I hate being in the chair more than I hate being on the street. Studio lights cook my face while the makeup girl dabs at my cheekbone. The glass walls around the main desk show a reflection of N54's newsroom: runners weaving between desks, producers bent over holo-screens, someone arguing into a headset by the control room door.
Third time I've had to say "Chishio Neko" into a camera this month.
"Two minutes, Alicia." My producer, Kellan, leans over the back of the chair, smelling like cheap coffee and stress. "Lead with the gang retaliation, not the vigilante. Higher-ups like it framed as public-safety first."
"Got it," I say.
He taps his holo-slate, brings up the rundown again, just in case I somehow forgot how to read. A red bar sits at the top of the list. A-BLOCK – BLOOD CAT / GANG RETALIATION / COPYCATS / NCPD INTERVIEW
Guests: Dr. Emmet Colbert (remote), Detective Stella Yakovleva (studio, live)
"Push the 'danger to society' angle," he says quietly. "Corpo wants this pushed. And remember to hit Biotechnica when we're with Yakovleva. They paid for the ad package."
I glance at him. "You want me to use her dead sister as a promo?"
"That came from upstairs, not me," he says, hands up. "I don't write the contracts, Im just trying not to get fired. One minute." He moves off before I can say what I think about that. The floor manager gives me the three-finger countdown from behind the main camera. I flexed my shoulders under the blazer, feeling the tug of the earpiece cable. My script scrolls in a soft blue column in the corner of my vision. Most of it I've read. Some of it I'll ignore.
Someone finishes fixing my hair and bolts out of frame. The studio goes quiet; you can still hear typing, distant traffic through the walls, and the air system humming overhead. The red tally light blinks to life on Camera One.
Five. Four. Three. Two.
We're live.
"Good evening. I'm Alicia Narayan, and this is N54 Nightline."
My anchor voice comes on automatically. "Our top story tonight: the vigilante some call 'Chishio Neko,' better known on the street as 'Blood Cat,' is back in the headlines after another violent clash with organized crime. But this time, the fallout is hitting ordinary people."
B-roll rolls over my words. The glass wall in front of me fills with a second layer of footage: shaky night vision from a dockside warehouse, lights flaring, bodies moving. I kept talking.
"Tonight, in an abandoned logistics depot in Arroyo, at least seventeen alleged members of the Animals and Scavenger gangs were killed. Anonymous sources inside NCPD tell us the scene was 'a butcher shop.' Many of the dead had been dismembered. Others showed signs of close-range gunfire and high-explosive injuries."
The clip changes: a wide shot from a security camera mounted high in a warehouse corner. The date stamp in the corner is glitching. I've seen the raw file three times already. A slim figure in a dark hoodie and red cat mask darts between stacked crates. Three bulked-up Animals members, chromed arms, bare torsos marked with their usual trash tattoos, moved after her. One swings a pipe and thankfully misses, and smashes a crate into splinters.
The vigilante isn't as graceful as I thought she would be. She stumbles, catches herself on one hand, and almost eats concrete before she rolls sideways and dives behind a forklift. Sparks burst as something hits the metal.
I'd speak over it. "In the footage obtained by N54, we can see the vigilante struggling. Despite social media myths painting 'Blood Cat' as inhuman, this is a real person. They get knocked down. They bleed."
In the clip, one of the Animals rounds the forklift. There's a quick flash of muzzle fire from the vigilante's sidearm. One round hits the guy's shoulder. Another pings off the floor. He lunges anyway, swinging his pipe.
The video freezes as his arm comes down.
"Authorities confirm that at least ten of the dead were affiliated with the Animals gang," I continue, "and five with a Scavenger crew known for distributing stim cocktails and cheap synthetic narcotics through brothels and alley clinics. Two bodies are still unidentified."
The clip resumes. It jumped forward. Someone in NCPD already scrubbed out the worst parts before we got it, but there's still enough. The vigilante throws something that sticks to the side of a loading crate. It's small and round. The low-res makes it look like a blurry circle with a cartoon cat face sprayed on it. A second later, there was an explosion.
Three men go down like rag dolls as crates fall on them. As she closes in and shoots each one in the head twice.
"In addition to gunfire and edged weapons, the assailant appears to be using homemade explosive devices and some kind of electrical demon. Witnesses describe targets 'locking up' and collapsing as if hit with a high-voltage charge."
My script tells me to say "terror tools." But I skipped the word. The feed cuts back to me at the desk. "NCPD has formally linked this incident to the same masked figure seen in two earlier cases: the raid on a Maelstrom sex child-trafficking parlor in Watson several weeks ago, and the subsequent series of copycat assaults that left at least eight would-be vigilantes dead. Polling data shows public support for 'Chishio Neko' remains high, but tonight, the gangs are hitting back, and innocent people are caught in the middle."
