Chapter 19: King's Cross
USER 'C0MMUN1SM-W1LL-R1S3' STARTED MESSAGING USER 'golgothasMaw'
C0MMUN1SM-W1LL-R1S3: Are you awake, Dylan?
golgothasMaw: IT'''S MIDNIGHT
golgothasMaw: OF COURSE I'''M AWAKE
This was the moment that Dylan had been waiting for. It was the moment he had been training himself for rigorously. The 'Union' had been teasing him all this time, feeding him crumbs and leading him on for god knows how long. He knew that this time, those bastards would have something serious for him.
Since his last encounter with law enforcement, Dylan's attitude had changed slightly. After barely emerging victorious in a hard-fought battle against a big-time hero, he realised that some backing might not be so bad, and discarded his reservations about the Union. He had come this far, right? Why throw that away.
Speaking of that last scrap he head, it was in much the same situation he found himself currently. Wandering the streets of London late at night was a comfort to him. Good for brooding. It didn't hurt that he had sensitised his body to a nocturnal sleep schedule using a tantric meditation style that he had read about in the library.
Currently, Dylan was cold, hungry and in an alleyway that smelled like booze and piss. He wanted very much to be somewhere else. He messaged again.
golgothasMaw: WHAT'''S THIS ABOUT?
golgothasMaw: ARE MY '''TRIALS''' BEGINNING?
C0MMUN1SM-W1LL-R1S3: Indeed.
C0MMUN1SM-W1LL-R1S3: Consider this your entrance exam.
C0MMUN1SM-W1LL-R1S3: Before the morning comes we will meet at the place specified by the following directions, and you will hopefully be joining us in the Union.
golgothasMaw: OH,,, I GET TO MEET YOU? WHAT A FUCKING HONOUR
C0MMUN1SM-W1LL-R1S3: Additionally, don't move from that spot. My directions will only work if you take them from exactly where you are standing.
golgothasMaw: AND YOU KNOW THAT? CREEPY FUCK
C0MMUN1SM-W1LL-R1S3: I have eyes in the sky. Don't question it, you'll learn in time.
golgothasMaw: WHY THESE SHITTY DIRECTIONS ANYWAY? WHAT ABOUT AN ADDRESS?
C0MMUN1SM-W1LL-R1S3: We can't discount the possibility that someone is reading our conversations, Dylan. We take many precautions to avoid being found, and yet more to avoid being spied upon.
C0MMUN1SM-W1LL-R1S3: If someone is remotely reading these messages, they won't have a point of reference for how they should be followed, and our exact meeting place will remain a secret.
C0MMUN1SM-W1LL-R1S3: You checked you weren't being observed before messaging with me, correct?
golgothasMaw: OH YEAH... NO WORRIES
C0MMUN1SM-W1LL-R1S3: And you're using a burner phone?
golgothasMaw: FUCK NO
golgothasMaw: DO YOU THINK I CAN AFFORD TO SNAP MY PHONE IN HALF LITERALLY EVERY TEN MINUTES OF TEXTING?
golgothasMaw: WAIT,,, YOU'RE A COMMUNIST. OF COURSE YOU'RE ECONOMICALLY INCOMPETENT
C0MMUN1SM-W1LL-R1S3: (￣Д￣)
C0MMUN1SM-W1LL-R1S3: I will buy you a burner phone if the situation is that dire.
C0MMUN1SM-W1LL-R1S3: Communist enough for you?
golgothasMaw: HAH!
golgothasMaw: YOU SAID '''DIRE'''!
USER 'C0MMUN1SM-W1LL-R1S3' STOPPED MESSAGING USER 'golgothasMaw'
Dylan snickered at his rhetorical victory. Another argument over the internet won, his opponent retreating in shame. It was a moment later that the directions came flooding into his phone, from a separate anonymous THEATR user. He committed each to memory, then set off into the night.
-LATER-
"So this is the fucking place?" Dylan asked to the empty air. "I had to follow all these stupid directions just to get here? What a crock of shit," He continued. Before him was King's Cross station in all its glory. The yellow brick architecture. The grimy glass ceiling. The flagpole on which the union jack drooped sadly. The newly installed stairs which covered up a crater left by a villain battle which ended on that very spot. A bronze statue commemorated the victory of the UK's number one hero, the Iron Lady.
