The Monarch had long since given up on finding satisfaction through typical villainy. Years of toying with Rusty Venture had left him craving something more—something that would break through the mediocrity of their endless, pitiful battles. He had grown weary of the rinse-and-repeat cycle: kidnap Rusty, make demands, then wait for Samson or some other imbecile to swoop in and ruin everything. No, this time he needed something more personal. Something Rusty wouldn't expect.
His thoughts circled around Rusty's one true vulnerability. His family. The Ventures were a mess—an absolute parade of dysfunction—but that's what made them vulnerable. And The Monarch, perched in his dimly lit office deep within the heart of his lair, had realized where Rusty's true weakness lay. It wasn't in Hank, with his overcompensating bravado, or Brock, with his deadly, stoic demeanor. No, it was Dean.
Dean Venture. The sensitive, overthinking twin who always seemed out of place in the chaotic world of superscience and villainy. Dean was, in The Monarch's estimation, Rusty's greatest failure, though the fool probably didn't even realize it. And that made him perfect for The Monarch's plan. If there was one thing that Rusty could not stand, it was being shown up by his own kin. Taking Dean, warping him into something Rusty would fear or, better yet, respect—that was how The Monarch would hit his arch-nemesis where it hurt most.
He swiveled in his leather-bound chair, the hinges creaking as he leaned back, staring at the array of surveillance monitors lined up against the far wall. The Venture Compound was always under his watchful eye, though most days the screens offered little more than glimpses of the mundane. Rusty tinkering with some idiotic invention, Hank performing acrobatics off the roof for no apparent reason, or Dean quietly absorbed in a book, so out of place in the world around him that it bordered on tragic.
The Monarch's eyes narrowed as he focused on the image of Dean sitting alone on the porch of the Venture Compound. He could see the boy's furrowed brow, his eyes downcast as he thumbed through the pages of whatever novel had caught his interest that week. It wasn't unusual to see Dean isolated like this—he was the quiet one, the thoughtful one. That wasn't what piqued The Monarch's interest today. No, today he saw opportunity.
Dean was lost. That much was obvious. And in his desperation, The Monarch could already see how he would fit into the plan. He didn't need to crush Rusty Venture through brute force anymore. The way to victory was through subtle manipulation—through Dean.
If he could twist the boy's mind, turn him away from his pathetic excuse for a father, The Monarch would win. Not just a victory in their stupid, never-ending game, but a lasting, personal triumph. To turn Rusty's son into a villain, to make Dean see that his father was unworthy of his loyalty, would be the ultimate insult.
A sharp grin split across The Monarch's face as he pushed himself away from the desk and rose to his feet, the polished metal of his boots echoing against the stone floors of his office. His wings twitched slightly, more from anticipation than any real need for movement. His plan was forming, and it was glorious.
"21!" he barked, his voice reverberating through the hollow halls of his lair.
A moment later, Henchman 21 appeared, as always, eager yet perpetually on edge. "Yes, Your Monarchness?"
The Monarch didn't turn to face him. He kept his eyes on the screen, watching as Dean shifted his position on the steps, blissfully unaware of the eyes watching him. "Prepare the hover-cocoon," he commanded, his voice cold and decisive. "We're going to pay the Ventures a visit."
21 blinked, clearly startled by the sudden order. "Uh, which Venture, boss? You wanna go after Rusty again?"
"No, you fool," The Monarch snapped, his grin widening. "Not Rusty. Dean."
"Dean?" 21 scratched his head, looking puzzled. "Why Dean?"
The Monarch finally turned, his eyes gleaming with malicious intent. "Because Dean is the key, 21. Rusty won't care if we go after him again—he'll just send his bodyguard and go back to pretending to be important. But Dean? Dean is different. If we can pull him into our world, make him ours, Rusty will never see it coming. He'll lose everything without even realizing it."
21 nodded slowly, the gears in his brain grinding to catch up with the Monarch's logic. "So... you want to, like, kidnap him again?"
"Not kidnap, you idiot!" The Monarch waved a hand dismissively. "I'm going to offer him something better than Rusty ever could. I'm going to give him purpose."
Henchman 21 stood silent for a moment, then nodded with growing enthusiasm. "Oh, like... like a mentorship thing? Train him to be a villain?"
