Why do so many heroes and villains monologue?

Like, don’t get me wrong—I talk a lot during fights. But that’s mostly to piss people off and also because I suffer from a chronic, possibly terminal case of unable-to-shut-the-fuck-up-itis.

Case in point: the Mumerer. D-class supervillain. Powers? Unclear. Weak-ass energy blasts, maybe? Fashion sense like a 1920s banker who got lost in a Spirit Halloween. But the real problem? The man could not shut up.

Plan A: talk even more than him while throwing punches. Psychological warfare via pure, unfiltered mouth.

Sorta worked. He was landing glancing blows while dodging mine, nothing major. I’ve been training, though—hitting the gym regularly for a few weeks now, so I was at least making him work for it.

But not enough. I needed to escalate.

Plan B: do Plan A, but worse.

“You are slow and feeble!” he declared, mid-duck, all puffed up like a pigeon in a waistcoat. “You will never hit me like that! My reflexes, my strength, my power, my intellect… all are vastly superior to yours!”

“Uh-huh. Big superiority complex, got it. Did mommy love you too much growing up or not enough? I’m getting mixed signals here.” I grinned. God, I wished this guy could actually throw a decent punch. This was going to be such a long fight.

“You are inferior!” he continued, practically vibrating with theatrical rage. “You will not stop me from stealing the Power Diamond!”

“Cool. So, question—why haven’t you done any damage to me yet?” I asked, dodging lazily. “Sure, I haven’t landed a clean hit, but I’m not even scratched. Starting to think you're all talk.”

“Ha! A peon like you dares to—”

“And that outfit! Wow. Did your mom lay that out for you before you skipped off to Villain Kindergarten? Or was this a thrift store find? Real community theater Dracula vibes.”

“As I was saying, peons like you sh—”

“Oh my god, your voice. Do you hear yourself speak? It’s like a kazoo fucked a thesaurus.”

“AS I WAS SAYING—PEONS LIKE YOU—!”

“—should not be allowed near major metropolitan areas without a permit, right? Right? No but seriously, are you even qualified for supervillainy? You feel more like the ‘robs gas stations with a squirt gun’ type. Maybe an unpaid parking ticket here or there. Big ‘misdemeanor energy.’”

He shrieked. Like, literally shrieked. I think a blood vessel popped in his forehead.

Progress.

“THAT’S IT! I HAVE HAD IT WITH A GNAT LIKE YOU!” the Mumerer screeched, practically foaming at the mouth as he reached behind his back and pulled out—God knows from where—a weird-ass looking gun. It was shaped like a melted trumpet glued to a car battery, pulsing with some suspicious green energy that definitely didn’t look OSHA-approved.

He pointed it straight at me with both hands, shaking with rage and dramatic flair. “You’ll regret mocking me! This device will reduce you to molecular ash!”

“Oooh, scary!” I said, holding my hands up mockingly. “A gun! Wow! So original! What, your speeches weren’t working so you upgraded to sci-fi cosplay accessories?”

His finger twitched on the trigger.

“I bet that thing’s gonna hurt me real bad, huh?” I continued, casually stepping to the side. “Then you can go home, have a big cry in your little villain blankie, and ask Mama to cut the crusts off your sammies. Maybe drink some warm milk and take a nap?”

He actually sputtered.

“I will vaporize you!”

“Sure, sure, but real quick: you did remember to charge that thing, right? Because I’d hate for you to pull the trigger and all that comes out is a sad little fart noise.”

He screamed and fired.

The blast soared past where my head had been a second ago, slamming into a nearby dumpster. It exploded in a flash of green light and banana peels.

“Oh wow, okay. That would’ve tickled,” I said, blinking at the glowing crater. “Cool gun. Still compensating for something?”

“You insufferable—!”

“Say it with me now: therapy. Just once a week. Might save you a ton on henchmen bills.”

His hands were trembling with fury, the barrel glowing brighter.

I was definitely starting to question my ability to tank that thing. Probably best to just… not get hit. New rule for myself: Don’t get molecularly disassembled. Seems like a solid life choice.

I dove hard to the right just as he pulled the trigger—and good thing, too, because the beam that erupted from his gun didn’t just scorch the wall behind me. It erased it. Like, poof. Gone. Dusted. Reduced to floating particles like someone clicked “delete” on reality.

I rolled up to one knee behind a dented old mailbox, chest heaving. “Okay,” I muttered to myself, “new rule. Don’t fight tech villains. Just don’t.”

Magic? Sure. I can bullshit my way through that. Mutants? Bring 'em on. Power-enhanced rage monsters? Love those guys.

But gadgeteers?

