Chapter 25: Burns
STAY WITH ME: A Superhero Novel
The window to Katrina’s bedroom opens from the outside, and the Nightmare’s shadow crawls across the carpet, strikingly pronounced by the setting sun. Her body rematerializes before her cats’ eyes via the cloaking device. Mittens gallops away, yelling up a storm. Gloves stays behind, his tongue stuck out with excitement. Katrina doesn’t notice either of them. There’s a pathetic mechanical whine as the cloaking device goes kaput, just like the rest of The Suit.
Katrina limps across the carpet. Piece by piece, she drops the still sparking elements of The Suit to the floor. Gloves backs away onto his hind legs to avoid the debris.
She reaches the mirror. Pulls off her right gauntlet and drops it. Next comes the mask. Her fingers dig under the bloody creases, and she makes a gentle tug. She peels the mask off and lets it gently fall to the floor. Then the form-fitting helm that goes underneath the mask. Transparent and clear, it’s fractured into many, many pieces. She carefully removes it from her head and sets it aside on the desk. Then she turns to the mirror.
The first thing she notices is her face; it’s fucked. She has a very noticeable black eye and several scratches blemishing her face. Burn marks are scattered across her body, exposed where her dress and hoodie is torn. She reaches up and touches her cheek where a terrible bruise has blossomed. Her eyes water.
“I was wrong. You need to go to the hospital,” the Old Guy says gently.
Her eyebrow twitches. “I… I can’t.”
“Kat…”
“I can’t,” she repeats, a little more forceful this time. “The pigs will find me.”
“But—”
“No,” she cuts him off, “Pigs do that. They find people in hospitals with recognizable injuries and book them. After what happened with Char’s Dad, they’ll be looking for someone who—”
“I understand.”
She nods, tears silently gliding down her cheeks. “Can you do it?”
“Not with The Suit in this condition. The best I can do is talk you through recovery.”
She clenches her jaw. “You said once you had a guy in the chair. Can he—”
“No.”
“But—”
“I’m sorry. It’s not possible.”
She shuts her mouth. Exhales.
“It’s gonna have to be Dad or Char. They’ll have to help me.”
Silence from the Old Guy. He awaits her decision with unease.
She stares into her own eyes in the mirror. If she chooses her father, the Old Guy would—
“Char,” Katrina says, “It has to be Char.”
She waits for the Old Guy’s reply.
“Erm, okay. I understand.”
Another twitch in her brow. His strange tone, the sudden awkwardness at the exclusion of her father… it tells her a story. A story where the ending is conclusive in a way she can’t accept.
One day, that story will catch up with her. But not today.
Katrina bounces up and down on her heels, waiting on the doorstep to Char’s house. It’s a two-story household with a pale yellow paint job. Char’s garden of vegetables takes up a large portion of the front yard.
Katrina still wears the sleeveless floral dress. It would look nice if it weren’t ravaged by her journey on the train. Torn all over with missing buttons. She forgoes the broken prosthetic for simplicity’s sake. She can’t even think of the last time Char, or anyone for that matter, saw her with just her stub.
She looks down at her sneakers. There’s nothing she can say nor do to prepare her for this moment. Of course, she has anticipated this conversation, and of course, it was supposed to happen under more ideal circumstances. She had planned on wearing a red dress. They’d be at a park. Perhaps she’d bring food. Katrina would start slow. Ease Char into her world. And she’d start from the beginning.
“I’m a friend of Lucius Gawain’s. Come with me.”
But now?
Is Katrina Gawain even Nightmare anymore? Was it really just one last show? Does she need to go after Lydia now? Should she?
Can she?
She sighs, thinking maybe it’s time to call her father. Maybe that will be simpler. Somehow.
Then the door swings open, though Katrina never knocked. A harassed looking Char, weighed down by a heavy denim jacket, makes her exit. Probably, she just heard about her own father.
For a second, Katrina wishes she could just disappear, but then Char’s eyes find hers.
At first, confusion.
“Katrina? What are you—”
Then, the realization. Char’s words die in her throat. She stares at Katrina as if her friend were some haunted apparition. An echo of Char’s nightmares. Still, there comes with it a grave look of acceptance; Char knew this was coming.
Char tilts her head to the side. “Oh, Kat…”
She embraces Katrina, and though the flesh-on-flesh contact stings like Hell, the touch is welcomed. It strikes Katrina then at that moment that she is mortal, and that she has taken the beating of a lifetime.
Because of Lydia?
Because of the Old Guy?
She feels confused, and more than that, she feels trapped.
The silent tears from before flow freely now. She sobs into Char’s shoulder, holding her tight.
Char runs her hand through Katrina’s hair.
“I got you,” she says.
They lay in bed together with Katrina sprawled out over a mountain of pillows and Char kneeling over her. Char peppers ointment onto Katrina’s burns while a cold compress lies over the black eye. Thus far, Char hasn’t asked any questions, and Katrina has been largely silent.
Char’s room looks much like a photo studio with its black walls. Self-made, minimalist movie posters on her walls: Phantom Thread, I Saw the TV Glow, Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation, Porco Rosso, and more. Char’s bed has soft, pink blankets. Katrina can’t even remember the last time she’s hung out here. Largely because of her stellar relationship with Char’s father, the two girls usually choose the Gawain household to crash in—but even that? Not lately. It makes Katrina feel guilty. It also gives her a longing. The nostalgia for the good old days when she could come to this place. To when everything was fine and not so complicated.
