What does it mean to be a villain?

Eight years and I don't know the answer. Does one have to take over the world to be a villain? Attempt to do so? If that's the case, then I'm no villain. I don't even have villainous intentions. But that's an awfully narrow crevice to stand in, and it leaves a lot of gray area and a lot of bad people unspoken for.

Maybe I'm one of those bad people, but I don't think so. I guess I could classify what I do as "evil", but I'm not out to hurt anyone. My goals are entirely selfish, which could turn out either way. But I don't mow people down like grass to get what I want. I don't like to hurt people at all. Really, if they could all just leave me alone, I'd be perfectly fine. Just me and a big pile of cash.

I guess I was sort of always like this. I didn't grow up in a poor home or anything. Just a nice suburban house with a white picket fence. I was never very special. Not particularly brave or smart or talented or friendly. Quiet. Average. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown grades, brown life. Brown.

My powers surfaced weeks after I got my period for the first time. At least the blood wasn't the strangest thing to worry about anymore. My parents took me out of public school and my mother homeschooled me instead. With my name off the records, it was easy to disappear, almost too easy. I ran away and acted as something of a lone vigilante. I was young, supple, illegal. I would lure people over to me, and then take them out. I gained recognition for myself, and a name. That name was Ectoplasma. At the time, I didn't have a costume, just a set of activewear and a scarf over my face. It wasn't much.

But soon my name became known, and I was invited to work with New York City's number one crime fighting team, the League of Righteous Fists. All were natural-born metahumans, including myself. Or, at least they had powers gained from accidents. None of those government sponsored crimefighters you see so many of nowadays. Anyway, I joined the League eagerly and donned a real costume with their logo on the chest. I made money.

Perhaps those first few dollars were what initially corrupted me. Money meant control. I'd never had control over anything in my life, besides convicting rapists, and that gave me a certain high that only power can give. My powers weren't quite under my control, but I was under my parents'. Grades, work, structure ruled my life. Maybe I've always had issues, but money gave me an outlet. I could do whatever I wanted with it. Once I collected enough, I'd be out of range of the proverbial Long Claw of the Law. And that's where things went downhill.

I only spent two years with the League of Righteous Fists, and I didn't ever really fit in. Pinstripe Chrome and the Civilian had been long time buddies. Claymore was a loner like me, but too mysterious for my tastes. BlindSide was shy. Feral hung out with the Beastmaster, who was a halfway decent guy, but very preoccupied with the aforementioned subject of a shady breeding project. I think they were involved or something. The other members of the League aren't worth mentioning. So when I was eighteen, I ventured out on my own again, newly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. And I knew exactly what I wanted.

I'd been interested in the mechanics of business for a while, and now I knew of my fascination with money. It made sense. So I took a new name, bought a new costume on the League's budget, and ran off without looking back. And it's been pretty much smooth sailing from here on out. Up until now, anyway. You've got to know what you want, and I guess if you're not a superhero, then you really are a villain, to tie that all back into my rhetoric. But the missing money is a minor setback in my master plan. Our collective master plan.

Doctor Impossible's been testy lately. Well, testy ever since I lost all my hard-earned cash. The hard-earned cash I may or may not have promised to fund his plan with. I stole more, and he's almost got a full supercomputer rigged up in the air conditioned storage facility we rented on the outskirts of Boston. I rented. It's our home at the moment. We're flying under the radar upon request of the man himself.

Mostly he sends me out on errands. "Fetch this gigathing, child." (Terrathing, kilowatt, whatever.) "Go to Radio City and get me two of these red wires," (he'd show me a picture online) "and one of these yellow wires." "You are an idiot. That's not the right yellow wire. I wanted a megabit compuboard wire." (Or something.) If I didn't already use magic, I'd definitely think that's what Doctor Impossible was up to. But I guess it's his own brand of magic. Mine's just different, and blows fuses instead of... um. Fusing them. Is that what fuses do?

I've tried to be patient with him. Apparently I'm pretty infuriating, but at least he puts up with me. It's been lonely. Doctor Impossible isn't an especially talkative person, and neither am I, usually, but while I count my money and nap when not on the job, he's constantly tinkering with his machines. I'd hoped he'd finish one and maybe show me how it works. Geniuses are supposed to like sharing their creations. Or their master plans. But I don't know the first thing about what the Doctor is up to. At least I wouldn't make a good hostage for any ambitious heroes.

"What are you doing?" At the sound of my voice, he starts and something in his hands sparks. He turns to face me, eyes smoldering under the helmet. Even though I've seen his face uncovered, he refuses to remove his stupid costume. Dignity, I guess.

