There were dark places. There were places that were hard to find. There were places so dark, not a lawman, not a searchlight, not a single inquisitive soul could see. And down there, in the deepest, darkest of places, She had built her empire. With her implants, she controlled a veritable army of drones, some the size of tanks, some as small as insects, but all obeyed her command. 

She worked small, at first, down there in the dark. Found the gangs that preyed on the poor and the downtrodden. She offered them a choice. Most rejected her offer, and disappeared. Their successors were more amenable to negotiations. Down there, in the slums of Floor Black-62, things improved ever so slightly. Food was distributed, as well as clean needles. Protection payments went down drastically. 

But more needed to be done. She made a name for herself, as a nameless, faceless villainous vigilante known as Flock, who could appear any time and any place, on any floor, and often stole from the well-off, their doors unlocked and their vaults looted in broad daylight. Flock quickly made a name for herself, and a bounty to go with it, and soon, mercenaries and wannabe heroes went to go look for her. 

But they would all have to descend to the depths of Black-62, which, it was said, was ruled by a ruthless Gang Leader, the Queen of Black-62. Of those who came back, they swore never to try again. She was feared by outsiders, and loved by those within. She knew that, if she had tried to make things better for people through official channels, the corporations on the higher levels would’ve had her shut down. 

But Flock, the Queen of Black-62, was no ordinary villainess. Where a third-rate crook might hide their plotting, scheming and villainy behind magnanimous charity, she was extraordinary. She hid her magnanimous charity behind plotting, scheming and villainy. Everyone was so busy looking for evil plots to dismantle that they overlooked her plot to improve the lives of her floors, above and below. 

All in all, she felt, she’d done pretty well. Progress was too slow for her liking, but she was climbing uphill in weighted boots slathered in grease. The Queen of Black-62 sat in her control room, which was two floors down from the large and ostentatious throne room she used to distract would-be pretenders and heroes. Her actual sanctum was a small room, well reinforced, that had no less than seven secret escape hatches -- she wasn’t going to be caught in a dead end. Besides, most of the heroes who came to face her -- usually yelling “Face me!” -- would find themselves without opposition in the ‘Throne Room’ and sheepishly go home, sometimes after causing some property damage. 

Which was all very well, but the man on the monitors had found the main room, and he was still coming. She thought it was a man, at least. Just give up, she thought, it’ll be easier for everyone involved. She figured she’d heard of him, a teleporter with a name like Fog or Mist or something. A real Paragon of Virtue, or so the report said. He didn’t kill, although he seemed to have no compunctions about crippling her forces. She was just in time to see him appear behind Jethra and do something terrible to her guard’s knees. Oof. At least hero-sustained injuries were covered by the insurance she offered. She sighed. Heroes had no respect for henchwork. When Fogboy was out of the area, she had the medical teams go to retrieve the unconscious bodies of her crew and take them to the medical bay. The bloodmages there would do their job and earn their own pay. I need to give them a raise, she pondered to herself.

The teleporter appeared on another screen. He was getting close to her sanctum, which was more than a little frustrating. Some teleporters used quantum tunneling or wormhole tech, all of which she could interrupt, but this guy’s abilities were innate. Probably why he’d become a hero in the first place. Great. The ones who took to the job out of a sense of righteousness were always much more difficult to deal with. Pig-headed, stubborn, annoying. 

Flock twirled in her chair. She wished she could complain to someone about this, but her public persona meant that she was standoffish at best, terrifying and intimidating at worst. It was a part of the job, but it was hard for her to connect to people. She sighed and looked at the wall of monitors again. Two more of her guards were hospitalized. This guy was good, he was everywhere. She estimated the Hero would be there in just a manner of minutes. The small drones that were hidden in the crevices in the room whirred to life. If this was one of the heroes who wasn’t willing to listen to her explain things, she was going to need some defenses. Sure, she could hack most devices remotely, but powers were difficult to deal with, teleporters especially. 

But she had her theories. Another spin in the chair while she thought about her plans, not just for the next few minutes, but for the foreseeable future, and lamented again the fact that she couldn’t really… gush to anyone about them. Sure, she could talk to her guards, but that would often come across as a monologue, and she wanted people to be excited, not ‘yes ma’am’ her. She chewed her lip and wondered if she should tell someone her name some time. Sure ‘Flock’ was cool and all -- most people didn’t even know that her underworld-queen and supervillain persona were the same person -- but every once in a while she wanted to be herself. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard her own name. That was a depressing thought. I picked it out myself, she thought with a pout, and I don’t even get to hear it.

Flock was pulled out of her little pity-party by a ‘fwoompf’-noise outside her doors, the unmistakable sound of someone unceremoniously poking a hole through the fabric of reality and slipping through. Teleportation was, apparently, a messy business. Only one in three kids born with the ‘gift’ made it past the age of five. She heard the bodies of her guards hit the floor and rubbed the bridge of her nose. The healer mages would be working overtime, which meant they’d exhaust themselves -- against her wishes -- and that meant she’d be paying them and their families extra, and it might mean reaching out to one of the smaller illicit wizarding guilds for temporary replacements and it was just work. Heroes were so much work.

The doors were thrown open inward. That was the other thing: They were so extra. None of them hung up their cloaks or jackets, they threw them off dramatically. They didn’t sip drinks, they downed them. And they didn’t use doorknobs, only their feet. Goddess, they were divas, the lot of them. The teleporter stood there, possibly imagining an imaginary crowd gasping and cheering him on. He looked a bit like a swashbuckler, his mask tied in a knot behind his head, his cape billowing around him. He even had a small moustache.