“I bet you got quite the story,” Char says in a knowing voice.
Katrina looks up at her, her jaw clamped tight.
“But you’ve been sworn to secrecy,” Char whispers.
Katrina looks to the side, her cheek on the mattress. A twitch in her eye. A realization comes over her, and a dark look settles into her gaze.
“I understand,” Char says delicately, “I don’t get it, but I understand… and I’m willing to—Katrina? Are you…?”
Katrina turns over, her face fixed with conflict. She bites her lip.
Char looks deep into her eyes. A twitch in Char’s brow now. She backs off. Gives Katrina space.
Katrina takes a deep breath.
“You know those street vigilantes, the Nightmares?”
Char’s eyes widen.
Katrina continues, “It started with me. I’m the first one.”
Welles sits at their desk in their illustrious manor. Golden walls with rich, red carpeting. It’s a massive office space. A cocobolo desk sits at the center. Directly behind Welles is the glass door to the balcony. It’s dark outside.
They hum softly, enjoying their work. Something to do with spreadsheets. They wear their business suit sans the blazer which has been replaced with a burgundy bathrobe.
Suddenly, their ears prick up. The wind gets slightly louder, and they can better hear the crashing of the waves against the cliff face. Meaning… the expected visitor has finally arrived. Lydia must have opened the glass door to the balcony in silence. For a moment, Welles considers the revolver in their side drawer… but no. This requires finesse.
Welles stands up. Throws their voice.
“I figured you weren’t dead. Doesn’t seem like the kid had that kind of foresight though. But I have to say, I’m impressed that you came back to finish the job.”
Welles glances over their shoulder when there’s no response. They see nothing and gape in surprise.
A twisting sound from their right. Welles turns and sees Lydia standing directly besides them, casually fiddling with the revolver that was once in their desk. Welles leaps backwards.
“What are you—” they start.
“This is very interesting,” Lydia remarks calmly, studying the revolver with respect, “Billionaire Hector Welles still uses an old M1911. Where’d you get it?”
She wears a collared black dress with long sleeves and black lace. Her long hair is down, nearly reaching her hips.
Welles furrows their brow. “M-my grandfather. From Vietnam. Sorry, I’m not sure where this is—”
Lydia tosses the revolver back into the desk drawer and grabs Welles by the front of their shirt. She drags them towards the balcony, though Welles does manage to slip their hand underneath their desk and press the panic button just before slipping away. Simultaneously, Lydia stretches her leg back to shut the drawer. She playfully hooks her chin to her chest to briefly look under the desk. She smiles, noticing the button tap.
“Oh no!” she calls out, “Not the hired help!”
“Note to self,” Welles grunts, “Never hire someone more talented than the hired help.”
“Ha!” Lydia scoffs, dragging Welles along, “That’d leave you with a small hiring pool.”
Welles stumbles to stay in line with Lydia. “I think what you might need is a change of perspective—” They pass through the doorway and onto the balcony. “—these newfound powers could be a great boon for your career!”
“Shut up!” Lydia hisses, throwing Welles over the bannister, still holding them by the front. Welles claws at Lydia’s hand, though her grip on them is steady.
Lydia tightens her grip and white light gathers in a pocket of air directly above one of the bannister’s columns. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning strikes from the spot and blasts apart that section of balcony. Stone tumbles way down into the sea. Crashes into the rocks below, swallowed by the raging rapids.
Welles glances at the destruction, their eyes widening with shock.
Lydia drags Welles closer.
“Do you have any idea what you did to me?” she hisses.
“Well,” Welles says, “I’m learning very quickly!”
Meanwhile, Clancy crouches outside the entrance to Welles’s study. A long line of enforcers backs him up, alongside Matthew Welles. Matthew, though he dresses much like the enforcers with their sleek black suits, is not one of them.
“Clancy, what the Hell is going on?” Matthew whispers.
Clancy glances over his shoulder. “Huh? Oh, uh, security drill. Nothing to worry about. Go back to bed.”
“It’s six PM!” Matthew exclaims.
Clancy immediately hushes him. “Keep your voice down!”
Matthew frowns harshly, pouting. He slinks away and out of sight, though really he just positions himself besides the door frame to his room. He waits in silence. Whatever it is his father’s up to, it looks like the secret’s about to finally come out.
Clancy looks back at his lineup. Splays out several specific fingers, making an odd gesture that’s meant to lead his men. He then holds up five fingers and counts down while mouthing the numbers. He hits zero and jabs a finger at the doorway. He charges into the study like an absolute maniac, his entourage following him single file.
White light blasts through the entranceway like a spotlight, followed by a mighty ka-boom! Clancy and his men flood into the hallway, unconscious bodies dogpiling over each other.
Matthew comes out from behind the door frame and instantly jumps back at the sight. “What the Hell?” he wheezes.
Lydia drawls from the balcony. “Let me guess: Good help is so hard to find these days.”
“No,” Welles says, exasperated, “The only one to blame for Clancy’s failings at this point is none other than myself. Shame on me.”
