Everything slows to a crawl. Catnap's mouth creeps through a syllable, yet-to-settle particles of powder cease their fall, and Waylon's mind reels in confusion. The dots making up his predicament connect in slow motion like jello flowing through a faucet: fear jolts his chest with each new moment of realization.

Then the world resumes in a flurry of events. Waylon screams through his gas mask, the meaty hand around his ankle tightens with near-bone-crushing power, and Catnap unhinges her jaw and spews enough of the white dust to rival a blizzard.

The man's hand falls away from Waylon's ankle and thumps onto the ground. White dust is everywhere. Flitting about on stray streams of air, settling in piles on the dashboard, and clinging to every inch of the gas mask's visor.

Fire burns in Waylon's ankle for a moment before disappearing into the cloud of dust. He coughs out a yelp that's half pain, half relief and swipes a hand across his visor.

Trails of dusty clearness like the brush strokes of a hurried painter bring the surrounding world back into view.

Catnap shakes her head at the meaty-handed man and tsks. "Must have a strong stamina power of some sort, shame he's wasting it on trucking. Anyone that can resist what I threw in here could make so much more money as a personal henchmen of an up-and-coming villainess. I should leave him my card —"

Waylon rubs his ankle, a bruise already bubbling up against his skin in black and blue tones. "No. Not happening. Is he out for good?"

She lets out a single shrill laugh. "No way he's not! No one can resist a double dose of that, I don't care what kind of power they have."

He pulls the pant of his injured leg back down and settles his foot back on the floor, testing his weight against it. "Good."

---

Nothing else happens. No conversations, no interruptions from their sleeping guests; just a wide open road and their thoughts for half an hour until a warehouse looms in front of them. Their semi sits at an access gate, awaiting a go ahead from someone inside to let them through. A stubborn knot of unease sits in Waylon's throat. This place is too creepy.

People buzz every which way wearing hardhats and high-visibility jackets that shine a neon green in the flood lights dangling from cranes, lampposts, and metal scaffolds. It's like the middle of the day for a thousand meters in every direction of the warehouse. The only shadows come from the alleys between stacks upon stacks of shipping containers in a rainbow of colors all around the building.

A deep voice crackles out of an intercom box near the driver's side window. "You're cleared. Pull up to loading dock F." Then the gate jerks to life, splitting in the middle and sliding to each side to make a gap just wide enough for the semi.

Waylon scrubs some more dust off his visor with a sleeve of his jacket. "Alright, let's get this over with."

---

People swarm around loading dock "F": opening the giant door, driving forklifts, waving the semi back with orange aircraft marshalling batons for some reason. No way Catnap knows how to read the motions they're making, much less Waylon himself.

Regardless Catnap backs the trailer into the spot, a beep blaring along from somewhere behind them the whole while. Then their job is done. All the waiting workers swarm the back of the semi and wheel out giant near-solid doughnuts of pure aluminum.

Exhaustion and relief tug at Waylon's mind: almost there. He closes his eyes for a moment, then pushes open his door and drops to the ground.

A man bounds up to the two of them; a tablet in one hand, a mug of coffee in the other, and the ugliest red Christmas sweater that could possibly exist. He slows to a stop in front of Catnap and Waylon and heaves breaths in between words. "S-Sorry for the w-wait. I was on the o-other side of the warehouse when I got the c-call you were here."

Catnap backs up and rests her back against the semi along with the sole of one foot. "Take a breather there, big man. At least wait to have a heart attack until we get paid."

An odd pain pangs in Waylon's chest and draws his eyes toward Catnap. Jealousy. She looks too cool right now, why didn't he think of that first? A relaxed lean is a classic among criminal types. He backs up and rests his butt on the semi's front tire. "Yeah, what she said."

The man sucks in another breath. "R-Right, right. Joel, by the way. N-not big man." He straightens his posture, sending his belly lolling over his belt.

Any second now. Waylon drums his fingers against the rim of the tire.

Joel taps the screen with a meaty digit extending from the coffee cup. With the motion, a splash of brown liquid jumps out of the cup and lands among the ornaments on his sweater's tree. He drops the cup on a nearby barrel and scratches at the stain. "Ah beans. This is a new one..."

Catnap crosses her arms and rolls her eyes. "Come on, we already wasted all night getting this here. If I don't make it home in time to catch the new Villain's Hour episode... I'll just say that you don't want that."

"One moment, one moment... and —" Joel taps the screen once more. "There you go! Pleasure doing business with you folks."

A bell chimes in Waylon's pocket. Relief tugs at his heart, but he dare not hope it's that simple. He pulls it out and flips on the display anyways.

