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cydanite · 1 year

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Theatrics of Deception

(Ao3 Link) EDIT I almost forgot! Credit to @the-storyteller-and-her-soldiers for helping me proofread this one, thanks love!!! <3

—

‘This has gotta be the worst state I’ve woken up in in a long while’ Martyn thinks with begrudging sentience. There’s an unpleasant fog clouding his mind, discouraging him from opening his eyes. His eyes in turn thrum back aches of muted pain in agreement, threatening the start of a headache if he dares try taking a peep. The discomfort in his head is only superseded by whatever surface he’s decided to sleep on jutting uncomfortably into his back. Honestly, the whole situation reeks of some bad decision he’s made. Some all nighter he’d tried to pull to catch up on work, or a party he’d spent way too long at. Slowly, he persuades his eyes to open, and a dark unfamiliar room unfurls before him as his vision adjusts.

‘Well that’s one point towards the latter.’

He starts moving to get up, before noticing his hands are stuck, somehow. Weird… He runs through a few next steps: trying to clear the brain fog preventing him from remembering what he did last night, running his thumb along whatever’s catching his wrists, searching for some kind of give, and taking in the room he’s in. It’s dark, real dark, he can only really make out the edges of sparse furniture and the small LED glow of a couple appliances, as well as- oh jeez is that a person over there? There’s a figure a few meters in front of him, their form hard to make out by the minimal light, and they’re just… standing there.

The hair on the back of Martyn’s neck stands on end, the situation just sobering enough to jog his memory, reminding him that he was neither pulling an all nighter writing in his apartment nor partying hard enough to ruin him completely the next day over.

What he was doing last night… he was furthering his investigation on The Red King.

Shit.

“Your audience is awake, my liege!” A gleeful voice emits from the figure as the lights in the room all blare on at the same time, blinding Martyn for a moment. He can now fully make out the confines of the small room he’s contained in, its windowless walls and concrete floor, as well as the wooden chair he’s sitting in, hands and feet tied up. He can also make out the figure before him, one he’s seen plenty in photos but never in person.

Sir Cadian is blanketed, near-entirely obscured by a thick carpet of moss, tiny blood-red flowers speckling its surface like stars, or blood splatter. It would make for a strange ensemble on its own if not for the shiny golden armaments it contrasted with. Gleaming against their lush backdrop close to a dozen golden watches, in a litany of sizes, orbit a long chain strung over his shoulder. Metal gauntlets, one larger than the other, catch the light at the sharp ends of pointed fingers. Most decorated of all is the golden helm he wears, a glittering visage of the sun where his eyes should be and the silver crescent of the moon covering his mouth with a faux-smile. He stands straight, before giving a deep bow and stepping dramatically to the side. And then, standing before him, is The Red King himself.

The Red King, a figure clouded in equal parts mystery and panache. A supervillain who first made his presence known six months back. He’s since enacted a variety of schemes that threatened the safety of the city, earning him a swift rise to infamy. To date, none of them have worked yet. He’s never even killed a person, directly or indirectly, as Martyn has pointed out in his writing. But thus far The Red King hasn’t needed to. His force of presence always spoke for itself and, regardless of what his actions might convey, the people feared him.

He’s dressed in a fine regalia decorated with fur trim and vicious, claw-like tears in equal adornment. A tarnished bloody crown rests between two pointed canine ears atop his head. Below, his eyes are obscured by a blood-red mask, the edges of which feather and bleed into his matching dark hair and massive cloak, trailing behind him like a stain as he slowly approaches Martyn. He’d also only seen him in photos before this moment, but aside from his nerves firing the main detail he registers now is just how The Red King towers in person. He finally stops a few feet away from him, his teeth gleaming like daggers as his mouth twists into a wicked smile.

“Martyn Littlewood.” His voice drips with an accent both archaic and modern. “Ye’re brazen to think we wouldn’t catch ye snooping.”

Martyn tries to keep his face stoic, staring The Red King straight in the bloody imprint where his eyes probably are. It’s the one skill he swears gets him all his top stories. Fake it ‘till you make it, when you’re found out you’ll have at least learned something. Plus the alternative right now would probably involve him passing out right now. So he steels himself instead.

“I, uh. I didn’t think you’d mind is all. Plenty of articles have been written about you already.”

“Yes… and several of them yours.” The Red King waves his hand, and behind him Sir Cadian grabs a leaflet of papers from atop a wood desk standing next to the door.

“Ahem. ‘The Red King; New Villain Emerges in Metropolis Area.’ ‘Expert Analysis on The Red King; Motive, Methods, and Powers - Lycanthropy Confirmed?’ ‘Hostage Situation at Red King Lair; Soup Group Saves the Day!’ ‘Hotguy and Cuteguy - Assault at The Monolith; What We Know.’ ‘Top 10 Villainous Fits; Who Does Bad While Looking Good. The Red King - Number Four’.” Sir Cadian lowers the papers from his face. “Wow! This guy’s a bonafide freak!”

“Never writing sensational periodicals again. I stand by what I said there though.” Martyn states, yet his voice is merely a whisper through his teeth.

“The point remains.” The Red King bellows. “Ye’re… prolific in the field. To be honest, fer someone as knowledgeable as ye are, I'd have thought ye’d have thought up a plan to evade us. Luckily the good Sir doesn’t disappoint.”