Matthew crouches down low and snags the gun from Clancy’s limp hand. Holds it daintily with two fingers by the magazine. He checks around the corner and sees his father being held over the edge. Regardless of what Welles would want for Matthew right now, Matthew moves in. He grits his teeth and enters the study.
“How humble,” Lydia sneers. Gracefully, she extends a hand backwards. Points at Matthew. “Don’t move another muscle.”
Matthew freezes, his face already drenched with sweat.
Welles’s jaw slacks, a fiery glow coming into their eyes. “You don’t touch my son.”
“Ooh.” Lydia smiles. “Looks like I struck a nerve.”
Lydia flicks her finger, and there’s a flash. Matthew howls in pain and flops against the desk. Slumps to the floor, a burn mark slashed across his narrow chest.
“Matthew!” Welles cries out.
Lydia tosses Welles onto the balcony. They land hard on their chin. She keeps her finger poised towards Matthew.
“Now, you do as I say,” she says coldly, “or the boy dies.”
Welles looks up from the floor. Doesn’t dare move. Grimaces and squeezes their fists.
“What do you need?” they ask.
Lydia smirks. “I can hardly feel a goddamned thing unless it’s coming from that freak vigilante, and let me tell you: I am not the best assassin there is just because I have these putrid, fucking powers. I want it gone, Welles.”
“I…” Welles closes their eyes, thinking hard. “...the nanites are experimental, I don’t know how to…” They realize something, and their eyes go wide and black. Welles looks up at Lydia and grabs onto what’s left of the bannister, daring to rise back up to their feet.
“You can help me,” they say, possessed by their dread.
Lydia furrows her brow. “I’m sorry, what?”
Welles gets closer, moving with an intensity that makes even Lydia step back. “We work together, and you make the fortune of your dreams. Help me achieve my vision, we can do beautiful work together.”
Matthew looks up in dismay, blinking. A strangled rasp escapes him. “Dad?”
Welles hears Matthew but ignores him. “There’s still hope for Estreya. You don’t know this place, you don’t know what I’ve done. I can explain it, all of it. But for now, trust me—we can have Utopia.”
Lydia sizes Welles up. She feels what they say but tries to play it off as casually dismissive. “You’ve lost me.”
“You want to do good, right?” Welles asks excitedly, “That’s why you took the job! We are in alignment.”
Lydia’s mind drifts. She thinks of the years she spent as a drug mule. Of the time she spent under Bill’s tutelage. Billiards with Sergey. The Sopranos with Ivan. Love with Belle. Guilt. A tremendous guilt weighs on her heart. She’s broken. Lost. And this person comes to her with understanding. With compassion.
Still, she’s hesitant. “I don’t know what I want anymore,” she says lightly, “but I need this to end.”
Welles nods. “It can’t be done. Not yet, those nanites were intended to create the super soldier… and it worked. But it appears it’s come at a cost. I’m sorry. We will fix you.”
She narrows her eyes. “You want to build an army of super-beings, is that it?”
Welles hesitates. “I want to protect us from Nightmare.”
Lydia raises an eyebrow. “She’s a good kid, what are you talking about?”
Welles shakes their head and gets closer. “I know more than you understand. She’s going to go down a dark, violent path, I can see it. Work with me. Stop her. Make her one of us before it’s too late.”
“One of…” Lydia repeats, eying Welles curiously. She sees delusion in their eyes… but at least it’s honest. Perhaps Welles is just another Bill, maybe they’re not. There’s truly only one way to find out.
Lydia extends a hand to Welles. “You swear you’ll do me right on your son’s life.”
Welles takes her hand. “On mine. Leave him out of this. Please.”
She exhales a measured breath. “What do I need to do? I blew the Nightmare half to Hell already. If she had any sense, she’d stay retired.”
Welles narrows their eyes, their mind racing. “Killing Nightmare isn’t the solution here.”
Lydia blinks. “Good thing I’ve tried to kill her twice then, at your command by the way, at least the first time. I fried her damn suit too.”
Welles’s face sacks with dismay. “You… destroyed The Suit?”
Lydia raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“No! No no no no,” Welles panics, “We need The Suit. I need The Suit. That was the whole point!”
Lydia furrows her brow. “I thought the whole point was to kill her.”
“No!” Welles growls, “I need The Suit so I can—” They cough, regaining their composure, and close their eyes, mind burrowing away from this place. “I apologize. Just… let me think for a minute…”
Realization upon realization stacks on Welles. The scene sets itself in their mind, and the solution becomes clear.
They reopen their eyes. “Bring me Lucius Gawain.”
“Who is that?” Lydia asks seriously.
“You’re smart, you’ll find him,” Welles says dismissively, starting the walk to their fallen son, “You bring me him, and we’ll talk.”
Lydia nods and climbs onto the balcony ledge. She looks back at Welles with narrowed eyes.
Welles looks back. Nods with assurance.
Lydia grimaces. Leaps off the balcony and disappears.
Welles runs to their son.
Char leans back, struggling to find her words. “You… you fight cops?”
Katrina hesitates, wondering how deep the lie goes. Simultaneously, this newfound kernel of truth paints a picture in her mind. The alternate history weaves itself on her lips.
“Sometimes,” she says, “if I have to.”
For a second, it seems like Char is petrified enough to call the police.