"Do you mind?"

"Yes. Yes, I do. I'm paying the rent for our... living quarters, and you're supposed to be helping me. You could at least quit being so shadowy."

"You wouldn't understand this anyway."

Some of the haughtiness is definitely false. It's not impossible to see through. He's probably an okay guy once he ditches the whole evil-villain-taking-over-the-world attitude. "How do you know? I need to know what's happening if you expect me to help you with this."

"I'll just build a time machine and go back to my own time."

"But you have steady funding here. If you don't want to tell me, though, I won't get money for you or run your errands. You can buy your terrabutts yourself."

Doctor Impossible snorts and sort of shakes his head. "Terrabutts. Interesting."

I totally knew there's nothing you can run a computer with called a terrabutt. Or is there? Maybe I've just made an incredible breakthrough in understanding the magical language of computers. 'Interesting' was an ambiguous comment. "Alright, cool. Let me see." I lean over his shoulder as witness to a hideous object. It's red and gold. It has fins. "What in God's name is that?"

He looks perturbed. "It's an Impossiblaster. New and updated."

"Oh. Interesting. Well. I'll just go back to what I was doing, then." Which was sitting on a beat up old couch. Christ, I hope this pans out well. "Impossiblaster"? Really? That's just plain tacky. And the fins.

"What?"

"What do you mean, what?"

"I mean, what's the matter with you? Just not curious anymore?" He scoffs.

"Nope, not really. I hope you have a pretty good plan in store."

"I've been thinking."

"Me too."

"I wasn't aware a petty thief had to come up with anything beforehand."

I let the insult bounce off like a bullet. Eventually he'll wear down. I've been trying to convince myself. I want him to like me, badly, and it surprises me how much. "It's not beforehand I'm concerned about. I have that as planned as it's going to get."

"Thought so."

I clench my jaw. "I'm going to bathe in a pool of money."

"Uh-huh. Sounds nice."

"Naked."

"Great."

"Without clothes on."

This time I don't even get a reply. Apparently I have to appear out of nowhere and start glowing green to catch him off guard.

"It's going to be an Olympic sized pool."

"Wonderful. Is that your master plan?"

"Stage one," I retort. I was going to go rob another bank tonight, but it's getting late, and I sure am tired. Guess the Doctor will have to wait for his funds until tomorrow. Shame he'll be working all night.

I wake up the next morning feeling more rested than angry. It's tough to sleep with my mask on, but I'm not up to taking it off just yet. I find Doctor Impossible right where I left him, maybe with a couple more Chinese takeout boxes than before. I guess he's used to pulling all-nighters, but I can see the toll it's taking.

I slip over to his seat, one of the couch cushions he placed on the floor in front of the computer. I can tell he's not terribly alert at the moment. His fingers work slowly, clumsily. "Go to sleep." I manage to incite another jump. "And take off that stupid helmet. You need to air out or something."

"Quiet, maggot."

"Don't you 'quiet, maggot' me. Get some sleep. And a shower. I won't even leave you alone here."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"Then I'll go. You've been awake for days, living on Chinese food. You can't stay up forever."

Finally, Doctor Impossible caves in. He gives me an indignant grunt and places the gaudy mechanism he was working on in front of himself, then crosses the storage room to the queen size mattress I'd bought for both of us to sleep on. I would've bought a king, but it probably wouldn't have fit. There's an old couch, a thrift store table, several trash bags, and the Doctor's makeshift workshop in here already, and they don't make storage facilities any bigger than this. They're not exactly made to be lived in.

I pass time by very deliberately picking up Chinese takeout boxes and stuffing them into yet another trash bag. They're beginning to pile up, but I've done my best to take them out regularly. It doesn't take long before Doctor Impossible is sound asleep and snoring softly. He doesn't look quite so threatening asleep, not that he scared me much in the first place. His costume is stained with sweat and grease and he smells like chemicals and about how you'd think someone would smell without a shower or a change of clothes for a week or so.

I carefully poke his hand. It's the first time I've actually touched his skin, and I'm surprised to find that it's rather cold and a little hard. My body temperature is above your average human's, and I'm pretty sure Doctor Impossible's is below. Satisfied that he won't wake under my touch, I gently lift his helmet off. Sleeping in a mask sucks, and the helmet must be even worse. His hair is greased down into a perfect dome around his head. Still completely black, even though he's in his late forties. I'll have to pester him to wash the costume later. The smell is beginning to get to me. I leave his helmet next to the mattress and am careful not to disturb anything else on my way out, hauling five new trash bags over my back.

