Chapter 21: Faces
STAY WITH ME: A Superhero Novel
Katrina slips in through her bedroom window and steps carefully onto the carpet. Unties the mask, letting it fall to the floor. Steps up to the mirror and gazes into her reflection.
It’s strange that after everything that’s happened, she looks exactly the same. It feels wrong. She sheds her armor with distaste. Lets it lay where it falls. Steps over The Suit. Sits on the edge of her bed, hand resting on her knee, which bobs up and down repeatedly. She stares at the wall, her mind racing. Yet simultaneously, it feels like she’s thinking of nothing at all. It’s an endless monologue of grief that pervades her mind. Though she’s here in her most sacred of places, part of her still hangs off that crane, waiting for a miracle to happen.
Dirty. She feels dirty.
A soft scraping sound breaks her from her inner-spiral. She looks up, confused at first, then smiles when she realizes what the scraping sound is. Paws run up against the backside of the door over and over.
She cracks the door open, and the shouting begins. Gloves lumbers into her room, his big butt a-wagglin’. He looks up and shouts, his voice as shrill as ever. He cries as if never given attention once in his life. He leads with his long, crooked arm. His cries of desperation shift into shrill excitement as she walks her fingers down his spine. His face scrunches up with delight. He head butts her hand, bumping her fingers out of the way to get to the palm. He nuzzles against her, purring up a storm. He loves her unconditionally, and she wonders if she is truly worthy of his love.
“Kat?” Lucius calls out with some concern, “Are you still awake?”
Right. It’s two AM… and her father’s awake too?
She glances down at her outfit: black skinny jeans, a scarlet tank top, and a lightweight black jacket. It’s not right for a late night brouhaha, but she’s tired and doesn’t really care anymore.
Katrina bends down to Gloves’s level and scoops him up by the butt, cradling him close to her chest. He whines. Rests his malformed paw on her clavicle for support. She carries him out of the bedroom.
“I’m awake,” she says.
“In the kitchen,” he replies.
She goes down the hallway. Steps into the kitchen and finds Lucius standing over the sink with the lights off. He stares out the window, dressed in flannel pajamas and a bathrobe. There’s a sobering look on his weathered face. The moonlight casts an intense, white glow onto his glasses, making him appear much like a scheming anime villain. If only he’d tent his fingers maliciously…
“You have a long day?” he asks dryly.
“Yeah,” she rasps, “I don’t really want to—” Gloves jumps out of her arms and hits the floor running. She chuckles despite herself. “—talk about it, to be honest.”
“Mm,” he hums, casting a sidelong glance at her. She notices his index finger twitch towards her. Held between that and his middle finger is a small white rod.
Katrina raises an eyebrow. “Is that—”
“Yeah,” he admits quietly, “I stopped by a dispensary.”
Tentatively, she reaches out. Takes the joint in hand and holds it up to her eye. It’s rolled perfectly smooth with a faint forest green bleeding through the white paper. She twists it about in her fingers, eying it from different angles, holding off the inevitable moment where she partakes.
“Pre-roll?” she asks.
“What?” he scoffs, “Do you take me for an artisan?”
She smiles weakly. “So you had a really long day.”
He looks at her with a warm smile. Pulls away from the sink and turns to the stove top. Twists a knob.
Fwik-fwik-fwoo! A flame sparks in the burner.
Katrina leans over the stovetop and extends the joint into the flames. Inhales. The tip ignites. Flares orange. She rears back and pulls hard on the joint. Orange flames traverse up the length of it while smoke fills her lungs. She exhales, and a warm feeling swells within her. Greedy, she pulls again. Longer this time. The tip of the joint crumbles into ash, all while the warm feeling gets stronger. A rushing sensation pulses within her mind. The tension held in her body rears back, begging for her to relax. Already, she feels herself drifting away.
Suddenly, something catches in her throat, and she erupts into a coughing fit.
Her father laughs like he’s been waiting to laugh all day. A little longer than warranted. Loud and boisterous.
“So did you just get home?” he asks casually, flicking his fingers out for her to pass the joint.
She laughs. “You wait to ask me that for when I’m under the influence?”
He shrugs and takes the joint. “It was worth a shot, eh?” He pulls on the joint. Pulls away, holding the smoke in his mouth, a sly look on his face. “Did you?”
She considers him. Perhaps it’s the weed, or perhaps, she’s tired of living the lie. It’s difficult right now to parse her feelings, or really—understand anything.
She shrugs. Snatches the joint from her father and takes another pull.
