Villain

Heels clicked against polished tile. The party murmured in the distance, walls of stone and wood muffling the cheering and dancing of the polite crowd. With every delicate step, the sounds of the group dulled, bleeding out to the calm isolation of buzzing lights and the chirping crickets outside.

Housekeepers moved, passing the woman with the incessant mind of a stream against a sunken rock. One brushed against her. She ran her hand against the velvet crease that had formed. Her wine-red dress reflected the soft lights of stone pillars and wood panels, sets of manicured bonsais suspended within the columns.

At the top of the carpeted stairs, the housekeeping staff became scarce. The woman pressed a card to a screen embedded next to a door, and placed her finger against it when prompted.

“Welcome, Amelia.” The security system purred, accompanied by the metallic click of the lock disengaging.

She stepped into her sanctuary. A large, polished executive desk sat against the far wall of the room, crafted of an imported ember oak. Its gloss gleamed with the golden ambient lights, sleek floor lamps bathing the office in their warmth. Her desk was complemented by a fashionable leather chair, finished with lace trimmings and silver thread.

The granite feature wall reflected an extra layer of elegance, marbled in grays and black. The same stone had been used as accent pieces throughout the office; on the surface of a coffee table, decorative statues, the frames of hung artworks. It had taken months to decorate it all to her taste, and she decompressed every time she stepped in.

But not this time.

Her breathing was cut short, vision tunneled to a single spot. Her office was perfect, tailored to her success, a manifestation of her. Anger sang in her chest, a rushing pulse that threatened to explode.

A man sat in her chair. His form desecrated her desk, an insult of bright metallic red.

He was draped in a black suit, all tailored to his angles. Complete with vest and tie, the former was stamped with a subtle geometric pattern. There was a stiffness to the fabric, a telltale sign of concealed armour. The same her security staff used. Belts wrapped his lower limbs, an attachment for bags with silver hardware.

She was received with insolence, indifference. This man, barely an approximation of a person, bit into a chocolate truffle. It oozed like an open wound as fangs sunk into sweet. White scales held onto the treat, chocolate caked on his ungloved fingers like sewage. A reptilian limb, his forearm built more like a crocodile's tail. The grotesque keratinous growths made her skin crawl.

Surrounding him were the discarded wrappers of other truffles, branded with the logo of the Jaseníde chocolatiers. One box of their award-winning collection; she had gone through a waitlist and then paid a premium for it. One box— half of its jewels gone. The hike to her office had been to retrieve that gift for one of her oldest clients. Mother would have never approved of such a scant offering. Not like it mattered anymore.

She should have been livid.

Well, no. Amelia was known for her temper. Livid is what she was when the labs weren’t cleaned up on time, when any men below her station dared to come too close. Right now, her rage should have been enough to light up the ancient volcanoes of the Hokam myths. But see, even if it was a stranger who sat eating her investment, she couldn’t find the words to speak up. For this stranger had limbs she had not expected. Two legs, propped up on her fine desk. Two arms, one fishing for another truffle. Two wings, staggering in their size, feathers long and sharp like daggers. He was covered in a searing red plumage. The golden lights behind her desk enveloped the feathers, barbs and hair coruscating in molten gilt.

It was a Stratos. What else could it be? It was winged, yet its face remained vaguely human. Its gloved feet had elongated toes, the thumb misshapen, placed higher and disproportionate. It had the viciousness of Tarrukar in its eyes. The creature bit into a new truffle, the golden foil and chia seeds ravaged with its canines.

Immediately, the Stratos spat it out. The chewed-up mass landed over the documents on her desk. A cloud of moisture expanded from the discarded chocolate into the fresh papers.

“Passionfruit. I detest the stuff,” he murmured with scorn.

The absurdity of the situation coerced the woman out from her catatonic silence.

“Who are you?” She spat, fighting to keep her voice low. What was a Tarrukar attack dog doing in a Braukar building? Was it sent to turn her company into a war declaration?