Catnap pushes off her perch, waves a lazy hand, and walks toward the darkness of the warehouse exit. "I'm done here then. See you never, fellas."

Pain throbs behind Waylon's left temple, gods is she a lot. He enters the last number of his passcode and a notification from his banking app shuffles right to the front. It announces a new transfer: just over 20,000 dollars.

His breath stops, his hands tremble. The smells of machine lubricant, oxidizing metal, and his own sweat are beautiful in this moment. They swirl around his nostrils threatening to send him into fits of nausea, but that doesn't matter anymore. He can do it. With a few more jobs like this that healer won't be able to say no to helping Gina.

Joel steps closer. "Excuse me, mister Ishii? Apologies, but could we speak for a moment? The boss would like to see you."

Clouds move into Waylon's mind. Is this normal? Does he even have a choice? He shakes his head to clear the runaway thoughts and slips his phone back in his jacket pocket. "Okay. I suppose I should meet them if —"

Turning back, Catnap crosses her arms and pouts. "Why not me? Am I not good enough for them or something?"

Joel's voice takes on a careful tone, as if the slightest misstep could send him tumbling from the highest branch into the waiting maw of a tiger. "To be fair, miss Catnap, you've already accepted another job. Mister Ishii here hasn't."

Catnap rests two fists on her hips. "Oh, just that? Don't make it sound so special next time, Joel." She turns with a flourish of her hand and strides back toward the access gate.

Waylon gestures toward Catnap's back. "Are all wannabe villains like that?"

Joel picks his coffee off the barrel and beckons Waylon with the wave of his tablet. "I don't like to speak ill of our business associates."

Waylon shrugs his shoulders and follows after Joel.

---

The two men weave through a maze of hallways in the depths of the warehouse. Plain grey walls with equally grey floors stretch behind and before them with the only splash of color being crisp red lettering at intersecting hallways spelling out cryptic directions.

Waylon's skin crawls in between rushes of shivers. He expects a hulking minotaur to burst through one of the doors and devour him like that old Theseus story. Depending on this boss he's to meet, that might be better. Mind racing with the possibilities, he trudges along behind Joel.

After another turn, Joel glances over his shoulder and breaks the silence. "Oh! Apologies mister Ishii, I should give you a bit more information before we get there."

Waylon's heart jumps at the sudden outburst. Not a minotaur, just a guy with bad fashion sense. "That would be better than wondering, yes."

"Sorry! I didn't mean to worry you. It'll all be fine, really. You'll be talking to the boss of this place. They're a kind sort, full of generosity and horribly misunderstood. Prefers Albert over any of the more grandiose names the media or heroes give them, so please try your best to stick to Albert. With that in mind you probably know them best as Avartagh."

Waylon's heart jolts to a halt. No way. He stops and goggles at the man who can say that name with such a casual demeanor. "The Avartagh? Ireland's Immortal Shadow? That one?"

Joel twists back. His eyebrows jump and his eyes widen, etching panic across his face. He jerks his tablet side to side. "No, no, no! Definitely don't call them Ireland's Immortal Shadow. They hate that more than any of them. Promise you won't say it? My job is gone if you do and I have a wife to support. Just Albert! Promise?"

Oh, hit a nerve. Still. Waylon's eyebrows furrow. "Sure, promise. Why wouldn't a villain want to go by their given name though? Isn't that the point of them? That's like throwing away free publicity."

Joel sets off again with a glance back to make sure Waylon is following. "I know you're new to this, mister Ishii, but that's a big misconception."

Waylon follows after the ugly sweater, studying its rendition of reindeer and coiling strands of Christmas lights to ignore the pit in his stomach. "Then what's the truth?"

"I'm glad you asked, mister Ishii! Not every villain cares about their brand potential index just like not every hero is in it for the lights and fame. It's a complicated topic that's personal to every licensee or villain."

The rest of the conversation fades into the world of grey walls and plain doors surrounding them. Boredom or fear. Waylon doesn't actually care about all this. Still, he nods along to Joel's description of the intricacies of how the world of hero and villainy really works. Maybe Waylon will even remember some of it due to the utter lack of things to distract himself with.

Then Joel stops in front of a door just like all the others: light wood with a silver lever handle. He brings the tablet to his chest and locks eyes with Waylon. "This is it. Are you ready?"

Why is it so hot all of the sudden? Waylon unzips his jacket revealing a plain white shirt underneath and flings his wrists and fingers about at his side like an athlete about to lower into a sprint-starting pose. "I guess so."

Joel knocks and the sound echoes down the hallway and back.

A voice like the steady roar of a landslide with a thick Irish accent comes from the room beyond. "Please, come in."