Sir Cadian twirls one of many pocket watches by the chain. “Next time include me in the headline!”

Martyn scoffs. “Well I’m here now either way. Not sure what you would want with a simple reporter like me anyways, unless you need a ‘you’ expert for some reason.” He turns his head to face away from the King. The Red King smiles, giving a hearty chuckle, before beginning to circle the room, walking away from where Martyn is looking.

“I assure ye, I understand myself perfectly fine. Just as well as I understand your justified fear of me right now.” He’s made it halfway around the room now, standing behind Martyn. Just out of his field of vision. The back of his chair is thinly scraped by the sharp tips of clawed fingers. “Ye can stop worrying. Fer right now at least, my plans for ye aren’t malicious. I actually have a favor to ask.” He stops and folds his hands behind his back, standing in front of Martyn once again.

“ …Go on.”

“I have a message. A message I wish to tell to everyone in this wretched city. I want it to carry through the streets like wind, to stick to the mind of people like frost.” Martyn flinches back best he can as The Red King suddenly jolts forward, their faces now inches apart. “My message will be the front page headline tomorrow morning, Mr. Littlewood. Do I make myself clear?”

The Red King’s breath wisps across Martyn’s face as his smile grows, widening into a toothy maw full of impossibly long rows of canines. The dark jagged shadow of his hair bristles across broad shoulders. A sharp sound emanates from below, and Martyn can hear the wood of the chair he’s in crack and splinter where razor-sharp claws press into its arms. Right now, the face staring at him looks like the nightmare a kid has after being read a fairy tale not fit for their age, constrained only by the imagination of their fear.

Martyn takes a breath. Fake it ‘till you make it…

“Alright, but only if you do something for me.”

The Red King’s smile, his bravado, for only a moment, falters.

“You have no right to make requests at The Red King’s orders, you-” Sir Cadian begins to storm over from the sidelines before The Red King raises their hand to stop him, smile returned.

“Sir Cadian, ye forget the position we’re in allows us to entertain and, in turn, be entertained.” His hand lowers as his gaze locks onto Martyn’s once more. “Tell us now, what would you request? Your Majesty?” He ends, voice dripping with ichor.

“Allow me to interview you.”

A beat, and then the king rumbles in a roaring, deep-bellied laughter, Sir Cadian following in suit with a falsetto wheeze of glee. Martyn waits for the two to finish their raucous laughter before continuing.

“As you said previously, I am something of a resident expert on you. You’re one of the main topics of my articles. Being able to talk to you, in person no less, is like a dream come true for me. You want me to spread your message, let me ask a few questions and whatever answers you give I’ll spread those as well, reporter’s promise.”

The ghost of laughter still haunts The Red King’s mouth, its edges curled into a smile. His eyes, however, study Martyn with a deeper curiosity now, searching for any kind of trap in his offer. After a few seconds his smile fades into a more serious look.

“If ye know me as well as ye say, you know I value my secrecy. But you’ve put me in a fair mood, so~!” He sits on top of the wood desk, almost casually. “I’ll allow ye one question and one question only for me to answer as I see fit to. Understand?”

Martyn nods, eyes fixated.

His smile widens. “Then shoot.”

“...How are you?”

When he looks at The Red King, he’s sitting in front of him, ears pressed against his head, eyes furrowed in a mixture of confusion and scorn, and one clawed hand curled against his lips in thought. And Martyn knows that, if only temporarily, he’s just killed The Red King’s act. The two stare at each other, waiting, the rising tension begging someone to make a move. Martyn doesn’t falter, and it’s The Red King who backs away first, standing up and turning his back to Martyn, arm’s crossed.

“How am I.” He taps his foot, mulling the words over in his mind like one would an object. “How am I.” He rolls his head around his shoulders. “How… am I.” The tapping stops.

“I… am growing impatient, Martyn. I have been for a long while now. The people of this city have forgotten the true meaning of fear. They’ve grown soft, placid. Emboldened.”

The Red King turns back to face Martyn with all the ferocity of a blizzard, the empty void of his eyes now glowing a cold white light as his claws grip his shoulders.

“When you tell those people: ‘Red Winter is Coming.’ When you tell them those words, Martyn. Then, and only then, will my patience be rewarded.”

The Red King turns away with a flourish of his cape, marching towards the door and yanking it open, Sir Cadian meekly following behind. The Red King turns his head, staring back at Martyn one last time.

“Don’t fail me.”

And the door slams shut with an echoing boom, rattling the few freestanding objects in the room. He’s alone now, and despite his heart racing at a mile-per-minute pace Martyn gives a quiet smirk to himself. He can’t help it.

He’s always been a damn good listener.

—

It’s dark out when Martyn wakes up from another overly oppressive sleep, slumped against a wall of some abandoned alleyway on the outer edges of the city. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he reaches into the messenger bag his captors had thankfully returned to him. It takes a couple of minutes for his phone to wake up from the total inactive state it was placed in, but eventually he can start returning a couple worried texts and figuring out where the closest station is to get home. And then he takes a deep breath, stands up, and taps his boss’ number. As it rings he braces for how hard he’ll have to fight to change tomorrow’s headlines so late.

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