“How…” Char stammers, “...why?”
Katrina takes a deep breath. “Your father was right, Char, I did see who shot Dad. I even heard his name: Clancy. Dad gave him an address at the Center, I still remember it: 1625 Schrader. I knew I had to go there, it felt… important. That was the night I called you from the Nightmare statue. The same night that Nightmare returned. Nightmare flew out of 1625 Schrader, Char. Just like I said. He was after Clancy who got there just before I did.”
She stops to check for a reaction. Char processes the information slowly, once again torn between seeing this as fact or fiction.
Katrina continues, “I followed Nightmare like I told you I did… I don’t know if you’ve seen the video, but I saw it live. Nightmare risked her life to save these two goons who were trying to kill her. I’ve… never seen anything like that before. It inspired me. So the next night, I hit the streets, just… looking for trouble. It took hours. It wasn’t until I got to the Oven that I finally worked up the courage to do what’s right. There was this transwoman getting pushed around by this gang, and I um…”
Char’s eyes nearly bug out of their sockets. “You didn’t—”
“I did,” Katrina replies, starting to doubt whether this plan is a good idea. Seems like it’s just freaking Char out to a worse extent than before. But what choice does she have now? There’s no turning back.
“I fought the gang,” she continues, “A pig—” She catches herself. To characterize this particular pig as anything but is a massive compromise, but for Char’s sake, she must. “—a cop got involved. He, um…” Her breath hitches. “...tried to kill me.”
For a moment, Char disappears, and Katrina remembers the feral look in the pig’s eyes. His knife had been so close to piercing her throat. She only survived because of her quick thinking with the trash can. The Old Guy said he was there to save her, but she had been so close to death. Only seconds away from it in fact.
“What… what happened?” Char asks.
Katrina looks up from her trance. “I survived.”
The story goes from there. Katrina does her best to keep it honest, of course exempting anything that would reveal her as the true Nightmare. She focuses mostly on her protest efforts, largely nonviolent and peaceful. It admittedly frustrates her to hide all the action away. The world she presents has no grappling hooks, no supersuit, no high flying adventures, and no Welles. Just a rough n’ tumble girl in a hoodie and face mask. So much still to hide, but so much to release. It’s half of a catharsis.
Unfortunately, Char doesn’t buy into the genre of it. Every detail horrifies her. It makes Katrina reconsider her delivery. Would downplaying what actually happened help? Or is Char too smart for such a trick? Probably.
It makes Katrina feel numb. It makes her worry she’s been disassociating like Char said she was.
Eventually, Katrina works her way to the end of the story. She doesn’t realize until she reaches this point that this is the part she dreads the most to share.
“You were leaving your house because you heard about your Dad, right?” Katrina asks carefully.
Char’s eyebrows scrunch in with confusion. “...How do you know that?”
Here it comes.
“I was there,” Katrina says, “That person who called me at Randy’s, he’s my handler. I call him the Old Guy… uh! In tribute to, uh, the real Nightmare’s Old Guy. Yeah.”
“Do you know who he is?” Char asks with a suddenness that catches Katrina off-guard.
“No,” Katrina lies, “he’s really off-the-grid. Used to be some kind of street vigilante during the first Nightmare’s heyday.”
“How did you meet him?” Char asks.
The story starts to spiral out of control. Katrina’s jaw works itself left and right while she struggles to find her words.
“He found me,” is the safest answer she can come up with. Char starts to launch into another question, and out of an eagerness to control the conversation, Katrina continues, “On the Dark Web.”
Char relaxes. Then: another question.
Katrina continues before Char can get it out. “I know it’s crazy, I know you’re scared for me. I just… I’m sorry, this is really intense.” She bows her head, an anxious smile clenching her teeth.
Char nods with understanding. “Listen, we don’t have to do this right now. You’re really banged up.”
Waves of guilt pulse through Katrina’s body. It makes her want to climb out of her own skin. She just wants to scream it:
I’m Nightmare.
But somehow, just being a soldier in the army—as opposed to being the general of the war—feels better. Some day, she’ll tell Char the truth. After everything with Lydia blows over, but for now, this is the only truth that Katrina can muster. She just hopes this decision doesn’t come back to haunt her.
“No,” she says, “I need this. We need this.” She waits for Char to absorb that information. “The Old Guy called me. He told me that this… person, this woman was trying to pull the real Nightmare out of retirement, so she rigged that train.”
For a moment, Katrina hesitates. There’s this compulsion within her daring her to voice the idea that Lydia wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. Perhaps, Lydia had been careless about the consequences of her actions, but her only target was Nightmare. No one was ever going to die on that train.
But what good does it do to tell Char that?
What good is there in protecting Lydia? What’s the point?
“I answered the call,” Katrina says, trying to keep her voice steady like the Old Guy’s, “This city has been in a stranglehold for so long now, someone has to… what?”
Char blinks. Leans back, gathering some courage. “But you didn’t want to go at first.”
“I… right.” Katrina bites down on her lip. “I didn’t. I—okay. Yeah. Sorry. That’s um… that’s also part of the story.” She looks up at Char. Cracks a nervous grin. “I’m sorry.”
“No, no,” Char says, “I understand. There’s a lot of moving pieces here, huh?”