The producer's voice buzzes in my ear. "Package one. Roll it."
The screen splits. On the left, I stay live. On the right, a pre-cut package starts: my own voice-over from earlier this afternoon. "Across Watson, Santo Domingo, and Arroyo, people have been painting red cat faces on walls, wearing cheap Blood Cat masks bought from street vendors, and trying to 'take justice into their own hands.' NCPD calls them reckless. Some local residents call them stupid. But the gangs they target don't see a difference."
We show a hospital hallway crowded with people. The camera finds a young man sitting on a stretcher, arm in a sling, nose taped. A red plastic cat mask rests upside-down in his lap. His name is blurred out in the lower third.
"They saw the mask," he tells me, voice hoarse. "I wasn't even doing anything. Just walking home. These Animals freaks thought I was her. Or, like, trying to be her. They dragged me into the alley and started kicking. If that Mox van hadn't been passing by…" He trails off, looks away.
Another cut: a mother in a dingy living room, holding a cracked holo-frame. Her teen daughter smiles from the recorded image, cheeks flushed, red mask pushed up onto her hair. The mother's hands shake.
"She thought she was helping," the woman says. "Said she was going to scare some scavs away from the block. Then I got the call. They shot her. Just… shot her and left her there. They said she looked like that… that Blood Cat person. Like it was her fault."
Her eyes flick up to the camera, and I remember how long it took her to say yes to the interview. She only agreed when I promised to show her daughter's face, not blur it like another anonymous statistic.
Back to the package.
"In the last month, NCPD reports at least eighteen separate incidents of so-called 'vigilante actions' by copycats," my voice-over says. "Eight are dead. Six are critically injured. In several cases, witnesses say gang members shouted 'this is what happens to Blood Cat fans' as they opened fire."
The graphic comes up: a map with three districts pulsing. Watson, Santo Domingo, Arroyo. Numbers tally at the side.
COPYCAT INCIDENTS: 18
DEATHS: 8
CRITICAL: 6
Successful: 5
I watch the numbers again even though I've seen them three times today. They never look less ugly.
The package ends. We're back in studio. Camera Two takes a tighter shot on me.
"There is no evidence that 'Chishio Neko' asked for this," I say. "No manifesto, no calls for followers. But the effect is the same. Gangs are using the mask as an excuse to crack down harder on anyone they don't like, and any kid with a spray can and a hero complex is now a potential target."
Kellan's voice: "Guests ready. Toss to Colbert."
"Joining me tonight to discuss the impact of this so-called vigilante wave are Dr. Emmet Colbert of the Night City Neural-Psych Institute, and NCPD Detective Stella Yakovleva, from the Organized Crime Taskforce."
Two new windows pop up on the glass. On my left, Colbert looks exactly like he always does: perfect silver hair, expression set to permanent scold. On my right, Detective Yakovleva sits in one of our side chairs, mic clipped to her vest. She's mid 20's, maybe later 20's. with tired eyes and her blond hair pulled back in a tight knot. Her NCPD badge hangs at her chest.
She did not want to be here. I could tell from the look on her face.
"Doctor Colbert," I say. "You've argued before that vigilantes like 'Blood Cat' don't solve crime, they escalate it. Does tonight's gang retaliation prove your point?"
His mouth curves like he's been waiting all day for that question.
"Of course it does," he says. "We're seeing exactly what we warned about. A masked killer decides they're above the law. The media, no offense, Ms. Narayan, turns them into an urban legend. Then the unstable, the impressionable, and the desperate try to copy them. It's a contagion. And like any contagion, it spreads until someone dies."
He loves that word. Contagion. Plays well in soundbites. I nod once, keep my face neutral. "You're saying the vigilante is to blame for the gangs' response?"
"I'm saying she, assuming it's a 'she' lit the fuse," he replies. "Gangsters are violent predators. We know this. You don't wave a red flag in front of a tiger and then act surprised when it mauls the spectators."
"Detective Yakovleva," I say, turning slightly toward the other window. "You and your unit have been responding to both the Blood Cat attacks and the copycat incidents. How do you see it?"
She clears her throat, glances past the cameras toward someone in the control booth. I can't see who. Probably PR.
"From a law-enforcement standpoint," she says, voice steady but flat, "we have two problems. One, a yet-unidentified suspect committing multiple homicides, some of which are extremely brutal. Two, gangs using that as an excuse to increase violence against civilians. The people paying the price are caught in the crossfire. Kids, workers, bystanders."
She pauses. Her jaw tightens a little.
