Morals of a Villain

Chapter 2: The Guest

Damon pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket, search through them until he came to the one he was looking for. He shoved it in the lock and turned it sharply, taking a deep breath to ready himself for the nonsense he was going to have to deal with this time. And he let the heavy wooden door swing open.
Behind it was a simple yet beautiful room, with well polished hardwood floors, a proper bed with a luxurious duvet over top of it, a writing desk, a fireplace, and even a locked and bolted window to stare forlornly out of, if one felt so inclined. Hardly something to complain about. Repeatedly. 
The occupant of the room fit these surroundings, too; Her long black hair flowed down over her shoulders, framing her rosy cheeks and sweet complexion in curtains of ebony night. Her eyes were a deep  brown, filled with little lights running through them that caught the sun and twisted it into beautiful threads of shimmering gold. The red suit she had stubbornly refused to change out of looked ancient after being worn for a week straight, but it still flattered her in all the ways a properly tailored garment should have. She had thrown the jacket over the back of the chair set at the writing desk, but even the loose frilly shirt she wore under it looked good on her. She was stunning, and Damon wasn't afraid to admit it. He was actually quite pleased with the change of pace he had brought, and found himself enjoying the hatred and anger of someone who took their fashion seriously and worked style into functionality over the dramatic 'fight to the death' pickmes who always seemed to wear the same type of dress, and badly at that. He would have enjoyed himself a little more if his captive could see that there truly was no way out of this, but he supposed that what she lacked in wits she made up for in tasteful practicality. And besides, her repeated attempts to anger him with her complaints gave him a reason to antagonize her even more, which he heartily enjoyed. Even if this wasn't the best time and he wasn't in the mood to poke her even closer to her breaking point than she already was, he still knew he would find some way to have fun with it. 
Damon leaned against the doorframe, staring blankly at the girl sitting in her writing chair with a pen poised in her hand. She hadn't even bothered to look up when he entered, continuing  to jot down notes with a vengeance. "What do you want, Angel?" He asked, making sure to keep his voice cold and expressionless. "I want you to post a letter for me." She said, still not even bothering to look up and acknowledge his existence. Damon couldn't help cracking a smile. She was such an entitled brat. Even when she fought, she expected everyone to simply fall at her touch and die painfully without her having to do anything. It was honestly quite amusing, even if it did get on his nerves a little bit. "You know I'd have to read it, don't you?" He asked, keeping the smirk on his face out of his voice. The girl nodded, slipping the letter into an envelope and pressing the emblem on a ring she wore into the wax pooled on the paper flap. "I know. But there's nothing really all that bad in it, so it's not like you won't send it for me." She said, turning at last and standing to give him the letter. Damon shook his head, incredulous. He had held many captives in his life. And in all that time, he had never met one who hadn't either constantly tried to fight him, or cowered in fear of his power. Not before Angel, that was. He couldn't be sure what exactly went on in her head, but whatever it was led her to think that irritating Damon and having him do menial tasks for her all while still making it clear that she intended to kill him the second she got a chance was somehow a good idea. It was honestly more confusing than it was annoying. "There could be code." He said, still not willing to concede. He fully intended to take her letter, if for no reason other than to read it himself and figure out what it was she really wanted to say. But he wasn't going to do that without poking at her at least a little bit. Angel shook her head. "No code. It's just something to tell my family that I'm fine and they don't need to send my sister after me." She said, laughing a little. Damon raised an eyebrow. "Really?" He said, unconvinced. "You are aware that I know your family is dead, don't you? You let that slip in  the fight you lost by being a bitch and refusing to let yourself have fun." He added, a note of triumph in his voice. The fight in question had happened three days ago now, when Angel had somehow survived the horrors he had inflicted on all of his enemies at a party that was meant to be more of a bloodwash than and actual gathering to celebrate anything. Whatever had happened to get her through the poisons he had used to kill any hero stupid enough to take a drink, and the armed battalion ready to get rid of everyone else, it had to have been influenced by sheer luck. She didn't possess any fighting skills, or tact, or even a willingness to use the romantic charm she had somehow gained over the course of her life to get herself through tough situations. She was completely and utterly helpless, to the point that he was extremely confused why any party of of his opposition would have sent her. And, what was more, she couldn't even lie effectively. She had poured out a whole story about Damon supposedly murdering her family, and she hadn't even bothered to remember it. If she was going to make up some tragic backstory to justify her actions, she should have at least stuck to it. 
Angel shook her head. "No, my family isn't dead; my parents are. Thanks to you." She added the last bit in a spiteful undertone, clenching one fist behind her back. Damon tilted his head, trying to understand why this changed anything. "So, your grandparents are worried about you? And your sister, I suppose?" He asked. Angel nodded. "They're not really involved with my...work. But they know it's dangerous, and they hate it when I don't give them some sort of message to let them know I'm ok." She said. Damon shook his head. "'Ok' wouldn't be my first choice of words to describe what you are. Mentally unstable, perhaps, or psychotically unconcerned with anything other than being stubborn and trying to piss me off." He said. Angel shrugged. "In all honesty, Damon, I'm not too worried, considering your track record when it comes to holding hostages. If you were the Count of Devlishire, I might be more worried. But you never hurt your captives. It would take away all the fun for you." She said. Damon laughed, breezily dismissing her words with a wave of his hand. "Oh, darling. You haven't done your research, have you?" He said, stepping up to the girl and looking into her eyes with a glare that could have burned a hole through her. "If you did, you would know that I have a much worse reputation than any Count." He said, his voice dropping to a dangerously low tone. Angel swallowed, a worried look flashing over her face for a second before she went back to her usual obstinance. "Why have I never heard of the horrors you commit, then?" She asked, staring up at him with a stubborn and unfazed smirk. "The Count is feared by everyone in my circles. He's terrifying, and you...aren't." She said, certain in her confidence. Damon shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe it's because I can actually keep my captives from running and not have people escape with their lives and, more importantly, their stories." He said, a sarcastic note in his voice. Angel waved this away. "Whatever. I severely doubt there's anything you would actually do to me that goes any further than just being irritating." She said. Damon chuckled. "Would you like me to try? 'Cause don't get me wrong love, I have no qualms killing you and obliterating your corpse." He said, expecting Angel to back down at this. But to his surprise, she took a step closer to him and put on one of the most forced scowls he had ever seen. "I dare you." She growled. 
Damon chuckled. "Alright, then. If you insist." He turned and gestured to one of the two guards stationed outside the room. "Frank, I need you to take our guest downstairs." He said, smiling at the thought of finally knocking some sense into this girl. One of the guards turned, a confused look on his face. "Are we letting her go, sir?" He asked. Damon shook his head, grinning from ear to ear. "No Frank. Further down." He said. The guard was quiet and confused for a moment, before a look of comprehension dawned on his face. "Oh. I see." He said, a shit-eating grin replacing his bafflement. Damon nodded, and turned back to his captive. "I suppose you'll want to amend your letter now. Something like 'I'm going to fucking die, so don't come looking for me'." He said, pleased to finally have a reason to take his thumb screws out again. It had been far too long since they had last gotten some use. "No, this will still work." Angel said, completely unfazed. She shoved the letter into Damon's hand, and willingly followed the guard out of the room. 
Damon watched her go, pondering just how long she'd be able to keep this up once she realized what she was in for. It seemed as though she was almost happy to go. Relieved, even. Which was strange, considering that being tortured was pretty much the last thing anyone ever looked forward to. Perhaps she did have a deathwish, and had just forgotten to bring her cyanide pills to the ball. Oh well. He didn't suppose it really mattered; after all, she wasn't all that important to begin with. If anything, she was probably one of the heroes he was least worried about, mainly because he had never even heard of her. He had heard of the group she claimed to be a part of, but not of her specifically. Which was odd, since the heroes of each group of his enemies were sort of their spokesmen. Damon shrugged to himself and started back towards his study, tapping the letter Angel had shoved at him against one of his hands. It was odd that even when she knew she was going to be tortured, she still wanted to make sure that her family got whatever message she was sending. It must have been rather important to her. Or, maybe to someone else beyond her and whatever relatives she still had. 
Damon stopped, deciding it was best to see if he could unravel the code now then to wait. He had quite a few things left to do in the day, but none of them would amuse him as much as examining puzzles in an attempt to find out what was really going on, and why it was so important that it rose above any apprehensions Angel might have had towards suffering. With a flick of his wrist, he tore the envelope open and dumped a carelessly and improperly folded sheet of paper into his hand. It was a bit of trouble to figure out how to unfold it, since the corners were stuck down in an origami pattern that kept them from being easy to get past. The icing on this mildly irritating cake was that the words 'fuck you' were written on each corner, just for an extra bit of a kick. After a few moments of struggling, Damon managed to get the letter open and flatten it out enough that he could read it. He turned it over, examining the tiny writing that covered about a quarter of the page and wondering absently why Angel had gone to this much trouble just to inconvenience him when he was trying to screen the darned thing. He glanced over the letter, causally looking for any clues that might have told him what it was really about. 
But it didn't take long after reading it over the first time to realize that he had made a horrible mistake in letting Angel be moved across the house and left in the open "Shit!" He muttered, dropping the letter and taking off running in the direction of his guard and captive. 

