# Chapter 6: "The Villain Ascendant: A Coronation of Lies"

The bell above the door to "Mario's Trattoria" jingled, announcing Shackles' entrance. Mario, the owner, frantically wiped down a already-clean table. He adjusted his stained apron, trying to appear busy. He peeked at Shackles' looming form from the corner of his eyes. A cold bead of sweat trickled down the side of his temple and into his lip, he quickly brushed it away. Shackles stopped at the entrance and the lights shined on his plated face.

"Ah, Mario." Shackles rasped, his voice like grinding metal. "Always a pleasure." His metallic-booted foot tapped against the worn tile floor as he slowly made his way past the patrons, none of whom dared to make eye contact.

"Mr. Shackles," Mario stammered, rushing forward. "Welcome, welcome! Table ready for you, the best seat in the house." He gestured towards his 'best seat'.

Shackles barely glanced at the table. He turned to face Mario with a menacing look. "I wasn't here to eat." The way he stated almost made Mario think something was very wrong, or was about to be very wrong.

Mario wrung his hands together, making his knuckles white, he could feel a storm brewing. "Of course, Mr Shackles. Is everything alright? The food wasn't bad right? I can get you a refu-"

Shackles cut him off with a raised metallic hand. "Quiet, Mario. I came to speak about… protection. An investment, you might call it." He had a grin on his face to try and make Mario think it was friendly, but it clearly wasn't.

Mario swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He glanced at the two hulking figures with Shackles, the masked face who flanked him on either side of him. They stood silent, motionless, their presence a heavy weight in the small restaurant. Rocco and Gid.

He knew that was the name of Gid and Rocco. Every person did.

"Protection," Mario echoed, his voice barely a whisper. "But Mr. Shackles, I-I already pay… the other guys…"

Shackles laughed, his metallic voice echoing through the restaurant. Several patrons looked away.

"The *other* guys?" Shackles sneered. "Those street rats? They were a charity. Now, *I'm* offering you real security. A guarantee. Invest with us." He paused, letting the weight of his words fall on Mario. "Or there can be *consequences*." Those were the only words that Mario really heard, the words that stuck deep in your mind.

Mario looked around his restaurant, at the worn tables and faded paintings. He could feel a storm brewing in his gut. It was more than a restaurant to him, it was something he had his heart and soul in. If he had to choose, he didn't know what he would choose.

"Of course, Mr. Shackles," Mario answered, his voice trembling. "I just... business has been slow." He wiped his brow with a stained kitchen towel, his hands shaking. The sweat on his brow kept dripping and he had to keep wiping. All to keep his anxiety and fear at bay.

Shackles leaned closer, a metallic glint in his mask's eyeholes. He could see tears forming in Mario's eyes. He almost enjoyed it. "Slow business is a tragedy, Mario. A *real* tragedy. Think of what might happen to fast business!" He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Consider my offer... a boost. A way to accelerate that profit."

Mario hesitated, searching for the right words. "A boost to my business, eh?" Shackles turned to the masked figures flanking him, he smirked with his mouth.

"Did he just call me a 'boost', Rocco?" Shackles asked, turning to the figure on his left.

Rocco, a towering brute with visible cybernetic enhancements, grunted. "Yeah, I think he did." Rocco looked down at Mario with evil eyes. All to say something to him.

Shackles slammed his metal fist on the table, rattling the silverware and making several patrons jump. He rose his head back at those that jumped up, all they did was give looks back to him. Shouting would only make them more paranoid. "It's 'Mister Boost' to you from now on. Understand?" He gave Rocco a look to see how he would react, which made Rocco shiver, there was no love between the two.

Mario looked down at the floor, defeated. "Understood," he mumbled.

Shackles smiled, the metallic edges of his mask glinting in the dim light. "Good. Now, about the specifics…" He pulled a data pad from his coat, and handed it to Rocco, who handed it to Mario. "All the papers are in there, all digital. Just in case you can't read it that is."

Mario hesitated as he grabbed it.

"Rocco and Gid will be coming here every Sunday to collect around 5 in the afternoon. The prices will be in the digital form."

Shackles stretched out and walked out of the door. Every patron in the restaurant looked towards Mario in shock. The bell above the door to "Mario's Trattoria" jingled, announcing Shackles' departure.

Mario bowed in front of the door once Shackles had already left. With a sigh, he slumped into a chair. He stared at the data pad handed to him, he was unsure if he would handle it or not.

Shackles chuckled to himself as he strolled down the street, his metal boots clanging against the pavement. He thought about the interaction he just had with the restauranteur. It excited him, but also made him feel empty inside. The fear in Mario's eyes excited him.

"Alright guys, so what's next up?" Said Shackles as he walked ahead of Rocco and Gid.