Unless the tech in question is a mech, exosuit, or something with tank treads, I'm not interested. Honestly, I could probably take a tank shell. Probably. But this guy? This guy had matter deletion beams.

New plan: Disarm the mama’s boy. Fast.

I popped up, zig-zagging out from cover like a hyperactive squirrel on espresso. He fired again—another beam sliced through a streetlamp, which collapsed with a groan and sparked out like it had just failed a midterm.

He was screaming something about “incinerating my defiant atoms,” which, cool threat, ten points for vocabulary. But while he was busy ranting and aiming, he wasn’t moving.

Perfect.

I closed the distance in a blur, relying more on reflex and dumb luck than skill, and slid under his next shot. The beam sizzled past, so close I felt the air shiver with heat.

Then I was up again, right in his face.

“Hey!” I grinned. “You dropped something!”

“What—!?”

I slammed my boot down on his foot, hard, then jammed my elbow into his gut. Not enough to knock him out, but enough to get a satisfying oof out of him and throw off his aim.

While he was doubling over, I grabbed the weird trumpet-gun and twisted. He held on, of course—too stubborn to let go—but I had leverage and a mean streak. With a sharp snap, the thing tore loose from his grip, and I flung it into the nearest storm drain.

There was a pause.

Then he looked at me with pure horror.

“You… you threw my deconstructive entropy cannon in the sewer!”

“Yup.”

“It took me eight months to build that!”

“Well, maybe next time build it out of something stronger than duct tape and mommy issues.”

He screamed again. I was starting to think that was just his default noise.

“You are the most infuriating hero I have ever defeated!” he spat, face red, chest heaving.

“You got me, buddy,” I said flatly—and then grabbed the front of his ridiculous, overly embroidered villain shirt and yanked him in close.

Headbutt. Hard.

His forehead smacked mine with a thunk, and he let out a pained, surprised yelp.

“I am so very defeated,” I added, tone dry as salt flats. And then crack, another headbutt, just for emphasis.

He went slack in my grip for a moment, dazed, nose trickling blood, pupils probably trying to figure out where the sky went.

“Unhand me, ruffian!” he croaked, all high-society indignation with a side of concussion.

“Sure thing, mama’s boy.”

I loosened my grip, but only to shift tactics. He was still conscious, unfortunately, and I didn’t want to go full force—he was mostly just a squishy guy with a big gun and bigger delusions. Pasting him wouldn’t be heroic. It’d just be messy.

Instead, I twisted his arm behind his back and focused, channeling just the right amount of force through my palm. There was a moment of resistance, then—

Crunch.

It was a wet, sickening sound, like someone stepping on a bag of celery.

He screamed.

I let him go.

He crumpled to the pavement like a marionette with its strings cut, clutching his broken arm and wailing like I’d just insulted his entire family lineage.

Which, to be fair, I probably had.

“That should keep you from playing with any more doomsday gadgets,” I muttered, brushing dust off my jacket. “You’ll live. You’ll scream a lot. You’ll sue, probably. But you’ll live.”

He didn’t respond, just whimpered and rolled to the side, trying not to puke.

I turned away, already dialing the Special Containment Unit.

“Hey,” I said into the comm, “got another tech dweeb for you. Bring the zipcuffs and maybe a lollipop. This one’s gonna cry.”

Felt bad. Maybe this one wouldn’t be taken to a blacksite. Pretty sure he was just smarter than normal. That or I am condemning him to a fate worse than death. Or death.

Ugh. I hated waiting.

I hated that we had to wait. I hated that every second we stalled was another second some unlucky bastard might get shipped off to that hellhole they still had the audacity to call a prison. Before, I could tell myself it was necessary. That it was just locking up dangerous people who wanted to hurt others. Simple math. Threats go in, safety comes out.

Now? Every time I thought about that place, my stomach twisted. Felt like I was helping grease the gears of a machine designed to eat people alive.

And of course, as if the universe couldn’t resist kicking me square in the ass while I was downwind of my own moral crisis, who else but Apex decided to float his shiny, smug self down from the clouds like a perfectly sculpted nightmare.

A ripple of pressure hit the ground before he touched down—barely even scuffing the pavement with his landing, of course. Gotta preserve that aesthetic.

“Good work… Miss Momentum, was it?” he said in that smooth, velvety voice of his—like warm honey poured over expensive leather. The kind of voice that could make a nun rethink her vows.

My brain stuttered for a second, which was deeply upsetting.

Seriously? You’re gay, you have a girlfriend, you like boobs. Get it together.

He was even looking at me with that practiced smile—gentle, modest, perfectly disarming in that politician-who’s-about-to-sell-your-town-to-a-corporation sort of way.

