall sat a grand purple cushion, complete with a tasseled canopy. Across from that bed sat a litter box that would be better described as a beach. The rest of the scratchable-looking carpet was littered with pet paraphernalia, feathers and small plush mouses galore.

Pistachio, in all his glory, sat unbothered at the bottom of a cardboard box sitting on the floor in the center of the extravagant set up.

Hero immediately rushed to his side.

There was no mistaking his trademark-white-fur-mustache, standing out against the sleek black that covered the rest of his body. He gazed up at the hero with wide-green eyes, not a worry in the world about being cat-napped and held for ransom.

When Hero scooped him up into their arms, gun long forgotten, he purred easily.

“Come on, Pistachio. Let’s get you home.”

As they pushed past the gobsmacked villain to exit the house, they muttered a threat that shall not be repeated.

Villain didn’t dare pet a hair out of place on Hero’s cat ever again.

Spy?

(Inspired by the song “Spy?” by WHOKILLEDXIX)

Hero stood in a rough circle surrounded by the group of villains. Their voices were overlapping, all arguing over the fresh mission failure.

“It was Lookout’s job to make sure we weren’t followed,” one voice—Blueprint—argued.

“We weren’t! I’m positive,” Lookout defended.

“It was probably the panic alert from the front desk,” Hero accused, looking pointedly at Guardsman.

“I got that guard before he even got close to that button, there’s no way that’s how the cops knew we were there.”

Pulling out a phone, one accomplice walked to the edge of the room, pressing the device to his ear.

Hero engaged passionately with the quarreling criminals, trying desperately to salvage their mission and keep their cover intact. Hero was deep undercover as a security expert in a large heist led by Villain, and the takedown they had orchestrated had not quite gone according to plan. The hero did their best to stoke the flames of anger and disappointment between the crew. The more they were at each other’s throats, the less they were thinking rationally about what really went wrong.

“If everyone had just stuck to the plan-“

“It was YOU who-“

“Ok, let’s be logical about this-“

“And then you didn’t-“

“It’s a miracle we all got away-“

The man on the phone returned to the group, face made of stone. He raised a hand, and the bickering quieted.

“My inside guy says they were there within a minute of us going in.”

“So the cops were tipped,” Locksmith concluded.

“Alright, so who knew?” Lookout asked from the left.

“The driver,” Blueprint chimed in on Hero’s right.

“He didn’t know the location, and I only hired him today. We picked up the vehicles 30 minutes before and it never left my sight,” explained Mover, the one who had been delegated to arrange transportation.

“No one else was told, it was all in-house.”

Silence dawned in the room as realization hit the criminals one by one.

“The location was need-to-know. Villain didn’t even tell half of us,” Locksmith pointed out.

“Actually, I only told one of you,” he corrected nonchalantly.

Shit.

“So that means-“

“My, my,” He turned slowly with the words, locking eyes with Hero, “I think we have a spy.”

They were made.

Two seconds and they were out the door, heart and feet pounding as fast as they could. Hero burst into the stairwell and was faced with a split second decision: up? Or down?

The backup spot at which they had met up after the disaster was located in the heart of the city, and Hero hoped the mid-day masses would be enough to help them get away. First though, they had to make it out of this building.

Temporarily closed for some upper level renovations, the office was five stories high and packed closely with the surrounding businesses.

Passing the large painted number three in a flash, Hero headed for the top.

They didn’t risk a glance back, but they heard several people slam open the door behind them. A chorus of footsteps echoed through the stairwell. Hero climbed, breathing heavily and mind racing to trace an escape route. A painted number five marked the top of the stairwell and Hero turned away from the roof access. If they remembered correctly from their recon, the East side of the building should back right up to an apartment complex with an outdoor fire escape.

They threw the door open and were met with a bare-bones floor. The entire level was sectioned by plastic sheeting, making it difficult to locate the windows and any potential dangers. Hero’s feet danced over stray boards and around forgotten construction equipment. Shouts alerted them that their pursuers were not far behind, but their figure was already blurred behind several layers of sheeting.

Most of the yelling was unintelligible, but one voice rose about the rest.

“I hope you’re ready to learn what happens to little rats!”

Hero made the mistake of turning towards the voices, taking their eyes off the floor and the bucket that they were about to crash into. They tumbled to the floor with a yelp, taking a clear sheet of plastic with them. They flailed, scrambling to their feet and shaking their limbs frantically to unravel themselves. They caught a glimpse of a set of boots several feet away before they pushed off the floor and continued heading for the wall.

Pushing past a final divider, they saw unfiltered light spilling in through a missing piece of wall. They threw themselves through the gap, standing on the narrow window frame still intact on the exterior side of the building.

Just as they had remembered, a metal staircase laid just a few feet ahead.