The Monarch's eyes gleamed with pride. "Exactly. We'll bring him over to our side. And when Rusty finally sees what his precious son has become... well, that will be the end of Venture Industries as we know it."
21 gave an appreciative nod and turned to leave, but The Monarch's voice stopped him in his tracks. "And 21?"
"Yeah, boss?"
"Make sure the cocoon is fully armed. I want to make an impression."
With a sharp salute, Henchman 21 hurried off to follow orders, leaving The Monarch alone with his thoughts once again. He turned back to the screen, watching as Dean stood up, stretched, and wandered back inside the Venture compound. The sun was setting, casting long shadows over the compound, and The Monarch could feel a rush of adrenaline as his plan fell into place.
This wasn't about Dean, not really. The boy was nothing more than a tool—a means to an end. But it was a brilliant tool. Dean was vulnerable, confused, and perfect for manipulation. If The Monarch could turn him, Rusty would fall.
The Monarch moved through the corridors of his lair with purpose, the heavy doors to the hangar sliding open with a low mechanical groan. His hover-cocoon awaited him, sleek and gleaming in the dim light, its engines humming as it powered up.
He slipped into the cockpit, the familiar controls responding to his touch with precision. The cocoon lifted off the ground, hovering for a moment before accelerating toward the Venture compound. The Monarch's heart raced—not with excitement for the mission, but with the satisfaction that came with the perfect plan. This was it. The final step toward breaking Rusty Venture once and for all.
Dean was going to be the key to his victory, and once The Monarch had him under his control, there would be no going back. Rusty would crumble, and The Monarch would finally take his rightful place at the top, with nothing left to stand in his way.
As the hover-cocoon sped toward its destination, The Monarch allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction. This time, it would be different. This time, The Monarch's plan would strike deep into the heart of the Venture family, and Rusty would never see it coming.
The cocoon zipped through the night air, its sleek black frame blending into the darkness like a shadow, invisible against the backdrop of the twinkling stars above. Below, the world blurred past—forests, mountains, and highways alike speeding by in a rush of nothingness. The Monarch barely registered it. His mind was too focused, too honed in on the task ahead.
The Venture Compound was already in view, the familiar towering structure looking as tacky as ever. A beacon of Rusty's arrogance and incompetence, standing defiantly against the world as if it were anything more than a glorified lab with a nice lawn. The Monarch sneered. The place practically begged to be infiltrated.
He hovered just outside the compound's airspace, studying the perimeter defenses on his monitor. Rusty hadn't bothered upgrading in months. Typical. Always too caught up in his own failures to consider that someone might actually try something new.
"Pathetic," The Monarch muttered, deftly maneuvering the cocoon toward an unguarded section of the wall.
Within moments, he was on the ground, the cocoon lowering smoothly into a small, secluded section of the Venture property. No alarms went off. No guards appeared. The Monarch stifled a laugh. If Rusty cared half as much about his defenses as he did about his ridiculous 'experiments,' The Monarch might actually have to try.
But this was too easy.
He stepped out of the cocoon, the soft crunch of his boots barely audible against the dry earth. The lair was quiet—eerily so. The only sound was the soft hum of distant machinery, a low thrum that seemed to pulse through the ground beneath his feet. He paused for a moment, scanning the compound for any signs of life. Nothing.
Perfect.
Dean was the target tonight, and he knew exactly where to find him. His surveillance had been meticulous, and after years of watching the boy, he knew Dean's routine as well as his own. The Monarch moved through the shadows with precision, hugging the walls and skirting around any visible cameras. His movements were fluid, practiced—a man who had spent years perfecting the art of infiltration, though Rusty would never have given him credit for it.
Dean's room was in the north wing of the compound, far enough from Rusty's lab that he wouldn't be disturbed by the late-night explosions or the incessant clanking of failed inventions. It was a small mercy in the chaotic world of Venture Industries, and one that The Monarch intended to exploit.
He reached the window easily enough—Dean's light was still on, a faint golden glow spilling out into the night. The Monarch grinned to himself. Always up late, always lost in those stupid books. He never understood why Dean bothered reading so much—what good were stories when your real life was crumbling around you?
