Chapter Text
The first thing Michael noticed was the smell.
Hospitals didn’t smell like cleanliness the way advertisements promised. They smelled like open bleach bottles, enough to tickle the back of his throat.
The second thing he noticed was the light.
It didn’t matter that his eyes were barely open. The ceiling fluorescents still stabbed straight through his skull like they had a personal grudge. He flinched, and pain bloomed.
The third thing he noticed was a line of text, but he ignored that. It must have been a hallucination.
[Welcome to Chaos Gacha - Villain Edition!]
He hissed and tried to move a hand to his head.
A soft beep accelerated. Something tugged at his wrist.
“Hey, don’t do that.”
A woman’s voice, sharp and practiced, came from his right. Michael forced his eyelids higher. The world resolved in pieces: the pale wall, the curtain half-drawn, a heart monitor pulsing green, and a nurse leaning in with the tired boredom of someone who had said the same sentence a thousand times until it lost all meaning.
“Osborn North Queen, a non-profit hospital,” she said. “You’re in observation, emergency services.”
He tried to swallow. His throat hurt.
“What happened?” he asked, though he already knew. The memory wasn’t clean. It came in flickers. The street. A shout. People looking up. A blur of red and blue. The snap of something, followed by a heavy impact and then pavement rushing up at him like it was eager.
He’d been walking home with a grocery bag, thinking about whether he had enough money to cover rent and still replace the dying microwave.
And then Spider-Man had slammed into him.
Or something had slammed into Spider-Man and sent the masked guy into him.
Michael didn’t know which version was true, but he didn’t find himself to care. “How long?”
Nurse ignored his question while she checked a clipboard, then his pupils with a penlight that felt like a tiny sun. “You were brought in with a concussion and a laceration on your scalp. You have been in a come for a while. No bleeding in the brain. We stitched you up. You’ve been unconscious for…” She glanced down. “A little over six days.”
“Six,” he repeated, and the word tasted wrong. Six days gone. Worse, six days meant that his job was gone … maybe even his apartment, considering he had already behind the rent.
“We’ll keep you overnight,” she said. “Make sure the nausea doesn’t get worse, make sure you don’t vomit again.”
“I did?” Michael asked, horrified.
She gave him a look that was only possible from someone that cleaned it. “It happens.”
Michael exhaled carefully through his nose and immediately regretted it. Breathing hurt. Existing hurt. Thinking felt like dragging a chair across concrete.
“What’s your insurance information!” she asked, her emotionless voice getting a sharp hint.
Suddenly, the pain wasn’t that bad. He gulped at the realization. His life was already going terribly without adding a huge bill that would ruin his already bad credit score. He might not even find another apartment.
“Can I rest a bit more?” he said, hoping to distract himself. “I … My head is still spinning.”
“Fine,” the nurse said, but her tone was sharper, no doubt realizing his situation. Suddenly, Michael realized that the nonprofit nature would probably didn’t mean he wouldn’t be charged an arm and a leg. “We might consider discharging you early depending on the doctor’s opinion,” she said, confirming his guess.
She left, leaving Michael to worry. He wondered if he could just disappear and claim that he had never been treated, but he decided against it. He doubted that he could pull such a thing.
He was spinning. The nurse appeared ten minutes later, leaving him to worry. “There’s someone asking for you,” she said.
“Who?” Michael asked. After all, he didn’t have a family or any close friends that would care about that, and none of his other fast food workers would care him enough to find out he was in a hospital. Maybe his landlord?
“Some reporter. I can send them away if you want.”
Michael decided that what would be the harm. His life was already bad enough. Either it was not something important, or the reporter would hound him after he left… He didn’t trust himself not to punch someone after the day … week he had. He was in enough trouble without adding criminal charges to the mix.
Either way, seeing him was better. “Sure. I’m not doing anything,” he said.
He expected an overworked, annoying, mousy man, only to get a sexy brunette with a killer smile. “Hello there. I’m Betty Brant, from the Daily Bugle.”
