Tales of Heroics and Villainry, Volume 1!

He slunk into the abandoned warehouse, smelling of rotting vegetables and overturned dirt. He wore a dirty old trench-coat that ill-fit his malformed frame. His skin was red, and almost scaly. With a sniffle, he turned his eyes towards the supervillians that waited within.

"This is our new recruit?" scoffed the Dark Deviant, gesturing with his delicate fingers at the newcomer. "Where did you find him, G? Rooting through garbage? Sleeping in the street? What power does he have, the ability to revolt those who would stand in our way?"

Genome sighed. As the leader of the Band of Malcontents, it was his responsible to find new 'associates' to fill in for fallen members. He'd made some bad calls before - lord knows the Banana Baker had been a disaster! But he also knew that the best villians worked alone, and sometimes a league had to make due with... lesser allies.

"Enough, Mark!" he growled, "He comes highly recommended, as a spy and an assassin. We'll see how he does on our next caper - and that is my decision to make, not yours!" The lights on his power suit sparked with energy for a moment, before he willed them quiet again.

The third member of their league spoke up - Lady Steel, a warrior of martial prowess and lost morals. "I could care less about how he smells, as long as he does what we need him to do." She turned her chilling gaze upon the newcomer. "What did you say his name was?" Her voice was as hard and cold as she was. "The Worm? Hardly a name to strike terror into our foes."

The Worm lifted his head for a moment, then turned his gaze aside before meeting hers. He scratched for a moment at his neck, as though irritated, and then said in a strangely smooth voice, "Er, yesss... well, it has served me well enough, it has. But please, my name is Jack Drake, no need to be formal. My powers... well, I can, ah, burrow through earth rather well. And, uh, I can secrete a nasty substance that can cause, er, irritation and rashes in those that touch it. Sometimes an allergic reaction, even."

The Dark Deviant shook his head. "Fascinating."

Genome flashed him a hard look, then turned back to their new recruit. "As you might have guessed, Jack, this isn't our normal headquarters. You'll get to see that after we see how you perform on tommorow's mission."

Pressing a button on his power suit, a holographic image appeared in the air, of the 4th National Bank located not 9 blocks away from where they were lurking. "Here are the details of the plan, and how you fit in..."

-----

Later that evening, Jack Drake walked away from the warehouse, a smile growing larger on his face the further he got. It wasn't until he was quite a distance before he took out a surprisingly clean phone, and made a call.

The voice on the other end was sterile and professional. "Well? Any luck?"

He laughed, nastily, and his eyes flared red for a moment. "But of course. They'll be dead by tommorow night."

"You'll have access to their files and equipment?"

"Yes. I'll try to keep their personal gear as intact as possible as well, though of course," another nasty laugh, "Sometimes the situation doesn't allow for it."

"Very well. Contact us when the job is done, and you'll have your payment - and worth every penny, if you are as good as they say, Wyrm."

Wyrm grinned to himself, and scratched again at the skin peeling off his neck in the moonlight. "Alwayss glad to be of ssservice, milord."

The cell-phone clicked shut, and the street lights dimmed, and the assassin walked through the darkness of the city, chuckling all the while.

The Brownie on Holiday Street

In a dusty brown house in the heart of the city, on Holiday Street just down the road from the park, there lives a poor little brownie named Sheldon.

It's been three months since the previous owners moved away to safer quarters in suburbia, and Sheldon has been sitting sad and alone in his little room hidden under the stairs.

No sense in cleaning and dusting when no one is home; no pots or pans to repair, no children to make sure sleep soundly, no jobs to do for the resident family. Nothing at all for poor Sheldon to do but listen to the scritch and scratch of rodents running around the empty floorboards, and remember the days when he had the drive to keep such vermin away with clever tricks and little magics.

But cheer up, little brownie! Drug lords have bought the place!