He slipped the small, circular device from his belt and pressed it against the window. It whirred quietly as it cut a perfect hole through the glass, allowing The Monarch to slip inside without a sound. He was a shadow, gliding through the room like smoke, unseen and unnoticed.
Dean was at his desk, hunched over a book, just as The Monarch had expected. His back was to the window, and he didn't hear a thing. Typical Venture, oblivious to the world around him.
The Monarch paused for a moment, watching. Dean was muttering to himself, his eyes scanning the pages of the book with an intensity that didn't match the mundane scene. The Monarch's lips curled into a sneer. The boy was lost in his head, drowning in thoughts that had no place in the real world.
It was time to change that.
The Monarch stepped forward, his boots clicking against the wooden floor, just loud enough to catch Dean's attention. The boy froze, his shoulders stiffening as he slowly turned around.
There it was—fear. Pure, unadulterated fear flashed across Dean's face as his eyes locked onto The Monarch. For a split second, Dean didn't move, didn't breathe, as if his brain hadn't yet caught up with what was happening. And then, as expected, the panic set in.
"The Monarch?" Dean's voice cracked slightly, betraying his confusion. He pushed his chair back, stumbling as he stood. "What—what are you doing here?"
The Monarch smirked, folding his arms across his chest as he watched the boy's feeble attempts to make sense of the situation. "Surprised to see me, Venture?" he asked, his voice dripping with condescension. "You should be. I'm here for you, Dean."
Dean blinked, his confusion deepening. "Me? Why me?"
"Isn't it obvious?" The Monarch's smirk widened. "You're the key, Dean. The key to everything."
Dean shook his head, taking a hesitant step back. "I don't—I don't understand. What are you talking about?"
The Monarch took a step forward, his presence suddenly looming. "I'm offering you something, Dean. Something better than anything your pathetic excuse for a father ever could."
Dean's brow furrowed in confusion, but there was a flicker of something else behind his eyes. Curiosity, maybe. Or desperation. The Monarch couldn't tell, but it didn't matter. He had him now.
"What... what do you want from me?" Dean asked quietly, his voice unsteady.
The Monarch smiled. "I want to teach you, Dean. I want to show you how to rise above the failure that is your family name. Your father has wasted his life, and now he's wasting yours. But I can change that. I can make you something more."
Dean stared at him, his expression a mix of fear and disbelief. "You... you want me to become... like you?"
The Monarch chuckled darkly. "Not like me, no. Better. I want you to surpass your father, to become something he could never even dream of. You have the potential, Dean. All you need is someone to show you how to use it."
Dean didn't move. He stood frozen, his mind clearly racing, trying to process what was happening. The Monarch could see the conflict in his eyes, the uncertainty, the fear of stepping into a world he didn't understand. But there was also something else—a glimmer of hope, perhaps. The idea that maybe, just maybe, he could be something more than the boy who lived in his father's shadow.
The Monarch leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Think about it, Dean. No more playing second fiddle to your brother. No more being the afterthought in your father's life. You can be your own man. You can be... powerful."
Dean swallowed hard, his eyes flicking to the floor as if he were searching for an answer there. The silence stretched on, thick and heavy in the room, until finally, Dean spoke, his voice barely audible.
"I... I don't know..."
The Monarch straightened, his grin never faltering. He didn't need Dean to agree tonight. He didn't even need him to understand what was really happening. All he needed was for the seed to be planted, for the doubt to take root. And then, like all things, it would grow.
He turned to leave, pausing only to glance over his shoulder. "You don't have to decide now, Dean. But remember this—your father isn't going to save you. Not from this, and not from the life you're stuck in. I'm offering you a way out. Think about it."
With that, The Monarch stepped back through the window, slipping into the night like a ghost.
Dean stood frozen, staring after him long after he had gone. His mind swirled with questions, with fears, with the gnawing realization that maybe, just maybe, The Monarch had a point.
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Dean's mouth went dry as he looked around the room, the weight of The Monarch's words sinking in. "But... why?"
The Monarch stepped closer, his voice lowering to a near whisper. "Because if you don't, Dean, you'll always be what your father made you—weak, helpless, and alone."
Dean's hands clenched into fists at his sides, the frustration building inside him. He didn't want to be weak. He didn't want to be the failure his father saw him as. But this... this was different. This was something darker, something that felt wrong.
But at the same time, it felt like the only way out.