Blank Mastermind

Hey, everyone!

Well, short story for today. 🙂

Going off a little idea I had… why is it only the heroes that get amnesia? Sometimes a vengeful villain should take a turn. (Warning though… this may turn into a serial story of sorts depending on how much storyline I work out. 😛 )

Anyway, here’s a character picture, and enjoy!


A Blank Mastermind




It seemed to be the only thing that existed.


It pushed like a giant, expanding bubble through my mind, clearing everything else. Gravity shifted, I fell and everything was gone.




Lying there so still, it almost felt like I didn’t exist. There was no sound. I was completely numb.


Except for a stinging slice across my back.


I tried to shift to put my hand on it, but my fingers only twitched.


I focused my energy to my eyelids, but only one would open. The other seemed swollen shut.


After managing to focus, I registered a number of confusing facts about my situation.

  1. I seemed to be backstage of something with lots of weird pagodas
  2. I was on my back in a container full of paper fans
  3. I was in a tuxedo
  4. The above fact was made stranger by the fact that it was covered in blood


I blinked the one eye that would open and started to tip my head back to see the ceiling. Pain shot down my spine at the movement.


I bit my lip hard. That made my nose hurt for some reason.


I reached my arm up to hold the back of my head.


Holy smoke . . . did anything not hurt?


Pushing through all the pain that was now coming in through every part of me, I grabbed the edge of the container and pulled myself upright.


I almost fell back over upon seeing the dead man only about a yard away from me. There were two guns and a knife lying scattered on the floor, along with a few bullet shells. The ground was puddled with blood.


It took an effort not to gag.


What happened here? Whatever it was, I needed to get out.


With a massive amount of effort I managed to get myself upright on my jello-legs. My eyes flicked over to a leather jacket crumpled nearby. That might be useful for covering up my somewhat less-than-presentable tuxedo.


I staggered over and picked it up with my foot, not exactly feeling up to bending over. The jacket slipped on perfectly over my shoulders, feeling like home.


Is this my jacket? I frowned and stuck my free hand in one of the pockets. A dog-eared piece of notebook paper, its edges soft from age, met my fingers. I pulled it out and unfolded it slowly.


“For Mom,” it read, in a slanted scrawl of handwriting, “for Dad, for Peter, for Elouisa. That which killed, shall be killed. Die by the sword.” My thumb brushed over another spot in the paper that felt puckered. Like it had been wet. A tear? I felt goosebumps prickle my arms.


I checked the other pocket. My finger poked out through a somewhat singed hole. A bullet hole. I sucked in my breath. Why don’t I remember any of this?


Everything seemed to be just on the verge of coming to mind, but when I tried to remember, it all shrank back into nonexistence.


Wincing, I pulled my hand away from the back of my head. It was covered in blood. My head started to throb again and I quickly put my hand back where it was.


Even the most basic things were gone. How I got here. Where here was. Who I was.


If it was important, you would have remembered it.


I snorted. Well, phony proverbs are about the worst thing my brain could have chosen to retain at the moment.


I looked down at the man on the floor. Did I kill him? Was it self defense?


A few of the ropes overhead holding up stage-stuff creaked and I squinted up at them. And why on earth did we decide to fight at a freaking opera?


There was whistling outside the door and I jumped, looking for a place to hide. I’d just managed to pull myself behind a curtain when the door thumped open and a janitor came in, pushing a squeaky old cleaning cart in front of him and whistling something off tune.


Of course, the whistling ended in a strangled gasp at the sight of the body. And man, he got out of there fast after that.


It didn’t really matter now if I’d killed the guy or not. And amnesia was a pretty flimsy story if anything went to court.


I spotted another door and made for it as best I could, zipping up my jacket (if it’s mine, that is) as I went and trying not to sound like some wounded animal.


The door squeaked as it swung open and I flinched. Adjusting my jacket collar, I stepped out into the hall. My unsteady footsteps were muffled by the carpet. All people noises were absent. There was only the calm whir of the heater, accompanied by a faint propane smell.


I looked both ways down the hall. There. A door with a sign proclaiming “EXIT” was to my right.


I took a few steps towards it before my knees decided to have a break from holding me up. Again, gotta love that carpeted floor. I’m almost sorry I got so much blood on it.


Just then, there was a noise from down the hall in back of me. I jumped and scooted myself up against the edge of the wall before stopping and listening.


This wasn’t a threatening sound. The movements sounded even more pathetic than mine. The next sound was a soft word: “Help.”


Something about it tickled a memory at the back of my mind. Was it the voice? Or the word it spoke?


I leaned forward, but couldn’t see anyone. Behind one of the doors, maybe? My guess was pretty well affirmed with the next sound. A moan, clearly coming from a door labeled “Employees Only”.


Using the wall to pull myself up, I made my shaky way over to it. There was no more noise. I put my ear up to the door and heard only a faint scuff. Whatever had happened, the guy didn’t sound in too good of shape.


I gripped the door handle and turned it, the shiny surface slipping a little from the blood on my hand. The door swung open into the room.


Security monitors glowed blue, illuminating the rest of the trashed area around. Knots of cords tangled on the floor and I saw what looked like a bullet holes in the wall behind.


And there on the floor was a man. He was smaller than me and smaller than the other man I had seen. Maybe ‘boy’ was a better term. And I was certainly right about his being in worse shape.


After a second of groping by the door, I found the lightswitch and flicked it on. The boy squinted at the sudden light, moaned again and rolled sideways, clutching his stomach.


I dropped next to him, “It’s okay. I’m here to help.” My voice cracked a little as I said it.


The kid’s eyes opened out of his pained squint and focused on me. Green eyes. He blinked. I swallowed my own pain and managed to give him a grin.


His eyes popped wide open and he sprang up like a coiled spring. He got his back slammed up against the wall farthest away from me before sliding to the ground again. Still, his green eyes stayed as open as windows with the shutters broken.


“Whoa . . . calm down,” I stood with effort and took a couple steps toward him, “I heard you and came back to help.”


The boy shook his head slowly, “No one comes back to help the person they just shot.”


Suddenly, I didn’t really want to know who I was.



Well, hope you enjoyed!

Any ideas what you want to happen next?

What do you think so far?

Please comment!


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