I squinted. “Yyyep. That’s me. Miss Momentum. Hero for fun, advocate for mess, breaker of kneecaps.”

I glanced down at the still-wailing villain, now groaning softly into the pavement.

Apex didn’t even look at the guy. Just kept his eyes on me.

“Very efficient,” he said, like he was inspecting a new toaster. “I watched your skirmish. You handled yourself well.”

Oh, so you were watching.

Didn’t bother helping, of course. Wouldn’t want to sweat that perfect suit. I mean, I had it under control, but it was still kind of hilarious how Mr. Godlike-Power-Level just hovered in the sky like a bored lifeguard at a kiddie pool.

I crossed my arms. “Aw, thanks. Wasn’t expecting an audience, but hey—glad to know I’m entertaining enough to keep you tuned in.”

His smile didn’t falter. If anything, it widened slightly, like he was enjoying an inside joke.

“Your style is… unorthodox,” he said, voice still smoother than a fresh jar of peanut butter. “But effective. You should consider applying to the upper tiers of the League.”

I laughed once—short, sharp, and about as amused as a dentist’s drill.

“This guy was a low-tier in the supervillain league. I’m just a C-class hero. Honestly, I only jumped in because no one else was around and someone had to do something.”

And you, you smug, metahuman-devouring sack of morally bankrupt space-christ allegory—

I didn’t say that part, of course. I was pretending like he was some noble paragon, way out of my league. All respect and humility and “gosh wow thanks sir” energy. Barf.

Truth was, I could barely look at him without wanting to punch his perfect teeth down his throat. But, y’know, politely.

Still. Even through the sarcasm, the dread lingered.

How the fuck was I supposed to take him down?

He was powerful. And I don’t just mean strong. I mean capital-P, comic-book-cover, gods-and-monsters powerful. The kind of guy who could survive a tactical nuke and still have time to file a noise complaint. I’ve seen brick walls move faster than bullets when he’s around. The man vibrates with control.

“Nonsense,” he said with that rehearsed warmth, as if I’d just made a charming little joke. “I heard you took down Deathknell and Sovereign. Alone.”

Ah yes, those guys. They hit like trucks. One of them was a truck. I still had the bruises.

“You could be in the Superhero League,” he added, like he was offering me a golden ticket. “I think you have potential… so long as you clean up your act.”

Oh ho ho ho.

OH HO HO HO.

I need to clean up my act? That’s rich coming from the guy who’s probably got a private dungeon full of “unregistered threats” with no court dates.

I grinned at him, wide and fake. “What do you mean, mister tall, dark, and handsome?”

That got him.

A little twitch. Barely there. Just the slightest tug at the corner of his eye. A crack in the composure. Ding ding ding—hit confirmed. One irritation combo landed.

It’s funny, really. Being a hero teaches you to watch people—tells, posture, breathing. I might not have Apex’s god-tier strength, but I can read a person like a manual if I stare long enough.

He straightened a fraction too stiffly.

“You should clean up your language,” he said, voice clipped now, just a hair tighter. “And the way you speak around civilians. It’s unbecoming of a hero to swear.”

Oh my stars and garters, I nearly lost it.

But I kept the grin on. Just tilted my head and let out a breezy little chuckle like I hadn’t just been told to shut up and play nice by the guy I planned to expose.

“Sorry. Force of habit. The neighborhood I came from?” I gestured vaguely with a half-shrug. “Swearing was basically our second language. Got my superhero name and my first stitches the same week.”

He did not laugh. I think that annoyed him more than the swearing.

Which, honestly? Bonus points.

I wonder how much I could get away with antagonizing him without jeopardizing the plan?

Because god, was it tempting.

Every smug word he said felt like it deserved a snappy comeback and a punch in the jaw—but no. No. Don’t push my luck. Not yet.

Antagonizing him comes later—in about a week or so, once my super-smart, scheming, shadow-themed goth biker girlfriend finishes putting the final preparations in place. God, I love her. She makes spreadsheets for revenge.

“I see,” Apex said, voice smooth and utterly unreadable. “You should learn.”

Oh, eat me.

I swallowed the snark, pasted on a sweet little smile, and said, “Thank you very much for your advice, Mr. Apex. You really are the greatest hero alive.”

And with that, I officially earned my Oscar in the category of Hero Most Likely to Be Seething While Smiling.

I would like to throw up now.

He gave the smallest of nods. Blink and you’d miss it, but there it was—that subtle shift in posture, the almost imperceptible lift of his chin. Barely a movement, but I could tell.

He was preening.

He bought it.

Buddy, you better watch your shiny self-important ass. Because in a few days? I’m gonna make you beat the everloving fuck out of me. On camera. In front of everyone.

And I am going to smile the whole damn time.