His head throbbed harder on hearing the name, as he recognized why she was there. The enmity between the Daily Buggle and Spider-Man was one of the usual backgrounds of New York.
Michael sighed. “Look, lady,” he said. “I know why you’re here, but I can’t go annoy one of those masked idiots. My life is hard enough without one of them deciding to ruin my life.”
“What if we keep your name redacted? Journalistic integrity,” she said.
Michael sighed, and turned his attention toward the TV, where a man’s face dominated the broadcast; handsome, smug, effortlessly confident. Dark hair, expensive suit, an expression that said the world existed to entertain him.
The caption didn’t fit the picture. ‘Tony Stark is still missing after the terrorist attack in Afghanistan.’
Michael had seen the guy before, of course. Everyone had. Tony Stark wasn’t just rich, but also young and filled with scandals. The kind of life that a high school dropout like Michael could only admire from afar.
A sharp bitterness stirred in Michael’s chest, Tony Stark mixing with Spider-Man. The bitterness of watching powerful people treat the world like a playground while ordinary people got concussions on sidewalks.
All the while all he got was a stupid hallucination.
[Welcome to Chaos Gacha - Villain Edition!]
“And what if our paper makes a donation, dealing with your hospital bills,” she said, her smirk widening. “Hospital visits without insurance are always a trouble.”
Michael sighed, feeling that any possible harassment from Spider-Man was worth not dealing with Oscorp lawyers trying to get their money. “Fine, give me a signed document that you’ll cover my hospital fees, and I’ll give you the interview but let’s make sure it’s not too harsh.”
Betty Brant smirked as she reached her bag, and pulled a paper that showing Spider-Man embracing another famous figure, famous thief Black Cat. The heading was sharp.
Spider-Man destroys a city block helping a thief.
“How about now?” she asked.
Michael growled, anger and jealousy mixing in. He was fed up being invisible, weak. For one, he wanted others to pay back. “Let’s bury that fucker,” he growled.
The reporter asked several questions, and Michael, still dealing with the headache, just responded. He was aware that she was asking very leading questions, but he didn’t care. All he wanted was to get rid of his hospital bills, and make Spider-Man pay for putting him in the hospital.
“He didn’t call an ambulance,” Michael said, something he remembered. Spider-Man disappeared, leaving him bleeding in the street while someone else helped him.
Betty’s eyes sharpened. “So he left you.” She leaned in a little closer. “Do you think he is dangerous?”
Michael’s pulse thudded. It felt like a headline question. Too much heat. “Oh, yes. He’s a selfish menace,” he still spat out. For once, he wanted to hit back.
“Excellent,” Betty said. “Let’s leave you to your rest,” she said and left, leaving behind the signed documents.
Michael wanted to sleep.
[Feat Achieved! Vilify Spider-Man for Daily Buggle
+1x Gold Trait Gacha ticket]
He gulped, wondering whether he should call for a doctor, or hope that it would get better. But, before he could say, he reflexively reached to his mind, and something flicked.
[Lady Killer]
{Uncommon Trait: You are a natural lady killer, women always find you at least a little attractive regardless of their preferences, and a decent chunk of women would consider you handsome.}
Definitely hallucination, he decided as he turned his attention to the exhausted nurse that had just walked in. “Your bills are handled, and all you need to do is sign your papers, and that will be it,” she said.
But, there was something weird. She was smiling, widely, while playing with her hair.
Michael wasn’t unfamiliar with the female attraction. Before he got kicked out of the high school, he was the starting running back, with all the attention it brought. He was also decently handsome. After he struggled between jobs, he realized a handsome face wasn’t enough to overcome cheap clothing and a constant slouch of exhaustion.
But, he didn’t forget the way the girls acted when attracted. Playful glances, playing with their hair, unnecessary touches…
He gulped even as he signed the discharge papers, not responding to her flirting. He was busy wondering if what he was seeing was really an illusion.
And, if so, what did it mean for him. Could he really be a villain?
