Villain: Wanted

So, I'm writing this awesome story called L.A.O.S., which stands for the League of Absolutely Ordinary Superheroes. It's about a bunch of teens who use their super-high IQs and knowledge of scientific theory to be superheroes and save the world (L.A.O.S.: Saving the World Through Science! #ftw). I'm planning on making this a serial; each 'episode' is slated at about 15k, and there will be 6 total. The eps will be released about a month apart, and at the end will be collated into one pretty, shiny volume. *pats the imaginary volume*

So far, so good.

Only one problem: I need a villain. So, throw some ideas at me: volunteer your name, pick a superpower the villain should have, tell me what his goal in life might be - anything you like, no matter how random. And when I finally finish the stories and publish them, you'll get a mention in the acknowledgements, and a free ARC of each episode ;) :)



The League of Absolutely Ordinary Superheroes

When your IQ is so far off the scale that scientists are lining up to create new tests to measure it with and Mensa is knocking on your door, there are only two ways to go in life. You can embrace your nerdly glory and live a life condemned to exist on the fringes, without any real human contact, or you can pretend. Or you can be an arrogant jerk like Greg, but he’s practically an entire category to himself no matter which way you slice it.

Like any other normal teenager, I just wanted to belong. Okay, yeah, at first it was frustrating that the rest of the class would take hours to understand what I’d figured out in the first three seconds, but that was pretty quickly surmounted and easily dealt with: I just ignored school altogether. My real education happened in my spare time anyway; school was just somewhere I had to be, with people who I desperately wanted to like me.

They didn’t, of course. I mean, to begin with they accepted me and all, but there was always this vague sense of unease, like they knew I was hiding something, but couldn’t figure out what. And then bloody Mr Hangley had to perform what was tantamount to abuse on that poor, unsuspecting formula, and I couldn’t help myself: before I knew what I was doing, I’d opened my big gob and corrected him, and once the words started they just kept pouring out, a torrent I’d been hiding inside for so many years that when they finally spilled over, they flooded everyone within a five mile radius.

Maybe. Actually, I can only vouch for the fact that they drowned my classmates, and very nearly Mr Hangley, who stood staring at me like I’d grown horns and started tap-dancing naked on the desk. Which, thinking back, may have been the smarter thing to do.

After that, there was no going back.

Megan cornered me right after class, fists on hips and eyes flashing. “What was that, then?” she demanded.

I did my best to shrink, to blend back into the crowd – but the crowd was no longer there. Instead, guys I’d just half an hour ago called mates were edging away from me, pointing and whispering, and I stood out like I’d always known I’d one day have to, raw and naked and alone. So, eloquently, I shrugged and tried to pretend like I had no idea what she was talking about. Like lecturing your maths teacher on the subtleties of [stuff] was normal.

“I’m serious,” she said, tossing her hair. Man, you do not want to get Megan riled up. I swear, she’s part terrier or something, because once she’s latched onto something she does not let go, and she is scary. “What was up with that?”

“With what?” I snapped, shoving midgety year sevens aside so I could stomp away. Sure, that’s right, I thought. It’s not enough that my cover’s blown and I’m back to being Chris-fit again, bloody brunette Barbie has to come and rub it in, just to make sure I got the point.