“Irrelevant.” The Stratos retorted, bored. Its voice was hoarse, a scrape of rocks against rocks. Amelia had to strain to listen. “Our topic should be you. Miss Amelia Vasav. Heiress to Shandra Pharmaceuticals, and the favourite child of Doctor Sonia Vasav. A powerful woman; your mother. But she’s so old.”

A pause. Extending the point. “Pushing… what, eighty? It’s no wonder how you have become so handsy with the business now.” The Stratos threw the half-bitten truffle to the floor. He scrutinized a new one. Another gemstone trapped among hooked talons. “Dealing with the new management hires, the budgeting allocations. You filter which contracts Mother Dearest gets to see, don’t you? Retirement age, and still refuses to let go of the company. Must be maddening.”

The Stratos was foolish, monologuing for so long. But so was she, just listening to him. The steps to take were clear in her head: Call security, step out of the office and lock it again. But she wouldn’t move. For the same reasons she never backed down from a business deal, or for government representatives. The curiosity and hunger for opportunity.

“Maddening is having a stranger in my home, insulting my mother and my work.” Amelia sentenced, certainty in her words. “What does Tarrukar want with me?”

A scoff was forced out of him, a rousing of feathers betraying something. Irritation? Anger? She didn’t know anything about these synthetic creatures, but those wings conveyed more emotion than his face did.

“Tarrukar’s irrelevant. I have no business with those brutes, nor do you. Ever since the war, Shandra Pharmaceuticals has placed steep prices on eastern clients.”

“What is it you want?” Amelia crossed her arms. It stilled her body. She would not be moved by this fool.

“Impatience is not a trait for the business-savvy. You’d know about that. Taking on bolder contracts every year. Even willing to forge Mommy Sonia’s stamp when it comes to a job she would never agree to.”

Sweet Hokam in the sky. She knew she would only know trouble after meeting with those Adebowale agents months ago.

They had asked for a counterfeit version of Contadeine and Menthella. One, a powerful pain relief medication. The other a sweet leaf additive that triggered hallucinogenic effects. The agent had called the blend 'Xenoril', though the streets had baptized it under a myriad of other names. Popular among youth, Amelia had seen it become viral overnight on social media. Taken at concerts, at university parties, at raves, at sleepovers. A promise of thrills, absence of inhibitions and fantastic sights. A guaranteed addiction, if abused. It was a natural effect of pain relief: those drugs were good at rewarding the brain. Contadeine on its own made chronic ailments a bit less miserable. Xenoril demolished any pain into nothing.

The night she was offered that contract, it burned crisp on her mind. Explaining the exact ratio of Contadeine and Menthella to be used, the delivery frequency, the profits. Oh, the profits to be had. Almost four times higher than selling Contadeine on its own to hospitals. It had been a no-brainer to sign in, no matter how much the addictive amalgam appeared on the news.

She finally had an inkling as to why a Stratos would be trashing her office. Her curiosity ran dry.

“I’ll call the cops if you don’t leave right now.” Amelia sentenced, counting her options on how to get this vermin out of her office. He disregarded her words, biting into a new truffle. It oozed with a carmine liquid. Only after he had licked the sanguine red off his talons did he speak. “The illicit drug manufacturer is going to call the cops.”

“There’s nothing illicit for them to find here. They will come, and only see a Tarrukar buzzard to dispose of.”

“If you call at all.” A shadow fell over the face of the man, distorted and not quite reaching far. Dozens of long scars seemed to have gnarled his face to a perpetual frown, a broken porcelain haphazardly fused together. “I’m just here to talk. No need to jeopardize the lucrative venture you were set to establish so many months ago.”

“What…” Amelia hesitated, found outside of her depth at the newfound charitable tone of the humanoid weapon. “What do you mean?” “Miss Vasav. Why don’t you take a seat?” A wing extended towards one of the office chairs opposite to him. As if she were a low client; a subordinate. Fine. She’d play along. The matching chairs across her desk were meant to be comfortable, but they were nothing like her own seat. The shame dug into her spine.