“Yeah,” she admits, “I came in through the window.”
“Ah,” he says with some levity, “Mystery solved.”
“Sorry,” she says immediately.
“S’alright,” he shrugs her off, “I have my secrets, you have yours.”
She nods. Watches the smoke curl off the joint in elegant, random patterns. She looks down. Notices the way orange light flickers off the burner, casting its glow across the stovetop. Jolts when there’s a sudden sensation at her ankle. She glances down. Sees Mittens’s striped tail curl around her leg. She reaches down and scoops him up by the rear. Bounces him up and down like a baby.
“Either way,” she sighs, “it’s over now. I’m done.”
Char keeps talking. About what, Katrina has no earthly idea. Though she hears Char quite clearly, everything around them fights to be heard. Lockers slam, sneakers scuff, and people talk. People talk everywhere, seemingly from all directions, all at once. Their voices echo. Loud and piercing with a tinny quality. It’s not the first time it’s happened to Katrina. Usually, she’s better at dealing with over-stimulation, but the fight has truly gone out of her.
Char leads Katrina to class by the hand, and though the touch is intimate, Katrina cannot feel it. As she can’t feel anything.
She wants to feel something though. Be it anger or grief or self-loathing. Anything would be better than this. When she looks at Char, she feels so far away. Despite the smile on Char’s face and the glow in her eye, Char feels much like an apparition.
Katrina is sure of one thing though—if she were to tell Char the truth, the spell would be broken. After all, her crusade is over. That life is over… yet, she can’t bring herself to even imagine the words she needs for the truth. Beyond that, would the truth do more harm than good? Could it mend what is broken? Or would it just endanger Char during a time where Katrina can’t protect her?
Would it be a betrayal of the Old Guy?
No, she can’t even think about him right now.
Work is quite the opposite. While school is a textbook case of disassociation, work is where she feels totally present. Every decision is deliberate, every moment is felt, and time trudges along. All she can think about is the immediacy of work, and how much she detests labor. When she makes drinks, she finds that she has to very intentionally think about the process. Constantly, she second guesses herself. Though she doesn’t make mistakes, she’s perfect.
Tito even comments on it, wishing she would come in with this kind of attitude every day. His comment makes her feel small.
During her lunch break, she sits in the tiny break room, staring at the plain concrete wall. She woke up too late to prepare lunch, but she’d rather get stabbed in the chest again than have one of her already busy co-workers perform extra labor for her to eat. She just can’t handle it today. Hence, she works herself sick and throws up bile. Goes home early.
Overnight, when she would normally be hitting the streets, she lays in bed, her eyes wide and vacant. She doesn’t try to fall asleep. Doesn’t let her cats in. Doesn’t let her mind wander. She forces her mind to stay on one thing: She killed someone. She watched them fall. She’s vermin. She never deserved to take on the mantle.
The Old Guy told her she’s wrong, about all of it. But who cares what he has to say? He doesn’t even have the decency to tell her the truth about everything that’s been happening between them.
Gloves runs his paws against the door, begging for attention.
Katrina ignores him.
Later, Lucius knocks on her door. He asks if she wants to watch Batman Returns with him. She pretends not to hear. She doesn’t sniffle or make a sound. She lies completely still, watching Lucius’s lingering shadow underneath the door. Eventually, he gives up. She rolls onto her side, clutching her blanket to her chest.
The next day—her day-off—she calls Tito and asks if he needs help today. He tells her no in a very calm and aloof way, which implies to her that he does need help, he just doesn’t want to pay for it.
She goes for a walk. Takes buses arbitrarily as they pass her by. Gets off when it feels right. This leads her straight to the Oven.
She walks with a rigid posture, a glazed over look in her eyes.
Mid-stride, she feels a hand brush against her elbow. A familiar sensation. The touch is delicate and cautionary. She stops in place, looks down, and locks eyes with a homeless man of an indistinguishable age. A mask covers half his weathered face. There is a faint silver glimmer running down his sharp features where surely there were tears. His hand falls to his side, and he holds his gaze on her.
Her face scrunches up with feeling, and she discreetly takes a look down the street where she sees two pigs loitering. She looks back at the man. Starts to shake from the stress of it. She just wants to do the right thing.
She stares at him longer then makes her decision. She turns away abruptly and marches across the street with purpose in her steps. She enters a corner store and five minutes later, she leaves with a cold cut grinder in a paper bag. She moves fast, eying the pigs who are still there. Knowing very well what they’ll do, she makes her play. Crosses the street, hands the sandwich off to the man, and holds her gaze on the man she’s helping. She takes careful, measured breaths and waits for—
“Hey! What the fuck are you doing?!”
