Prologue: Secret Origins
He’s an easy mark, at least in this part of the city. Sticks out in the crowd with his brown corduroy blazer. He’s tall. Thin with springy brown hair. Distinguished. Aged beyond his years by some unknown traumas. Silly sideburns. Soft, brown, empathetic eyes. A long, bushy mustache. Thick-framed brown glasses. A dark purple bruise on the side of his nose.
It tells her a story.
Most importantly, he’s trans. She can tell. Something to do with the eyes. She sees that, and knows that this is someone who will almost certainly be nice to her if she gets caught.
She’s small. Her face is round, tanned from living in the streets. Just a seven-year-old kid. With brilliant green eyes that pierce through everything. Her clothing is dirty, damp from sweat, and shredded from the occasional contact with sharp objects. She wears an adult-sized pageboy cap that eclipses her head, veiling her hair from sight.
This is the Oven of Estreya. The streets are dirty. People are everywhere, moving in waves, while the air itself distorts from the third extreme heat wave of the year. She squeezes between passersby, hardly noticed by anybody due to her height. She’s careful not to step on anything. Like a broken bottle. A person. Shit.
She sees her mark’s matching corduroy trousers (This guy needs to get a room, she decides.) and moves in. Reaches forward, dips her hand into his pocket, brushes her fingertips against the cheap leather wallet…
Her mark grabs her by the wrist. Harshly at first, but as his thumb presses into the veins of her frail wrist, his grip softens instantly. He turns around with startling agility and drops down to his haunches. Looks her in the eye. She looks down at her feet for a moment then searches him for more details. A dark green shirt. A black tie. A lanyard with his name on it, surrounded by a rainbow ring of colors. She wishes she could read. If she could, she’d see that he’s Lucius Gawain, Volunteer Coordinator with the Estreya LGBT Center. She looks back up at him. Considers him then swats his hand away from her wrist. He sighs, offering her an exasperated glance. All the while, people surround them all over, moving in all sorts of directions. It’s dizzying.
She stares at his disappointment head-on. “C’mon, it wasn’t that bad.”
Lucius scoffs at her, but he performs with enough levity for his scoff to read as a joke to her. He puts on a warm smile and gentle voice. “Maybe… or maybe I’m just the wrong kinda guy to pickpocket, little one.”
“Clearly,” she groans.
“Listen, son,” he says, “can I… do anything for you? You need money? Food?”
She narrows her eyes. Son, he calls her. Everyone calls her that. Or buddy. If she just took her cap off, they would understand.
But she doesn’t want to get into trouble over that again.
“You trying to work me, mister?” she asks snidely.
“No,” he says quietly, gently shaking his head. His eyes burrow into her, wide with emotion. She sees sympathy. Fear. Concern. The same emotions she’s used to seeing from people who claim they care, the same emotions that annoy her to no end, but something’s different about this one. He talks to her like she’s a fellow adult. It makes her smile a little, but she stows that away fast. She needs to be tough.
“How long have you been doing this?” he asks her seriously.
“Two years, I think,” she says.
Lucius’s expression softens, though his face strains from the predicted sympathy. “Okay. Then yeah. I’d say you could use help, and I’d love to get you a hot meal if you need one.”
Her eyes widen slightly, but then she remembers the new rule in town and shakes her head. “You’re not allowed to. I’m homeless.”
Lucius offers her a weak smile. “I don’t care about the rules right now. I got some friends down the street, we’re running a home. It’s the Drop on Schrader, you might have heard—”
She frowns. “No thank you. People get beat up there.”
He forces a smile. “It’s usually just me. I understand—”
Suddenly, she turns away and walks in the other direction. “You’re a weird guy. I don’t wanna talk to you anymore.”
Staying down on his haunches, Lucius lifts his knees up high, as if he were in a square dance, and crab walks over to her, blocking her way. He extends a hand to her.
She eyes the hand with disgust. “What?”
Lucius takes a deep, nervous breath. “If you come check it out with me, I guess I’ll teach you how to be a better pickpocket.”
She rubs her chin. Looks up at the sky, eyes darting back and forth while she weighs her options. Looks back down—
“Nah.”
—and walks away. Disappears into the crowd fast.
Lucius clasps his hands together at the waist and looks ahead with a hopeful smile resting on his face. Gives it a few seconds. Then a few seconds more. Looks down. Groans and runs his hands through his hair aggressively, muttering some frustrations. Straightens back up to his full height. Turns around to leave when—
“Wait.”
She reemerges from the crowd, blushing profusely. Stops before Lucius and extends a hand.
Lucius smiles and reaches for the kid’s hand, but she pulls her hand away, eying him warily.