He continued, counting with his squamous fingers. “Your contract as a supplier for the Adebowale Cartel came with outlined requirements, expectations, and profit margins. Am I wrong?”

“No.”

“That’s right. Our Boss likes keeping everyone in the family well aware of what’s happening. In fact, I was told you should have a copy of the contract too. Mind telling me where it is?”

Amelia stood up, lights shimmering on the golden trimmings of her dress. “I will bring it.”

Her heels were muffled by the carpeted floor of her office. She took her time, walking with her hands behind her back. Tomes of financial reports adorned the periphery of her vision, giving way to titles on immunology and organic chemistry. Granite statues served as bookends for the shelved books, geometric little things with no discernable conclusion. Abstract squares and rhombuses, like crystalized bismuth ores. The bookshelf needed dusting. She made a mental note to admonish housekeeping.

The woman stopped before a file cabinet, black metal with walnut drawers. A leisure search ensued, opening the oiled compartments. She flicked through plastic letters with her wine-red nails, painted to match her dress. Not under the ‘A’ of Adebowale, the ‘C’ of Contadeine, or even the ‘D’ of generic drugs.

‘P’ for profit. That’s where she found the folded Blackstone paper with the gilded corners. Written with pearlescent white ink, on a delicate cursive script. She would have never pegged a criminal organisation for enjoying aesthetics, but she wasn’t one to judge on that front.

“Shouldn’t your boss have the contract too? Whatever do you want it for?” Amelia asked, lifting the paper and closing the cabinet.

“Our boss does, yes,” the winged man began, accentuating the possessive with a snap. “And so do I, though it’s just a photocopy. It’s good for us all to be on the same page. Now, under the clause for fulfillment, second section. ‘Scope of Work’. Read what the fifth bullet point says.”

“Don’t you have the contract too? Why read it? Just tell me what you want.”

There was silence, and then there was not. The box of truffles resounded against the carpeted floor. Talons scraping against wood. A loud whipping whistle of feathers. The impact of weight against the black metal of the cabinet.

A shadow had fallen over Amelia. She didn’t want to look, she didn’t need to, her brain painted the picture clearly enough. The Stratos perched on top of the cabinet, wings splayed out, blanketing her form. Would those hooked talons be piercing through metal? Would there be a rabid, growling face looking back at her? Was she soon to die?

The man reiterated, the voice above her plain, unvarnished by any hostility. “Amelia, it wasn’t a question. Read it.”

Anything. Anything to not be forced to look up.

“The provider agrees to produce Xenoril in the following ratio according to excipients, Contadeine, and Menthella recrativa.” Then followed a chart of measurements, complete with adequate tolerances and international metrics. She translated the table into words, every number a dagger.

She knew, she knew, she knew what this was all about now.

“That’s correct. And the provider guarantees the ratio to be met, while considering tolerances. Is that right?”

It was right. She breathed hard, forcing stillness upon her chest and molding her voice into an easy word. “Yes.”

There was a sound of feathers rustling. She was in the light now, monstrous wings gone from her periphery. However, the weight over the cabinet remained put.

“Now, we both know this contract isn’t exactly bound by the Republic of Braukar’s law. That has its perks. Our profits aren’t touched by taxes or the Biotech and Pharmaceutical Regulatory Authority. But then, who enforces the contract? Is that specified?”

“Yes.” Her agreements were but a whisper now, unintentionally mirroring the rough voice of the Stratos.

“That’s right. The Terms and Terminations clause, fourth section. Read the second paragraph.”

Amelia was to unfold the paper; that clause belonged deep in the pamphlet. Her fingers were frigid, the grasp brittle. The black contract slipped away. Looking at it on the gray carpet, it seemed miles away.

“Pick it up,” came the words from above, monotone and detached.

She did, knees popping as she was forced to squat with the way her dress was cut. Easing her way up was hard. Legs burnt, her throat was parched. The world spun. She should not have accepted that cocktail earlier. Amelia did her best to focus on reading. It was just her and the words. Nothing else. Just read.

