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Sometimes Becky regretted ever becoming a therapist.
You’d be an excellent teacher, her mother had said before she went to graduate school. You have so much patience.
Patience. That was what had gotten Becky here.
Becky had realized, on the very first day of grad school, that the treatment for villain’s mental health was severely lacking.
While they had been able to prove, definitively, that not all villains were sociopaths, psychiatrists were still working on proving that villains weren’t any different from the average citizen or even hero— they just had different priorities.
They needed therapists on the ground floor. So that was where Becky started.
She could’ve been a therapist for heroes, taken the easy way out, the lucrative way out. But she settled, got comfortable as a therapist for all villains in the only mental health office for villains in Capital City.
This was where she made her first mistake. All villains.
Not All villains, from F Tier to A Tier.
All villains.
She didn’t think anyone above D Tier would show up. She got comfortable. Complacent.
You talk about your friend Alex a lot, she’d said foolishly. You can always recommend me to them.
I don’t think therapy is their. . . scene. But I can try.
Time had passed. Becky hadn’t thought about it again.
The name on the intake paperwork didn’t even register in her mind as Alex Stewart until the villain was across from them.
Alex Stewart, the only S Tier Villain, sat calmly in her office.
Everyone’s replaceable, Alex said casually.
Becky tested the waters.
Even your friend Morgan?
Yeah. There’s probably hundreds of people just like them.
Becky’s feet were barely wet.
So if anything were to happen—
This is where the villain’s composure slipped. They leaned forward, eyes flashing with power. Nothing, They said quickly, will happen to them.
She was in the shallow end of the pool now.
But if they’re replaceable, She said, trying to see if Alex could work it out for themselves, why do you care?
The villain had regained their composure, but they still sat forward in their chair. Just because something’s replaceable doesn’t mean it’s not mine.
Alex’s face twitched. And no one breaks my stuff but me.
And how would your friend Morgan feel, Becky said, feeling like the shark was coming now, if they knew you were referring to them as an object?
The villain answered far too quickly.
They hate it. So much so they yelled at me for three months until I agreed to go to therapy.
Three months. Morgan had already had their breakthrough about their “friend Alex”, then.
Everything processed so fast.
I see.