—that. She should run. Everything tells her to run, but she can’t. She can’t will herself to move. She can only look into the eyes of the homeless man, searching for some kind of catharsis. Yet while the man is clearly grateful, his eyes frantically dart back and forth, begging for her to escape.
“On your knees!” one of the pigs shouts.
She stays still.
The other pig advances towards her. From the corner of her eyes, she sees him go for his gun.
Finally, she looks at them. They’re so close.
Deep breath.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she says.
She makes a break for it, and the pigs give chase. Feet pound against pavement. She runs, runs, runs, runs. She doesn’t need to glance back to see how close they are, she can practically feel their hot breaths slip down her neck.
She dives into an alleyway and is immediately met with a fence. There’s no other option but to leap into it. She jumps, body slams the fence, and the coils rattle against her body. She clambers upwards. Hooks her hands over the top. Pulls with all her might, drags herself up, starts to roll over the top, then feels a vicious pull at her leg. One of those damn dirty pigs nearly pries her off the fence. She instinctually tightens her grip, dragging the coils along with her. She grimaces. Sends her foot crashing down over and over. She doesn’t know what part of this man she is even stomping, but she is relentless. She stomps until it feels she’s found his weak point, then she gives it all she has. One final stomp knocks the arm away, and she doesn’t waste a second. She rolls over the top.
She lands harshly. Nearly falls over. Uses the momentum to launch herself into yet another sprint. She hears the pigs bodyslam the fence behind her, but the sound fades with distance. Still, she runs. She runs until she can’t run anymore. She falls against a telephone pole somewhere she doesn’t recognize. Pants hard, wheezes for breath.
Katrina looks at the ground at her feet, sweat beading on her face, her eyes vacant.
Everything burns.
Something needs to change.
Katrina stands outside a dilapidated apartment complex. Trash litters the sidewalk and white paint peels off the walls. Several masked people crowd the stoop, looking sullen and bored. On two of these people, she can see joints concealed underneath their sleeves… not that it bothers her. She looks at the door. Sighs. Rolls her arms around their sockets and makes her way up the stairs, squeezing between her stoop friends.
She steps into a small, rundown lobby. A janky staircase leads up to the other apartment units. Ahead of her is a door with the sign to Estreya Mutual Aid. She prepares herself and goes inside.
For some reason, she expected something more formal. Granted, Amicia did tell her that EMA is “a hot mess”.
It’s truly like any other apartment in Estreya. There’s a disappointing kitchen tied to a messy living room. A hallway splinters off into two bedrooms. One face-masked man lounges on a shredded couch in the living room with his scruffy looking dog. They’re watching a movie that looks like it was filmed seventy years ago. At the round wooden table in the kitchen sits a grumpy looking old white man without a mask. He has dead eyes. His baggy hoodie is stained and in dire need of a wash. He looks around impatiently, his hands neatly folded together.
Katrina furrows her brow. Leans to the side to look into one of the bedrooms. Checks to make sure no one is looking at her and slips past the landing to get to the hallway. She peers into one bedroom and sees several people from the street sprawled across a Tetris grid of air mattresses and mattress pads. She looks into the next room and sees someone bleeding on a bed. Ike and Amicia stoop over them, appearing to be doing some kind of medical aid. Based on the harshness of the wounds, she assumes it has something to do with the pigs. Out of respect, she tries not to stare. Instead, she awkwardly lingers in the doorway, anxiously clutching the frame.
Eventually, Ike happens to look over his shoulder and catches her gaze. He stops his work and turns around. Points at her and closes his eyes, thinking.
“Katarina?” he asks.
She smiles. “Close. Katrina.”
“Right,” he says, “You, uh…”
“Bailed on you guys a few months back,” she says, “I’m here to volunteer.”
Ike’s jaw slacks, and Amicia turns around. She furrows her brow and waves with dim recognition. Katrina waves back.
“...How can I help?” Katrina asks.
Ike thinks for a second. “Can you entertain our landlord? He’s the millionaire without a facemask.”
Katrina looks back at the kitchen table and sees the graying, gross grump. Things start to make sense. She nods and slips away. Sits across the landlord. It takes him a moment to even register her presence. She waits until he looks up from his stupor to speak.
“Hi,” she says.