The statue was recently defaced. Thick red paint dripped down it, still slightly wet. The culprit was probably one of the homeless which had coalesced around the front of the station to take shelter under the awning. There must have been about fifty of them there, the pungent smell and depressing atmosphere reaching Dylan before the station was even in view. Dylan eyed them repugnantly, scanning for the villain that he was supposed to be meeting.
There was only one figure that stood out from the rest. They were seated on a step and facing with their back to where Dylan was at. It wasn't appearances as such that clued the boy off. Under that heavy coat and wide-brimmed hat, they could just have been a hobo like anyone else there. No, it was more the vibe that this individual gave off. Their drooping shoulders and low-hung head gave their back a dome-like appearance. Their umbrella dug into the ground wearily. Impatiently, even. They held a low tension in their body at all times, evident from the tightness of their arms even as they held them in mundane positions. One hand in the pocket, on digging the umbrella into the ground, but at stark, uncomfortable angles. It made them look like they had a constant weight on their shoulders.
Yup. That was the one. Had to be. Nobody else even looked like they would lift a finger if a hero killed their dog. This was the dissident he was looking for. Dylan slowly zig-zagged up to them, making their eyes wander around. This was a powerful technique to make one's presence disappear that Dylan had studied in an SAS manuscript. Government agents would do the same thing while assassinating key political figures in the third world.
"Why are you prancing around like that boy?" Asked the droopy-shouldered, coated figure. A completely androgynous voice. It made Dylan jump out of his skin halfway through his strategic spiral manoeuvre around the bins. Their voice was chilling, sounding almost modulated. It was like several slightly different voices all playing on top of each other at once. "Get over here at once. It's a damn cold night."
"You the communist?" Dylan sneered. His hunch was even stronger now. It would take a truly powerful entity to detect his presence after using the disappearance technique.
"Sure, let's go with that." The communist slapped their knee and stood. Even fully standing, the hunchback looking villain was a head shorter than Dylan. They flicked their hat brim up a bit, and Dylan almost jumped out of his skin for a second time. The communist was wearing a mask. Dylan only got a brief look at it, but it looked like it was made of interlocking ceramic plates. Its shape resembled a bulbous insect, like a fat ant or a bee. Looking carefully at their hands, they were also clad in a ceramic suit of armour. Everything that wasn't coat or hat was covered in these pure white plates. If Dylan listened as they moved, they could hear then grind and slide over each other even under the coat.
"Of course… To be prepared for all angles of attack at any time, they clad their body in the same material used to make a stab-proof vest. And that tension in their arms… This is what it must mean to be a truly powerful villain. To be ready to strike and be struck at any moment…" Dylan's train of though pulled out of the station going at max speed. He needed to test his hypothesis. The readiness of the perfect bad guy. He needed it to be first hand, it didn't matter if he got his wrist broken or worse. While the figure had their back turned, he raised his hand and readied his most fitting technique.
"TIGER MINGLING WITH WOLF INSTANT DEATH KARATE STYLE: UNDERWORLD DESCENDING PAW!"
The karate chop made a hollow ring against the villain's skull. A solid hit, Dylan's training was paying off, he could feel it. He had to bask in his own maleficence.
"AHH! What the FUCK!?" Hissed the villain, cradling their head and doubling over. "What was that for you son of a bitch?" They turned around and gave Dylan a sucker-punch in the gut. He braced for impact, activating the iron abdominal breathing technique which he had copied from demonstrations of viewtube.
The light smack hit Dylan like a soggy sausage. The punch has zero power. First, Dylan's attack landed and caused severe damage, then what was clearly the villain's strongest counterattack completely flounders against his iron abdominal breathing technique? Perhaps he was stronger than he gave himself credit for. Perhaps it was he who should be running things after all? Earlier, the villain had probably noticed him by a fluke or merely timed his arrival so that he could freak him out. Well, it didn't work. Dylan could clearly see superiority changing hands. He laughed.
"You motherfucker… I swear if it was up to me… If it was any other day of the week I'd kill your pig shit ass right now!" The villain scolded.
"Yeah, whatever idiot," Dylan sneered. "Look, are you gonna take me to your boss now? I wasn't expecting to be meeting with someone so second class…"
"How desperate is That Man getting… Taking in little shits like this…" Mumbled the villain.
