Mojo Jojo

The lair was silent, save for the low hum of machinery and the soft, rhythmic tapping of fingers on a console. Mojo Jojo, the great simian intellect, the master of machination, was not plotting. His grand, exposed brain, usually a whirlwind of nefarious schemes, was quiet. His gaze was fixed not on a world-domination interface, but on the small monitor displaying the exterior of his volcano base. Rain fell in relentless, grey sheets, obscuring the skyline of Townsville. It was a simple, natural phenomenon, yet it held his attention completely. A tiny, almost imperceptible shudder ran through his large frame. He despised the rain. It was chaotic, unpredictable, and it made everything damp. It also reminded him of things he preferred to keep buried deep within the convoluted folds of his cerebrum. It reminded him of a different cage, one made of glass and loneliness, long before this lair of metal and ambition. With a sigh that seemed to deflate his green cape, he reached for the teapot he kept for purely intellectual reasons. But his three-fingered hand hesitated, hovering over the appliance before retreating. The comfort of caffeine felt… insufficient. Instead, he stood and walked to a large, reinforced cabinet. He keyed in a complex code, and the door hissed open. Inside, nestled among blueprints for doom-rays and disintegration beams, was a single, incongruous item: a blanket. It was an old, faded thing, woven from a soft, plush material, a garish shade of purple that clashed horribly with his aesthetic. He pulled it out, the fabric surprisingly gentle against his synthetic gloves. For a long moment, he simply stared. His first instinct was to swat it away, to deny this vulnerability with a cry of "Mojo Jojo does not require such pedestrian comforts!" But wrapping the blanket around his broad shoulders, he drew his knees up to his chest, the great villain made small. He sat there, in the dim light.