The landlord furrows his brow. “Who the fuck are you?”
She cringes. “Ike and Amicia are busy with, uh, someone. I’m one of the new volunteers, Katrina.”
The landlord rolls his eyes with disdain. He grumbles, “Whatever, man. Fucking Hell. I’m just fucking sick of people smoking drugs right in front of my goddamned building. Do you know how many times the cops have knocked on my door now? Do you have any idea how many angry letters I’ve gotten?!”
Katrina frowns. She doubts either of these things happened more than once, but for the sake of EMA, she has to play along.
“Sorry about that,” she says.
He acts like she didn’t say anything. “We keep fucking talking about this, and I’m pretty sure we agreed that the smoking was fine as long as it was discreet. Well guess what? Those days are over, pal! If I see even a puff of smoke glide by my window, I will call the police, and there will be consequences.”
Katrina stares at him, unsure of how to respond at first.
“Okay,” she squeaks.
The landlord stays there a beat longer then pushes himself to his feet. “And for the record, it’s fucking pathetic that you clowns let these poor people smoke shit like that. Haven’t they been through enough? Fuck!” He turns around and slams the door on his way out.
Katrina exhales. “Woof.” Goes back to Ike and Amicia. She one-arm leans in the doorway. “He says he’s going to call the pigs if he sees any more drug use on the stoop. Sorry.”
“Great, just what we need today,” Amicia grumbles, “We’re close to being evicted. Um. Thanks, though. At least Mr. Moneybags finally fucking left.”
A few seconds drag by. Ike and Amicia keep their heads bowed while bandaging up a heavily bruised arm. Katrina watches, her body buzzing with the urge to get up and go.
“What next?” she offers.
Ike looks back. “Can you cook?”
She nods. “What am I making?”
Ike frowns. Looks at Amicia. “What is she making?”
Amicia doesn’t acknowledge Katrina. “I don’t know. Get creative.”
Ike turns to Katrina for confirmation.
She nods. “Can do.”
Once Katrina starts, she never stops. It turns out that not only is Estreya Mutual Aid a hot mess, it’s on life support. There was once a volunteer base, but it’s been weeded out by burnout and pressure from the pigs. Everyone in the home contributes, but it’s Ike and Amicia taking on well over half the work. They see at least fifty people coming in and out every day. While the landlord is nearing the end of his rope with these people, the home is falling to pieces, project by project.
Thankfully, with the recent vacancy in her schedule, Katrina has plenty of time to give.
After preparing dinner for everyone, she disappears to unclog the bathroom sink. She thrusts the plunger up and down once it has suction. Yanks it free, causing an explosion of unknown black gook that unearths a sinkful of dirty, brown water.
The next day, she fixes the oven which randomly shuts off after hitting three-hundred-fifty degrees. Turns out after hours of trial and error, it just needed to be unplugged and replugged.
And the next day, she takes on the basement project. The whole lower floor is a storage unit for donations. From cookware to bicycles to furniture. All of it lays in a massive pile of confusion and disorder. She starts by trashing everything that’s defunct, useless, and/or disgusting. Once the garbage is properly disposed of, she organizes what’s left. Sorts it all by category. She lines bikes up against the wall. Stacks pot safely, careful not to let them teeter. She starts a chest for toys and stuffed animals.
Katrina does everything she can to put this place together day after day, and when she’s done with that, she makes dinner for everyone.
It’s tricky. She’s never actually cooked with white meat before, so she waits until the translucent pink cooks into a pasty, flaky white. In all likelihood, she overcooks it, but everyone seems happy with it. She serves it with mashed potatoes and cheesy green beans.
Once finished, she stands over the crowded kitchen table with her hands on her hips. She eagerly observes everyone eating, deeply insecure and very afraid that everyone’s bliss is merely a bit of playacting. But finally, Amicia glances up at her with a look of approval. Katrina smiles and makes to leave.
Amicia furrows her brow. “Where are you going this time? C’mon, eat with us.”
Katrina hesitates. “I’m actually vegan, heh. I can’t eat any of this.”
Ike looks up from his food. “You’re vegan? No shit. You should’ve said something.”
“Sorry,” she says stiffly, eyeballing the exit, “It’s okay, guys. I’ll just pick something up on the way home.”
Ike shakes his head. Extends a hand to the air, waving for Katrina to come over.
She sighs playfully and takes a seat.
“Katrina,” Ike says seriously, as if he were about to tell her the birds and the bees, “I think you’re coming at this from a pretty strict perspective of volunteer, and, uh, I dunno what to call them—the homies?”