Joel steps to the side and waves his tablet toward the door. "Go on. I'll be back around to lead you out once you're done."

Waylon shifts his eyes between Joel and the door. The ugly sweater makes the man stick out like a sore thumb in this place full of neon clad warehouse employees, but so does the genuine smile beaming from his lips. No more stalling, it can't be that bad if this guy is happy here. Waylon pulls down on the handle and pushes through.

Bourbon carrying hints of caramel smacks into Waylon's nose. Lumps of nausea crawl up his throat and overcomes his senses. He coughs and — willing himself not to gag — he takes in a deep breath. The overwhelming scent still batters into him, but the nausea doesn't spill over into his mouth.

Good. A few held breaths and he'll get through this without puking. He scans the rest of the room.

Bookshelves made of dark hardwood stand strong against every wall under the weight of countless leatherbound books. Where books don't sit, lit glass enclosures display rare collectibles. One of the items catches Waylon's interest in particular. What might amount to a silver piece of tube to another's eye is a sight of glee, banishing all the nausea clumping in Waylon's throat.

The modified camera flashgun used in the original Star Wars movie as Luke Skywalker's lightsaber hilt.

His chest lightens, a breath escapes his lips, and he runs up to the case. "Where in the world did you find this?"

Silence.

Waylon turns around, casting about the room for whoever is responsible for summoning him here. A shadowy figure standing on a balcony past sliding glass doors turns their head.

The figure approaches, clasping hands behind their back. A shroud of mystery billows around their tall lanky body in the form of an ankle length trench coat. It flutters behind them revealing utility pants, a bulletproof vest, and a black spandex suit that covers their entire body. Head included. A plain white porcelain mask sits in front of their face. Two black voids stare out from its empty eye sockets set above intricate detailing of a nose and mouth.

They stop near the desk in the center of the room and they wave a hand toward two plush lounge chairs set on either side. "Hello, Waylon my lad. Why don't you have a seat?"

If the mere mention of this person's name jolts Waylon's heart to a stop, seeing them in the flesh turns it to crumbling stone. It's them. Avartagh. Uncertain he can move without losing his balance, Waylon stares at the emotionless mask he's seen on countless news programs.

"Come on, I'm not the sociopath the media makes me out to be."

That breaks Waylon's paralysis, but every sense yells at him to run: from sweat slicking his back to the jitters running down his legs. Maybe matching their tone will help. He glances back at the display, but rips himself away and lowers himself into the chair. "Sorry, but I have to know. Where did you get it?"

Avartagh — or rather, Albert — slips into the chair through a narrow gap between it and the desk. Their trench coat catches on a raised arm of the seat and they fiddle with it for a moment until it gathers in a pile behind them. Then their depthless black eyes fix onto Waylon's. "Ah, the story of that piece is an oddity that we can delve into at a later time, but the short of it is it was pure accident in one of the desert film locations for the original movie. A worm that somehow grew wings, legs, and developed the ability to spit acid swallowed it up and deposited it in its nest. Some hero whose name I've forgotten fought the worm, found the prop, and now it's here. Anyways, how did your first job go?"

Waylon shifts in his chair, unable to get comfortable; looking this person in the eyes forces him to confront his situation over and over. Stuck in the depths of the cave of a dangerous beast with no choice but to play its game. He interlocks his fingers across his stomach and forces a casual tone. "Good. Nothing to complain about. We hijacked the shipment and got it here without issue. Your people are unloading it as we speak."

Albert leans down and pulls a glass out of a desk drawer. "You misunderstand me. I'm not asking for a report of your success; I want to know how you feel about it. What goes through your mind at the prospect of another job like it?"

Confusion stabs Waylon's left temple and scrunches his eyebrows together. What is this? He straightens his posture against the cushioned back of the chair. "It'd be nice to do another one. It's not like I can get money as fast another way."

From the same drawer, Albert pulls out a bottle of amber liquid that sloshes about inside. They pull the stopper with a pop and pour it into the waiting glass. "Closer! How does it feel knowing you're one step closer to curing dear old Gina's Consumption?"

Waylon's heart crumbles away and fear fills its place, his vision distorts in pain from his temple. Calm down. Play their game, they want you uncomfortable. Probably. Waylon pinches the back of one hand to keep himself present. "Happy. Like I'm closer to leaving this life behind me."

Grasping several spheres made of ice, Albert pumps a hand into the air. "That's what I'm talking about!" They drop the spheres into the glass one after the other, each landing in the liquid with a resonant chime. "I truly am happy to hear that you feel like you're making progress. That this life isn't something you want is one of the reasons I called you here tonight, actually."

Waylon twiddles his thumbs above his interlocking fingers. "Care to explain?"