“New deal,” she says, “I’ll go to the Drop if you help me. Two pigs just saw me. And I stole one of their lunches yesterday.”
“Oof, you gotta watch your mouth,” he scolds, “Where’d you learn to talk like that?”
She looks him hard in the eye. Gesture at what she’s wearing.
“Okay, that’s fair,” Lucius sighs, “But be careful. Though pig is my favorite word—” He winks, cracking her hard exterior, and she giggles. A miraculous sound. One she hardly ever makes anymore. “—there’s consequences for saying it nowadays.”
She rolls her eyes then yanks Lucius’s hand down to her waist. “Pick me up, it’ll look cute.”
“Geez, okay,” Lucius says. Carefully, he lifts her into the air, supporting her by the rear and by the back, much like a cat.
“I’m not a baby!” she whines.
Lucius cringes and tries again. Wraps an arm around her waist and raises her up to his chest. She points ahead, and Lucius sees the incoming pigs swaddling their way over. Bulky armor, black clothing, pasty white faces with eyes that see everyone as lesser. In one hand, a baton. In the other, a gun. On the left is First Pig, a mustachioed ginger with a lanky frame. On the right is Second Pig, a bald faced middle-aged man with a receded hairline and square jaw.
Lucius winces. Pulls a handkerchief from his breast pocket and makes some quick motions with his hand. Brushes some of the dirt off the girl’s soft cheeks. At first, she protests but then allows it. Lucius hurries, for the pigs draw near, and his touch becomes more aggressive. His knuckle accidentally bumps against her cap in his rush, knocking it askew.
A long, mousy brown, braided ponytail drops down the child’s neck, and Lucius freezes. She blushes and stuffs the ponytail away, but it’s too late. He looks at her now with more understanding than ever. She turns away, blushing.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, “I didn’t mean to, um… what’s your name, kiddo?”
She frowns. Shrugs. “I dunno.”
His mouth opens slightly, hangs there for a moment, unsure of what to say. And then the pigs arrive. Lucius whirls on them fast.
“Hello officers! What can we, uh, do for you today?”
“This kid giving you a problem, sir?” First Pig snaps. Meanwhile, Second Pig remains silent. Stares at the little girl with beady eyes, his face scrunched up with partial recognition. She bites her lip and pulls herself over Lucius’s shoulder, turning away.
Lucius pats the back of her head. “She’s shy,” he tries to laugh it off to no avail, “Uh, no, we’re, uh, all good here, officers. If we could just—” He starts backpedaling his way into the crowd, when a baton swings right before his chest, stopping him in place. It’s Second Pig.
Second Pig stares at Lucius with contempt. “You’re not her father, are you?”
“What?” First Pig frowns.
A sadistic smile spreads across Second Pig’s face. “This little shit stole my lunch yesterday. Unless you’re some kind of Fagin, sir.”
“Wait,” First Pig says, “this is the kid who stole your meatloaf? Damn! You covering for him, sir?!”
“Covering?” Lucius repeats, looking for a safe exit, “I think we should slow down—OOF!”
Second Pig swings his baton right into Lucius’s stomach. Lucius collapses, and First Pig rips the girl right from his arms. All while Second Pig advances on Lucius. The man doesn’t hesitate. He swings his baton again, right at Lucius’s face.
Lucius hits the pavement, a deep gash cut across his cheek, his cracked glasses askew. While blood drips down his face, he stares back at Second Pig defiantly. His once warm, brown eyes darken into something vengeful, something terrifying, something that the pigs are too cocky to notice.
“You don’t want it to go this way,” Lucius says quietly
Second Pig laughs. Steps forward and sends his boot down like a mallet. It crashes right into Lucius’s sprawled out leg. The knee crunches downward, and Lucius bites down hard on his lip, wincing at the pain. But he doesn’t scream. Doesn’t grunt. Doesn’t give the satisfaction.
“The fuck you gonna do about it, eh?” Second Pig taunts. He reaches forward. Grabs Lucius’s lanyard and snaps it off his neck. Drags it up to his piggy face to read it. “Lucius Gawain, huh? We’ll be watching you.”
The girl twists backwards and waves at Lucius meekly before the pigs haul her away into the crowd.
Lucius nods at her. “Don’t be afraid,” he says.
And then she’s gone, out of sight. Enough people converge to make her disappear.
Lucius tightens his fist. Pushes himself off the ground. Winces once at his full height, hand escaping down to his damaged knee. He massages it before turning away. Limps off.