"Oi droopy dog! What's your real name? Cuz C-zero-mun-one-sm w-one-double-l r-one-s-three doesn't exactly roll off of the tongue," Dylan ordered gruffly. The lesser villain arrogantly ignored him. "Hey, peon! I'm talkin' to you!"
"...Redd. Call me Redd if you got to," They responded.
"Redd huh? You're really going all out with the commie gimmick aren't you?" Dylan leant over as his subordinate led him into the station. "How about I call you 'Pinko' instead? Nevermind, I don't need to ask your permission, idiot."
"Heh, nice show there mates," Came the gruff baritone of a homeless who meekly tip-toed over to the loud pair. "Got a fiver or something lads? I'm recently homeless… the Iron Lady tossed a giant through my front door… Insurance wouldn't pay for it… heh…" The man retracted nervously from the joint stares of the two.
"No," said Redd. He reached deep into his pockets and emerged with a crisp ten-pound note. The homeless man's face went through a brief rollercoaster of emotions, before he clutched the money gratefully and receded, bowing. "Keep your head up," Concluded Redd.
The homeless then made the error of turning to Dylan. It was not even an expectant glare, the man felt he had pushed his luck enough already. It was merely an exploratory glance on his part. Dylan did not react so well.
"What the fuck are you staring at, bum?" He cried. The teen was riding high on confidence and decided to assert his position. With a sideways stomp, he buckled the hobo's ankle, sending him yelping, reeling and staggering down the stairs. In the process, the note that Redd gave him escaped from his hands and fluttered a little away in the chilly nighttime breeze. Dylan snickered as the man crawled after it.
At least eight people in the crowd turned to look at him right away. Dylan turned his back on Redd and gloated from his elevated position. Having turned away, Dylan didn't realise that Redd was one of those who were staring.
The boy felt a light tugging at his ankle, and the ground rapidly approached his face. In a millisecond, he was upside down. Redd craned their umbrella down onto Dylan's neck like Neil Armstrong planting the flag on the moon. He hit the pavement with a dull thud and a rasping cry. The very tip of the umbrella was digging into his windpipe.
"Verbal attacks against my character or status won't phase me. Even petty little karate chops I can get over. This? This is not acceptable behaviour. I gotta ask you, Dylan, why are you such a petulant little cunt?"
"We… We're fucking v-villains right?" Dylan replied, choking slightly and thrashing about. Redd put a little more of his weight on the umbrella. The armour clearly added a lot of mass, because it felt to Dylan like ten men were standing on his neck. "W-what do you care that I kicked a b-bum? Y-you've killed people, right? Or maybe n-not… dickhead…"
"Unbelievable. Even from down there, you maintain superiority. You can't seriously think you're actually stronger than me, right?" Redd pressed down a little more. Dylan started choking so hard that a little spittle came out of the side of his mouth. With gravity on the communist's side, the boy was helpless. He felt the downward gaze of Redd, and his presence suddenly filled the street. A malefic aura, unlike anything that Dylan had ever felt. He wasn't being held down by the strength of an opponent. It was nothing like that. Dylan was being disciplined by the pinkie finger of a giant. That was more like what it felt like. The short-statured Redd felt one million miles tall, genocidal rage seeping out the multiple dark holes in that macabre mask.
"I… I give…" Dylan gasped, his face turning blue.
"Your surrender has been noted," Said Redd as he pressed the umbrella down with precisely the same amount of force. "But it hardly changes the reality of the situation. Earlier, you called us villains, is that right? Is that what you think of us? Is that what you want to be?"
"Of fucking course!" Dylan screamed breathlessly. Redd was surprised when the boy actually started pushing against the umbrella point with his neck, lifting it about an inch. "I'm as m-mad as hell! Everything fucking sucks, I wanna burn it all down! I'll be a fucking villain if that's what it takes. I'll be the best villain there ever fucking was!"
"That's what we like to hear Dylan. But get one thing right, we aren't villains. We are revolutionaries." Dylan groaned. Of course, he wrapped this back around to communism. "We like angry people here. But you choose to take it out on the weak instead of directing it. These people around us are our friends Dylan. These are the people who have been trodden down by hero society. The only thing that the 'Iron Lady' or 'Baron Roar' might do for them is to treat them to a jail cell for the crime of stinking up the streets. We are the alternative. We will rip hero society apart root and stem, and make a just society for all. And to answer your question, yes. I've cracked a few eggs in my day, and I'll crack many more. However many it takes. Does that satisfy you, boy?"