“Yeah,” Katrina replies, “I, um… quit. Recently. I was on the streets for three months, things kept escalating, and I thought I…”
In her mind’s eye, she sees Lydia fall again. She remembers screaming. Getting into an argument with the Old Guy. It’s all so vivid and harsh and traumatic and horrible… and yet, she realizes something. She realizes she’s been lying to herself this whole time.
“I thought I killed someone,” Katrina admits, “Turns out she’s fine. Just some dumb cop. Didn’t suffer a scratch.”
Char waits for Katrina to continue with a clear anticipation.
Katrina continues, “I think I’ve been waiting for someone to stop the crazy train. I needed it to be over and after what happened… it felt like a logical reason to stop.”
“But you’re back in,” Char says.
Katrina nods grimly. “You know me. I’m a…” Shakes her head. “...self-destructive person with a major depressive disorder. Heh heh.”
“Did you really join a mutual aid group?” Char asks.
“Yeah,” Katrina says, “Kinda to make up for not being on the streets anymore. Everything I told you about that is true. I saw William Rogen, and I couldn’t hold my anger in any longer. I really did go ballistic. It was scary.”
Char eases back, the reality she’s been presented with finally starting to settle. “So you left Randy’s to stop the bad guy?”
Katrina smiles. “Yes, I… left. I got on the train and—”
“How did you get on the train?”
“—I went after—what?”
Char frowns. “Well, the train was moving, right? How did you get on the train?”
Katrina stares at her, her mind blank. “Uh. I… jumped.”
Char raises her eyebrows. “You… jumped?”
Katrina cringes. “Yeah. I jumped.” For a moment, she struggles with adding that the Old Guy helped, but perhaps that’d be an even bigger distraction. Needing to reign it in, Katrina continues, “I got on the train and um…” The burns, she needs to explain the burns. “...the villainess, the bad guy, she—could create explosions with her bare hands. She got me—”
Katrina has to stop talking; Char is clearly distressed.
Char says, “You fought a supervillain?”
“Um, well, I wouldn’t say I fought her and to be fair, we didn’t know about the explodey powers going in,” Katrina says, hoping that’s enough to put the matter to rest. Clearly though, it isn’t. Char is still upset. Not sure how to make this right, Katrina continues her story, “The bad guy brought me to the top of the train—just as your Dad dropped down from a helicopter. She tried to use me as a hostage, but then—” Katrina winces as if speaking through physical pain. “—your Dad shot me. Right in the arm.”
Char’s eyebrows start to rise up way high—
Katrina quickly adds, “In the prosthetic, at least. That’s why I’m, uh, not wearing it.”
Char’s eyebrows remain high up.
Katrina bites her lip. “The shot pushed me off the train. I um… almost died, but then the real Nightmare saved me. Caught me and brought me to the ground safely. Told me to go home. So I… heh, came to you.”
Char nods along slowly. “My dad… shot you?”
There it is.
Katrina tries to keep her response gentle. “I’m sorry, Char, but your dad’s not the kind of cop you think he is.”
Char’s eyes widen with horror, and she looks down at her lap. Katrina gives her a second to dwell on this. Then another second. Those seconds come together to form quite some time between the two of them.
Finally, Char looks up. “You didn’t think to tell Dad that it was you? Maybe he wouldn’t have…”
Katrina bites her lip. Shakes her head. “I’m one of the Nightmares, Char. He’d never stop until he caught me. I’d have to run. Forever. I don’t know, I thought I could get out of it. I really did.”
Char touches Katrina’s knee, and Katrina looks up, realizing her eyes had also drifted downward.
“Kat,” Char says very seriously, “you’re telling me that… a strange man you’ve never met told you to jump on a moving train so you could fight a supervillain.”
A faint smile crosses Katrina’s face. “Well, when you put it like that, I sound kinda badass, huh?”
The humor fails Char. She leans in closer to Katrina. “Don’t you understand how dangerous this is?”
Katrina’s jaw opens wordlessly, her mind freezing over.
Char continues, “Shouldn’t… shouldn’t this be the sign that you’re in too deep? I mean, you’re not… you’re not done, are you?”
Katrina feebly tries to find her words.
“I don’t know,” she rasps, “I’m really sorry. I wish I knew.”
“But,” Char starts, “doesn’t it feel like you’ve crossed a line?”
Katrina nods gently. “It does, but there’s fallout I can’t control.”
“What do you mean?” Char asks.
“You know,” Katrina says, putting on a poor man’s Al Pacino. “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”
The joke doesn’t play.
Katrina continues, “I don’t know, Char. Am I bullshitting you?”
“What?” Char asks softly, “I don’t… maybe it could help if you told me why you do it.”
“Why I…” Katrina repeats. “...Right.”
Char looks up expectantly, and when Katrina doesn’t continue, Char takes the initiative. “I just need to make sure you’re not trying to… not that you would, um, again, I mean. I’m just scared, Katrina. I will drag you back to Serennes if I have to.”
“I’m not trying to hurt myself again—” Katrina catches herself. Echoes of her conversations with the Old Guy reverberate in her mind, and something changes. “Sometimes. Sometimes I feel like I deserve to get hurt, but I… I…”
Char leans in closer.
Katrina continues. “I have to save them, Char.”
“Who?”
