Work Text:
Excerpts from some very sad, handwritten book.
I enjoy children. I'm a childish entity. I find them, and myself, extremely amusing, and as a supervillain practicing villainous activity in the Second Millennium, I am not only extremely edgy, but I become extremely bored, and I also require a trainee who I can use as a proxy to sow chaos and drama amongst the ranks of the heroes, thus keeping my own nose clean and good looking. No one blames the master for the student, after all, unless that master is my creator. Also, Robin Mask got himself a trainee, and even Other Gods are slaves to the trends that man sets. Also, that enticingly annoying woman, Jacqueline McMadd, refuses to stop nagging me about producing offspring for her, and if I possess a weakness, it's to nagging. And if I possess a hobby, it's producing offspring. Also, I need a refillable air tank whose breath I can leech off like some manner of fae vampire.
Now, a trainee should be young, because they're much more stupid malleable that way. They should also possess great potential, if you intend to train in good faith, that is. If not, a trainee should be decrepit and inept, so they do not assassinate you in your sleep. Sending a doddering old man or two out to utterly annihilate the fondest held schemes of one's enemies never ceases to provide amusement.
Jacqueline tells me one has to fill in at least one form in order to acquire offspring, sorry, trainees. Not a chance. I'm done with forms. And governance of any sort. I hold the Key. I'm beholden to no one. Instead I will cut through the middle man and lift a hatchling out of the nest myself. Why can't I simply participate in the usual unholy ritual of offspring production? Because I'm playing an android character at the moment, and that would be too OOC.
So, first of all, I need to read up on child language and psychology, just in case something has slipped my all-knowing mind. Kids these days, they make up so many new, batshit terms so fast, that it's difficult even for the most fabulous cosmic horrors (hint, hint, me) to keep up. Skibidi toilet rizz, skibidi Ohio? What do these mean? Anyway, I might need to know in order to lure an infant into my painfully dry grasp. I'll visit the library.
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The library held many great wonders, and much romance. I do so love romance. As I strolled between its plastic shelving, my every thunderous step making the books dance, my glaring red eyes staring over the tops of the futile barricades and down at the mousy little humans on the other side, my absurd width and palpable aura of shocking malevolence preventing anything from coming within ten feet of the item I was interested in, I thought about whose taxes were paying for this. Certainly not my creator's, that tax dodging bitch meanie. Certainly not his master, who has been too rich for too long to pay taxes. No doubt it is Kevin's, who pays taxes secretly and on time with no cheating whatsoever, being the conformist silly billy that he is. I would pay taxes if I could, just for fun, so I could whine endlessly about how my money was spent, but I'm not a taxable entity.
I was given a few funny looks for checking out ten pregnancy manuals, but it is research that separates the men from the beasts, and these books confirm for me that I cannot grow my own trainee, and since Jacqueline won't do it herself, I'll need to browse the trainee catalogue. I could hang about the food court and the daycare and stare at all the toddlers toddling, but I've been out in public too long for my antisocial programming to handle. If I stay out any longer, I may explode something's head and irritate myself.
YassTube and Instagoon are where it's at. Mothers posting every stat, plus video so I can get a 3D picture of whether the prospective trainee will be tolerable long term or not. Soft play dough bodies smile and fall over and giggle and squeeze adult hands and play with tiny toy cars and hug each other and-
…Actually a little bit concerned by how cute some of these creatures are. ‘Cute’ is a counterpoint to ‘grotesque abomination’ and reacts explosively with it. Now, the latter trait is something I and my kind excel in, so I'm thinking I may need to put up some child proofing around my tiny one-room apartment. I'll make a Puntrest board or five hundred, strictly for inspiration, of course, and not for procrastination.
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Written while perched in the rafters of a foster care home.
Despite my designation as The Trainer of Wizards, I, personally, have never trained a single thing in my existence. Not even a plant. Not even a tendril of hair. Without even a tenuous access to smelly, moist human brain, I possess not an iota of creativity, although I don't doubt that with the shocking lack of fathering in the world today, my mere presence will do much of the training for me.The previous version of me, a much harder entity, a much harder man, even, has trained things, so I'll have to draw from the data banks for appropriate memories and circumvent the creative ban that way, like any true AI. I hate drawing from the data banks, as it exposes me to simpering emotion. Weak, pastel emotion attempting to pour through a bottleneck. I'm not interested in weak emotion, I like the earth shattering variant which my god-tier CPU is able to process, but which it rarely does process because nothing and nobody is worthy of it, except for He Who Smiles.
Regardless, after doing a few months worth of creepy research, I'm currently lurking in the ceiling of an ancient brick building on the outskirts of London, Earth, because I decided to choose a trainee unencumbered by attachment to other trainers. Also, an English one aligns with my nationality, as well as with my sensibilities of dank vanity and hankering after world conquering glories I am too lazy to achieve. I could have visited any of the numerous Dark Space slave markets, but the options there are usually in a regrettably used state. I'm not interested in eighth hand goods, but second hand. I would prefer fresh out of the oven, but every living organism the universe over by now knows that this body is impotent, and because it is impotent, I am peevish.