Many hours later, the polluted sky grays into nighttime. A black figure limps across a rooftop, his left leg bound and straight, concealed beneath heavy armor. Ahead of him is a fortress, or rather: a police precinct. Big as a castle, made of brick, and square-shaped. It rises above all the other buildings in the Oven. The cops call it Surveillance Central, while everyone else calls it Sneaky Pete Tower. (Years ago, a beloved community organizer, an old man who made fart noises at (in)opportune moments, christened it with that name, only to be disappeared by the police. It only made sense for the name to catch on.)
The Oven is dirty. Infested with rats and vermin. Homeless people are scattered all over the streets, their homes loaded into shopping carts. They’re on the move constantly, dodging sweep after sweep. It’s the only way to survive.
The figure limps on. Moonlight occasionally slips between the clouds of pollution, revealing more and more of the figure. He’s a living, breathing, metallic gargoyle: the Nightmare.
Scourge of the EPD. Savior of the Oven. Protector of the People.
No one knows what his armor is made of. Though it appears like steel meshed with Kevlar, surely it’s something stronger. He’s lean and mean. Not an inch of exposed flesh on the man. Painted midnight black with hints of dark gray. Dashes of crimson highlight the sharp edges.
A thin red visor crosses the helm, like the slit in a knight’s helmet. The helm itself is heart shaped and curves into two wide cat-like ears. The hands are contained in thick, heavy gauntlets lined with sharp, jagged black scallops, cut at harsh angles. The arms are stringy, the legs are lithe, and the chest is undefined… yet the Nightmare’s sheer power is incomparable. Eighteen years they’ve waged this war now.
Nightmare marches on, getting closer and closer to Surveillance Central. Suddenly, they freeze. The mechanical ears perk up, and Nightmare notices a faint buzzing in the air. Promptly, they disappear from sight, just as a small drone rises up from the edge of the rooftop. The drone’s camera tilts downwards, reading the footprints that plod across the surface until disappearing halfway across. The camera swivels about, moving in a full three-sixty rotation.
This drone is one of hundreds. Overnight, the precincts set them loose into Estreya. All with the intention of finding one man: him.
But tonight’s not their night, and the drone drifts away. Nightmare reappears and raises his left gauntlet to Sneaky Pete Tower. A slot opens on the wrist and out comes a sharp metal spike. It shoots across the gap between buildings and embeds itself into solid brick. The spike opens its maw, revealing four claws that stab through the mortar, sticking the grappling claw into the building’s hide. The line retracts, and Nightmare hits the air. Dragged from one spot to the next.
He slashes his hand at the brick wall, and mid-motion, his fingers sharpen into talons. His claw digs deep into the brick, sending tiny shrapnels of cement and mortar raining down the side of Sneaky Pete Tower. The grapple line retracts back into his wrist, and he climbs upwards.
Nightmare glances down after passing a few stories. The wind is harsher up here, but this is where he needs to be. A window lies before him. He presses his helm against the wall beside it and listens.
Footsteps. Leisurely and automatic. Just two feet, one man. Coming from the East Wing. Nightmare waits until the party passes the window then takes a look. It’s a cop in black slacks and a blue button-up. Though he’s not packed thick with armor, he is of course armed and dangerous. Currently though, he’s more fixated on his coffee.
Gently, Nightmare presses his talons up against the window. Slowly and carefully, he twists his claw in a circle, cutting through the glass. Once he has something whole, he fits the tips of his claws into the creases and plucks the circlet of glass free. Leans it up against the window. Acts fast. A grapple line shoots from his gauntlet, flies through the gap in the window, and latches onto the back of the cop’s uniform. One tug sends the officer floundering backwards into the wall. He waves his arms frantically, spilling coffee everywhere.
“Whoa-whoa-WHOA!” he cries out.
Nightmare reaches through the glass and claps a hand around the cop’s mouth. Squeezes. Digs his fingers deep into their flesh while the cop continues to flap his limbs about… and then the man goes limp. Drops the mug. Nightmare catches it before it shatters against the floor. Neatly sets it on the windowsill, then fits himself through the glass hole.
Carefully, Nightmare drops into the precinct. He steps across the corridor and shoves the officer into a closet. Closes the door behind him and moves ahead, advancing at a calm, slow pace.
Soon after, he finds himself at a junction. Coming from the left-hand corridor, he hears two overlapping conversations happening between two different parties. By his count, without looking, it’s two cops plus their walkies. He tunes the electronic chatter out and takes a peek. Two bulky buzzcuts stand near a lamp and water cooler. The lamp is tall, long enough to cover the distance between both men.
Nightmare makes his move. Crouches down to his haunches. Flicks his wrist and a metal blade shaped like an “N” slides into his palm. Black, sleek, and sharp with a crimson edge favoring the topmost side. His fingers curl against the sharp of the blade and discreetly, he tosses it down the corridor. The Nightblade veers off to the right, misses the lamp, strikes the wall beside it, and ricochets into the shade from the side, sending the lamp tumbling to the floor behind the pigs. Both of them turn around.
