If you are reading this, not everything has failed.

I don't know how much you remember, or how much you have forgotten. But in case of the worst, you must remember this: You are Blank Slate, and you have the power to return anything made into its original state (and wipe memories from living beings). You are a power eleven and the number one supervillain in the West-Quarter city-region, but you are not evil. You have eight rules. Do not break them; you have forgotten things because you broke rule six.

Never break the rules.

Rule one: don't talk to heroes. They will try to turn you (through the same, boring speech).

Rule two: don't trust anyone, even yourself.

Rule three: work alone. No exceptions.

Rule four: cowards live to fight another day.

Rule five: prove yourself.

Rule six: never use your power on any living thing.

Rule seven: kill only when necessary. (It's not necessary.)

Rule eight: you are not evil. You are not evil. You are not evil.

Important things you should know about yourself:

1. You are twenty-five, born Feb 2nd, 2317. If you forgot that, I don't know how you're reading this.

2. Your citizen name is Denizen Awlden, and you work in cybersecurity for Tushuguan. It's not a bad job.

3. You are trying to make yourself known to Deception so you can meet her again. She will accept you in every way.

4. You don't know where your family is, nor do you care. They never wanted you anyways.

5. Dan, your coffee shop friend, is not his real citizen name, but he won't tell you his real one. His superhero name is Formic, he is a seven, and he's a member of the Storm Cell team (the number one team in West Quarter). He doesn't know you're a villain and he has even asked you to help with the hero's cybersecurity.

6. Naturally, you have a bug in the hero's cybersecurity. It only records and spies when you tell it to, as the heroes would notice it otherwise. Only use it in emergencies. It will self-destruct after one use, but the hole in their system will remain for you. (Coded passwords are in the file attached.)

7. Cyclone (supervillain, a six) is your enemy now. He is evil and will not hesitate to kill you. Avoid him at all costs and never trust the wind.

8. Similarly, the heroes are likely to kill you because they cannot contain you; power suppressants don't work on you. The Storm Cell team is personally looking for you and you cannot be caught—for their sake as much as yours.

9. You used to be a nine, but recently you were captured by the heroes and the near-death experience made you an eleven. Consequently, you have prepared lists of your new allergies, symptoms, important knowledge, and have written your will. These are attached in the file "Lists" at the end of this message.

10. White, blank white, is your signature color.

11. Don't come up with any catchphrases or use them during raids. They're silly and make you look stupid.

12. This message is written and recorded by yourself just before you attempted to wipe your own memories on May 20th, 2342. It will self-destruct after one day.

13. What happened in the past is irrelevant. Focus on surviving as the number one villain and keep an eye out for any signals Deception might give.

14. Don't attempt to remember what made you become the top villain. It's not worth it. (You won't find anything true about the incident on the news, so don't bother; the news lies all the time.)

End of recording.

Silence consumes the room, all too loud after the recording ends. It buzzes in my ears like TV static, blending with my uneven breaths and the hum of my computer fans into an obnoxious symphony. Villain. I am a villain. The phrase echoes in my head, a hand constricting my heart with each reverberation it makes. A villain. No, not just a villain, the number one villain of Florere's West Quarter.

How? I don't...feel evil. I don't feel like I need to rob a bank or beat someone up. I Don't feel like...a villain. And yet, I am a villain, according to this message. A villain that has done something so horrible, so spectacular, so massively destructive that he is top priority of all the heroes in West Quarter. A heaviness settles in my stomach, spreading with the speed of cold molasses.

I close my eyes, sucking in a deep breath and holding it for as long as I dare, searching my mind for any hint of evil intentions. The static in my head blurs and hums, void of any answer. I...don't remember if I was evil. Not just that, I don't remember anything else. Not my favorite food, my name, my city, or even...me.

A blurry image rises out of the darkness of my mind, a brief scene of a normal day at school taking shape. My breath rushes out of me and I slump in my chair, relief so strong I can almost smell it. No, not everything. I haven't forgotten everything.

Clutching the memory, I push deeper for more. At first, it is like wandering through a blank file directory, opening file after file only to find all of it empty. But slowly, I come upon scraps and fragments of life with no context or order. As I go deeper, the memories start to take on recognizable shape and form until they are complete scenes.