"Alright now" responded Rocco with a deep sigh. "Next up is the bar in the west district.".

Elsewhere across the city, a group of thugs gathered around a pool table in a dimly lit bar. The bar, "The Blind Pug", reeked of stale beer and cheap cigarettes. Patches of blood stained the faded carpets. Cigarette holes poked at the tears of the walls and chairs. It was a refuge for those who prefer the dark, they all felt right at home. The walls didn't even have real paint on it, just a poor tape job. A man with a jagged scar running down his face slammed his fist on the table, rattling the pool balls.

"Shackles thinks he can just waltz in here, knock down the door, and take over our territory?" the scar-faced man barked, his voice a gravelly growl. "We've been running this neighborhood for five years!" The scar was an old sign of honor for this gang.

Another thug, nervously fiddling with a switchblade, spoke up, cutting into the conversation.

"Word is, he's got the Syndicate behind him, boss. They don't mess around." He cut himself on the switchblade.

"Syndicate or not," the scar-faced man snarled, his eyes narrowed, "we ain't backing down. We stand our ground. We keep our fists and our pride up!".

The scar-faced man turned to face a corner of the dark room. One of the thugs gasped like a fish out of water. Shackles stood at the dark corner of the room, having watched their whole conversation. His metal hand clapped.

"Good job listening everyone! I will be giving you all a raise today, I am impressed. Especially those that were quiet, very intimidating.", said Shackles with a smile.

The thugs were shocked, unsure how he had gotten so close without any of them noticing. He had been there for 5 minutes. It made them wonder. Not wonder if they were going to lose, but how terrible the loss was going to be. The scar-faced man smirked.

The scar-faced man turned to face Shackles once more, he grinned. "I guess so. You will learn now, we never play fair here. That's why we keep our family so close."

"You may *stand* your ground, just make sure there is nothing to stand on. I sure do hope you are ready." Shackles responded, slowly stroking the table. He knew it.

"What do you mean by that?" asked the Scar-faced man.

"I guess we will find out when you all go."

Shackles moved forward and slowly left like always. More and more money and more places kept adding up and adding up. Everything was going to plan. Every single step was going to be worth it when he climbed to the very top.

Shackles threw his head back laughing, taking another sip of expensive champagne, it was some sort of brandy. The music thumped powerfully through the lavish penthouse suite, shaking the walls. Women draped over expensive furniture giggled and whispered behind closed hands. Obsequious thugs catered to the whims of the crowd, offering drinks and questionable substances. Shackles' party was in full swing, a testament to his newfound power and influence. Every single face here owed him something.

He had taken complete control of the underworld by that point, or he believed so. In his mind, he was sitting on a throne overlooking all of his slaves.

Debris littered every inch of the penthouse. Empty bottles, half-eaten canapés, and discarded clothing littered the floor. The air reeked of sweat, alcohol, and desperation. The penthouse used to be one of majesty, of riches, of gold; now it was perverted with lust and depravity. Shackles didn't care, he would rather it that way. It added more value to the point he was trying to make.

Nearby, a nervous associate approached him, clutching a newly-developed laser pistol. Shackles turned and scoffed at him.

"Eh, another piece of junk? Get that filth away from me." He gave the associate a hard push, making him stumble backwards. "Where's that girl I asked for? The blonde with the cybernetic arm."

He casually grabbed a handful of greasy potato chips from a passing tray, scattering crumbs across his armored chest. A woman in a skimpy dress poured him a glass of red wine, the crimson liquid sloshing over the rim. The glass shook in his hand.

"I don't want no pathetic wine, I want vodka. The good stuff. That crystal stuff. And no ice. I'm not some low-level street thug, I am the head of this town. Understand?" He threw the glass of wine at a nearby wall, the glass shattering into a million pieces. "Now make me feel good." He had lost his mind, but it was for good reason.

His newfound fame allowed him to do whatever he wanted. He had no more rules. Every person in the penthouse was his slave for a day, or for his whole life, whatever he wanted. Nothing wrong would come out of it, because nothing *could* come out of it.

"Shackles, baby," a woman giggled, her voice breathy as she draped herself across his armored lap. "You're so generous. What did your old friends ever give you?" She rubbed his chest.

Shackles smirked, running a metal finger down her cheek, leaving a smudge of grease on the porcelain skin. He laughed and whispered into her ear.

"Don't think too much about it."

He stood up from his 'throne', the cheap and broken couch he stole off the side of the street. It symbolized how far he had come, and he sure was proud of it. Everything went silent. He slowly made his way to a balcony near the front of the penthouse and looked out at the city. Every patron looked at him thinking he was going to make an announcement. He chuckled at the audience.