“Huh?”
“What was that?”
Nightmare releases a grapple line. It latches onto the lamp rod, and he reels it in. The lamp swoops towards him, tripping both pigs down to the floor. Thump! Another flick of the wrist, and the rod flies into Nightmare’s outstretched hand. He gives it a spin, the wire and plug dancing about. He steps over Pig #1 and quickly jabs him in the face with the legs of the lamp. Ker-plow! Pig #1’s head conks back into the cracked tile, and he’s out. Pig #2 gets up promptly. Nightmare whirls on him dangerously, slashing the lamp in the air.
“Yeah, like that’s gonna scare me?” Pig #2 taunts. Talks tough but his expression says otherwise.
Nightmare twirls the lamp again. Focuses. The Suit tightens around his thin frame, bolstering his strength. When he slashes the pig across the stomach, lamp rod trumps Kevlar, and once again, Pig #2 takes the plunge. Bam! He falls to the ground, the strength enhancers within The Suit die down, and Nightmare finishes the round with yet another blow to the face.
Pf-toom!
Like a stamp. In. Then out. The man goes to sleep.
Nightmare sets the lamp back in place. Fiddles with the now bent-up plug until the bulb flashes back on. He turns on the fallen cops. Like before, he scoops them up and stuffs them into a closet.
He walks down the corridor. Lifts a gauntlet to his chest. A thin beam of blue light spits upward, expanding into the three dimensional blueprints to Sneaky Pete Tower. He traces his finger down the hallways, searching for something in particular… and finds it fast. Quickly, he vanishes from sight via his cloaking device. Minutes pass by while Nightmare wanders the halls. Dodging cop after cop with ease, he eventually finds his target: a door in the Southern Wing on the twenty-fifth floor.
Before Nightmare enters, he remains cloaked and opens two windows across from the door. Pulls two box-shaped devices from his utility belt and plants them on the windowsill. He opens the windows, letting in the hot, humid air. Then he raises the screens. At which point, Nightmare reappears into the light and opens the door.
Monitors are plastered across every inch of the available wall space, broadcasting both the inner workings of Surveillance Central alongside the going-ons of the Oven. Each monitor is tiny, allowing for more screens to capture the most coverage possible. At the epicenter of it all is a pig doing what else but eating a donut. His eyes are as glazed over as the frosting. He doesn’t even notice that the door to his little room has opened.
Nightmare shakes his head. Coughs loudly into his fist.
Donut Pig whirls on him. Opens his mouth. The pig instantly goes for his gun, his eyes wide and petrified. But Nightmare raises a single index finger to the air and wags it in a “No-no-no!” motion. The pig’s beady eyes track the finger, following its bounce. Nightmare then points straight down to the floor. Crooks their finger and points down repeatedly. The pig furrows his brow, confused.
Nightmare steps forward. The pig steps back, hand still at the holster, his body blocking the chair to the terminal. Nightmare shakes his head and gestures at the pig sarcastically. (“Do you mind?”) The pig steps further back, and Nightmare advances into the chair. Takes a seat, relaxes his back, and taps away at the keyboard. Quickly, security feeds start blinking out. The pig extends his hand out and tries to issue some kind of cease and desist, but the Nightmare raises a finger to their lips. Sh.
The pig falters, his extended hand falling pointlessly to his thigh. He grips his hips and looks around in a panic.
“You better hurry up, man. My guys ain’t stupid, they’re gonna—”
Nightmare lazily turns his head to look at the pig. The visor glows bright red, and the pig wilts. Gets pale in the face. And his walkie talkie crackles. The pig jumps at the sound and looks at Nightmare in a panic.
Nightmare flashes him a thumbs up.
Another furrowed brow from the ever-confused pig. Still, he grabs for his walkie, his movements tentative and unsure. He brings the walkie to his ear.
“Yeah?” he says dryly.
“Hey, Johnson,” the walkie crackles, “It’s Lawrence. Listen. I saw some coffee spilled on the floor, so I did a li’l investigatin’ and you know what I found? Bores. In a closet.”
Johnson stands still, slack-jawed.
“...Unconscious,” Lawrence adds. “I wasn’t sure if you got that.”
“I did,” Johnson notes, annoyed.
“Well, you didn’t say anything,” Lawrence complains, “This is serious. The Nightmare is here, man. I just know he is. You see anything on any of your cameras?”
Johnson winces and looks to Nightmare for help. Nightmare ignores him, focused on the security feeds.