Me, sitting at the kitchen table, staring at an empty homework page. Me, roasting marshmallows over a fire, open mouthed and enraptured as Mom recounts one of her wild and hair-raising villain encounters on the field. Me, digging into half of an entire watermelon with a spoon on a hot beach, laughing as my brother accidentally flings his spoonful of sweet, red flesh into the sand. Me, racing up the stairs two at a time, chasing my dad as he darts away with my motion controller while he cackles maniacally. All of it—all of the memories I find—are me just being a normal kid.

How can I have gone from that to...to...this? A villain, alone and apparently hostile towards his own family, and desperate enough to wipe his own memories. What happened between my childhood and now? It doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense.

Shoving away from the desk, I get to my feet and step away, running my hand through my hair. One thing at a time. Take care of yourself first, then you can think about the rest. Sighing, I sweep my gaze around my surroundings. With the thick curtains drawn, it's shrouded in gloom, but from the glow of my laptop I can make out a bed, two doors, and a dresser.

The bed is neatly made and the room is spotless, almost as if it wasn't lived in. But as I continue to peer past the shadows, I spot signs of life. A hoodie hangs carelessly on a hook on the back of the door set into the wall directly in front of me, and on the nightstand is a charging tablet. On the dresser are picture frames and what seems to be a trophy.

It's as if I am looking into a stranger's room, intruding into their personal space, and yet I know it must be my bedroom. My room. My place. The weight in my stomach evaporates into a cloud of smoke and singes my lungs, reaching, burning, pressing towards my throat.

This—this is ridiculous. Sour laughter bubbles out of my mouth and I tear my hands through my hair again. I should remember my own room! I should remember my own name, my own life, my own everything, but I don't. It's all blank; all empty and unknowable.

The laughter threatens to turn into a scream, and the static in my mind buzzes louder and louder as the pressure under my ribs builds. Cold rushes down my arms and burns in my fingers as if I had stuck them in icy water, and I snap my mouth shut. The static vanishes and silence rushes back in.

Cold? I hold my hands out in front of me, palms up. The tips of my fingers are drained of color, starkly white compared to the tan of my skin. What on... My power. It's my power.

It is activated, and, judging by the spreading white, it's building to the point where I will have to blank something or risk an uncontrolled power burst. I spin around and swipe a pen off my desk, releasing the chill in my fingers almost instinctively.

The pen falls apart and in its place is a small strip of plastic, a short string of metal, a tube, and a metal nib. I stare at them, the chill receding and heartbeat slowing. That was...easy. So easy—so effortless to make the pen collapse into its original components.

Is it this easy to blank bigger things? Is a touch all I need to dismantle a lock or a safe? If it is, I...I can see why I am so dangerous. Nothing can stop me—no lock, no door, no restraints—if I can just touch it and it returns to its original components.

Sighing, I set the pieces on the table and turn for the door, shaking my head. Stepping out of my room, I glance around at what seems to be a living room with a walk-in kitchen. It is fully furnished and neatly kept with everything seeming to be of higher quality than someone struggling with money would have. There is even a fairly large TV to my left with a sleek-looking sound system.

Obviously, I am not a villain because of money problems. But why, then, am I a villain? Why the number one? What reason do I have for taking the path of crime? What did I even do?

Maybe it's because of a bad childhood. Maybe I was mentally unstable. Or maybe I was fighting for something and chose to crash through the system instead of changing it. Raking my hands through my hair and tugging at the ends, I squeeze my eyes shut and sift through my memories again.

It can't be because I have a messed up childhood. All my memories of my family are good ones, even great. At least all the ones I remember. The ones at the end of my memory—when I am twelve—tainted with something darker, something...off.

Something must have happened between then and now. Something drastic and twisting. But what? A string snaps inside of me and I fling my eyes open, my breaths hot and short.

Darting to the kitchen, I throw cupboards open at random until I find the mugs and snatch the first one I see. Shoving it under the tap, I flick the water on and, when the cup is full, gulp it down quickly.

The water is cool and soothes the burning in my throat. For a moment, the heat inside of me fades and I am left standing in my kitchen, clutching a mug with white knuckles and glaring at the sink.

This is pathetic. The thought crashes through the stillness and the heat flares with icy fire. Lip curling, I slam the mug onto the counter.

Cracks shoot up the mug's sides and it caves in on itself, turning into a pile of colorful powder.

Oh, screw it all. Slumping over the counter, I drop my head into my hands.

I can't go on like this. I can't go on with my head so empty my thoughts rattle around like marbles in a shoe box. I can't just move on, never knowing, always wondering, like the message said I should.

No, I have to know what happened. I have to know why I did it. Who I am. Why I am who I am. And to do that, I need to google a lot of things.