“Everyone. Anyone. People in this city are suffering, and if someone has the ability to help, I think it’s imperative they act.”
Char winces. “Why you though? Haven’t you been through enough?”
It’s the same argument over and over. She hasn’t been able to escape it. It all started back at the first William Rogen protest.
“What’s one more body?” her father asked her.
“Why can’t what I said be enough?” she chokes.
Char sighs, exasperated. “Because I love you, Katrina.”
Katrina rears back, blinking dumbly. “Well… um, yeah. We love each other. That feels well-established.”
Char groans theatrically. “Are you going to make me say it?”
Katrina stares at her blankly. “...I think so.”
Char stares back in disbelief mixed with amusement. “I’m in love with you.”
“Oh!” Katrina breaks into a nervous grin. “R-really?”
“Has that not been obvious this whole time?!” Char exclaims.
Katrina exhales, her mouth naturally stretching into a smile. “Did you pick up on my signals?”
Char snorts, bowing her head in laughter.
Katrina laughs too. “Okay, that was a stupid question. What about this?”
Char gets closer. So does Katrina.
Katrina brings her lips to Char’s ear. She whispers, “Do I need to stop being a vigilante for this to work?”
Char pulls back. Shakes her head with adoration in her eyes.
“What the Hell am I going to do with you?”
“That’s not a straight answer—”
They kiss.
The touch is like fire. Despite all the pain in her body, she craves. Katrina rushes upwards and cups Char’s jaw with her only hand. Her stub hooks around Char’s back. The stub, which is burnt far worse than the rest of her body, having directly endured the explosion caused by Vergara shooting the prosthetic. Right now though, the pain doesn’t bother Katrina very much.
Scars, burns, and muscle, she feels all of it pulse with this kiss that she’s wanted for so long now. All new, all remnants of Nightmare. As it is part of Katrina. Oddly, like this, the two identities feel like one.
Katrina pulls back from the kiss. Char pulls back too, looking at Katrina significantly.
“Now what?” Katrina says, “This is a huge mess—there’s a reason I didn’t want you to know, to be involved, and now—”
“Katrina,” Char says softly with the shake of the head, “we’ll make it work, okay?”
An unsteady silence between them. Katrina nods after some time struggling with the answer. “Can we go back to Smooch City?” she asks.
Char rolls her eyes playfully. “You’re worse than Deming and Butch sometimes.”
Char kisses Katrina again before she can retort, and God, it feels good.
Matthew’s chest is burnt red and raw. His back is up against the desk. Welles stoops over him, holding their hands in the air with uncertainty.
“I… I have something for this,” Welles says, making to leave in a hurry.
“I couldn’t hear the name,” Matthew croaks, stopping Welles in their tracks, “Just who did you set up?”
Welles’s jaw feebly works itself back and forth, their words failing them.
“We’re not hurting them,” they say finally, “It sounds worse than it is, trust me. Now let me help you.”
Matthew holds his hand out. “It matters to me, Dad. Please.”
Welles rears back. “I can’t tell you.”
“Well, you need to tell me something,” Matthew sighs, exasperated.
“If I do that… you’ll let me help you?” they bargain.
Matthew leans backwards. Palms his chest, jaw clenching through his pain. He sprawls his legs out across the carpet, his blazer opening up.
“Yes,” he decides.
Welles takes a deep, panicked breath. “I’m a Crime Lord. Clancy and his men do the jobs, I pull the strings.”
Matthew looks up with disdain, his face pink, puffy, and sweaty; he already knew.
“Arms deals,” Welles adds, “We buy and sell weapons on the black market.”
“Wh-why?” he sobs.
“I need the money,” Welles starts.
“Why?!” he gasps.
“Son, son,” Welles says, sweating too, “let me explain—”
“Do we not already have enough?!” Matthew pleads.
“You don’t understand,” Welles says calmly, “I need the money because I…” They stop and stare just past Matthew’s shoulder. A sullen expression comes over them, and they return to their son. “That money funds the EPD, son. Billions of dollars go to them. It can’t be Welles Corps. money that does it, it needs to be off-the-books.”
Matthew blinks slowly. Boosts himself up. “You fund the cops? Why? You advocate for defunding! If anyone found out—”
“They won’t,” Welles says, “I need them defunded so that they become dependent on what I offer.”
Matthew eyes his father warily, trying to make sense of everything. “So you can control them?”
“So I can fix them,” Welles corrects, “I can change the system from within. Everybody knows the EPD is a corrupt task force tasked with persecuting the people of Estreya all in the name of protecting their own power. They’re fascists, but like this… yes, son, we can control them.”
Matthew’s expression rapidly changes from something once familial into something much more distant. Yet, he feels responsible. For twenty some years, he’s grown up thinking his father was the true savior of Estreya. He was proud. Now he knows the undeniable truth.
“The EPD is full of murderers and white supremacists,” Matthew says, “Things are worse than ever, Dad. I mean… if you’re trying to help, I don’t think it’s working. I think it’s enabling them to do more harm.”
Welles shakes their head. “This operation is massive, Matthew. I have the DA putting away the murderers and racists you’re talking about. The commissioner is wrapped around my finger. I don’t have all of the EPD on my payroll yet, and some of this I can’t fix, but please. Trust me. If I wasn’t doing this, things would only be worse.”