Sure, they won't be quite what a house fairy is used to, what with the illegal meth lab and wild orgies and so forth. And sure, once they finally emerge from their drug-induced haze to actually notice a little brownie offering the services such beings are famed for, they won't exactly set out the most common tasks. Stirring up dangerous chemicals together, keeping a watch for observant passerby, cleaning up stains a bit worse than some simple spilled milk...

But it will still be two more months of activity, two months without the numbing depression of being alone and useless. That will more than make up for the times they are tripping on acid, and doing their best to kill off what they see as a strange talking mosquito!

Things won't be nearly as exciting once the police break down the doors and drag them all off to jail. It will be back to a few more weeks indulging in the sorrow that only faeries can feel. But squatters will take up residence eventually, so maybe there will still be hope for little Sheldon, the Brownie on Holiday Street!

The Sword and the Stone

The stranger had taken little Art away from his parents in the middle of the night. It hadn't been a strange night in any way, nor an overly unpleasant one - it had been just another slightly warm summer night, where the smells of the city had been a tad strong when they invaded Art's bedroom. But then the stranger had entered, and things had been different.

Art knew he was supposed to be scared of strangers, especially as he was only twelve years old. But surely, he had thought, that didn't apply to wizards?

And the stranger had looked every inch the wizard, from the bottom of his rune-covered and slightly disheveled blue robes to the top of his oh-so-pointy hat. His long and flowing beard was the very essence of... beardness, and his twinkling eyes were full of mischief.

He told Art he that they were to go on a wonderful journey, where Art would be able to find his destiny. That sounded fun, at the time, and Art - in love with tales of knights and dragons and heroes - didn't think twice about going on what was sure to be a fantastic tale.

But they had stepped through the door that wasn't quite a door, and he found himself in the wizard's world of 'fantasy'... and Art wasn't quite so sure anymore.

It was a dreary place, filled with flickering stars that didn't seem to want to stay lit in the night sky. He heard the snarls and growls of what were surely beasts never seen on plain old earth - but listening to the sounds of pain and anger and battle has never soothed a child's worries. The towns they walked through were full of people with downcast eyes and sour looks, as though they were constantly sucking on some incredibly bitter piece of hard candy.

And the Wizard merely strode along in front of him, paying no heed to stars, nor beasts, nor villagers, dragging Art along behind him with every step.

He stops, at last, at the center of the most recent village they had entered. They are in the town square, surrounded by small, abandoned buildings. No light shine down on this part of town save for the intermittent stars overhead. At first, Art thinks the blob of shadow in the center of the square to be a well, likely gone dry after years of disuse.

But as he draws closer, the stars get a little brighter, as though eager to see for themselves the scene playing out before them. The blob becomes more tangible, more real, and the well of Art's imagination is replaced by a simple stone - with a plain black sword buried in it to the hilt.

"I am sure you know what to do, dear child? You've heard the story of King Arthur, and the sword in the stone, have you not?" The Wizard's voice is pleasant and comforting, but Art goes very still everytime the Wizard speaks.

Slowly, the child nods. "Yeah. It's... it's a story about brave knights and heroes who do... do good things, and save the land. But this... this isn't like that story, is it?"

The Wizard's laughter is as soft and inoffensive as everything else about the wizened old man. "Well, no, not quite. But, my boy, that story didn't exactly have a happy ending, did it? No, this is quite a different tale - but it starts the same. You draw the sword and then this land will be yours, in heart and soul."

"Will I... will I be evil?" asksthe boy, shyly. "Will I, sir?"

Another chuckle meets his question. "You'll be what you were meant to be. The shadowed blade will be your own, and the darkness in the land shall call you king. Evil? It is a term of little meaning, here and now."

The boy turns and looks at him directly. "You didn't answer the question."

The Wizard coughs. A heartbeat passes. "Yes, Art. You shall be evil."

"Oh." The boy walks over to the stone, and places his hand on the rock. He thought it might be warm or feel faintly alive - but it feels just like what it is, cold hard stone.

With a sigh, he grabs the sword, and easily draws it forth from the rock, displaying its obsidian blade to the cold night air, and the dying stars overhead.