The Overlord Saga
Vol I. Past, Present, Future
The Introduction
The tale goes that, one day, she came with an army of a thousand, sweeping across the universe with guns blazing. She established her realm somewhere between Hell and Heaven and somewhere between Life and Death, monitoring the souls of the strong so that she could someday own the most powerful army to have ever existed... The tale goes that there was one who opposed her, one who fought for justice, righteousness, and all of that other ‘good’ bull crap. And one day, they would meet in battle, a clash that would tear Heaven down, and raise Hell, and jack up everything else in the universe...
At least, that’s how the tale goes.
Part I- Sworn Enemies
"There are tales of heroes.
There are stories of villains.
But what do you call a person
Who does not know which category they belong?"
Chapter One: Chinese Takeout
There were two things that the Overlord hated above all other things- Insurgents and paperwork. At the moment, however, the Overlord was seriously considering paperwork to be held at a higher degree of hatred over the Insurgents, especially as she eyed the stack of papers on her desk. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to do more- force the Soul-Keeper into signing these for her or just throw them all into the fireplace to burn. The Overlord figured she was sort of obligated to decline these absurd requests. ‘With underlings come responsibility’- that was what she always heard from the other evil villains. Listening to their complaints was the first step toward caring... She wondered what would happen then. Casual Fridays? Bring your child to work day? Good god, was she going soft?
Picking up the first paper, she half-heartedly read the title of ‘We need better janitors’ before checking the ‘decline’ box and signing her name, ignoring the full eight paragraphs of useless whining. The next one read something along the lines of ‘We want our souls back’, which received an amused chuckle, a bold check mark in the ‘decline’ box, and a loopy, almost mocking signature. ‘Idiots’, she thought, ‘They’re all idiots.’ But they were much-needed idiots, which is why she kept them around.
It was hard to be an overlord, but it was much harder to be THE Overlord. At every super villain convention, she always felt the need to compete with the other major villains- especially that damn Lex Luthor. Nothing screamed evil like a shiny bald head. And if Lex Luthor wasn’t bad enough, there were always the other villains attempting to steal the spotlight, namely the Joker (who the Overlord couldn’t stand- she even went so far as to ban the phrase ‘Why so serious?’ in her fortress), Sephiroth (who just needed to give up and die already), and that aggravating Lord Voldemort (though, sources recently told her of dear Tom Riddle’s passing... she didn’t intend on going to his funeral). They always harped on the same thing- the owning of underlings making them official villains. But this was all lies, the Overlord knew; underlings didn’t make a villain at all, it was the motive behind the villain that displayed his quality. Underlings were just a bonus to the evil villain occupation.
When it came down to it, she severely doubted Lex Luthor’s ability and was fully intending on showing him up at the next convention, which was scheduled within the month. It meant preparations were in order, but that was all a lifetime away, it seemed, since the paperwork had to be dealt with first. Angrily declining a request for better cafeteria food, she imagined the look on the pompous bald man’s face as he bragged about his latest plan to kill Superman.
‘Some of the oldies just need to make way for the newer generations’, the Overlord thought dismally as she scribbled her name on the line of the next paper, not even bothering to look at what it was called. All of these complaints were originating from the same two individuals anyways- they were just signed by different aliases. More than likely, they thought they were being clever. More than likely, they thought she wouldn’t find out.
During the past six months, the Insurgents had laid siege against the Fortress, only letting up recently to recover from the staggering counterattacks. The Overlord had watched them from her office as they had sulked back into retreat somewhere beyond the craggy landscape of her domain, slithering back into the forest like the serpents they were. She had captured the Insurgent Leader’s second-in-command, and had successfully placed his soul away the same day, leaving his willpower in her hands. She hadn’t bothered to ask what his name was, as most names were generally forgotten upon entrance into the Fortress. One thing had led to another, and through a bizarre chain of events (that the Overlord would have rather not discussed), the prisoner had become Underling Sexist. Though he was disobedient, the Overlord found tormenting him to be her next best thing to entertain herself- well, other than watching cheesy soap operas.
The other newest prisoner had been a soldier from the Insurgent Leader’s rabble, though, was a little more vocal than Underling Sexist. For further humiliation purposes and because the Overlord thought it was a cute name for a rambunctious, mouthy minion, he was later dubbed Underling Tinkerbell. It was then decided that Underling Sexist got the better name.
After declining half of the one foot-and-three-quarters tall pile of complaints, the Overlord turned away from the large wooden desk in her overly large, stereotypical villain arm chair and stared outside the window, at the lingering woods, as if expecting to see the Insurgents marching back with banners raised high and their midget of a leader standing at the helm of his gang. Propping her head up with a curled fist against her cheek, she sat in that brooding position that all villains took up when scheming something incredibly dreadful.
When the door opened, she did not startle, but merely swung the armchair around to glare at who had entered without knocking. When she saw the hooded figure, she sighed in exasperation and asked, “And what do you have to report THIS time?” The Overlord glanced at the stack of papers still sitting there and then looked at the masked figure as he tried to ominously walk to her desk. She didn’t tell him that he looked like a drunken salsa dancer even though his awkward movements completely killed the eerie mood (though, his humming of a few selections from Phantom of the Opera did little to help his case, too).