Katrina raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure if I follow.”
Ike smiles. “You’re basically saying our services here are just for the homies. They’re not, they’re for the community, and you’re part of that, Kat.”
Katrina frowns. Her head feels hot as eyes from around the room fall on her. This… is community?
Her throat gets dry and scabby. Tears threaten to leak from her eyes at any moment, forcing her to be very quiet.
Silently, she pulls over a plate and grabs some green beans. Uses her fork to pry off the melted cheese.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, a hint of pink showing past her face mask.
Ike claps her on the back and cheers.
The lights in the Nightlair slowly blink on upon her entry. She lingers in the elevator, staring past the supercomputer to see The Suit lying in its glass case in the back. She’s been expecting a confrontation, but as is, The Suit lies still. Very vaguely, she can sense the fading remains of the Old Guy’s aura from their time together. He is here, likely watching her, but he won’t show himself. She almost wishes he would. The Old Guy knows the words it would take to bring her back, but out of respect for her, he stays silent. Allows her to grieve far past what is reasonable, at least in her mind.
Try as she might, though she can sense his presence, she cannot sense his feelings. She opens herself up to him as bait, but she remains cold and alone. She sighs and starts the long walk across the floor. She finds it impossible not to meander and look around at everything.
On that couch, she and the Old Guy watched Police Story, The Batman, Spider-Man 2, The People’s Joker, and for some reason, Pop Star: Never Stop Never Stopping.
(“It’s about… friendship. It’ll be helpful. Definitely,” the Old Guy said unconvincingly.)
Either way, five stars all around.
The whole bunker carries memories like these, aside from the tattered uniforms in trophy cases. Though they tell her the story of a rough n’ tumble street vigilante who was willing to put everything on the line for justice, she’s sure there’s more to it. At the time, she knew better than to ask. Now, she’ll never know the truth.
There’s so much left unsaid, so much that was suddenly cut off. Everything she sees makes her want to stay.
Halfway across the floor, she shakes it off. Assumes a more aggressive gait. She gets to the computer and settles into the Old Guy’s chair. Deep breath. She types in the password: Valestra, and enters the database.
She closes her eyes and imagines that face. Ghostly white. Half a Glasgow. Predatory eyes.
She searches for hours.
She searches for days.
Hundreds of faces. Thousands of faces.
She lays stalks of freshly washed green onions against the cutting board. She chops them thinly in uniform fashion.
Since Katrina’s introduction to EMA, the place has been cleaned up. The counters are clear, the grime is gone, and the surfaces shine. Ike and Amicia both smile a little more, and Katrina feels better for it.
Amicia stands besides the pot of broth. The chard, spinach, and leeks soak into the water, coloring it a light brown. Usually, Amicia soaks it in chicken bones she gets for cheap from a nearby Armenian deli, but out of respect for Katrina, they use veggies.
Meanwhile, one of the homies, Alexie, hosts a screening of Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles in the living room. About ten homies show up for it. They crowd the furniture.
On the screen, a middle-aged French woman washes her dishes in real time. It’s roughly a five minute sequence with no dialog.
Benny, the notorious anti-cinephile of the group, a connoisseur of AI-generated drek, thumbs his chin. “Man. I’m interested in this movie, Alexie. I really am. But I don’t know! Is this going to be satisfying? Am I going to feel compelled to rate this movie five stars?”
“Not every movie needs to be five stars, you freak,” Alexie hushes him, “Now shut the fuck up, and let’s watch Jeanne Dielman wash some spoons.”
“So,” Amicia says to break the ice, speaking quietly so as not to disturb the movie viewing experience, “Ike and I were under the impression that you were like—really green.”
Katrina glances back at her. “Green? Well—”
Amicia leans up against the counter. “I mean, you freaked out when the pigs got to Ike.”
Though Katrina wishes Amicia didn’t comment on it so pointedly, she nods. “Yeah. Wh-where is this going? Sorry.”
Amicia shrugs. “Two months ago, you were a mess. Now you’re here, and suddenly, you have the right mindset to do this kind of work. I’m just wondering… what happened?”
Though Amicia couldn’t possibly be asking what Katrina thinks she might be asking, Katrina stays on guard. She grabs a few packages of silken tofu from the fridge, speaking only when her eyes turn away from Amicia.
“Well, you haven’t seen me at a protest, heh,” Katrina says, “Still green!”