After I slap a sticker on the convenience store's door and make off with a hefty sack of dollars, I change into my street clothes in a public bathroom stall and head to the local community center, where my member card says I'm Lola Reeves. That's not my real name, of course. I take a long shower, washing off the filth of the storage unit and of crime. I revel in being a villain – but it's like bathing in Kool-Aid. Fun for a while, but eventually you get sticky and you reek of it. You have to wash it off. I guess scrubbing myself raw makes me feel like a better person. After I'm squeaky clean, I stick some of the money from my bag (now located in an inconspicuous tote) in a wallet and walk to the grocery store.

I get a couple of looks, but it's not what you think. I just wear a burkha with my street clothes. I'm not a Muslim, but the whole modesty thing helps hide your identity in a less suspicious way than the "hat and sunglasses indoors" approach.

My first stop is the produce section. I stock up on salad kits and fruits and veggies that can be eaten raw. Next, I grab a cooler from that obligatory aisle with the outdoor cooking stuff in it. Finally, lean meat, fish, and a couple of good steaks. Raw vegetables are fine, but the meat will have to be cooked. Luckily, I can manage to cook a steak using good, old fashioned psychic energy. I figure Doctor Impossible will rig something up if he wants meat while I'm out.

After a few hours, I'm back at the hideout, and, unsurprisingly, my partner's still out like a light. The ice for the cooler is noisy, and I try to be quiet with it, but it looks like it doesn't matter much. The snoring from the bed continues unimpeded. After I get all the ice into the cooler where it's supposed to be, I put the meats in, safe in their Styrofoam containers, then the fruits and veggies. We would be eating healthier from now on.

I find the most private corner of the room I can to change back into my costume. Doctor Impossible's isn't the only one that needs washed. I hesitate while putting my mask on, and decide it's a little hypocritical if I'm going to complain about him always wearing his. So I leave it off. My costume's silver hair is a wig attached to the mask that goes over my eyes. It's a good disguise, and my natural brown doesn't exactly go with the black and green. You don't wear brown with black, as they say.

What to do until Doctor Impossible awakens? Well, I have to cook those steaks. His is a reward for doing what I tell him to for once. But the steaks can wait. Instead, I examine my face in the reflective screen of the supercomputer. Probably not what Doc intended it for, but it's there and it's gaudily reflective. Like everything else.

I guess I'm sort of pretty, in a girl-next-door kind of way. Mostly plain. My lips are a little too big, my eyes too narrow. My nose is just a nose. My forehead has started to break out from wearing the mask almost nonstop. I try to push my hair in front to cover it, but that just looks strange. Maybe I should put my mask back on? Seems a bit of an overreaction. The mask will only make it worse. But it's still a solution that's hard to resist.

There's the whole stereotype to live up to, you know? Seems like most supervillainesses are dominatrices. Frankly, I'm not all that interested in sex at all. I'm not a lesbian. Lordy, no. But at the same time, part of me wants to really overdo the whole succubus thing that seems to come with deciding to be a female supervillain. Everyone expects you to look and act like a sex idol. It's plainly and simply not me, but maybe I'd be more threatening if that's how I was. Sure, the bodysuit is pretty tight, but it's for practical purposes more than anything else. I can't have police and heroes grabbing onto flowing bits. The heels, I'll admit, are for looking good, but I have an extra pair of shoes with rubber grips, magnets inside, and separated toes. Great for climbing in.

It isn't long that I'm idle. Soon I hear a stirring from Doctor Impossible's side of the room. Apparently the guy doesn't sleep long. Nightmares, maybe? I know if I were him, I'd be asleep for at least a day, but hey, the steaks aren't going to keep that long.

"Good morning, sunshine." I'm trying to be pleasant here.

"Where's my helmet?" He's prodding at his head a little nervously.

"Right beside you. Relax, I didn't probe your brain or anything like that. I just figured it would be uncomfortable to sleep in."

He gives me a glare, then notices I'm not wearing my headpiece either. It takes him a second to recover, but he reaches for his helmet and puts it back on. Asshole. I'm certain he realized what I was going for; you can't be that intelligent without being perceptive. I try to ignore the gesture. "Hungry?"

"Did you order more food?"

"I bought more food. You can't live on a diet of grease and MSG."

I take the steaks out of their plastic wrap and hold each one in the palm of one hand. My stomach growls and I realize I haven't eaten today. Or last night. I'm one to talk about a healthy diet. Pretty soon the reek of sweat and old food is almost washed from the room by the smell of cooked meat.

I hand Doctor Impossible his and hold mine in both hands, tearing out bites like an animal. I guess I forgot about cutlery.