“Should the Provider fail to meet standards required by the Client, external agents may be employed to intervene, supervise, and provide incentive to improve.” There were another two lines to be read, but Amelia's voice gave out.

The Stratos either didn’t notice, or simply didn’t care. His point had been made. “You asked who I was. There’s your answer. Now, Ame—”

The vibration of a phone cut through the sentence, swallowing the atmosphere. It didn’t need a ringtone, nor any bright fanfare. Between muted voices, the disturbance was deafening.

“Check the caller,” he spurred.

Amelia pulled out her phone from her black purse, leather creaking in its handling. Who was it? Who was going to pull her out of this mess?

Jonah.

“You have your fiancé saved under his full name? How cold.” The Stratos chortled, a perplexing break in his veneer. The cabinet trembled under his movement. “Pick up, tell him you'll be busy for the rest of the night.”

“What?” The question floated, surprise unimpeded by her anxiety.

She had to go back down eventually; she had to bring her gift. Give the anniversary speech with practiced gratitude. There was a lot she had—

The phone stopped vibrating. Feathers roused, a sound like sliding stones, fabric rustling, metal sputtering beneath.

It began vibrating again, Jonah’s name illuminating her face. She could see the silhouette of the Stratos reflected on her screen.

“Pick up, Amelia. Tell him.”

“But—”

Her sentence was eviscerated by an explosion of pain. A slap, a whip, it hurt like the discipline her mother dispensed. No. Even hers would have been gentle compared to the rough pummeling of keratinous plates against her cheek.

“You don't understand, do you? You aren't in a position to negotiate.”

Blood rushed to Amelia's face, pain radiating like an open burn.

“Next slap, I’ll do with talons.”

She took the call, craning her neck back ahead with an aching wince.

“My Amelia.” Jonah’s voice, always so grating, so loud. The warmth of his tone was strained. With his situation, with the phone distortion, in how he was drowned by the noises of the party. “The guests are asking for you and I can't find you, where—”

“Jonah. I'm okay.” Amelia didn't know where she was finding the gall to speak clearly. She didn't know if she even was. Could Jonah notice the shaking? The tears? Would he run and look for her? Of course not. “It's a migraine. I'll be indisposed for the rest of the evening.”

“But what of the gifts? Can I bring you something? Maybe I could help you down, just for the speech.”

As much of an idiot he was, she had to grant some level of cleverness. The gifts were critical. She had invited prominent guests.

“No, don't come. I'll be fine. Figure it out this time. You are a clever lad, aren’t you? I'll owe you.”

“What?! Amelia, are you—”

She cut the line, a quivering gasp escaping. A wounded animal whimpering.

“Smart woman.”

The man stretched his arm. Amelia recoiled, prepared for another beat. And while the scales connected with her skin, it was in a sickening gentle touch. Talons caressed her neck. Repulsive abrasive digits directed her face up. Towards him.

She had never seen a Cyclone Stratos from up close. His eyes were huge, factions an uncanny degree apart from what a human should have been. A disgusting imitation. There were no visible ears. The pulled back ‘hair’ was in fact a comb of feathers, loose barbs ordered into a short ponytail.

That horrible face was still frozen in a frown. She couldn't count the scars that mangled its face. It was difficult to even determine which areas weren’t minced by cuts, claw marks, burns. Some formed bald patches on the feathers that encroached the sides of his face like a disease.

His eyes were huge. So huge. A hungry green that stared at her, unrelenting. Human sight had a tremble to it, a quiver of life. His was still, the dead staring to the abyss.

“Amelia.” His breath stunk. These were the words of a rotting corpse. Those were the fangs of a ravenous predator. She wanted to pull away, but the talons on her pulse held steady. Her jaw was starting to go numb.

The man winced in a poor approximation of a smile, canines pushing down his lower lip.

“Why don't you take a seat, and then we can have a chat about last week’s Xenoril delivery?”