Amicia raises an eyebrow at this behavior. “Obviously though, you’ve been to one semi-recently, right?
Katrina glances at her. Wonders for a moment how specific this line of questioning is going to get. Shrugs with defeat.
“Yeah,” she sighs, “I have. A few.”
“Right on!” Amicia extends a fist. “Good for you.”
Katrina reluctantly pounds it. “The broth is probably good, you wanna strain it?”
Amicia furrows her brow. Eyes locked on Katrina, she steps over to the broth. Lifts up the pot and brings it over to the sink where a pot with a strainer waits for her.
“Yeah. It’s just… most people with your kind of background suck at this,” Amicia says, “At least at first.”
Katrina arches an eyebrow. “My background?”
Amicia dumps the broth into the strainer. The mesh catches the vegetables while the broth pours through the strainer into the pot.
“Bullshit non-profits like the Estreya LGBT Center,” she says.
“Oh.” Despite Katrina’s own similar feelings towards her father’s employer, she feels a little defensive. “At least they’re good about helping folks transition, and like, supporting pro-trans rights legislation.”
“Sure, but that’s the bare minimum for a group with their kind of funding,” Amicia says while she sets the pot back down on the burner. The broth immediately hits a simmer. “Ike and I both get our HRT through them. A lot of people do, there’s no denying it. It’s just the Center… a lot of the time, they coordinate all of their big events with the EPD. They welcome queer pigs into our community with open arms and try to make heroes of them. It’s messed up.”
Katrina presses her lips tightly together. “Y-yeah… that’s true. Uh, I think I mentioned it before, but my dad’s the organizer there.”
“The organizer?” Amicia frowns. “Singular?”
“Yeah,” Katrina says, “He’s trans, for what it’s worth.”
She leans back, confused. “Is this like…a Wachowski thing where it just sort of worked out that way, or…”
“He found me,” Katrina says gently.
Amicia’s face scrunches up with recognition. She points at Katrina. “Adopted.”
Katrina frowns.
Amicia smiles. Points at herself. “Not adopted. Never really made it off the streets.”
The familiarity eases something within Katrina. “That sucks. Um. Are you and Ike related by blood?”
“No, we found each other,” Amicia says. She adds on lightly, with some emotional distance, “We kept each other alive.”
A picture is painted in Katrina’s mind, a picture that she can understand at first glance.
She says, “My Dad saved me.” She drops the tofu and green onions into the broth and sets the timer to five minutes. “If it wasn’t for him, I’d still be…” she trails off. Forces a smile to somehow fill in the silence.
“It’s alright,” Amicia affirms, “we don’t need to trauma dump to each other. Let’s talk more shit about the Center.”
An understanding flows between them that neither party needs to voice. Particularly, Katrina feels a catharsis she hadn’t known she needed. It strikes her then that…
…beyond the Old Guy….
…she hasn’t made a new connection like this in so long.
She smiles. Pulls over a sheet of dried seaweed and slices it up into thin strips. “Yeah, I got a good inside scoop on them. I mean, I was an LGBT Center nepo-baby.”
“You worked there?” Amicia asks. She ladles out a healthy portion of hot broth and pours it into an empty bowl. Gives it a moment to cool off. “Let me guess… social media intern?”
Their conversation shifts into rapid fire.
“Canvasser,” Katrina replies.
“No shit! Door or street?” Amicia asks.
“Street.”
“Ooh, I can tell you hated it. How bad?”
“I tried to unionize the workplace.”
“Youza. That must’ve been bad.”
“Yeah, it got my Dad in trouble.”
“He helped? Or was it guilt by association?” Amicia asks while pouring the ladled-out broth into another bowl with a large globe of sweet miso paste. Chunks of miso break off, and slowly, the paste dissolves into the broth with a few stirs of a wooden spoon. As the gob of miso disappears, the paste casts a greenish brown plume into the broth.
“Dad helped,” Katrina sighs, smiling at Amicia’s handiwork, “but—I didn’t tell him how angry it was making my bosses—”
“Hold up.” Amicia frowns. “The Center’s only organizer had nothing to do with the canvassing operation?”
“I’m glad you pointed that out—yes!” Katrina says.
“Who was your boss?”
“The marketing director.” The timer goes off. Katrina bunches up all the little slivers of dried seaweed and tosses it into the soup. One more minute to go.
“Wow.” Amicia rests a hand on her hip. “That’s wild. Anyways, this sounds like A Goofy Movie.”
Katrina frowns. “Is that the one where Goofy and Max go to college together? Because that’s not the case.”
