Chapter 1: REVENGE STORY: PUDDLE EDITION

Machia Vellian. A.K.A. The World’s Most Ruthless Supervillain, A.K.A. Dastardly Mastermind behind the First Impact, A.K.A. That Bald Bastard who Drew a Dick on The Moon, A.K.A. John Smith, (though he’ll take that name to the grave) is pissed.

Unbelievably pissed.

To estimate how pissed he is, one would need to disembowel the entire human population, toss the contents of their bladder into a Machiavelli-approved Quantum Matter Converter (It’s not remotely quantum; he just thought it would be funny to throw people off by saying it was) with an exponent of 70,000, and it would still pale in comparison to the metaphorical amount Machia felt would even remotely quantify how pissed he felt.

But just so you can comprehend even an percentage of how pissed he was let’s go back about ten minutes, just as his hell began.

“Peacekeeper, you bitch! Take me back, you shit!” He whined as he repeatedly banged his fists on the wall. His voice echoed throughout whatever dark cavern he had been teleported into, along with the sound of the ‘stone’ responding to his fists with the high-pitched noise of metal being scraped against.

He paused. He had been expecting a very different noise.

“Adamantite?” He instantly identified the mineral in question. Not because he knew what every other material would sound like if hit with metal gauntlets putting out several-thousand gigapascal’s worth of force, (like churned butter, if you wished to know), but because of the sensors in his Invisi-helmet’s readings. A nice bit of technology, showing his pearly whites while still protecting him from a concussion.

He was about to turn on his pseudo-nightvision when an array of lights suddenly turned on, dazzling him with what he first thought to be blinding red LED’s. To the schemer’s horror, it was far worse than bad interior design, “The entire… whole fucking cave is made of this shit?” he went wide eyed.

The lights had revealed a crystalline red cavern that hurt to so much as look at. He had to turn on his tinted lenses just so he could get the whole picture. When he did, he noticed that the red was interrupted by patches of green and brown. His sensors identified it to be some kind of fake grass, interspersed in areas as much as a few inches to a dozen square feet, particularly around the supporting pillars of adamantite in the larger sections of tunnel.

The dirt was real, though, for whatever reason, even if the grass wasn’t. That was the strangest part; he would’ve made a fortune selling just a few kilos of this stuff to a well-endowed biologist. He doubted the Enforcers would’ve spent several billions exporting the stuff from Terra labs, which begged the question; “Where the fuck am I, then?” He thought out loud, prodding the grass with an extended appendage. If he’d been put directly inside Tartarus, he could’ve jailbreaked in a couple seconds with full gear.

Hell, if they had intended to kill or trap him, he would’ve noticed that as well. The only thing he felt before appearing here had been the incredibly vague wish of wanting to ‘send him away’, followed by… “Incomprehensible Panic?” He read out loud, quoting his suit’s Psyche Logs. “I thought I had finally patched out all the software bugs decades ago, why would the Peacekeeper of all people panic?”

That man lived and breathed to fight crime. Literally, if he was really grown in a vat as he suspected. Not in one instance in the past 128 years had he so much as felt more than masked amusement at a villainous prank, the wish to kill him after a particularly hairbrained scheme, or the cold desire to put him behind bars after humiliating the Congress for the thirtieth time. Something was definitely off if he panicked out of all things.

Peacekeeper did not hesitate.

He did not barter.

 

The man didn’t even plead for his life.

The most emotion he had gotten out of him was when Machia had put the strongest, dormant aphrodisiacs he could bioengineer into Central’s undifferentiated matter supply, and in doing so, the entire food supply. Along with pretty much everything they made for a two-month period, earning a record as simultaneously the largest recorded terrorist attack and orgy… which our favorite Invinci-Dad was excluded from.

On purpose.

It had been the height of his villainous career, and the lowest of his nemesis’. He still couldn’t stop himself from cackling at the mere memory of Peacekeeper’s sexually frustrated face as he flew after him far above Central^2, miles high yet still able to hear the debauchery happening in the streets below.

 

He’s not an asshole, though, so he spared the children from it’s effect. They were ignored just as his nemesis was, to his glee. Ah, the nostalgia.

Wait, what was I doing? Did my autism kick in? He put his hand to his chin, thoughtfully.

Oh yeah, I was mad about som- HOLY SHIT IS THAT-

A white furry creature crashed into the Adamantite wall that had been behind him less than a second prior, burying it’s head into it. He barely registered the speed of sound being broken by the time he had instinctually moved out of the way.

 

Instinct. 

 

Something he hadn’t felt for a long time. 

 

The feeling of death breathing down your neck, without the need of a psychological monitor to confirm it. That is what the Rablicant, buried in the wall, capable of damaging the inviolable mineral inspired in him. 

 

Was this karma for thinking about mocking the Peacekeeper for panicking for the first time? He had no time to consider this, though, as the creature had began trying to free itself, and upon immediate failure, began to go white hot and exude radiation, preparing each nano it possessed to go supercritical, dubbed the ‘No Survivors’ protocol.

 

Not because anyone lived first-hand to tell about it, but because he had a hand in making the thing. 

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Which was exactly why he sped away from the corner of the cavern he had idled in and attempted to get as far as he could from it, spider legs releasing from his backpack and grafting to intermittent points in his body as he fled for his life.

 

“Why oh why, did karma had to bite back this fucking hard!?” the ill-fated inventor screamed as he sped through the tunnels at mach-2, prioritizing putting as many crystalline walls as he could in between him and the explosion. That Bastard who Drew a Dick on The Moon could’ve gone faster, but he needed to conserve energy for what came next. Thankfully, the caverns were expansive and the lights were everywhere, so he had a fighting chance.

Just as the energy readings reached it’s peak, John Smith could feel a weight many times greater than that of jupiter pull him towards the death rabbit. He immediately disabled his spider legs and activated his own, aptly-named Survival Protocol; ensuring he wouldn’t turn into a pancake by being flattened against the wall, the #1 cause of death from these killing machines. 

 

His own machine mind responded instantaneously, working overdrive to preserve his brain. It decompressed his suit so that it wouldn’t buckle under the pressure along with his body, which would make keeping him together much harder. 

 

Numerous miscellaneous items, from weapons to machines, worked to lessen the pull of gravity by jury-rigging their ‘quantum’ servos, but they quickly failed under the strain of the gravity, becoming sacrifices in the attempt to throw anything he could at the problem.

For what felt like hours, his stored consciousness waited with baited breath for the Rablicant to explode, ending this one way or another. His calculations told him he was just inside the explosion radius, but he could survive a glancing blow… he felt an alien sense of uncertainty, however. He couldn’t check with his entire being focused on keeping his brain alive as his body became further squished against the wall, his suit being the only thing preventing his organs sloughing away.

Eventually, however, it did explode. His vision went white, and then black. His machine mind told him he was intact, because his suit’s sensors were still working, but he felt little more than that of a puddle in a form-fitting coffin. Even as he was almost liquid, he literally broiled with rage. 

 

Machia Vellian was pissed.

 

He couldn’t properly think or plan in this state, but even so he made a declaration. One born of sheer malice towards whomever caused this, his mind fixated on whatever entity brought him here.

He still had no goddamn clue where he was, but the Supervillain swore by himself- and an evil, narcissistic mastermind doesn’t swear like that lightly- he swore that when he woke up, he was going to inject the person responsible with a nanoplague that would force their digestive system to produce clay and shit bricks, just so Machia Vellian could slowly, methodically lay the mortar on a prison of his victim’s own making.

Mark my words. Were his last thoughts as he activated his stasis. Mark them, and fucking run from them in terror. 

 

After all, the devil loves a good chase.

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