“Uh…” Johnson stammers, “...nope. No eyes on Nightmare.”
“Yeah?” Lawrence says, “Damn. Okay. Keep me posted.”
“Sure,” Johnson says. “I’ll, uh, post you up.” He lowers the walkie, mouthing “Why did I say that?” He shakes his head and looks back at Nightmare.
Nightmare types away, killing feed after feed.
Johnson blinks. Gestures to the door with the air of a fatigued host shooing away his guests. “I covered for you, uh, Nightmare. I was hoping you could—uh—go. Before we get caught and I get fired.”
Nightmare looks up at the screen. He holds out his right wrist and like before, it emits a blue light that fans out into a 3D map. Using finger swipes, Nightmare rotates the map, checking the security feeds for comparison.
Johnson meekly raises his hands up to his stomach. “Y’know, since I guess I’m getting fired tonight, I have been sprucing up my resume. Sending out CVs like crazy. I’m gunning to get, like, a GM job at a retailer.” He pauses. Thinks it over, shifting his weight from heel to heel in a little jig. “I’d settle for fast food if I had to, but I’d just love the security of a big box retailer…”
This gets Nightmare’s attention. The vigilante looks at the pig pointedly. Turns away and shakes his head with clear disappointment.
The pig furrows his brow. “Huh? What was that?”
Nightmare returns to ignoring the pig.
The pig aggressively readjusts his stance, nearly tripping over himself. Leers at the Nightmare threateningly, at least as much as he can manage. Truly, it’s a wet fart of a glare.
“Use your words, man,” Johnson says, “You got a problem with me?”
Nightmare hangs his head over the keyboard, shoulders arched high. He shakes his head again and then looks over at Johnson. Points at the badge on his chest.
Johnson looks down at his badge. Looks up, enraged. “Are you trying to say that I’d just be jumping from one institution to the other?”
Nightmare’s pointing arm drops. He thinks for a second, shakes his head for a third time, and goes back to what he was doing.
The pig pulls his belt up past his waist. “You are! You’re saying that I’d go from harassing civilians to disciplining workers! Well! Well well well!” He violently jabs a finger at the air. “I REJECT THE NOTION!” Then he gestures at himself. “I’M A GOOD PERSON!”
Nightmare’s head lazily drifts towards Johnson, his body language reading, “Are we seriously doing this?”
Johnson gets angrier. “I don’t beat people up in the street, I just watch cameras! You know, they say all cops are bastards but you know what?! NOT ME! I’M CLEAN!”
Nightmare tilts his chin up slightly. Points again at the badge.
Johnson looks down again, again at the badge, and returns again with fury. “You’re saying I’m still a cop ergo another cog in the machine? WELL I—”
A sleeping dart suddenly sticks into the side of his neck. Johnson frowns and flicks the edge of the dart. “—is this how we resolve issues, Nightmare? Ooh, that feels…” His eyes go wide and vacant. A faint smile. “...kinda nice. I’m… seeing the error of my ways. I… I am a bastard! Nice.”
He passes out. Hits the floor with a loud thud.
Nightmare finishes killing the final feed and turns on his heel. Marches out the door, only to find himself face to face with two more cops. He assumes one of them is Lawrence.
“Ha,” Lawrence laughs, gun held in Nightmare’s face, “I got you, you son of a bitch.”
Nightmare shrugs.
And suddenly two grapple lines swoop through the open windows. They snap across the room, hooking onto the uniforms of both officers. Before the Dynamic Duo knows what hit them, the lines retract, dragging the kicking, squealing pigs across the hallway and to the windows…
Thump!
The grapple lines scoop the cops over the windowsills, over the planted devices from earlier, and dump the cops off the side of Sneaky Pete Tower. They each fall two stories before the grapple line stops their flight, claw dragging against their body armor. They scream.
Nightmare merely walks up to the windows. Closes them. Locks them, cutting off the screams from echoing down the corridors.
He continues down the hallway.
Second Pig’s office is small and cramped. The girl sits across from him in a steel folding chair while he fiddles with his desk drawers. Gone are the t-shirt and jeans, she now wears an overly large orange jumpsuit. It’s so big on her small frame that she has to roll the pants legs up to her knees so they don’t drag or fall back down. The sleeves she leaves alone, and they dangle several inches past her fingertips.
She shivers in place, teeth chattering. Legs brought up to her chest, arms wrapped around her knees, she does her best to stay warm, but her flesh is still slightly wet from the freezing cold shower Second Pig made her take.
“So you really don’t know your name, bud?” Second Pig says conversationally.
She shakes her head innocently.
“Well, you’ll be going to a men’s prison anywho,” he says in a threatening calm.