“That’s An Extremely Goofy Movie,” Alexie says casually from his spot on the couch.
“A Goofy Movie is the one where Max tricks Goofy into making a Powerline concert in LA part of the road trip experience with his father,” Amicia explains, “An Extremely Goofy Movie is the one where—”
Katrina snaps her fingers. “—Max doesn’t believe in Christmas anymore because of Pete being a little bitch, so Goofy—”
“That’s Mickey’s Once Upon a Christmas,” Alexie throws in, “Extremely is about the X-Games.”
“X-Games,” Katrina repeats, fishing through her childhood memories.
“Back to A Goofy Movie,” Amicia cuts in, “Did you have an argument with your Dad about your betrayal while struggling through the rapids of the Colorado River that ultimately culminated in a song where you two made up?”
Katrina hesitates. “Sort of.” Ding! “Soup’s coming soon, guys!” She takes the pot of soup off the burner and sets it aside. Gives it a moment to cool so that the miso can be mixed in. “He was pretty mad at me. We, um, haven’t had a lot of arguments though, so it hit kind of hard.”
“Sounds like you’re on really good terms with your Dad then,” Amicia says, “That’s cool.”
“Yeah.” Katrina smiles. “At least, um, usually. Yeah.” She glances at Amicia. Notices that the girl is about to ask a prying question, so she continues, “You’d like him. He used to be a mutual aid organizer. I don’t know if you ever heard of the Drop on Schrader, but that was him and his friends.”
“Oh really?” Amicia asks, “That was your Dad? Whoa. And now he…” Amicia stops herself. “...Uh, nevermind, you think we’re good to add the miso?”
Katrina narrows her eyes slightly. And now he works at the Estreya LGBT Center. What a sellout. She knows that’s what Amicia was about to say. It’s not the first time she’s heard it from someone, and it makes Katrina just as angry as every time.
“Um, yeah,” she says quietly, trying to stow away her feelings. She stands back while Amicia ladles in the miso.
It blooms in the middle of the soup, taking a moment to settle in and transform the broth into something special.
The girls pour the soup into multiple small bowls. They set them on two large plates for transportation. Amicia makes to move over to the living room first.
Katrina bites her lip. “Wait.”
Amicia turns around, the plate in hand. “‘Sup?”
Katrina hesitates a moment longer. “I know what you were going to say about my dad, and um… I don’t know, at a bare minimum, it’s helping us, two struggling trans people, and that has to be enough.”
Amicia takes that in. Doesn’t seem fully convinced, but she nods. Turns away. Katrina shakes her head, grabs a plate of miso soups, and brings it over.
The girls crouch down low before the living room coffee table so that movie goers can still watch Jeanne Dielman do the dishes. They set bowls of soup on the table. Hardly any of the viewers seem to notice though, for they are entranced by le cine. Even Benny.
Suddenly, the audience screams from what must have been a jumpscare. Benny lurches backwards on the sofa, spilling popcorn onto his chest.
Katrina looks back at the screen. To her understanding, Jeanne Dielman just picked up a spoon she had dropped on the floor.
“Wait, what happened?” she asks.
Benny meekly sets his popcorn on the table. “Jeanne Dielman dropped the spoon she just cleaned.”
Amicia furrows her brow. “That’s it?”
Benny frowns. “You wouldn’t get it.”
Amicia and Katrina make unsteady eye contact. Despite everything that unfolded between them, that final moment lingers. Katrina glances back at the kitchen.
“I’m not that hungry, I’m just going to do the dishes and head out,” she says.
Amicia nods, seemingly satisfied with that. She squeezes onto the couch.
Katrina turns away.
“Hold up,” Alexie says. She turns back. He continues, “Kat, watching you do all the work and none of the play tears at my heart just like watching Jeanne Dielman peel potatoes. Please. Take a seat.”
Katrina considers them. Nods.
Benny moves over so that Katrina can sit down. With no other choice left, she does as she’s told. Quietly takes a seat and picks up a bowl of soup.
“Yeah,” Alexie adds on, “Now let’s shut the fuck up and enjoy some miso soup. We got an hour and two minutes left of runtime on this baby.”
It’s four AM. Katrina’s exhausted. Bent over the computer in the Nightlair, browsing through the Nightmare’s database of ne’er-do-wells and miscreants, trying to match a face to face. In this specific moment though, she’s seen enough. She needs a break, even just a quick one. Her eyes absently fall onto the monitors that capture the Old Guy’s surveillance state. And that’s when she notices a suspicious figure lurking near the Nightmare statue.