He smiled, the smirk grew. "I now stand here, higher than ever. The city, and everything it owes… it belongs to me." He paused. "Everything everyone has ever wanted and asked for, revolves around me at this point. How does that make you all feel?"

A voice interrupted his pathetic and drawn out-speech.

"It's something to be proud of boss, but don't get too cocky like that Centurion guy, huh? Look how that turned out, he is now a nobody!" It was the associate that he bumped before.

Shackles stared down at him, his metal face radiating fury. The associates eyes shrunk in fear. "How *dare* you compare me to that pathetic excuse of a hero. After everything I have done.".

"But it's been a month! Your progress has been astounding. People are now making action figures of you! The sky is the limit. What do you need so bad?".

"I am above that insect Centurion now and forever more. Centurion is nothing but a speck of filth under my metal boot. I am greater, faster, and more *elegant* than he will ever be. He would be nothing without that golden armor and the power he had. I am self made. Don't you ever forget that, you will never speak again. You will hold up more value if you just become a rock.

"Forgive me" the associate said as he fell on his knees.

Shackles looked out at the city once more. This was perfect, and the associate will be dealt with later. No one would ever get in his way. No more. Nothing would taint the party, or make him feel less than a king.

***

The next morning, Shackles sat slumped over his desk, nursing a pounding headache. The lavish penthouse felt less like a palace fit for a king and more like a depressing prison made out of trash and bad choices. Empty liquor bottles were rolling on the floor. Greasy take out containers stacked high towards the ceiling. The stale air was so thick that he could bite through it. A stack of reports sat like a mountain on his desk, each one a fresh reminder of responsibilities he would rather ignore. He groaned.

"What's up with you today, boss?" said Rocco as he walked into the door way.

"Ugh, do you know what time it is?" sighed Shackles at Rocco. "I'm just beat Rocco, don't kill me!"

"I got you coffee from that spot on the street. You good now?"

"Oh man, what would I ever do without you?" Shackles stretched out his arms.

Rocco put the coffee on the desk.

"Alright man! We have a laundry list of chores you got today, don't want anyone getting mad now do we?"

"Chores?", Shackles asked, his voice laced with annoyance. "Aren't these just errands for the Syndicate? I thought I was the boss now. Shouldn't I be delegating these tasks?"

Gid, silent until now, stepped forward, looming behind Rocco.

"You are the boss, Mr. Shackles. But the Syndicate... they have certain expectations." Gid said, looking away for a moment and then back.

"Those words are scary words for the night you know? Oh wait... it is daytime." Shackles said sarcasticly.

The metal door to the penthouse hissed open, light glinting on Shackles' mask. A figure in a dark suit as always stepped inside - the masked man from the gas station. The guy who gave Shackles the emblem. Shackles and his thugs immediately straightened, fear flashing in their eyes as they realized it wasn't a joke. The masked man approached the group of thugs, never moving, and slammed his hand on the desk in anger.

"I'm here to remind you that you're useful, *nothing* more. The Syndicate only sees potential, and I am here to ensure that potential becomes *profit*", he stated coldly, his voice dripping with disdain. He paused "Nothing ever lasts forever, so remember that.

Shackles shifted uncomfortably in his chair, he fidgeted nervously. He didn't enjoy being reminded of his subservient place, specially now after finally achieving some semblance of power. He wanted to be king for a night, not the whole night. The masked man was starting to remind him that being king will be a long shot at this point.

"I understand," Shackles muttered, trying to regain some composure. "But these errands are beneath me. I'm Shackles! I should be planning grand heists, not shaking down local businesses!"

The masked man tilted his head, a mocking gesture. "You are *still* learning to get anywhere. You haven't done enough to do that sort of work as of yet. The Syndicate is a complex machine, and every gear must perform its function to get paid. Right now, your function is to listen, obey, and bring profit. Is this making any sense to you?"

"As far as I know, it should." Replied Rocco to the man. "He just gets a little lost in the moment."

Gid nodded alongside Rocco.

The masked man produced a small device and placed it on the desk. A holographic display flickered to life, showing detailed schematics of a heavily guarded research facility.

"This is your next 'investment' opportunity, a neural interface project. The Syndicate needs it. I have chosen you to do this work, to procure it from Titan Industry" the masked man said sternly. "This will show us just how dedicated you are, and how far you are willing to work for us and the Syndicate."

Shackles eyes caught on the schematics. A familiar thrill surged through him, the excitement of a challenge now was his to take and to own to prove to the world. Stealing big scores and grand schemes were his calling, not these petty errands and boring shake downs.

"Now that's more like it," Shackles said, a genuine grin spreading across his face beneath the mask. "This is a heist worthy of *Shackles*". He stretched out, no longer beaten by anything that had transpired.