"Whatever this 'Blood Cat' thinks they're doing," she adds, "the way they operate makes our job harder. People are afraid to talk. They don't trust us to protect them from retribution, whether it's gangs or vigilantes."
Kellan's voice in my ear: "Good. Stay on that. Hit the distrust line."
"Public trust in NCPD was already low," I say. "Our own poll last week showed sixty-one percent of respondents had 'little' or 'no' faith the police would help them if they were in danger. Doesn't that make vigilantes more appealing to some people?"
Colbert jumps in before she can answer.
"People who have lost faith in institutions often look for simple answers," he says. "A mask. A symbol. Someone who will, quote, 'do what needs doing.' But that's fantasy. In the real world, when you normalize unsanctioned killing, you get exactly what we're seeing: chaos. Gangs settling scores, corporate buildings under attack, trauma teams scraping teenagers off sidewalks."
The prompt in my eye flickers. New line: BIOTECHNICA QUESTION – ASK IT NOW.
"Detective Yakovleva," I say, and lower my voice half a step. "Some viewers may recognize your last name. Two nights ago, in an incident at a Biotechnica facility in Watson, your sister, Sasha Yakovleva, was killed. Biotechnica's statement describes the incident as 'a terrorist assault by mercenary elements'—"
Her eyes flash, just for a second.
"—and notes that she died while allegedly attempting to access secure data on an experimental medication. Some people online are already linking that event to the Blood Cat raids and the copycat wave. They say we're seeing bigger and bigger attacks inspired by this idea of 'taking justice into your own hands.' Do you agree with that?"
Kellan mutters "Nice" in my ear like I just nailed a trick shot. I keep my expression still.
Detective Yakovleva doesn't answer right away. She looks down, fingers flexing against the arm of her chair. When she looks back up, her voice isn't as flat as before.
"My sister was not a terrorist," she says. "She was… she was a contractor. A merc. She made bad choices, she took risks I didn't agree with, but she was not some… cartoon villain trying to blow up a building for fun."
Colbert shifts in his box, ready to talk. She keeps going before he can.
"And you know what's not in Biotechnica's statement, Ms. Narayan?" she asks, eyes on me now. "It doesn't mention what was on that data she leaked. It doesn't mention the patients who signed up for that medication trial and ended up in body bags. It doesn't mention the complaints we've had sitting in a queue for months because every time we push, some corp lawyer calls my boss."
The control room goes quiet in my ear. I imagine three people stumbling over each other to find the mute button on her feed. They don't find it fast enough.
"So no," she says. "I don't think we can just say 'vigilantes are causing all this' and walk away. The gangs are responsible for what they do. The corps are responsible for what they hide. And we're responsible for what we fail to stop. Everyone's got blood on their hands."
There's a tightness around her eyes now that wasn't there when she walked in. Talking about Sasha costs her something. That's obvious even through the camera.
"Detective," Colbert cuts in, eyebrows raised. "With respect, grief can cloud judgment. Biotechnica is a pillar of—"
"A pillar of what?" she snaps, turning toward his box even though he's not really in the room. "Clinical negligence?"
"A pillar of scientific progress," he says, and I can practically hear the PR department feeding him lines through his own earpiece. "Individual adverse outcomes are tragic, but we can't let emotional narratives distract from systemic stability. Vigilantes, whether they're your sister or this 'Blood Cat,' undermine the rule of law. That's the issue."
There's the phrase. Rule of law. Systemic stability. I've had to say them enough times.
Kellan hisses, "Steer it back, steer it back,"
"Our viewers should know," I say, "that N54 has independently reviewed medical complaints from several families tied to that Biotechnica trial. Along with said data breach but as we couldnt confirm it...We've seen autopsy reports and messages from internal whistleblowers that raise serious questions about side effects and informed consent. We'll be airing that investigation in full later this week."
That wasn't in the script. The silence in my earpiece turns into static for a second, like someone yanked a cable.
"For now, we're focusing on the pattern: an anonymous vigilante attacking gang drug dens; gangs retaliating against anyone who looks like that vigilante; and a city caught between fear of crime and distrust of official channels. Dr. Colbert, you call this a contagion. Detective Yakovleva, you've suggested it's bigger than one person in a mask. So what actually addresses the problem? More police patrols? Crackdowns on mask sales? Or dealing with the gangs and corruption that made 'Blood Cat' popular in the first place?"
Colbert launches into a list that sounds like it came straight off a think-tank memo: community outreach, mental-health screening, stricter media guidelines. He slips in "responsible journalism" like it's a jab. I let him talk for a bit, then cut back to Yakovleva.
"People need to see consequences," she says. "For gangs, for corrupt officers, for corporations. Not just for some kid with a spray can. If all we do is arrest copycats and show up late to another massacre, nothing changes."