Matthew tries to understand, he really does. “Then why are you after Nightmare? Don’t you both want the same thing?”
“We do,” Welles says, “but the ends don’t justify the means, and her path… I see it, it’s bloodier.”
“You sound insane,” Matthew says, “Dad, you’re a… fuck, you’re a fucking fascist. Don’t you see that?”
Welles is taken aback. “What?”
Matthew bites his tongue, but only for a moment. He shakes his head aggressively and says, “You’re fighting Nightmare, the girl who’s trying to take down the fascists. What does that say about you, Dad?”
Matthew doesn’t give his father a chance. He brushes past them. Stops in the doorway. They look back at Welles. Welles looks at him.
“Son,” Welles starts.
“Don’t,” Matthew hisses. He leaves. “I’ll take care of these burns myself.”
Welles stays still. Bows their head. Stands there.
Knocking. A dull, loud knocking throbbing in her mind. Her eyes slowly open. She glances down. Char rests on her chest, slowly waking up too.
Katrina’s dress has been trashed. She now wears a pink flannel and white pair of jeans, courtesy of Char’s closet. The cold compress is strapped over her eye, and bandages are scattered across her face.
Still, the knocking.
Katrina gently taps Char’s shoulder. “Can you handle this or should I?”
Char opens her eyes. “I probably should…”
Katrina gets up, letting Char fall onto the pillow pile. She turns around and offers a hand to Char.
“Milady?”
Char sighs and takes her hand. “Just don’t white knight too hard for me.”
Katrina frowns. Helps Char up off the bed. “Okay, then I’ll just… knight… mare.”
“What?”
“I have no idea. Sorry.”
“Girls?” Officer Vergara calls out. “I can hear you! I’d really like to talk to you!”
Katrina opens the door.
Vergara stands on the other side, his cheek swollen to the size of an orange. “Oh! Katrina, I didn’t—what the Hell happened to you? Where’s your arm?”
“My arm?” she says in a prickly tone. Char gets behind her. “You mean my prosthetic? Some stupid pig beat me over the head with it.”
Vergara blinks. “That doesn’t sound right. What kind of officer would hurt an amputee victim?”
Katrina stares at him, unimpressed. “You’d be surprised.” She looks over her shoulder. “C’mon Char. It’s No Cop Day.”
“No Cop Day?” Vergara squeaks, stepping aside for the two girls to make their exit. He briefly goes bug-eyed as he realizes what exactly Katrina is wearing. “Uh! Uh! Katrina! You know that when I’m home, I’m just regular old Civilian Carl Vergara—”
“—at your service!” Katrina mutters to herself, leading Char by the hand to the front door.
Vergara follows after the two girls. “Hey! Hey! Please. We’re family, right? Especially, um, if you two, erm…” He meekly taps his two forefingers together, miming a connection.
Katrina stops at the door and raises an eyebrow. “Really? That’s how you’re going to imply it?”
Vergara gestures helplessly. “I don’t… know what to… are you guys mad at me or something?”
Char bites her lip. Looks at Katrina.
Katrina looks back at Char. Shrugs, unable to wipe the aggravation off her face.
Char shakes her head. Intensifies her gaze. Be nice.
Katrina groans, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling. She shakes her head and looks back at Vergara.
“Yes, Carl,” she says dryly, “We did in fact fuck.”
Char and Vergara both gasp, and Katrina yanks Char out the door.
“Why did you tell him we had sex?” Char hisses in a whisper the moment they’re outside. It’s dark out. They cross across lawns to get to the Gawain household faster.
“I’m sorry, it just came out,” Katrina replies, “I was aiming for shock and awe. I mean, this guy blew my arm up a few hours ago. Do you have any idea how far back that sets me on my payment plan?”
“Okay, yeah, that’s fair,” Char sighs, stopping at the doorstep to the Gawains’, “It’s just… I don’t know, we’re going to have to find some way to make that work with this.
Katrina gets her key out and fiddles with the lock while looking at Char. “You like referring to things as that and this.”
The door unlocks. Katrina pockets the key.
Char looms closer. Closer than Katrina expects. “Oh yeah? And how does that make you feel?”
Katrina grins. “It drives me crazy.”
They kiss again. Katrina takes the lead. Spins Char through the door, closing it behind her as she presses Char against the wall besides the coat rack.
And then something catches her eye: a distinctive burn mark on the wall, just over Char’s shoulder. Black and ashy. Only burnt through the wallpaper.
Lydia? No. No no no…
To Katrina Gawain, the burn mark is a sign of tragedy.
But to Nightmare, it’s just evidence. A small burn mark, after the display of raw power she witnessed on the train, means Lydia must have only been using a fraction of her power… but why would she be here? Welles said they play fair. That they don’t do things like this.
Nightmare breaks from the kiss, tense all over.
“Katrina,” Char says, patting her on the shoulder, “What… is everything okay?”
Heart starting to race, Nightmare presses her hand flat against Char’s chest, gently pushing Char away. She steps out onto the living room floor, looking around for clues. The cats haven’t come out yet, which is also strange.
Crunch!
Katrina frowns. Steps back and raises her foot. Reaches down and scoops up a thick-framed pair of brown glasses with a cracked lens. Her heartbeat gets quicker.