The masked man turned and headed towards the door, his exit being non-ceremonial. Nothing more than the bell behind the front door with the chime. No congratulations. No words. What was the point, huh? What was earned but not also given?

The door hissed shut behind him. Shackles turned to his thugs, a renewed glint in his masked eyes.

"Alright boys," Shackles said, grabbing the device with the schematics. "Time to get to work. Let's study these plans. It's been a minute since we did something as cool, and to make it even cooler... something very *grand.*"

***

Nightshade sat in a dimly lit corner of a dive bar, "The Rusty Nail," the air thick with smoke and the ghosts of forgotten dreams. The bar reeked of spilled beer and desperation. The scarred wood of the table creaked beneath her gloved hands. It was a place where secrets were traded with shot glasses and everyone was on the run from some sort of pain that they were constantly trying to run away from. Two figures hooded figures huddled with her, their faces hidden by shadow. She tapped her finger impatiently on the table, the metal click echoing in the otherwise hushed room.

"This has to work, this time. I haven't been out here in years trying to recruit. " mumbled Nightshade as quietly as possible.

The first figure, a nervous-looking thug with a shaved head and a twitchy jaw, spoke up, his voice barely above a whisper but still scared to speak. He had tattoos across all of his body.

"He's gotten all soft and sloppy, boss. The parties, the spending, these broads running around... he's all gone. Doesn't feel like Shackles anymore."

"Good," Nightshade hissed, a cruel smile twitching at the corner of her lips. "Arrogance is a weakness. And Shackles. Shackles is now ripe for the reaping. The payday is greater than ever before when you start acting too cocky."

The second figure, a hulking mountain of a woman with metal implants glinting beneath her skin, grunted in agreement.

"Syndicate backing or not, he's spread too thin, he is now weak and fragile. He doesn't know when to stop" she said, her voice deep and gravelly. "We hit him hard and fast, we can cripple his operation from the sides. Every corner will hear our voice calling out from the dark, it will be a symphony. The voices of our song."

Nightshade leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with ambition, lighting her face in the darkness.

"Exactly. I've been watching Shackles for weeks, even months. I know his sad routines, his pathetic routines, his vulnerabilities." She paused for dramatic effect. She was trying to show her dominance in front of the new people. "The Syndicate think they have a loyal, powerful asset, but they are mistaken. They want strength to show and flex, not to maintain. The ones calling out for support will lead to the downfall.".

She folded her hands together and put it on the table in front of her.

"I have spoken to many of his thugs, not a single one of them is truly loyal to him. Sure, they want the power and money, but they see the writing on the wall. Shackles won't last."

She laughed and looked up at them.

"We will make it look like he is being attacked from all sides, the organization will collapse from the inside out. If we do this right, we can take over the city."

She pulled her hand and curled it into almost a fist.

The thug spoke up, confused, showing that again. "What will you do, Nightshade? Shackles is not one to be trifled with and will kill us once he finds us."

Nightshade was growing impatient with the thug. He showed some lack of respect like always. "I am the one getting his boss, if I wanted you dead for the lack of respect I am getting, you would be dead. Respect is free to get for me but if you take it away, there will be bad consequences.".

"I will simply take his throne is what will happen. You better not interfere with my play of the scene because I will not hesitate to find someone far better. I have no fear of replacing someone."

She put up her hand as if showing it was some kind of gift.

Nightshade stared in front of the group and nodded her head.

"Then the performance will begin, we shall wait no longer."

***

Faceless stood on the rooftop of a dilapidated parking garage, overlooking the city. The glittering lights of Shackles' gaudy party twinkled in the distance and reminded him of fools gold, tempting and worthless. A contemptuous smile twisted his lips behind the mask, he shook his head. The scene below was revolting towards the world, towards what they had all fought for.

He reached and activated a cloaking device on the side of his body. It would erase any evidence of what was going to happen.

It was simple, all chaos and no direction.

Faceless began to manipulate the dial on the side of his body and look out towards the sprawling cityscape. The horizon seemed permanently stained with the smoke of industry and cheap super powers. All was the same always and forever. The world never changed. How tragic.

He slowly looked down towards the current mask he had on, the one he was working.

"Oh Faceless. How small you look in the grand scheme of things, what about you will change?"

He scoffed and turned back towards the city.

"What about those heroes?"

Faceless turned back and took a step forwards. It was almost that he was a reflection that was looking.

The wind whipped around him as he started his mission. The puppet strings were waiting to be pulled.

"As if you were the one in control," he sighed. "It is as useless as every pawn who has been in this city."

He stretched out and whispered.

"You foolish puppet, soon all the strings will come undone."