She hides her frown behind her arms, careful not to upset the man any further. She considers her situation for a moment though and finds some strength.
“B-but I’m a g-girl,” she says, hating herself for stuttering.
“Mm,” he hums pleasantly, “but you were born as a boy, right? So it’s only fair.”
“Um. I dunno,” she says quickly, shrinking in her seat.
Second Pig gets out of his seat. Exhales. Something’s in his hand. She tries to sit up to see it better, but he dips his hand behind the desk, concealing the object from sight.
“If people think you’re a girl,” Second Pig says gleefully, “they might hurt you! And we don’t want that, do we?”
“N-n-no,” she stammers.
“Okay!” he exclaims, leaning over her chair. The object dips behind her head. She tries to look at it, but Second Pig uses his other hand to force her head straight. “Just remember: You did this.”
A flat, steel blade pushes up against the back of her head. She feels the razor glide up her scalp. She twitches uncontrollably, and Second Pig holds her down. The electric razor buzzes, and hair tumbles off her head. At first, it feels nice for the weight to be lifted from her crown… it’s not until a brown clump of hair falls into her lap that she realizes what’s happening.
She screams. A blood-curdling scream she’s been holding in for hours. It escapes through the office walls, and Second Pig rushes back in front of her. Slaps a hand over her mouth.
“Keep your voice down,” he hisses.
Her eyes fall into his, darkening with contempt.
She bites his hand. Bites into Kevlar. Chips a tooth. He roars. Whips a hand across her face. The echo of the strike is as loud as her scream. Her head jerks backwards. He pulls her in by the prison uniform, and his hand slips. The razor bites into the flesh by her ear—
She sits in a holding cell. Small, bald, and bleeding from behind the bandage roughly plastered onto her scalp.
The cell is much like the city streets: overcrowded and dirty. Though, while the Oven suffers from blazing, deadly heat waves, the cell is like stepping into cold storage. The only saving grace is the heat provided by all the large bodies packed densely together.
Attached to the holding cell is an office. Two pigs work across the room from one another at their computers. Brows furrowed, their minds fixated. Occasionally, they peer into the cell but really pay the prisoners no mind.
The girl huddles in close on the bench bolted into the cement wall. She doesn’t cry, doesn’t sniffle. She keeps to herself, knees brought up to her chin.
Surrounding her is a Who’s Who of racial profiling and other biases. Once, she feared these people, as she feared everyone. But among these drug dealers, sex workers, and addicts, there’s no danger to society here. Just a ravaged community.
“What the Hell do they got a kid in here for?” an inmate mutters.
She looks up. Meets eyes with the man. He looks away.
An unsettling ripple up her spine as she feels invisible gazes burrowing into her from all sides. She sighs loudly.
“I stole food from a pig,” she says plainly.
That earns her a few quick glances, even a few respectful nods. Her eyes hang on one particular voyeur for a moment. She shrugs and sinks deeper into the bench.
“That’s badass, mate,” one convict says.
“Joe, don’t talk like that around a little kid,” another convict pipes in.
“What?” Joe frowns. “The boy already said pig.”
“I’m a girl,” she says before breaking into a wide, toothy grin, “And I can say pigfucker too.”
Joe turns on his compatriot smugly. Gestures at the kid. See?
“Hey, would you keep it down in there?!” one of the Office Pigs sneers, “And watch your dirty, fucking mouths!”
The girl smiles weakly at the pig before giving into a frown. She turns to Joe.
“Is it scary on the inside?” she asks.
Joe holds his smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“That bad?” she rasps.
“It used to be safer there for most of us, but now that they finally got the pigs running the pigpen, it’s a bureaucracy nightmare. They’re missing meals, missing inmates, the jobs don’t even pay anymore… it’s no place for a kid like you to grow up in.”
She fidgets in place, bouncing from hip to hip. “Do I get a bed?”
Joe offers her a sympathetic smile. “Yeah. That pig tell you anything?”
She pales. “Y-yes. He said I’m going to a men’s prison.”
“Oh no no no no no,” a high voice says. A high voice she recognizes as trans. A tall black woman with a swan-like streak of glittery makeup across the eyes and long white hair sidles up to her. Pats her thick thigh, signaling for the girl to hop on up. “That’s illegal, honey. Even in this city.”
The girl hesitates before settling onto the woman’s lap. “But that man said—”
“He’s full of shit,” the woman says coolly, “That’s why he shaved your head, darling. What’s your name? Mine’s Serena.”
“I don’t know,” she murmurs, “Sorry, I don’t remember what my parents called me.”
“They kick you out?”
She nods innocently.
“Bastards,” Serena says, “Well, it doesn’t matter what they called you before. You get to pick a name for yourself now.”