“Hello.”

“Queen of Black-62,” the man bellowed, true to form, “I’ve come to stop your evil plans!” He pointed a finger at her menacingly, and wasn’t aware of the small swarm of bug-like robots that was attaching itself to his outfit. Flock leaned on the arm of her chair and looked at him with a mixture of boredom and annoyance. She usually had more patience with heroes, but most of them were a little more kind to her rank-and-file. He was a teleporter, he could just as easily have slipped past most of them! 

“And who might you be?” she asked, her accent carefully measured to sound as condescending as possible. She had an image to maintain, until she figured the man might be trusted. Until then, if she was sending him home on a stretcher, she wanted him to tell people she was as diabolical and dangerous as people said. 

“I am Haze,” he said, and Flock nodded. Right, she remembered, nothing quite as threatening as ‘Haze’. I hate heroes. But he wasn’t done yet. “I’m going to stop you!”

“You said that part already. What are you here to stop, pray tell?” She crossed her legs and put her hands in her lap, deeply regretting the lack of a small animal to pet menacingly. 

He glowered at her and raised his hands, balling them into fists. “Everyone knows you have the people of Black-62 in your grasp. Your tyrannical rule ends here, Queen.” Flock barely managed to restrain a smile. Typical. These Heroes never bothered to actually talk to the people they were supposedly liberating. Oh well. 

“You’re here to do good, are you?” she asked, and she realized she was parched, but this room wasn’t made for theatrics. Usually, they didn’t get through here, so there was no globe she could pop open to fix herself a drink. There might be a bottle of water in her backpack, shoved under the desk, but that would ruin the illusion somewhat. 

“Yes! I’m going to rid the world of your ev--”

“Oh, hush,” she said, and he clamped his mouth shut in surprise. She really was parched, so she reached under the desk and quickly pulled the bottle out before he could think she was going to brandish a weapon. She kept eyes on him the entire time as she took a big sip. “What if I told you,” she said, properly refreshed now, “that we’re not so different?” He frowned at her. Yes, it was an old and tired phrase, but it usually got the gears spinning for a moment. “What if I told you all I want is for people to have a better life. That I want things to be better for everyone, not just those who already have everything?”

“I’d call you a liar,” he said with a low growl that was probably menacing to the working poor he so enjoyed putting in the hospital. “You’re stealing hard-earned money from people who have worked their entire lives and you’re giving it to the parasites of society.”

Flock dropped her bottle. Oh, she thought. He’s one of -those-. I fucking hate Heroes. Very well. Time for option B. She sighed and got up. “Very well. I see we won’t see eye to eye, Hero. I suppose you’ll have to take me in.” She smirked. He knew it was a trap, she could see it in his eyes. But he didn’t know how it was a trap, and she was delighted for him to find out just how it was a trap. He jumped up and she saw the shadows form around him, reality warping to allow him to slip between the cracks. As Flock suspected, there was a discharge of energy as the teleport failed. 

She stepped aside as he barreled through the air in an uncontrolled horizontal acceleration and destroyed several monitors, crashing into her workstation face-first. Great, more work. But her gambit had worked. The small bots had tethered him to the Faraday cage that was the room’s infrastructure, and his power had short-circuited. Glad to know that even the things she didn’t understand adhered to some laws, at least. She walked up to him and pulled his mask off, then took a quick picture with her phone while he protested weakly. 

“Quick question,” she asked, casually as she picked up her backpack again. He slumped to the ground. He was trying to get up but he was clearly disoriented, probably from headbutting three large monitors. “Do you have a membership with the Resurrector's union?” she asked. 

“I -- ffcourse, why, I --” he began, stammering, his broken nose making it hard to speak, but he seemed to realize the error of answering the question halfway through. Too late. She smiled at him as she brought the small pistol to bear. 

“No reason,” she said with a weary smile. He wouldn’t actually die, not as such, but it was certainly not going to be pleasant. He didn’t deserve a pleasant eviction, anyway. And it would probably dissuade him from trying again. He still had no idea why his powers had failed him, and she wanted to keep it that way. She was about to pull the trigger, when she saw him try to use his powers again, but something was different, this time. Maybe he was trying harder? Whatever he was doing, the air around him vibrated as it slipped between the cracks of the cosmos. And then, with a ‘fwoompf’, he teleported out of there. Good riddance, she thought, but only for a moment, because the hole in the fabric of reality he’d punched wasn’t closing. It was a kaleidoscopic nightmare, six feet across, in the middle of her sanctum. She really hoped it was going to close soon, because having a growing wormhole in the middle of her base was probably going to be a little bit of a problem. 

She looked at her door. Just out in the hallway, there was another hole in reality just like it. Oh fuck.

Elamimax

Here's chapter 2, as promised. A glimpse of the other side.

There are 30 chapters already up on my patreon. Subscribers will get access to every single chapter right now. Other than that, I will be posting a chapter (maybe even too) every other day. If you're in the mood to catch up on my other stories, feel free to check them out. Additionally, Horns in the Library 1 is now available as an ebook! 

I also want to point people at the discord server of the ever-prolific QuietValerie (right here) where you can find her wonderful stories, like Ryn of Avonside, Falling Over and The Trouble With Horns, as well as other authors' works, and talk about them with fellow fans, and even the authors themselves! I heartily recommend joining it and reading their works! (Also check out Walls of Anamoor. It's rad as heck.) 

Thanks again for reading, and I'll see you all in the next one. 

<3