Supervillain - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The Incinerator watched the inspector drawing closer, gun drawn. That gave him little choice. He didn't mind burning up the cop, or anyone else for that matter. But it galled him to use up so much energy this close to another bank-job. In the shadow cast by the close walls of the alley he was almost invisible, but once he turned to flame he would light up the whole street in wild fire. From the ignition of his extremities to full conversion was three seconds. If the cop squeezed off a round in that time it was just possible he could die, and he wasn't ready to. It pained him to give up yet more energy but a brilliant flash of white light first should be enough to blind the cop, giving him time to burn...
He had been nicknamed "The Triffid," but it was a tease rather than a name of respect. As supervillains go he was on the weedy side. The name referred to his green skin and that he sprouted leaves rather than hair. He looked wholesome and natural and he hated it. He wanted the planet to burn, to wanted every green thing gone, for the landscape to disappear in black smoke. Once there were no crops, no livestock, no industry he would be triumphant. As the only person on earth who did not need to eat a complete breakdown of social order would suit him just fine. In that world he and his budded clones would rule.
To the casual viewer The Incinerator was a beaten down old man, walking with a limp and mostly likely to die of lung cancer - a pack of cigarettes always pocking out of his top pocket. Underneath the beaten chassis of his van was a mobile secret base. Inside the walls blinked with the lights of high-end processors with top-of-the-line motherboards. Hanging on the wall was his trademark jet pack, kitted out with radar busting technology. With it was his smart-suit: hot when it was cold and cold when it was hot. Under the floor lay the computer controlled weaponry the police were so desperate to take back. So far the forces of the law had had little impact on his spree of violence over the city. When cornered he would simply become fire; no gun, laser or trap could hold him. He would shoot through the streets like a comet, burning everything and anyone in his path. Afterwards he would take clothes from a thrift store and retreat to his van for his powers to recharge.
Ability to control insects, specializes in blowing up bank volts and taking the money out with his insect helpers, sends queen bees, wasps, hornets and ants to attack bank staff. Robs honey farms and takes the bees for his insect army. Wears a suit weaved from millions of tiny insect legs and a face mask of insect guts. He has cameras in the mask eye sockets. His name is Dr Slim Worm.
Expert at coming up with evil plans, can warp metal just by looking at it, specializes in jail breaks and bank robberies, super skinny like a human spaghetti noodle, extremely heavy due to being made from high density black hole skin, is bald, eyebrows like feathers, beaky nose and massive rubbery lips. Wears chicken feathers on extremely tight leather clothes. Name: Cock-a-doodle Don't.
Brain-drain had picked the wrong victim this time, behind this apparently intelligent face lay the mind of a moron. Feeling his IQ dropping rapidly by the second he halted his brain-drain beam, but it was too late. He no longer could work out how to use his utility belt or arm computer. He stood there in his thermal underwear and spandex suit unable to read even street-signs, unable even to realise he couldn't read or what writing was.