"Why'd you buy steaks?" he asks, chewing with a very slight upturn at the corner of his lip that I think might just be a smile.

"I appreciated your taking my advice," I answer. "Nice to know you respect me, at least a little."

"I don't." Ass. Stubborn ass. "I just wanted you to stop bothering me so I could work."

I shrug. It's getting harder to roll with the punches, figuratively speaking. I'm starting to think things might be easier if Doctor Impossible was actually trying to hit me. Then at least I'd have some sort of outlet.

That gives me an idea.

Superheroes are not hard to come by. They are literally everywhere. All I have to do is find one to pick a fight with. Get my name out there, let people know that in this reality as well as the last, Synergy is a force to be reckoned with.

I stop at the first sign of a hero's intervention. Down a dark alley, I hear a voice that doesn't sound quite sure of itself: "Stop, fiend! Unhand this woman's belongings!"

God, it was a scene straight out of a TV show. A little old lady, her purse stolen by a crook. She looks a bit scuffed up, and I start to feel bad. I don't like for people to get hurt, but you should know by now I have zero problem with stealing stuff.

I run at the caped crusader full speed and launch myself into a tackle aimed at his overly muscled back. This guy is pure brute strength. He has a gaudy costume of blue, red, and silver, like a damn Nascar. Awful. "I'll have to ask you to unhand that fiend, sir," I mutter as I creep up his back. He seems stunned. Obviously not used to anyone fighting back, but you simply don't pick on unpowered criminals when you're a metahuman unless they're really dangerous. Let the police handle the John Does. Sometimes the line gets a little blurry, but this thief is definitely just a man.

The hero makes a rash attempt to throw me off, but I'm stuck on like a tick. My gloves have grippy fingertips that are most suited for latching onto two things: concrete wall and spandex. I remove a hand, readying a punch. He dodges. Quicker than I thought. It's unnerving when the titan-sized heroes move that quick. But not really a problem.

My hands and feet grow hotter against his back. The cape is starting to catch flame. By now the lady and the thief are long gone, unfortunately. I was hoping for more witnesses. A scream as I singe Nascar Man's skin. He's not big enough in the realm of heroes to buy a good costume, that's for sure. My smart fabric deflects heat wonderfully, but it came at a price. A price this hero either couldn't afford or didn't think was necessary to pay.

Then, a bullet bounces off the fabric at my shoulder. It feels like getting hit with an Airsoft pellet. And then it explodes in my face. Suddenly, I feel warm liquid at my temple and forehead. I know whose these are. "Civilian!" I cry, leaping off the Redneck Wonder's back, and landing with a perfect flourish on all three and a half inches of my spike heels. "We meet again!"

The Civilian is tall for a man, but not tall for a metahuman. He only has one power that I know of: flight. The rest is just sharp shooting skills. He doesn't wear much of a costume; I think it goes with his whole look. He's got a hoodie on, hood up, and a bandanna over his face. The hoodie has the League's logo on the chest.

"I don't know who you are," he states. "But I'll take you out anyway!" I remember I'm not a native. Oops. Things were looking almost normal.

"Perhaps this will remind you!" I hastily remove a sticker from my pouch and slap it onto the small-time hero's rear.

"So it's you who's been behind all the bank robberies as of late. What are you taking the money for?"

"A businesswoman never reveals her strategy!" I don't actually know whether or not businesspeople reveal their strategies. But it makes for dramatic banter.

"Alright. Whatever. You're still under arrest for the robberies, and now battery, too. League, assemble!" Sometimes he acted as the makeshift leader. I guess this is one of those times. I'd hoped he was alone, and since he's not, I'm in trouble.

Looks like he brought almost the whole team. Pinstripe Chrome is there on his left, in a three-piece suit I think he wears out of insecurity. He's a skinny kid. BlindSide stands to the Civilian's right, picking up my color signature, no doubt. But something on her face says she's surprised. I couldn't tell you why. On Pinstripe's left is a girl I don't recognize, but who looks uncannily familiar. Time to stop staring and make a break for it.

They chase me down a few alleys, but I doubt they're used to even B movie villains around here. Oh, how I'd love to sic Doctor Impossible on them. But the thought of him makes me angry, and I remember why I'm here. I dive behind a dumpster and begin melting the plastic back, hoping the green glow doesn't give me away. I hear them coming, and I start lobbing chunks of molten plastic.

This stuff is hot enough to cause permanent burn scars, but something stops it. I peek out to see what, and the girl I couldn't recognize has the plastic suspended in an amoebic mass over their heads, caught in a smoky blue sphere.

This is where things start to get really freaky. I'd know that specific brand of energy anywhere. It's mine.