Chapter 36: Villainous Voyeurism
The air in the bunker was cool and carried the smell of ozone and wet concrete. A massive holographic screen, fifteen feet across, shimmered in the gloom, casting a sickly blue light over the gathered figures. The only other illumination came from pulsating strips of neon that traced the cavern’s jagged ceiling, reflecting in the countless shards of the mirror-throne.
On the screen, Captain Bimbo was a pixellated burst of color against a grainy night-time cityscape. The footage was from three nights ago—the incident at the docks.
“Pause it,” said a voice, smooth as oiled glass.
The image froze. Captain Bimbo was mid-leap, one leg extended, the other bent. The absurd, frilled costume was a blur of motion, but the frozen frame emphasized other things. The impossible curvature. The way the fabric strained.
“Now, enhance section 12-B. The… thoracic region.”
The image zoomed with a silent digital whir. The pixels rearranged, sharpening. The focus wasn’t on her face, set in a grimace of determined effort, or on her hands, glowing with that ridiculous pink energy. It was on her chest. The jiggle was captured in perfect, high-resolution detail: a motion-blurred oscillation that was utterly, physically discordant with the superheroic pose.
A low chuckle rippled through the darkness. Not a roar of laughter, but the sound of men appreciating a fine, private joke.
“Play the sequence from marker 4.7. Slow it to ten percent.”
The video inched forward. Now every movement was a grotesque ballet. The run was a series of bouncing, jostling steps. The punch she threw at the malfunctioning crane arm caused a reverberation that traveled through her entire frame in slow, undulating waves. The grunt of effort from the speakers was undercut by a softer, plasticky sound.
“Fascinating,” purred Mister Midnight. He leaned forward in his throne of broken mirrors, his own reflection fractured into a hundred slim, elegant pieces. He wore a suit the color of a deep bruise. His fingers, adorned with obsidian rings, steepled under his chin. “Note the complete absence of practical kinematics. The energy discharge originates… here,” he pointed a long finger at the screen, “but the reactive force is dissipated through this… secondary amplitude. It’s inefficient. It’s distracting.”
“It’s fucking hilarious,” grated a voice from the shadows. Brickhouse, a mountain of synthetic muscle and scar tissue, shifted his weight. The floor vibrated. “Saw her last week. Tripped over her own heels chasing that pickpocket drone. Went face-first into a dumpster full of kimchi. The smell was a war crime.”
“It is not the incompetence that interests me,” Midnight said, his eyes never leaving the screen. The frozen, jiggling image was reflected in his pupils. “It is the spectacle. The pure, unadulterated spectacle.” He tapped a control on the arm of his throne. The view switched: a montage of crowd shots from various Captain Bimbo appearances. People weren’t screaming in terror or cheering in admiration. Their mouths were open in disbelief. They were pointing. They were filming. A kid was laughing so hard he’d dropped his ice cream.
“The Protectorate generates fear. The Anarch generates rage. What does this… entity generate?” Midnight asked, to no one in particular.
“Confusion,” offered Siren, her voice a digitized whisper from a speaker grille mounted in her neck. Her real face was always hidden behind a chrome visor. “And engagement metrics. Social media mentions for her last ‘fight’ spiked 400% in the metro area. The clip of the kimchi dumpster has seven million views.”
Midnight smiled. It was a thin, cold thing. “Precisely. She is not a threat. She is a phenomenon. A localized reality-distortion event wrapped in spandex.” He stood up, his reflection splintering and reforming as he walked toward the massive screen. He reached out, as if to touch the frozen image of Captain Bimbo’s baffled face. “Look at her. She doesn’t understand what she is. The power is real. The pink energy concussed three of Brickhouse’s mercenaries. But the presentation… it’s a cry for help. Or attention. It doesn’t matter which.”
He turned to face the room, the holographic glow haloing his slim figure. “Our current location has served its purpose. But it’s drafty. It’s impersonal. The police drones are starting to ping the old waste conduits we use for access.” He gestured back to the screen. “I believe we’ve found our new headquarters’ most… compelling attraction. A permanent resident star.”
The dark laughter this time was warmer, richer. It was the sound of a business decision being appreciated.
“We relocate,” Midnight continued, pacing slowly. “We find a space with better sight lines. With seating. We broadcast her… activities. We monetize the feeds. We take bets on her outcomes.” He stopped, his idea fully formed. “We don’t fight her. We curate her. We become her impresarios. Her challenges will be… specially designed. For maximum visual interest. For optimal dramatic payoff.”
Brickhouse cracked his knuckles, a sound like snapping branches. “So we just… what? Build a set? Lure her in?”
“We don’t even need to lure,” Siren said, her visor flickering with data streams. “Her patrol patterns are predictably chaotic. She follows police scanners like a puppy follows a noise. We simply place the right noise in the right neighborhood. Our neighborhood.”
Midnight settled back into his throne, the shattered mirrors swallowing him. On the giant screen, the footage reset, playing the dock fight on a silent, endless loop—the jiggling, tripping, glowing absurdity of it all.
“Gentlemen. Lady. Start drafting the relocation plans. Prioritize theatrical acoustics and camera placements.” His eyes gleamed with a banker’s calculation. “The age of the sinister lair is passé. We’re opening a venue. And we have our headliner.”