Dylan was seconds away from passing out. Even with his tantric breath-holding meditation practice, this was by far the longest he had gone without breathing. The commie had a big mouth on them and liked to lecture. Go figure. He started to nod, furiously so.
"Very well then. On your feet," Redd removed their umbrella from Dylan's neck at long last, and he gulped down big breaths of ripe air. Rubbing the sore spot on his neck, Dylan scolded himself for not countering with his quirk. In the moment though, he never would have had the guts. "Follow me, your exam starts soon."
Redd led the way, and Dylan limped after scaredly. The communist had a short, hobbling, skittering walk. Sort of like how an old woman walks. Dylan made stealthy strides, not wanting to be seen by anyone or anything.
Together, without sharing a single word, they walked through the modern interior. Under the glass ceiling and heavy, organic metal structures that supported it. They passed by the train station proper and made for the underground, hopping over the turnstiles without paying. Doing his first crime of the evening made Dylan feel giddy. He wondered if he would be graded on his enthusiasm at committing the crime, but Redd wasn't paying attention at that point.
When they got to the stuffy underground tunnel, a tube had already pulled into the station. They both got on the grotty people carrier, taking their pick of the empty seats. Redd was short, but they were pretty wide. They took up two of the threadbare cushioned seats as they sat. Dylan took a spot next to them, pressing himself against one of the railings and glass partitions that were to either side of the train car.
Redd made a motion. In the process of pulling something from their pockets, they bumped Dylan in such a way as to draw his attention. In either armoured hand, he had a plastic brick. Upon closer inspection, these were phones. Really, really old phones. Probably older than him. These were the types of phones that you could kill a person with by hitting them over the head, the ones that blocked bullets and probably haven't needed a charge in at least a decade. Durable, valueless, functional.
"Take one," Redd instructed. "They're burners. Also, give me your phone. I know you didn't break it as I asked."
"Fuck off," Dylan said, as he scrolled funny pictures on his phone. Redd snatched it out of his hand and bent it at a ninety-degree angle until the glass on the front buckled and popped out into thin shards on the metal floor.
"No wonder you can't turn caps lock off. The screen was cracked beyond repair already. You should be glad to get rid of it," Redd said. Dylan grumbled in protest before petulantly snatching a burner out of Redd's hand. Redd took the other burner and opened it, dialling in a number. Dylan could clearly see what the person was typing, and it made him nauseous with anxiety.
Seven, seven, seven. The pro hero line. Dial that number and you get put through to a hero working for the government's National Hero Service agency. It was akin to a lawyer working as a public defender until they work their way up to their own firm. The pay was poor, the heroes were hardly the best the industry had to offer, but they were real pro heroes. What the hell was Redd doing on that line?
"Pardon me, is this the pro hero line?" They said. Their voice was modulating even further, becoming something else entirely. Dylan wouldn't have been able to recognise it was Redd by sound alone. "Yes, I'm on the King's Cross Saint Pancras underground, on a tube to Oxford Circus. There's a mugger here with a scary quirk. Send someone quickly. Thank you."
"What the hell was that about?" Dylan pleaded. Redd pocketed the phone.
"In five minutes, we'll arrive at Oxford Circus." The train began to move just as he said that. "Once we arrive, a pro hero will get on the train. You will kill them, and we will get off the train. Alternatively, you will fail and fall into custody while I escape. This is your test, 'Dire'."
Dylan sunk in his seat and stared at his hands. He had never killed somebody before.
"T-this is a little fucking sudden, right? I mean, why do this right now? What's a little more waiting, I've been patient so far haven't I? Come on… This is a little harsh on a rookie, isn't it? What if I get arrested? It's a waste of good talent… I-isnt it? Yeah… can't we start me on more like… a level zero mission, or something? This is like… a level six… Actually, I feel more like a level three... We can do three, can't we?"
"The thought of failure has entered your mind already, hasn't it?" Redd inquired, cutting right past Dylan's babbling bullshit. Dylan shook his head and threw up his hands in denial.
"No, I'm just saying-"
"That's the same as admitting defeat, Dylan. The ideal candidate for our organization wouldn't flinch if we told them their first job was to assassinate the prime minister solo. No matter what the odds are, they throw themselves at the task with nothing but enthusiasm and certainty of their own victory."