“Oh,” she says simply, her eyes glazing over as her mind wanders away. “Um.”
“That’s okay,” Serena says, “It’s a big decision—”
“Katrina,” the girl says suddenly. She repeats it to herself. “Katrina!” It settles into her mind. She imagines her mark from earlier: Lucius Gawain. She wishes she got to hear him call her that: Katrina. She wishes she could meet everyone she’s ever met again so that they could call her Katrina. Even Second Pig. She’d love to boast her name to the motherfucker.
Suddenly, Second Pig barges into the office, turning all heads within the holding cell.
“We’ve got a serious problem here, guys!” He crosses the office fast, pointing dramatically into the cell. “We have no idea who’s in this cell.”
The two Office Pigs exchange a look.
“Yeah we do,” one says.
“Yeah!” the other adds on with inspiration.
“What?” Second Pig snaps, “No—check the fucking spreadsheets, man. It’s gone! All gone!” He rushes over to Office Pig #1’s computer, his panicked expression falling into disgust. “The fuck is this?”
Office Pig #1 blushes. “It’s, uh, a Legend of Zelda: Majora’s Mask randomizer.”
“No shit!” Office Pig #2 cries out cheerfully, coming over to see. “I was doing Ocarina of Time on mine. It’s vanilla, no mods or nothin’, but—”
“No, no, stop it!” Second Pig barks, “The fucking Nightmare is here! He jacked our systems, deleted our shit, burnt our paperwork—”
Office Pig #1 extends a curled finger to his chin.
“What?!” Second Pig snaps.
Office Pig #1 shuts his eyes and mouth as if taking a vicious gust of wind directly to the face. He sputters, “Did you try Control-Z?”
“What?” Second Pig repeats.
“That’s Undo—”
“I KNOW WHAT CONTROL-Z DOES!”
Inside the cell, Joe turns his head with excitement. “Wait… the Nightmare is real? I thought he was just some kinda urban legend. Like Jesus.”
From Serena’s lap, Katrina hangs onto every word unfolding between the pigs. She perks up, nodding in agreement with Joe. Though the Nightmare has made the occasional public appearance, the word from the Oven is often “too good to be true”. While some say Nightmare’s a rogue AI programmed by some disgruntled ex-cop, others claim he’s a psy-op. A bit of performance art designed to justify more funding for the EPD.
She supposes she’ll find out the truth tonight.
“Wait a second…” Office Pig #2 bumps in. “...if Nightmare purged our holding cell data… wouldn’t—wouldn’t that mean he’s planning on breaking these scumbags out?”
Second Pig pales. “I, uh, didn’t think that far ahead.” He lingers on the thought for another moment. “Shit.” Shakes his head, reaches for his baton, lifts it to the air, and—
A grapple claw flies out from behind Second Pig and latches onto the baton. It comes at him with enough power to push the baton out of his hand. It launches the baton several feet forward. But before Second Pig can even react, the grapple line retracts backwards and whips Second Pig in the face. He howls. Tumbles backwards, steps on the leg of a rolly office chair, and falls flat on his back.
Both Office Pigs check the entrance, just as a small, gray globe no bigger than an apple rolls out from the shadows. The pigs drop a knee and ready their firearms. Smoke spits out of the globe in geysers, and Boom! the device erupts. Fog sweeps across the office in a flood, stopping just outside the cell.
The prisoners rush to the holding cell’s bars. Katrina gets off Serena’s lap and gestures for her to take a look while she settles back on the bench; she’s too short to see much of anything beyond all the bodies gathered at the front. Serena smirks and picks up Katrina’s feather light body, hoisting her onto her shoulders.
Gunfire falls into the smog until the clips are emptied. The Office Pigs pause in action, go for a reload, and suddenly, a hellish red beam ignites like fire through the smoke. Bullets whizz through. This time, they make their mark. The Nightmare’s black armor bleeds through the smoke while bullets ricochet off the armor. The sound is violent. Katrina ducks on instinct, but all too soon she becomes entranced. Her eyes widen with keen interest as the Nightmare marches through the gunfire unharmed and unafraid. He doesn’t so much as flinch.
Nightmare drags over an office chair on wheels. Presses the toes of his boot into the side of the cushion. A slot opens on the heel, and it unleashes a torrent of fire that ejects the rolly chair across the floor like a tank. It bashes Office Pig #1 in the groin, and he crumples over himself going, “Ow-ow-ow-ow!”
Nightmare raises his left gauntlet to the air and out comes a spinning bola. Two balls on a cord. It launches through the air, strikes the pig in the chest, and wraps all the way around his body. All the way until he’s properly cocooned—at which point he faceplants.