"Life is almost akin to a theater performance. Heroes, villains, the media. Every day people like you. We're all pushing toward our idealized reality in one way or another. For some of us, it's personal. For others, it's everything under the sun. For me, the latter and you, the former. Sometimes those goals intersect and sometimes they evolve. We're at a crossroads, you and I. And I think you're the type of person that evolves through a righteous fury, so I want to be your shepherd along this new path." Albert scoots to the edge of their chair and thrust the glass forward. "See? We all have a part to play! Me, the devious villain guiding you behind the scenes. You, the caring son-in-law whose wants are — currently — too narrow."

Rage burns a new heart into Waylon's chest and it pumps fire through his veins with ear deafening drums. He kicks the chair back and jumps to his feet. "We're done here. I'm not playing any part; I actually care about people, they're not puppets."

They raise their glass and tinkling ice sings out chaotic melodies. "Wait. Don't misunderstand me lad, I'm not saying all the parts we play are false. Please sit back down and I'll choose my words more carefully. I was careless, I wasn't considering your feelings, and I apologize."

The fire disappears in a wink, a flood of fresh confusion washing it away. What in the world is this? He hesitates, but pulls the chair forward and lowers back down. "Then what do you mean?"

"Just that some of those parts are fake. For you and I, that's the role of the criminal. Everything in this room is part of my performance from the displays of rare items down to the suffocating darkness of the carpeting." They sweep a hand around, indicating the bookshelves surrounding the two. "For example: how many of the books in this room do you think I've read?"

"All of them?"

Albert slaps a gloved hand onto the desk's empty top. "Wrong! Well, more than likely wrong. I don't know what any of these books actually are, see. I placed a bulk order online for fancy books and had others stock the shelves. Highly unlikely that I've read a significant number, much less all of them."

"Okay, but what does this have to do with me? It sounds like the bunch of gibberish that heroes and villains talk before they fight. That's not what we're doing." Waylon tenses up. "Are we?"

Mid-sip, Albert tries to suppress a laugh but chokes instead. They speak through an odd combination of coughs and laughs. "N-No not at all. I'd like to offer you another part." They pound their chest twice and their words break free of the gurgling, spitting cacophony. "More of an audition for a part really. You ran this job so well I thought I'd offer you the chance to run a higher risk one. It comes with an equally high payout too, of course. This all would lead to a respectable position in my organization."

There it is, the hook that will try to pull him deeper. Textbook. Waylon shakes his head. "Why me? Why not Catnap or Ronan? Or the endless others out there that I imagine are working for you?"

"You've got a certain aspect that, I admit, isn't uncommon in the criminal world. A moral compass, a knowledge of right and wrong." Disdain slips into their tone under their unmoving mask. "It's just few have conviction enough to stick by those same morals when surrounded by those who excel in less civilized aspects of the criminal world."

"And you expect me to believe that you're the former?"

"Why shouldn't you? We're both criminals now, so what makes us different? Do you really think you're the only one in this entire warehouse with a conscience? With a person to care for?"

Images of Joel and the terror in his eyes at the prospect of losing his job flash in Waylon's mind. He squints his eyes. "Okay, fair."

"As for why I didn't approach Catnap, she has her own designs in the world of villainy. Not someone I could bring under my wing in a more permanent capacity."

"And Ronan?"

"He's nothing more than a raven flitting between shiny baubles. He's useful, but he doesn't have a career trajectory. Regardless of that he's already going on this job pending your approval. Despite his prospects he is excellent behind the wheel."

Frustration throbs in Waylon's temple and he closes his eyes for a moment. "I have no idea what the first part of that means."

Albert shrugs and takes another sip. "I don't mean for you to understand, to be fair. It's complicated with that... man."

This is ridiculous. Waylon takes a deep breath and nearly floors himself with the creeping nausea he forgot he was battling. "N-Now you're just trying to confuse me."

"I've been trying since you walked in here, lad. Anyways, what do you think? Do you want to take a chance on something higher risk? I promise to accept whatever your answer. You'll still be free to request less exciting jobs from Joel, so only do this if you feel the drive."

Relief surges through Waylon's mind. He's actually getting out of here, he gets to stop whatever this game is, and he doesn't have to give up the cash stream. Gina really is one step closer to being cured.

He lifts himself up by the arms of the chair. "As good as this sounds, I'm going to pass. I can't get mixed up in this forever. I just want a normal life."

"A shame, but of course. Well, if you change you mind." Albert slips a hand beneath their trench coat and pulls out a glossy black phone, then slides it across the table. "Take this. Just pressing the call button twice will set up a direct line to me."

Waylon slips it into a pocket alongside his beanie. "I'll be sure to."