“Well, that answers the question,” he muttered when he arrived at his apartment, only to find the lock was changed, and his possessions were piled in front of the door. A pile that had been staying there for the last few days, so naturally anything that was half useful had been picked away, and the rest had been destroyed by passersby for fun.
He wondered if anything was recoverable, but considering the smell, he decided against it. It was a total loss.
He reached down the pile, and picked a smashed trophy. It wasn’t something valuable, merely a silly game MVP reward from an inconsequential high school tournament. The last one before the team was caught drinking in celebration … but only Michael got kicked out while the kids with rich families were treated as innocents somehow corrupted by him, the drugs one of them purchased blamed on him to send him to juvie.
“It answers the question indeed,” he repeated, his fingers tightening around the trophy, shattering the plastic completely.
&&&
Unfortunately, while decision to become a villain had been easy, acting was harder. For one, he didn’t know what exactly a villain was. Or, more accurately, he didn’t know what those mysterious writings calling itself Chaos Gacha defined as villain.
He wasn’t stupid. He didn’t miss the implication of his first reward. A villain was most easily defined by opposing the heroes, and Chaos Gacha rewarded him for it. The problem was that heroes were not easy to mess with. Spider-Man almost killed him, and that was an accident. What would happen if he decided to hurt him?
No, he needed to explore the limits of his System. For that, he needed to understand what a villain was. For that, he went to the public library to do some research … though, since he was currently homeless and too broke to afford a motel, he had no better place to go in any case.
He found an empty computer toward back, an old machine that it took a small miracle to run. Then, he started researching.
Even decades after their demise, Hydra was still regarded as the worst villain organization ever, giving him a direction. Genocide, murder, torture, violent experimentation… That kind of things, he didn’t even think before rejecting.
He wasn’t a monster.
Living in New York, he had other villain ideas. Green Goblin was one, a crazy costumed monster, going around causing chaos and mayhem, uncaring who he hurt. Michael refused that path as well. It was not as bad as Hydra, but that part was not a hard bar to clear. He wanted to strike back and rise, but not by killing and wounding other unfortunate people.
The style of the famous yet mysterious Kingpin, ruling the New York underground with an iron fist, regularly clashing with the heroes while staying in the shadows was out for the same reason. Drugs, occasional murder, constant exploitation. Not to mention, trying to force his way into gang business was an easy way to get shot.
As he researched, he found other ideas, like the mysterious dictator Doom who still insisted to be called Doctor, though never seen outside his borders after his most famous enemies had been disappeared several decade ago. It was a tempting version, but unfortunately, it was simply impossible to replicate.
Doctor Doom stayed, because everyone that fought against him and failed, and only after Fantastic Four’s disappearance — and likely death in the hands of Doctor Doom — things calmed down for him.
“A little outside my range,” Michael muttered darkly.
After some more searching, he paused, remembering the paper the reporter had shown him, about the Black Cat, which the papers called a villain.
A mere thief, nothing like the monsters that could destroy cities if they wanted, but still, media called them villains. Would that work?
He had done best to stay away from crime after his juvie stint, but it wasn’t due to any grand ethical concern. He had seen what happened to people who tried to climb out of the pit while using that as a method. They either ended up in prison for years … or six feet under.
“Maybe,” he decided. It was worth a try. Especially since, unless he was willing to stay out as a homeless person, he needed the money.
He started when leaving the cameras, when he saw a fancy bag that likely belonged to a rich student, swiping his wallet on the way. An easy way to get two hundred dollars, meaning he didn’t need to sleep outside.
Unfortunately, there was no ticket, suggesting that petty thievery wasn’t enough. Admittedly, there was a chance that the amount or number wasn’t enough, but it wasn’t a risk he could take. Every repeat represented a risk, and he doubted the police would be understanding about the fate of a homeless high school dropout.
But, as he walked through the river of people, people rushing after work, he decided to try his luck once more. Maybe a more direct crime would help. He collided against a man in a crisp suit, who was laughing into his phone. “Fuck off, idiot,” he man growled, which would have removed Michael’s guilt if he was feeling any.