Nightmare turns and looks into the cell… or rather, he looks directly at Katrina. A shiver runs up her spine, and though she cannot tell where exactly Nightmare’s gaze lingers, she feels a prickling sensation underneath the bloody bandage. Subconsciously, she reaches up to the wound to scratch the mangled flesh. Still, Nightmare watches. Even when Second Pig gets back to his feet.
He rushes Nightmare.
“Nightmare! Watch out!” she calls out, and yet he still stares.
Second Pig reaches Nightmare. Raises the baton over his head—
Without breaking his concentration, Nightmare’s left arm swings up past his shoulder and catches the baton. He drags the baton down to Second Pig’s chest and uses it to ram him backwards, plowing him into a wall. The baton slips up the chest and into Second Pig’s Adam’s Apple. The guy squirms, and Nightmare brings his gauntlet to their chest. Twists the wrist so that the jagged scallops press into the pig’s body armor. He presses harder. Harder. Strains his muscles, kicks up his strength enhancers, and with a vicious tear, he sends a platelet of armor to the floor.
“What the fuck are you—hey, stop it! This guy’s crazy!” Second Pig wails.
In a sudden burst of impatience, Nightmare grabs onto the remaining plates of armor and strips them off violently, revealing the sweat-stained uniform underneath.
After the last scrap of armor hits the floor, Nightmare grabs Second Pig by the scruff of his shirt and flips Second Pig over his shoulder, body slamming them into a desk, sending office supplies and a computer monitor cascading to the floor.
Everyone in the cell cranes their neck to get a better look—except Katrina. Guiltily, she looks away. Meanwhile, Nightmare grinds Second Pig’s cheek against the desk, twisting his neck so that his beady eyes fall onto Katrina. Nightmare forces Second Pig to take a nice long look then flips him onto his back. But now, there’s a ghastly smirk cracking up Second Pig’s cheek, distorting his features.
“Oooh,” he coos, “you don’t like what I did to the brat, huh?”
Nightmare shakes with rage, the red visor glowing brighter than ever.
“The fuck you gonna do?” he spits, “Beat the shit outta me? HUH?! Only means more funding for us.” He breaks into a wide, toothy smile. Gives into a wave of cackling.
Nightmare rears back. Raises a fist like a mallet—
—and Katrina lunges forward. Snaps her little hands onto the bars.
“Nightmare, don’t!”
Truth be told, she doesn’t know what she’s telling Nightmare to not do. Nor does she know what Nightmare might do. And maybe, Nightmare doesn’t know either. But when she says those words, something relaxes in Nightmare. It takes a moment to register, and when it does, he drops his gauntlet to his side. Stares at Second Pig for a moment longer before losing interest in him. He turns towards the cell and makes his way over.
Second Pig, tired and beaten, lays on the desk. Laughs at the ceiling. “Heh heh, that’s right, Nightmare. Listen to the stupid tranny little kid—”
Without looking, Nightmare aims a gauntlet behind his back and fires a sleeping dart right into Second Pig’s neck. Before the man can utter another offensive word, his head slumps against the desk. Nightmare doesn’t look backwards. Only moves forward. Reaches the iron door to the cell and tears it open with one arm, snapping it off its hinges. Nightmare then steps back, gesturing for everyone to get out.
Katrina grabs tightly onto the cell bars and lifts her body off Serena’s shoulders. Releases and slides down to the floor. Serena turns to her, an inquisitive look on her face. Katrina nods to her, signaling for Serena to join the pack exiting to freedom.
Though Katrina’s brain is too young to fully comprehend her actions, something tells her to stay behind. Maybe she feels that she doesn’t deserve to escape with the rest. Maybe she’s too scared of the Nightmare to trust him. Maybe maybe maybe. She isn’t sure, but staying behind feels right to her. So she retreats back to the bench at the back of the cell and takes a seat.
The prisoners gather in a small crowd behind Nightmare, all of them staring at Katrina.
“Don’t be afraid, kiddo,” Joe says, eyes briefly flitting to Nightmare with curiosity, “We got the best guy in Estreya helping us.”
Katrina bites her lip. Shrinks inwards. There’s some unknown force between her and the Nightmare. It’s electric.
Nightmare signals for the prisoners, soon to be ex-prisoners, to stop talking and give him the floor. He steps into the cell. Drops down to a knee and extends a hand to her. And at long last, he speaks.
The Nightmare’s voice is a deep baritone, marred by electronic distortion and reverb. It booms like trees crashing in the forest. Yet despite that, he speaks softly.
“I’m a friend of Lucius Gawain’s. Come with me.”
Something glows in her eyes, and she takes his hand.
