DWC Short Story: The Supervillain Who Hated Paperwork

Maximillian Vane, formerly known to the cowering masses as The Void-Bringer, did not spend his Tuesday morning plotting the disintegration of the moon. Instead, he spent it staring at a colour-coded spreadsheet detailing the catastrophic shortage of gluten-free flour in the Eurasian Administrative Sector.

"Sandra," Vane sighed, leaning back in his throne, which had been ergonomically adjusted to prevent lower back pain. "Why is this my life? I have achieved the impossible. I have crushed the resistance. I have unified the world under a single, iron-fisted banner. Why am I discussing yeast alternatives?"

Sandra, a woman whose efficiency was more terrifying than any of Vane’s previous death rays, adjusted her spectacles. "Because, Sire, 14% of the population in Sector 4 identifies as coeliac or gluten-intolerant. If the artisanal bakeries in the New London District remain empty, we face a localized civil uprising by Friday. The supply chain was disrupted when your automated Enforcer-Droids accidentally vaporized a warehouse in Marseille. They thought the bags of flour were experimental smoke bombs."

Vane rubbed his temples. His magnificent black-and-gold armour, once a symbol of cosmic dread, felt heavy—not with power, but with the sheer weight of bureaucratic tedium.

"And the HR dispute?" he asked, his voice trembling with a hint of despair.

"Grog the Devourer is filing a formal harassment claim against the IT department," Sandra reported, flipping a page on her tablet. "Apparently, they told him his password, 'SkullsForTheSkullThrone123', was too weak and lacked a special character. Grog responded by throwing a server rack into the sun. The IT manager wants him terminated. Grog, conversely, wants the manager’s spleen on a cracker."

Vane stood up and paced the length of his obsidian balcony, looking out over the sprawling, perfectly ordered city of Neo-Pangaea. It was silent. It was efficient. It was utterly, soul-crushingly boring.

"I miss the chase, Sandra," Vane whispered. "I miss the dramatic monologues. I miss the 'Aha!' moments. Now, the only 'Aha!' I get is when I find a loophole in the municipal waste management contract."

"Power has its price, Sire," Sandra said tonelessly. "Would you like to review the proposed pension plan for the mutant infantry?"

"No," Vane snapped. "I would like to be foiled. I would like a brightly coloured nuisance in spandex to crash through that window, call me a 'fiend', and kick me in the ribs. I would like, quite frankly, to go back to robbing the occasional museum and living in a cave that doesn't have high-speed Wi-Fi and a mandatory recycling programme."

He paused. A slow, wicked grin—the first genuine one in months—spread across his face. "Sandra, fetch me the 'Useless Potential' files."

The Selection Process

The search took three weeks. Vane spent his nights (which should have been spent sleeping or brooding) scouring global surveillance for someone—anyone—with a modicum of moral fortitude and a complete lack of common sense.

Most of the old heroes were retired, broken, or, quite embarrassingly, working for Vane as middle managers. Captain Valiant was now the Head of Urban Planning. The Silver Siren was a judge in the Court of Appeals.

Then, he found Arthur Pringle.

Arthur was a thirty-two-year-old assistant librarian in a small town in the Cotswolds. His greatest achievement to date was successfully petitioning for a new bicycle rack outside the post office. He was kind, he was earnest, and he had once spent four hours rescuing a cat from a tree, only to realise the cat belonged to the person who had asked him to help.

"He’s perfect," Vane murmured, watching a hidden drone feed of Arthur helping an elderly woman cross a perfectly paved, Vane-mandated street. "He’s got the chin for it. A bit soft, perhaps, but we can fix that."

"He has no powers, Sire," Sandra noted. "And his BMI suggests a diet consisting primarily of custard creams."

"Minor details," Vane waved a hand. "I shall become his secret benefactor. His... anonymous sponsor of justice."

The Training of a Hero

The first step was the "Discovery."

Arthur Pringle was walking home through the park when he tripped over a briefcase that definitely hadn't been there five seconds ago. Inside, he found a suit of hyper-advanced, self-repairing nanotech armour (painted a heroic blue and silver) and a note written in a font that screamed Destiny.

Arthur Pringle, The world groans under the weight of the Arch-Dictator’s paperwork. You are the chosen one. Put on the suit. Save the world. P.S. There is an instruction manual in the side pocket. Don't touch the red button unless you’re in a vacuum.

Vane watched the feed from his command centre, eating a sandwich. "Put it on, Arthur. Don't just stare at it like it's a suspicious ham."

Arthur, after looking around to ensure no one was watching, put on the suit. It shimmied over his frame, tightening his midsection and broadening his shoulders. He looked, for all intents and purposes, like a god.