He slipped his fingers, grabbing the leather rectangle of a wallet, and it slid free. Unfortunately, there was no reward once more. Unfortunately, the man was not carrying any cash, only cards, so Michael just threw the wallet to a corner.
He wasn’t stupid enough to try using stolen credit cards. Someone as poor as him had many friends with certain criminal tendencies, and Michael had watched many of them end up in prison because they acted carelessly.
He wondered if mugging would change things, but he decided against it. The risk was too much, and not just in terms of getting caught. Mugging was a dangerous move, with the potential to go out of control. One accident, one panicked move, and victim could easily get stabbed or shot.
It was not a risk Michael was willing to take even for a potential superpower.
“Maybe I’m thinking wrong,” he suddenly realized, slapping his head in amusement. Villains didn’t just steal, kill, or cause destruction. They did those things … wearing costumes.
It felt silly, but Doctor Doom also looked silly … while destroying the whole military of a country that decided to test the borders of Latveria. It was certainly not as absurd as getting a reward for ruining Spider-Man’s reputation with his interview.
And, even if it failed, he still needed to buy new clothes. He barely had three hundred dollars to his name, and that was with the two hundred he swiped from the rich kid, meaning his options were limited.
Thrift store, it was. He picked one of the larger ones to give him some options, as if he wanted to create a villain costume, it needed to be impactful … maybe even leaning into his sole trait that made him more attractive to the ladies.
He suspected it come handy, just like how Black Cat was helped by Spider-Man. He strongly suspected that if she was wearing frumpy clothes that didn’t show every curve like they were painted, Spider-Man wouldn’t have been willing to help her.
… and not almost kill him in the process.
Michael turned his attention toward what kind of costume he would wear. First, he needed to make sure that it didn’t look dangerous. The last thing he wanted was a superhero to punch him hard rather than writing him off as a threat. Meaning, no threatening weapons, or excessively dark colors.
He browsed through piles in the thrift store, gathering several clothes. Most of them were simple t-shirts and jeans, two pairs of shoes, but he splurged for a leather jacket even though it was twenty dollars, considerably more expensive than other used items.
But, while going through, he was also picking some stuff that could fit well with a gentleman thief idea. A puffy white shirt that was part of a medieval play caught his attention. It was absurd, but he decided looking ridiculous was good. So, he leaned on the idea, picking a hooded red cape and weird leather shoes, and even added a dark red domino mask that would keep upper half of his face covered.
After some thought, he even added a discarded thin sword prop to the mix. Not because he expected to use it, but because he could explain the other choices, making it like something he was preparing for a party.
A quick trip to the dressing room later, he received another notification.
[Feat Achieved! Create your first villain outfit
+1x Bronze Random Gacha ticket]
“Perfect,” he smiled, happy to see his assumption was correct. Admittedly, bronze was clearly worse than the gold he had received for the interview, but seeing it work was worth the trouble. He activated the reward.
[Charming Eyes]
{Common Trait: Not to be confused with the mystical eyes of charming, instead of hypnotizing people your eyes are just really pretty.}
“Or not,” he continued as the reward registered. Still, he wasn’t too bothered. The reward itself was useless, but at least he had confirmed that his plan worked.
With a sight, he gathered his stuff and went to pay, expecting a silent process. Instead, the cashier, a tired woman in her thirties, looked at him with a smile and a blush. “That’s a lot of purchases,” she said.
Michael paused a moment. He was so used to being ignored; he didn’t expect to be spoken, but flirting was like riding a bike. “Yeah, my crazy ex decided to make a point by burning all my clothes, so I need new ones,” he answered, giving her a crooked smile that he hoped to be charming.
It was. She blushed even more. “Such misfortune,” she said, interested. “You deserve a discount after all the suffering,” she winked.
“I certainly do,” he responded, but checking the receipt, he could see that she merely didn’t enter some of the items. But, in their place, he found her phone number, hastily scribbled.
“In case you need to … ask questions about your purchases,” she said.
He winked her playfully before leaving, happy to see her blushing.
Maybe his pretty eyes weren’t as useless as he had thought.