This new generation of heroes didn’t understand the unwritten rules, the rules that were written in blood by their predecessors. They were reckless, with none of the caution or respect the old hands had. That got people killed, people like his minion, and best friend. Heroes don’t kill civilians, they don’t kill minions, and they sure as shit don't raid villains legitimate businesses, especially during working hours. Somehow the Plant Pact got it in their minds to do all three. It was a miracle only three people died. By the end of the day three more would be dead.

“What are we gonna do boss?” His only remaining minion, Jeremy, asked as the last of the first responders packed up and left. The ruins of his once vibrant corner store were cut to pieces, along with three people, only one of which worked for him, and the damn heroes were celebrating on the net. It was galling.

A familiar rage burned inside him, usually kept under tight control, hidden under a thick layer of playful mischievousness. That control was fraying. His superpower reflected emotion, amplified it, and granted power based on the type and strength of the emotion. If he just let go he’d spiral into a fury that’d leave him either dead or half the city burned, probably both. It was tempting, oh so tempting to just let go. Maybe if he was younger, or less experienced, or less cautious he might have, but he wasn’t like the Plant Pact. He refused to be. Instead, he let the rage simmer and smolder, on the edge of a flare-up, but controlled.

“We aren’t going to do anything Jeremy. You’re going to go home. Call your girlfriend over, and make sure you have an alibi. You’ll want one after this.”

“Are you sure?” Jeremy looked skeptical, of course he was. He’d only seen him lose, often in humiliating fashion. Never mind that he never got caught. He was a joke, a loser, an incompetent villain, more meddlesome than dangerous. Jeremy never saw him at his worst.

Jeremy was a good kid that got caught up in a bad business, he’d practically begged him for a job after every other villain in the city rejected him. He also was never good at reading between the lines, and never quite questioned why an incompetent nobody lasted as a villain for over a decade. He was about to find out.

“Go home Jeremy, and make sure to keep an eye out. You’ll want to see what happens next.”

He didn’t bother waiting for a response, hands already moving toward his phone. You didn’t go a decade in the business without making friends, and he had a favor to call in. Any decent cyber security specialist could find three teenagers bragging on a Facebook live stream, much less his old friend Grey Hat, one of the first people to ever manifest an internet-based superpower. He’d get a kill order for what he was about to do, but then again what proper villain didn’t have one? It was time he finally joined the big leagues. He only wished his dead friend was around to see it.

***

The C-list hero's hideout was an abandoned warehouse in the bad part of town, only a mile from his place of business. He was a target of opportunity, a convenient mark for reckless do-gooders with an appetite for destruction. They said as much on what little he could stomach of their live stream. His phone was in ruins now, along with the tattered remains of his control. Good thing he didn’t have to wait anymore.

The battered door flew off its hinges with a flex of the arm and was tossed to the side like garbage, making a clamor as it rolled and tumbled to a stop. He wanted to melt the entire place into slag, but not before making sure they knew what was coming. He wanted to see their fear before the end.

“Oh shit!” Someone yelled, high pitched so it must be the lone woman on the team, Root. He usually didn’t touch women or children but there was an exception to every rule.

The three heroes shot out of their makeshift den, a couple of couches, a TV, and a large table in the far corner of an empty warehouse. They were quick to get into formation, to their credit. Their dark-skinned leader Stout Oak taking point, flanked by Root and Razor Leaf. What he couldn’t commend was their response.

“Calm down guys it’s just Diet Sprite. What’s he going to do, tickle us to death?” Stout Oak said.

Root and Razor Leaf snickered in response, both visibly relaxing. Stout Oak even had the balls to point his phone at him, no doubt still recording. He was part of the night's entertainment after all, might as well give it to them.

“I always liked the name Sprite you know? I named myself after the trickster fairies of legend, more out of an ideal than anything. It was a great state of mind to be in, always fun and playful, never serious. I wanted to stay like that forever, and with my power I could have.”

“Can we skip to the part where you swear undying revenge and then get beat up? This isn’t a movie.” Stout Oak interrupted.

Sprite smiled thinly, a fake transparent thing. “You’re right, it’s real life. In real life heroes die when they fuck up.”

As the last syllables left his mouth, he moved. Rage lent his limbs an incredible strength, the painful burning almost pleasurable. He grabbed Razor Leaf's arms faster than he could react and twisted. The pop of bone and ripping of muscles made the fire inside flare, like new wood to the fireplace. Something inside him fed on the pain, enjoyed it. It made him stronger.

Someone was screaming, it might have been him, as roots burst from the concrete. He shared some of his rage with them. The air shimmered, the concrete near him glowed and the giant roots vaporized, leaving not even ash. His eyes met Roots, he could see the fear reflected in the thin woman's eyes like fire, the fearful poignant moment of clarity, of understanding. The next moment she was gone, erased in flames.

Something hard and wooden cracked him in the back of the head, sending him stumbling but undamaged. He was too angry to be hurt. Stout Oak was twice his size and still growing, turning into more of a titan of wood than a man. Even amid his rage, he shook his head.

“What possessed you to turn into wood against someone like me?”

Flames crawled up Stout Oak’s giant form, burning great gouges into his wooden flesh. The man-tree roared in pain, as it turned to char, but didn’t die. Not yet, that would be too easy. The man had to suffer.

He turned at the sound of boots on concrete, Razor Leaf was up and running, clutching his broken hands. He was always the most dangerous of the three, able to control leaves and make them as hard and sharp as steel. Unfortunate for him that he required his hands to direct his power. That’s a weakness any supervillain would exploit.

He almost casually picked up a piece of broken concrete, courtesy of Root, and tossed it at the fleeing man. Razor Leaf almost made it to the open entryway before a rock the size of his head tore through both legs. There was screaming but he ignored it as he surveyed the scene, happy with the destruction but not satisfied, not yet.

An eye caught Stout Oak’s phone, somehow undamaged despite their brief fight. Perfect. The phone was still streaming as the chat went nuts. A couple more minutes and it was sure to be shut down, but for now he had their attention. He panned the phone around to the dead and dying heroes, before switching it around to film his face.

“You may know me as Sprite, a minor villain. I wanted things to stay that way, I never wanted to do this but they forced my hand by attacking my business and killing my customers and employees. Let this be a lesson to you all. Do not fuck with me, or you will burn like these three.” He smiled at the camera before switching it back around.

The cheap metal sheeting of the warehouse warped and contorted from heat, as the concrete underfoot bubbled and roiled. The phone in hand was hot but still functional as the warehouse began to collapse. He embraced the heat, the pain, and the rage, as his power built into a crescendo.

“You can call me Infernum.”