"I might be able to like… rob a petrol station?"
"It's too late for that Dylan. There is a hero on their way now. Failure means prosecution, and that includes failure by surrender. Nut the fuck up, will you?"
"...O-ok…" Dylan groaned. His hands started to shake. They wouldn't stop shaking. The boy gripped his thighs under his jeans so hard that he thought he might break the skin, just to stop the shaking.
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
Minutes passed. Not quite five, but a few. The only sound was the slick sound the tube made as it ground over metal, the occasional rumble from within the machinery, and Dylan's chattering teeth.
After three minutes, his stomach growled. To Dylan, his hunger was the least of his concern. He spent most of his time being hungry. It was a feeling he was used to. He thought he might go to the toilet later and fill himself up with public tap water to ease the pangs, but then again there might not be enough time. Maybe he could get out of it that way? Go into the bathroom, hide there until the pro finds Redd and while they confront each other he slides out the back. Nah, that wouldn't work. Redd was the one that made the call, he can just put a civilian voice on and tell him the villain went to the toilet. He was fucked.
Redd nudged Dylan's shoulder, on purpose this time.
"What is it?" Dylan moaned weakly.
"Have you eaten, kid?" Asked the communist.
"No, but how is that your fucking business?" The boy retorted. Redd held one finger up, signalling Dylan to pause. Then, they reached into their big coat, emerging with a greasy unmarked paper bag.
"Eat this," Ordered Redd. Dylan turned his nose up at the bag.
"How long has that been in there? What is it even? Looks gross," He sneered. Redd rolled their eyes so hard their head bobbed along with them, which is the only way you could tell.
"Twenty minutes at most, and its a sausage roll you pillock," said Redd.
"I don't want your sympathy-"
"Just eat it, moron," Redd snapped. Dylan snatched the bag desperately and wolfed down the contents so fast that they got backed up in his gullet. He spluttered, swallowing down as many times as it took for the food to get into him. When he was done, he flopped back on the chair looking like he had just run a marathon.
"Thanks, I guess," He said simply. Redd reached into their jacket once again.
"While you're at it, have a swig of this for the shaking." Redd held a half-full bottle of vodka with a worn off label.
"...fuck it." Dylan swiped the bottle and took a brief drink. Lukewarm. Cheap. Generally unpleasant clinical taste. It did help with the shaking though. No, wait. That wasn't the vodka. The train had just stopped.
"Well Dylan, you're up" Redd encouraged. Dylan stood up, shaking more than ever before. On the other side of the dirty, cloudy, vandalised glass. He made out a silhouette. He was sure that this was the hero he was meant to fight. Fate wanted to expedite the process, clearly, as they had miraculously appeared right in front of their carriage. Dylan put up his dukes, his earlier faith in his martial arts practise was waning. He tried to go for a practical boxing stance, but his feet were too close together, his knees were wobbly, his arms were low and his chin was open. Redd did not correct him on anything, taking the position of an impartial observer. Dylan couldn't have their help, no matter how much he wanted it. He had to do this on his own. That being said, they were rooting for the kid.
"Come on Dyan… It's one scumbag hero… What's a little blood on your hands? It was gonna have to happen eventually. You gotta crack a few eggs to make an omelette, or whatever the commie said..." Dylan's mind raced. The train made a hissing sound as it came to a total stop, and the door cracked open very slowly. Agonisingly slowly. There must have been a technical malfunction or something. The doors dragged themselves along the floor of the train, leaving scuffs and occasionally catching on something.
"You can do it… You feel great… You can do it…" Dylan chanted internally. The figure on the outside grew impatient. With heroic strength, they pushed the doors open manually and stepped right into the train. Dylan shrunk in their presence.
"It's you…"
TO BE CONTINUED
The next arc begins! The villains are on the move! What are they planning? How will 'Dire' fair in his 'entrance exam'? Who is this mysterious hero that he will be battling? Keep reading to find out! I hope you liked the chapter, everyone. I am glad to be finally writing the villains properly because to tell you the truth I have had them in my head far longer than I had any of the other author characters in the story. If any of you did like it, be sure to leave plenty of reviews and let me know! If you hated it, also review, because your feedback is important to me. Also, you can PM me on , or contact me on the official Regency Academy Discord! (link in my bio! We are working on a secret communal project and would love to take you aboard). And as always, thanks for reading. I'll see you in the next one!