They didn’t mean to hesitate, but stopping their momentum had apparently allowed a singular assailant enough time to catch up. A hand gripped the back of Hero’s shirt, preventing them from making the leap.

Damn they were fast.

Hero threw back an elbow, connecting with a set of ribs. The grip on their shirt loosened and they turned, their fist connecting to a jaw and then a cheekbone.

Speedy’s head snapped to the side and Hero was released. They pushed off the side of the building before they could fall, catching the railing with both hands and hauling themselves up and over it.

They landed on the fire escape with a clang. Hoping to throw off the group closing in, Hero scaled a level before ducking in a conveniently-open window into an apartment. Hero used the time it took them to cross the kitchen area towards the door to make an unwitting accomplice of the person that startled on the couch.

“Do the inside stairs have roof access?” They asked breathlessly.

The stunned resident simply nodded their head.

Hero barely waited for the response, already halfway across the hall by the time the person shouted after them.

They turned a corner and caught the shine of an elevator door sliding closed a few feet away.

“Hold it!” They called, and a man pushing a large trash can put a hand in the doorway, leaving Hero enough time to slip in just before it closed.

“In a hurry, today, aren’t we?”

Hero chuckled breathlessly.

“You have no idea.”

The man gestured towards the buttons on his side of the small elevator.

“Floor?”

“The lobby, please.”

Hero clasped their arms awkwardly in front of them, trying not to breathe too loudly as they watched the numbers tick down slowly on the electronic screen. When they finally reached the bottom, the elevator chimed and the doors slid open to a fairly-active lobby. The door to the staircase was still closed, and Hero breathed a silent sigh of relief.

“After you,” the service worker waved, and Hero voiced their thanks before crossing the carpeted floor and passing through the revolving door.

Out of immediate danger, they slowed to an even pace, sliding off their beanie and slipping off their jacket to tie around their waist. They tossed the hat as soon as they could without getting ticketed for littering and entered the second shop they saw after turning down a different road.

They needed to get off the street, and fast. By now, word would be out about their betrayal.

Unfortunately, things had gone so off script that Hero found themselves on the opposite side of the city than their usual safe houses. They couldn’t risk getting near any police stations, and since this wasn’t the typical residential side of town, staying on the street after another hour or so would be incredibly suspicious. Those who worked went home soon, and those who lived here locked their doors.

Weighing those thoughts, Hero’s best option seemed to be to cross the city while they still could.

One change of clothes later, and Hero was back on a crosswalk, moving with a crowd dressed in mostly business-causal attire. Two more rights and they spotted a station, and graciously they had enough cash left to cover the fare for a ride all the way to South side.

The covered bench at which they waited was warm, but they couldn’t get comfortable. Their head was whipping in every direction, trying to identify if they were being followed. Paranoia creeped in and their neck muscles began to protest the strain of repeated movements. By the time they could board the Greyhound, the other citizens were eyeing Hero wearily.

Unconcerned with how erratic they appeared, Hero hopped on the bus, settling into a window seat in the middle. They relaxed as it started to move, shifting their gaze to the window.

Buildings upon buildings passed by, all slowly emptying as the minutes crept closer to the end of the business day. Idle chatter filled the bus.

The more blocks that passed, the more optimistic Hero became.

More commuters entered on the next stop. Exhausted, Hero paid no mind to the blue collar workers filling up the seats around them.

Some people must have pushed past the ones trying to exit the bus, because an older man in front of Hero made a comment about everybody being in a rush nowadays. Several people mumbled their agreement as someone settled into the seat beside Hero, holding a newspaper that crinkled as they sat.

“Trying to outrun the stressors of life, I suppose,” a woman replied from across the aisle.

Something tapped Hero’s shoe, and they leaned down to grab a water bottle that had rolled from the seat in front of them.

“You know what my dad always said about that?” The man beside Hero asked, setting down his newspaper.

Hero raised their arm to tap on the shoulder of the bottle’s probable owner.

Behind them, another person shifted, then answered lightly, “You can run, but you can’t hide.”

If Hero was anyone else, they would not have recognized the danger in Villain’s tone.

Before they could react, cold metal pressed to the side of their neck. In the reflection of the window, Hero could make out a hand holding a knife behind them. They flicked their eyes to the side, finally catching the bruising coming up on their seatmate’s cheekbone and jaw. In front, Blueprint turned and grabbed the bottle from their outstretched hand.

They were surrounded.

Part Two: You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid

#124

The hero rolls up on the driveway of a simple house. A giant tree is taking up most of the front garden, and with a squint they can see the cat they’re here to rescue, sitting as high as physically possible amongst the leaves. Someone is standing at the bottom, staring up at it, a large blanket wrapped in their arms.