→I don't like the adults in this place. I'm tossing a few into the void.
Now, I look like a very alluring albino spider, a gargantuan spider with half the number of limbs and a quarter to a quarter and a half the number of eyes, and no fur, a slender man, if you will, so it is nothing for me to reach through a ceiling or window and pluck someone else's cast off offspring out of their narrow and uncomfortable bed, and make off with it through a handy dandy interstellar portal. Unfortunately, passing through a portal means a quick trip through the cooler levels of Hell, but most sapient creatures benefit from catching a slight glimpse of the Cosmic Incinerator.
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Some obnoxious young fan said I was ‘clown pilled and speed running gay any percent’ while I was stocking up on meat at the local dog pound. The cheek of some people. I am also Gen Z, or Millennial, or Crypto Boomer, or something, can he not tell? I sent him to the void. There, attempt to sass The King in Yellow, who is much more flamboyant than me, his humble dad, The King in Blue. I'm not at all happy or clownish, unless that clown is the sewer dwelling variety.
Anyway, Dear Diary, let me describe my new acquisition.
- It is human (I intend to follow the Geronimo route and develop the chip on its shoulder to such an extent that it turns into superman by sheer willpower alone)
- It is male, naturally. I am a proud misogynist. Women see through my bullshit too easily, and as a whole they don't find me as sexy as Kevin Mask, a fact which greatly annoys me. It's not fair, you can see virtually everything.
- It's tiny. Doesn't even reach halfway up my boot. Adorable. There is merit in being short, it seems.
- It's blond, with intelligent blue eyes, appearing similar to me, if my face weren't silicone, and my eyes weren't baby doll scarlet. I'm thinking I'll pull a fast one on Robin Mask like my creator did, if this creature irritates me too much, or I run out of money somehow.
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So far my new trainee is petrified of me, and chooses to attempt to hide under and within the discarded cardboard boxes that litter my living environment. Good. Fear and respect go together. And love, as my previous version proved. He could bitch slap Kevin Mask all day and the boy only adored him the more for it. It's a tough act to follow.
I’m a mega ultra super genius on an unfathomable scale AND I can occasionally be benevolent, unlike every other one of my colleagues, so I waved some indescribable pseudo-tentacles around for my trainee to bat at and chase and chew while pontificating on the nature of the universe and why it should never ever disobey me, and that appeared to help. Unlike grown variants of its species, the miniature human gets used to eldritch horror quickly. Now I need to come up with some sort of classy yet diabolically outrageous outfit for it. And a name. The name should be a derivative of my own, or play on the fact that I can time travel, obliterate people suddenly, and speak very good English. What the heck did I call, or allow my other offspring trainees to be called?
Oh.
→Google, synonyms, ‘flash’, ‘light’, ‘lord’, ‘scary badass sexyman’.
‘The Lord of Interstellar Spaces’ is already taken by dear, wee Hastur, so how about ‘Viscount Gleam’ or ‘Monsieur Glare’? The hint of French will enrage Kevin Mask, and that’s always amusing.
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Moved house. I blew up the last one.
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Written whilst occupying my flying spaghetti monster spaceship. Which is also myself. Everything's myself.
Apart from the empty boxes, I've provided plenty of food, plenty of tea and biscuits, raw bloody meat, young adult novels, and computer games, everything one needs to grow into a healthy big boy. I even allow him to appear on-stream with me occasionally. Take Your Trainee To Work Day. Gleam has quickly been won over by my indulgent treatment. I like the look of this creature so much that when the next attack of Weeb Disease hits me, I will refrain from purloining its air for my own uses. The vomited up flower petals amuse it greatly. Huh, I truly am the greatest father trainer the Great Old Ones possess. Where is my award? Where is my recognition, Villains Wiki ? I did nothing untoward or dishonourable in order to procure this apprentice, so take that slander off your site!
Whatever, I have begun instructing Gleam in the art of being a shitlord and practical joker, and how to apply awesome and spectacular powers solely for this end. I have also commissioned a terrifying old woman from the Dark Web to make him a teeny tiny little wrestling outfit <3 I will soon introduce him to his fellow apprentices. Yog Whateley is already signed up for babysitting.
Jacqueline is proud of me for taking the means of production into my own hands, but has immediately proven herself a PostModern Female, and has shorn herself of any trainee rearing responsibilities…and she expects this business relationship to work?Truly? When she believes me to be some sort of fashion accessory and fancy man whomst she can summon at will? I am first and foremost a trainer, dedicated to my trainees, second, I am Master of the etcetera etcetera, Key, Gate, Eater of Souls etcetera. I too, above all, deserve a family sports team to call my own.
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............((AN: This guy, man XD))