The figure is tall and slouched. Messy blond locks peek out from underneath his black hood. Most prominently, he wears a facemask in a very unique color: crimson. It makes her narrow her eyes. This is a person of interest.
The boy’s dim hazel eyes look up at the statue with reverence, hands in his hoodie pockets. He bows his head, thinking. Then turns around and slinks into the darkness.
It could be nothing, Katrina thinks. Besides, she’s retired.
…as she is responsible.
It nags at her mind for several minutes. Though her cape and cowl are permanently hung up, she is still Nightmare. It’s a frame of thinking that will never leave her. Every day, she walks through the city streets and witnesses the wrath of fascism. The truth is undoubtable: Estreya needs Nightmare.
More importantly, at least in this moment, she’s pretty sure this hooded figure needs Nightmare. And the only person who can be Nightmare right now is her.
Against her better judgment, Nightmare gets up at her desk. Silently, she thanks herself for wearing all black today. She swings her hood up and straps her paper mask on. She leaves the Nightlair discreetly, keeping to the shadows. Immediately, it strikes her that this is silly. By the time she can reach the statue, the boy will be long gone. She has a vague idea as to where he might go, but she doubts it’s enough to actually find him.
When she reaches the statue, she glances up at it only to promptly retract her gaze. She keeps her eyes level and ignores it. Walks down the path the boy went down, a dark look overcoming her. Her hands slip into her pockets, and her mind leaves this place. She trudges along, barely present.
She’s sure the Old Guy knows about this. Anytime she enters the Nightlair, she’s sure his heart skips a beat. She feels bad for letting him down.
She feels bad for letting everyone down.
She wanders into the red light district. Neon lights abound, harsh red lights highlight the filth of the city streets. Violent crimes happen here every night without fail. She figures if this guy is going to be up to anything, it’d be most important for him to be here.
Simultaneously, she wonders what this is all for. Why is she doing this? The decision to quit affects people. It puts them at risk, and all because she failed to save someone who was trying to kill her?
She tenses. Stops in the middle of the road, wind gently pushing against her back. She sways slightly. Like this, anything could plow her over.
She remembers what it took to get her out on the streets. She remembers that horrible pig in the alleyway she fought the night that the Old Guy had her take the pledge. That pig was out for blood. Had she been less resilient, she’d certainly be dead.
She takes a step forward. Hesitates. Then marches ahead with purpose. She looks around aggressively, searching and scanning for any sign of trouble. A few tense minutes pass. Sweat builds on her forehead, the quest feeling awfully fruitless.
Then: A scream breaks the air. Instinctually, she turns towards it. Dives into an alleyway, running as fast as possible.
The scene opens to her abruptly as she rounds the corner. She sees a woman on the ground in a heap, her shaky hands veiling her face. Opposite her is a pig going for his gun. Between them, she sees the red-masked man. There’s no time to process. Only to act.
Nightmare moves. Sends her fist into the pig’s jaw. He cries out more from shock than pain. She can tell from the way his flesh writhes under her knuckle. It’s not how it feels when in The Suit. Not as satisfying. No, it’s an ugly, beastly feeling. Raw. She retracts her fist. Panics. Grabs the hand going for the gun by the wrist. Twists the arm behind the pig’s back. He resists, forcing her to wrangle him like a horse. He bucks, but she holds on, shimmying along to stay behind him. All the while, she makes bewildered eye contact with the street vigilante. He stands there helplessly, totally at a loss of what to do.
Nightmare’s face scrunches up with anxiety. Suddenly, she remembers one of the Old Guy’s tricks. She reaches out and grabs onto a very specific spot on the pig’s wide shoulder. There’s a horrible cracking sound, and the pig’s eyes roll up into his round, coconut head.
He passes out.
She winces behind the mask. Looks to the street vigilante. His eyes are wide and petrified. He shakes. The trauma will take some time to heal, but there is a firmness to his stance and a glimmer in his eye that tells her his battle is far from over. His radicalization has only just begun.
She coolly leans back, her gaze unflinching.
“Do you know who I am?” she whispers.
He nods. “Are you back?”
She stares at him, wanting so badly to assure him that Nightmare will fly again. Her eyes narrow slightly with suppressed feelings.
“There’s safety in numbers,” she says instead.
He frowns. “Don’t you work alone?”
She shakes her head. Turns away.
“There’s three of us.”