The hero gets out of their car and slams the door behind them, earning the person’s attention. The hero is rather surprised, for lack of a better word, to find the villain looking back at them.

The villain seems to go through the five stages of grief in the space of a second. Their whole body is tensed, like they’re going to bolt at any second. “What the hell are you doing here?”

The hero turns their eyes up to the cat above them. A giant thing, bless. A ragdoll, if the fluffiness is anything to go by. “Is the cat yours?”

The villain follows their gaze. “I called the fire apartment for that,” they mumble.

“Well, the fire department sent me,” the hero says innocently. “How long has it been up there?”

“She has been there for two hours.”

“And you stood out here for two hours before you thought calling someone was a good idea?”

“Did the fire department send you to mock me?” The villain scowls, the blanket scrunched tight in their fists. “I don’t think I can be bothered dealing with you today.”

“Nah, they just thought I could earn some bonus popularity with the public if I save a cat,” the hero comments idly.

“Well, you’re not earning any popularity here,” the villain snaps, “so you can go ahead and get the people I actually called out here.”

“What would the agency think if I can’t even save a cat?” The hero barks a laugh. “Unfold your blanket. It’s useless like that.”

The villain’s scowl deepens but they do as they’re told, flapping the blanket to unravel it from whatever weird braid they’ve woven it into. The hero studies the tree, carefully testing the sturdiness of the footholds, before carefully puling themself off the ground.

The villain looks up to find the hero halfway up the tree and, perhaps in the world’s rarest show of concern, cries, “what are you doing?”

“Saving your cat,” the hero retorts between short breaths. The cat yowls as they get close, a spit of a hiss thrown at them as a warning. Pets are like their owners, the hero supposes.

“You’re okay, Dusty!” the villain shouts, then a little more incredulously, “she doesn’t like other people. Just so you know.”

The hero can see that from the way Dusty—Dusty, how much does the villain hate her to call her that?—is still hissing and edging out of reach. She can’t go much further but by god, she’s going to try.

The branch under the hero curves dangerously as they pull themself up. Dusty’s claws are very much out, digging into the bark under her feet as the branch sways, another hiss spat at the hero. “I’m trying to help you,” the hero says sharply, as if she can understand them. “God, I’m not doing this for you again.”

The hero edges along the branch, acutely aware of how much it’s bending under their weight. Seemingly too close for comfort, Dusty makes a furious swipe with that hiss that’s probably going to haunt the hero’s nightmares. “[Villain],” they call, “get under her. It’s not exactly stable up here.”

The villain moves into position without complaint, the blanket stretched out in their arms. The hero doesn’t get to check them before Dusty’s making another goddamn swipe. Dogs, the hero thinks, are so much easier.

The hero nudges closer and the cat’s not having it. She skirts back with another hiss, but the branch is too thin behind her. Her back foot misses its mark, and with a yowl she slips off the branch.

The hero and the villain yelp in tandem. The hero’s too far away to catch her. The villain leaps in, blanket brandished like a shield, and Dusty flops into it like a furious sun sucked into a silky black hole.

The hero’s never been so happy to get out of a tree. By the time they’re on solid ground again the villain’s swaddled Dusty in the blanket, her face poking out of the top, clearly very comfortable in the villain’s arms.

She notices the hero approaching before the villain. She turns her gaze to them and, without a care for what just happened, gives them one last hiss.

The villain laughs. “She has her morals in line, at least.”

“She’s just like you.” The hero rolls their eyes in mock offence. “Though she’s too nice to you to be called Dusty.”

“Oh, she’s not Dusty technically,” the villain says matter-of-factly. “It’s short for Feather Duster.”

The hero blinks at them. They’re not convinced that’s any better.

“Because she’s so fluffy she looks like a feather duster,” the villain continues, “and because I need one to clean up after her. She gets fur everywhere.”

The hero finally finds the words to say. “Your cruelty knows no bounds.”

“I know.” The villain grins, nuzzling their nose into the top of Dusty’s head. No, the hero is not calling her Feather Duster. “But she loves me anyway.”

Clearly, from the way she’s purring like a train. “Evil loves company.”

The villain strokes her head for a moment before turning back to the hero with a look they don’t like. “I’ll be honest, [Hero],” they start slowly, “I’m not here next week, and I need a cat sitter to look after—“

“Absolutely not,” the hero cuts in. “This was enough of an experience.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” The villain pulls the blanket back for her face to show a little more. “She is cute though, isn’t she?”

The hero looks down at Dusty. She blinks back at them slowly, already half asleep in the villain’s arms. The hero really hates to admit it, but she is kind of cute. At least when she’s not screaming at them and threatening to rip them to shreds.

But the hero would rather die than give the villain an ego boost. They hold back a knowing smile, and says every pet owner's call to violence: “Nah.”