In which a superhero meets his match, masks are uncovered and a mad scientist just tries to get some mad science-ing done without getting distracted by the antics of her magical minion.

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There was something to be said for the elegance of a heist coming together. The weeks of careful planning, the intricate machinations ensuring everyone and everything moved according to plan, and lastly the deep satisfaction of a job well done. All fine things.

Dionaea did not have any of them.

Her preferred method of entry was executed with all the subtlety and sophistication of a rampaging rhino.

The security guard fell to his knees, his eyes glazed over with a mix of confusion and admiration. Dionaea, the infamous Poison Princess, She of the Skimpy Outfits, Supervillainess Extraordinaire, gave him a gentle smile and touched two fingers to her lips, blowing him a kiss. Her breath smelled sweet, carrying a neurotoxin that quickly overpowered his senses. He swayed, and slumped over.

“Sweet dreams,” she crooned almost lovingly, and stepped over his unconscious form to make her way deeper into the hallway, following the siren song of the vault. And really, who was she to resist the call of enormous stacks of poor, helpless money, begging to be rescued from the clutches of greedy bankers?

She sighed softly when she came upon the vault door, an enormous titanium beast; easily several feet thick and likely heavily reinforced.

Well, there was nothing a little brute force couldn’t solve. And if a little brute force couldn’t do it, then there was always a lot of brute force. If it ain’t broke… break it harder.

Dionaea splayed her fingers, her fingernails curved and pointed. The casual observer might think them claws, and she certainly wasn’t above using them as such, but in truth they were thorns. She pressed one against her open palm, wincing only a little at the sharp pain. Dark red blood welled, and a drop fell to the floor.

A low rumble shook the ground to her feet, and from her drop of blood rose a crimson vine, slowly writhing its way around the edges of the vault, prying for a weak access point. Dionaea slashed her palm again, and more vines joined the first, growing in length and breadth with every passing moment.

Blood magic. Useful, but ever so messy.

The metal screeched in protest when the now giant vines began tearing it out of the wall, the titanium alloy folding like little more than paper under the enormous pressure.

That’s when the alarm started blaring.

Dionaea, or Diane, as she was known to her friends — okay, friend, singular — raised her hand, pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation. Well, she still had time to empty the vault before the police arrived and then could slip out unnoticed while her vines created a distraction…

The metal door was finally torn from its hinges, violently crashing against the opposite wall. Diane casually stepped through the gaping hole, inhaling sharply at the sight that greeted her.

Stacks of money, towering over her.

So… beautiful.

“I missed you so much,” she choked out, wrapping her arms around The Precious.

“Touching,” a low voice said dryly behind her.

Diane tensed, but did not turn, instead opting to stroke the cash in what was, quite frankly, a very inappropriate manner. “I’m having a moment here. Any chance I could have some privacy?”

“No.” Did she imagine the hint of amusement? Most likely. Heroes had no appreciation for her brand of humor. Especially this one.

She turned her head, showing him her profile, and watched him out of the corner of her eyes.

The Shade.

He was clad from head to toe in black, formfitting leather, hiding his face beneath a hood drawn over his head. A billowing cape was draped around his shoulders and added to his intimidating appearance. He was holding himself deceptively casual, but she knew he was poised to strike — as one of the superheroes with more low-key powers, he was feared for his skilled martial arts, which he was known to utilize to a brutal degree. A dangerous combination for Diane, whose physical prowess was laughable. Close Quarters were his domain, not hers.

And, while comparatively weak, his powers did all but guarantee him a first strike. He could blink — teleport over short distances and appear out of any shadow. Hence the name. Because fuck subtlety.

Diane realized she had some… personal issues on the subject of codenames. The name she had chosen for herself, Dionaea — aka Dionaea Muscipula, the Venus flytrap — had struck her as quite brilliant when she’d taken up the mantle. The rest of the world disagreed. Or rather, didn’t know what it meant.

And kept misspelling it.

She may or may not have thrown a car through the window of a national newspaper’s office in outrage.

“Pity,” she drawled, buying time while her metabolism went into overdrive to produce a sedative to coat her pseudo-claws and lips. She’d used up most of her body’s natural defenses to take out the guards. “Any chance I might interest you in a threesome? You, me, and the money?”

He cocked his head and she could tell he was giving her the once-over. She was scantily clad, strategically placed leaves and vines concealing only the barest minimum of what might be considered decent. Call her a flower child, but she really did feel best when showing as much skin as possible. Clothes got in the way of her photosynthesis. Plus, it had this effect… Shade shifted uncomfortably, and she smirked. Men.

“That money is not yours. You’re under arrest for attempted robbery.” His voice was gruff, and all business. No fun at all.

“But we love each other! Well, I love the money a lot. I like to think it reciprocates.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Ours is a torrid love affair.”

“I was never much of a romantic,” he said gravely.

“How sad for you.” And before she’d even finished the sentence, her vines struck, sweeping under his leg to knock him over. He reacted with lightning fast reflexes, dissolving into smoky shadows before he truly lost his balance.

Something slammed into her from the side and she gasped in pain. Fucking hate teleporters! She lashed out, palm open, sinking her thorns into his thigh. He grunted, but otherwise seemed unaffected, quickly wrapping his hands around her wrists and yanking them behind her while pushing her on the floor, subduing her. She kicked and writhed, but it was no use; he was clearly experienced at taking people down this way.

“Get off me, you brute!”

“I don’t think so.” He sounded almost… bored. Like she was nothing!

Diane grew very still then, breathing heavily to feign exhaustion. She might have used most of her toxins on the guards, but she’d gotten in a direct hit with her thorns.

“What, no clever quip?” he asked sardonically.

“I’m not here for your entertainment.”

“Pity,” he echoed her words from earlier. He shifted his weight, and she had no choice but to press her cheek to the cold floor. Oh, she’d make him pay for this indignity.

Her vines struck once more, wrapping around his torso and yanking him back. He yelled and she could hear him struggle, but did not hear the sound of him dissipating into smoke. She chuckled low in her throat, slowly standing up and turning around. As suspected, like most teleporters, he teleported everything he had a grip on — or that which had a grip on him — and he had an upper threshold of how much weight he could transport. And her vines had grown to be truly massive.

She sauntered up to him with a smile. The vines were curling around his wrists, pulling them above his head while leaving him bound to the wall. The hood obscured his eyes, but she could see the tendons in his neck standing out, and he bared his teeth at her.

“Oh, slow reflexes, hm? That’s my neurotoxin at work. Now there shall be clever quips. I have prepared a list…” She trailed off as she stared at the wound her thorns had inflicted. She’d torn away part of the black uniform on his thigh. He followed her gaze and grew rigid.

The Shade, the Dark Vigilante who struck terror in the hearts of evildoers everywhere…

…was wearing pink lace panties.