Dear Damon, as I know it's you who will read this letter. 

First off, you should never underestimate an idiot. And don't bother denying it, I know that's what you see me as. And honestly, you're not to far off; I am a bit of a fool. A dunce, even. But the thing is, that's only me. I am only one half of this equation. The other half is the one you should truly be worried about. 
Ever heard of the name Pandora Viousce? I'm sure you have; she's escaped your grasp once before, as you claim is impossible. She's also my sister. And I don't know about your family, but mine is very good at working and communicating together, to the point that even if one of us is being held captive we'd still be able to pass messages. And that's exactly what's been going on behind your back; you see, every time I insisted on seeing you to talk about something stupid and insignificant, it wasn't because I was trying to irritate you or even because I actually wanted to talk about whatever it was that I called you for. It was because I needed you to be distracted enough that you wouldn't hear someone else sneaking around and mapping out your house from the outside, or slinking past your guards to copy keys and hide weapons where they would be needed. I was distracting you, you absolute fuckwit. And judging off of the fact that this letter could even be written, I think I did a fairly good job. I hope you weren't too attached to the guards leading me out into the open where it will be much easier to fight, since they are almost certainly dead by this point. Oh! And the origami. Did you like it? Because it gave me an estimated extra thirty seconds to get far enough away from you that my sister could get to me, and it most certainly told you my feelings regarding this whole situation. So, once again, I would just like to say fuck you. Fuck you for not having the decency to die when I was peer pressured into  coming after you. Fuck you for not doing any kind of research to figure out whether or not I am actually a hero, and not just a pretty face a political group could mourn the loss of as a way of showing that they participated in your blood bath. Fuck you, Duke Fitzlend. 

                                                                                                                                            Sincerely, Angel Viousce.