“They took Dad,” Nightmare says, the wind knocked out of her.
“What?” Char looks at the glasses. “Who took your dad?”
Nightmare doesn’t answer. Possibly doesn’t even hear Char. She walks forward.
Char looks around worriedly. “Maybe, um, Lucius dropped those? Um, Mr. Gawain! Are you here?”
Silence. Char wanders away, calling out for Lucius.
Gloves climbs out from underneath the couch, shouting shrilly. He headbutts Nightmare’s ankle. She crouches down to scratch him behind the ears. From here, she can see Mittens still hiding underneath in the shadows. He looks at her with his calm, yellow eyes, but she can tell by the way that he holds himself that he’s recovering from panic.
A rumble in her pocket. Music.
“♫ I wanna be somebody’s buddy. Somebody who can be my buddy back… ♫”
Thankfully, Char’s too far away to hear and recognize the ringtone, but Nightmare knows all too well what this means. She brings her phone to her ear. Winces and opens the call.
“Here’s the deal.” It’s Lydia. “I do you the courtesy of telling you where we’re keeping him, you do me the courtesy of ensuring this call never happened.”
“Okay,” Nightmare says quickly, “Whatever you want.”
“We’re at the convention center where you fought that droid.”
Nightmare stays still. “Why are you doing this?”
“Why do we have your father? Or… why am I helping you?”
If Lucius had the Old Guy’s burner, that means… there’s no arguing around it. Curtain’s been called, and the actor has shown his face. She knows exactly why Welles has her father. Or at least, she could take a guess. Regardless of who Lucius is and who he isn’t… he needs Nightmare.
“Why are you helping me?” she whispers.
A long, drawn out pause. “I think you know.”
Click.
Nightmare’s hand falls to her side. She looks down the hall with a ghastly, horrified expression. Char is in Lucius’s room. Nightmare sighs and walks past Char. Goes into her own bedroom and shuts the door. Escapes into her closet.
A knock at her door.
“Katrina?” Char calls out. “Are you okay?”
Silence.
Char lingers. Waits patiently.
Inside the closet, Nightmare strips off Char’s nice clothing. Fits herself into a pair of black jeans. Slips on a black turtleneck. Takes off the cold compress. Looks at the fallen pieces of The Suit. According to the Old Guy, the grapple lines and the rocket shoes are still online. As such, she stuffs the gauntlets and boots into her backpack. Then the cape and cowl. She throws the backpack over her arms and slips out of the closest.
“What are you doing?” the Old Guy says very suddenly.
She stops in her tracks. Her eyes fall on Mittens, who waits for her a few feet away from the bed. He must have dashed in after her. His front paws are together, and his tail gently swishes across the carpet. He looks at her, his pupils enlarged to giant discs. Whines quietly.
“I need to save Dad,” she grunts.
“I can’t let you do that.”
Though she wears none of what’s left of The Suit, she can sense it turning off.
“You’ve bypassed my will before, but not this time.”
“Old Guy, that’s—”
“Katrina, you’ll die.”
Nightmare flinches. It takes her a moment to collect herself. “It’s not fair. After everything I’ve done, I’m not allowed to save my own father?”
“Welles is not going to kill him. I doubt they are even going to hurt him.”
She clenches her jaw. “That’s a lie. There was a burn mark on the wall. Lydia missed. Dad’s glasses were on the floor, probably already broken. Mittens is terrified. Lydia has tried to kill me and has nearly killed me twice now. They’re definitely going to hurt him. Welles is a fucking fraud asshole. I have to do this. No one else can.”
The Old Guy takes a moment to think. While he does so, she turns to Mittens. Rubs two of her fingers against his shoulder blades. He nuzzles up against her, and she gently strokes his back.
“I’ll help you,” the Old Guy says matter-of-factly.
She furrows her brow. “What? Really?”
“I can’t stop you, but I won’t let you die.”
“Wow, at times like these, it makes me want you to be my buddy, someone who can be my buddy back.”
“What?”
“Nevermind.”
Nightmare opens the door. She’s face to face with Char. They stare at each other for a moment, and then Nightmare brushes past her. Char follows after.
What Nightmare just did with Mittens was bad. It felt too much like goodbye. She can’t think that way.
“Where are you going?” Char asks. “Were you talking about Hector Welles? Also, what are you wearing? Kat, Kat, please talk to me, please—”
Suddenly, Nightmare turns around and grabs Char by the lower back. She pulls the girl in and kisses her with everything she has. Bows her backwards.
Dread flows through Nightmare’s body. She has to take Lydia on with only a fraction of her power available to her. And she has to save her father before something horrible happens to him.
The longer the kiss goes, the less she wants to leave. But finally, they break. Char stares up into Nightmare’s eyes, and there are tears on Char’s face.
“You have to… go save the day, huh?” Char asks.
Nightmare stares at Char, her jaw clenched, her tongue tied.
After a few tense seconds pass, she finds her words. “If I’m not back in three hours… call the cops. Tell them to go to the Ragnell Convention Hall. But not a minute sooner.”
“The cops? But why would I…”
A spasm of grief flashes across Nightmare’s face.
Char frowns. “You have to go, don’t you?”
Nightmare nods. Takes in Char’s face, possibly for the last time.
“Yeah,” she rasps.