No one was exactly sure where the Soul-Keeper came from. He was ranked up there with the other wonders of the world- just so bizarre, so random, and so utterly weird that it was sort of assumed that it just appeared one day from thin air. No one was quite sure what lurked behind his white mask (which he fancied due to his love for the Phantom of the Opera) and hood, but whatever it was, it was assumed that it was not remotely terrifying. The Soul-Keeper was, in fact, the Overlord’s second-in-command, but his role was a fairly controversial subject.
You see, the Soul-Keeper carried a jar, believed to be enchanted by powers beyond even the Overlord. He kept it close to him every hour of the day and night, yes, even cuddling it close when he slept. While he treasured the jar above anything else, the Overlord knew it was only a pickle jar she had given him- ordinary and plain from Walmart. While it held a seal around its middle with a list of names of ‘souls’ it contained, it was not a particularly bizarre jar, though it did pulse with a special glow that Soul-Keeper believed to be the souls of the lower-ranked underlings. It had begun as a running gag in the Overlord’s army, but eventually, she had never had the heart to tell him that he’d been lugging around a pickle jar full of glowsticks for the past few decades. So, she allowed him to carry the jar under the impression that he was guarding a storage of souls. Every now and then, she’d cram another glowstick in there to ensure the Soul-Keeper that he had not accidentally released the souls into the Fortress.
Doors slamming shut on their own, the office grew suddenly very quiet but the sound of his shoes against the hardwood floor. “I have... A box!” the Soul-Keeper announced dramatically, pulling what looked like Chinese takeout from his black cloak.
“Whoop. De. Doo,” the Overlord said in over dramatic sarcasm and began to turn back to glare outside.
“But it’s a special box,” the Soul-Keeper insisted, then asked, “Is it your birthday? It says that it is to you!”
“Unless there’s orange chicken in there, I don’t care what’s in the box,” the Overlord remarked, still in a sour mood.
“It’s from the Insurgents!” The Soul-Keeper insisted, “Don’t you wanna open it? What if it’s a present?”
“Probably a bomb. Though, that’s very cliche, even for the Insurgent Leader,” The Overlord retorted, then extended a hand, “Hand it over...”
The Soul-Keeper gave the dainty box to the Overlord, and began rocking back and forth on his heels in a rather childish fashion. Usually, she had reprimanded him for appearing so ‘un-evil’, but the Overlord was busy opening the Chinese box carefully. She peered inside, taking note of a few remains of where orange chicken had once been in the box and laughed to herself when she tried to imagine the Insurgent Leader ‘going green’ and recycling. As she pulled out an envelope stained with various sauces (at least, she hoped it was from the chicken), she remarked lightly, “Odd place to put a letter,” before opening the envelope.
“So it’s not a bomb?” the Soul-Keeper asked in disappointment.
“We’d be dead if it was,” the Overlord said, forcing her voice to not sound too exasperated.
“What’s it say? What’s it saaaaaay?” the Soul-Keeper asked, sounding more and more like a five-year-old by the minute.
“Hold on!” the Overlord shushed him, and began reading with as much bravado as she could muster, “ ‘Dear Overlord, it has come to my knowledge that you have the intentions on attending the upcoming Super Villain Convention as you do each year. However, I endeavor on ruining your name, reputation, and further humiliating you so you may never show your face among the villain community ever again. My soldiers will be at your doorstep in two weeks. Be forewarned that this battle will be your last. I bid you a lovely evening and I am sorry that I ate the Chinese food that I was going to send to you. I love orange chicken. Sincerely, the Insurgent Leader’.”
“Dang it!” the Soul-Keeper yelled in sudden rage.
“We just got RID of them,” the Overlord nodded to her second-in-command, though was puzzled by his sudden outburst of rage.
“How dare he?” the Soul-Keeper demanded.
“I know! Pompous midget!” the Overlord shouted.
“It was mean of him!” the Soul-Keeper continued.
“Beyond mean! It was flat-out rude!” the Overlord yelled louder.
“I wanted that orange chicken!” the Soul-Keeper wailed pathetically.
The Overlord stopped and stared at the Soul-Keeper, briefly wondering why she had expected him to be concerned about the impending war. With a sigh, the Overlord rose from her chair, then declared, “War Council! Soul-Keeper, my faithful minion, it is time we met with our other generals!”
“Yes, Overlord!” the Soul-Keeper called.
“Bring me the Master of Tazers!”
“Yes ma’am!”
“Bring me the Advisor!”
“Of course!”
“Bring me the Ninja-Lord!”
“It shall be done!”
“Bring me the Animal Tamer!”
“Understood!”
“And bring me... all of those other important people I forgot!”
“Of course, Overlord! Uhhh... Question, Overlord?” The Soul-Keeper asked, scratching his head.
“Yes, Soul-Keeper?” the Overlord rested her snazzy black boots on her desk and picked at a nail with her thumb.
“Can we have orange chicken for dinner tonight?” the Soul-Keeper asked with a hopeful gleam in his eye.
The Overlord sighed, then rubbed her chin, “That depends on how fast you fetch the members of the War Council, Soul-Keeper.”
“If I go now, do I get Chinese takeout, then?” the Soul-Keeper asked excitedly. The Overlord merely nodded to him and he rushed out of the room gleefully singing as he did so. With a half-smile, the Overlord watched him leave, then folded her hands and inhaled deeply. She glanced out of the window toward the trees where the Insurgents lurked, poised to strike somewhere in the shadows.
‘Come and try to defeat me, Insurgent Leader. I’d love to see you try...’
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