"Now," Vane muttered. "Stage two: The Trial by Fire."

Over the next month, Vane orchestrated a series of "crimes" for Arthur to thwart. He sent a squad of low-level droids to "rob" a bank (the droids were programmed to move at 50% speed and occasionally fall over their own feet). He staged a "kidnapping" of a local dignitary, ensuring the knots were incredibly easy to undo.

Vane even hired a retired theatrical coach to whisper encouragement into Arthur’s ear via a hidden comm-link.

"You're doing great, kid!" the coach would rasp. "Now, say something about 'The light of freedom'! Really sell it!"

Arthur was a natural. The public, starved for a distraction from the Arch-Dictator’s incredibly detailed tax reforms, began to rally. They called him The Blue Sentinel.

Back at the Citadel, Vane was revitalised. He was working eighteen-hour days again, but not on supply chains. He was designing "weak points" in his own fortress. He was "accidentally" leaking his security codes to the dark web. He even went so far as to ensure the guards on the West Wing were given a mandatory, four-hour lunch break at the exact time Arthur was scheduled to "infiltrate."

The Final Confrontation

The day of the Great Defeat arrived on a drizzly Thursday.

Arthur Pringle—The Blue Sentinel—crashed through the reinforced skylight of the Grand Hall. He landed with a thud that was only slightly uncoordinated. Vane sat on his throne, wearing his most menacing cape and holding a glass of expensive red wine.

"So," Vane boomed, his voice amplified by hidden speakers to give it that delicious, echoing dread. "The shepherd’s boy comes to challenge the wolf. Have you come to negotiate the gluten-free flour quota, Sentinel?"

Arthur stood up, his visor retracting to reveal a face flushed with genuine righteous indignation. "Your reign of... of extremely efficient administration ends here, Vane! The people don't want a 2% increase in library funding if it comes at the cost of... well, of you being a big meanie!"

Vane winced. "We’ll work on the dialogue later. Guards! Er... do your worst!"

The guards—who had been strictly instructed to fire their lasers at least three feet to the left of the hero—engaged in a spectacular display of tactical incompetence. Arthur danced through them, his suit doing 90% of the work.

Finally, it was just the two of them.

"This is it, Vane!" Arthur cried, charging forward. "For the Cotswolds!"

Vane met him in the centre of the hall. They traded blows—mostly Vane leaning into Arthur’s punches to make them look more impactful. As they grappled, Vane leaned in close to Arthur’s ear.

"Use the 'Solar Flare' function," Vane whispered. "Left thumb, second button."

"What?" Arthur gasped.

"Just do it! It'll look great for the cameras!"

Arthur pressed the button. A blinding light engulfed the hall. Vane threw himself backward with the grace of a seasoned Shakespearean actor, crashing through a pre-weakened stone pillar.

"Curses!" Vane roared, lying in the rubble. "Defeated by a librarian! The irony... it burns! I am... disappearing into a vortex of my own making! Goodbye, cruel, over-regulated world!"

He pressed a remote in his pocket. A localized teleporter hummed to life, pulling him into a shimmering rift.

To the world watching on the monitors, it looked like the Arch-Dictator had been vaporized by pure justice. In reality, he was being deposited in a small, dusty shed behind a pub in a remote village in Cornwall.

The Simple Life

Three weeks later, Maximillian Vane sat in The Rusty Anchor, nursing a pint of bitter. He was wearing a flat cap, a thick woollen jumper, and a very convincing fake moustache.

The television above the bar was showing a news report from Neo-Pangaea. Arthur Pringle, looking incredibly stressed, was standing at a podium.

"The new President of the Global Council has admitted that the transition of power has been... difficult," the reporter said. "President Pringle is currently facing a massive backlog of HR complaints from the Orcish Labour Union, and there are reports of a worldwide shortage of artisan flour."

Arthur looked like he hadn't slept in a month. He was holding a stack of papers that looked suspiciously like a 500-page report on sewage treatment.

Vane chuckled, taking a slow sip of his beer.

"Poor lad," he muttered. "He’ll learn. Ruling the world is for the birds. Now, then..."

He looked at his watch. It was 11:00 PM. The local post office would be closed, and the alarm system was a pathetic, twenty-year-old model that he could bypass with a paperclip and a piece of chewing gum. There was a commemorative stamp collection in the safe that Vane had his eye on. It wasn't worth much, but the thrill of the "No Trespassing" sign was more intoxicating than any throne.

He stood up, adjusted his cap, and stepped out into the cool, salty night air.

"Sandra," he said into his sleeve, though there was no one there to listen. "Cancel my 10:00 AM. I have a very important meeting with a locked door."

He walked off into the darkness, whistling a tune, finally—gloriously—free.