Her gaze flicks to the side again. Somebody off-camera makes a hand gesture. Time's almost up.
"Last question," I say. "If 'Blood Cat' is watching this right now, what would you say to them?"
Colbert starts to answer. I hold up a hand.
"Detective?"
Her jaw works for a second. Then:
"Turn yourself in," she says. "Not because I think you're pure evil. I don't. I've seen what you did at that Maelstrom place. I know some of those kids are alive because you were there. But this path? It ends two ways: a slab in the morgue, or behind bars if your lucky. And on the way, more people die because they wanted to be you. You want to help? Talk. Testify. Bring us what you have on these gangs and these clinics. Stop playing executioner."
I don't miss the way she adds, almost under her breath: "Don't make some other sister stand over their family and wish they stayed home."
The control room cuts her mic right after that. I hear the tiny click in my ear.
"Dr. Colbert, Detective Yakovleva, thank you both for your time," I say, wrapping the segment.
The split screens fade. Camera One pulls back for a wide shot.
"When we come back," I continue, teleprompter picking up the next line, "holo-twit reacts. Is 'Blood Cat' a hero, a menace, or just a symptom of a broken system? We'll look at what you're saying—and what officials aren't. Stay with us."
The red tally light on Camera One dies. The "ON AIR" sign flips from live to standby. Studio sound loosens, like someone untied a knot.
"Jesus, Alicia," Kellan says, striding toward the desk, tablet in hand. "You really had to drop the 'we've seen the autopsy reports' bomb in the middle of a sponsored segment?"
"Is it wrong?" I ask, pulling off my earpiece. My voice sounds scratchier when I'm not in anchor mode.
He rubs his face. "No, it's not wrong, that's the problem. Legal's already pinging me. Biotech's rep is blowing up my holo. Next time we tease an investigation, can we at least warn them before you go off-script? After all its not just your job on the line."
"You wanted ratings," I say. "This'll get them."
He stares at me for a second, then huffs out a humorless laugh. "You and your crusades. Just… stay reachable after the show, okay? They're going to want a meeting."
"Story of my life," I mutter. The makeup girl swoops back in to powder my nose. Somebody adjusts the fall of my blazer. In six minutes, we'll be back on air with a lighter segment about stolen braindance assets.
For now, I sit and watch the bits of our own segment replay silently on a side monitor.
There's the masked figure again, in grainy black-and-white, throwing those cat-face bombs and nearly getting her head taken off by a chromed fist. There's the kid with the broken arm and the plastic mask in his lap. The grieving mother with the holo-frame.
The map with its pulsing red circles.
Somewhere out there, the real person under that mask is watching too, if she's smart. Or if she still cares.
I don't know if I like her. That part doesn't matter. I don't have to like sources to report on them. All I know is this:
The gangs don't fear NCPD. They might not even fear her, but shes becoming a thorn in their side. And ordinary people—kids, joy-toys, bartenders, warehouse grunts taking the most damage.
The prompter blinks the countdown for the next block. My anchor voice waits, coiled and ready.
"Back in ten," the floor manager calls out.
Pov Yumi
I kill the feed with a thumb tap.
The screen goes black, then flips to my reflection: tired eyes, hair a mess, oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder. The N54 logo ghosted on the glass takes a second to fade.
The only sound left is the soft buzz of the holo-frame and Halo's purr.
I shift the ice pack higher on my right shoulder and immediately regret it. A spike of pain shoots down my arm and into my ribs.
"Fuck," I mutter, breathing through my teeth.
Blitz makes a concerned little chirp from my lap and kneads at the blanket. His claws prickle my thigh. Halo is glued to my hip, chin parked on my leg, staring up at me like she has the answers.
"Yeah, yeah. I know," I tell them. "Should've ducked faster."
The Animals hit harder than the scavs ever did. One of them had caught me square in the shoulder with a full-body charge. Roided-up mountain of meat, veins full of synthroids and stupidity. My subdermal mesh kept the joint from exploding, but it sure didn't stop the dislocation. I'd slammed into the side of a crate, something in my back had popped, and for a second my whole arm went numb.
It's back in place now. Mostly. I can move it, but lifting anything heavier than a cat feels like a bad idea for now. The bruise is already blooming dark under the skin, a big ugly patch that runs from collarbone to halfway down my bicep. My ribs ache every time I breathe too deep. My neck's stiff where one of them clipped me and bounced my skull off the concrete.
Bane would've loved those idiots. All strength, no brain. Break the bat, smash the cat, whatever.
"Overcompensating," a dry voice rasps from somewhere behind my left ear. "All muscle, no subtlety. Our mutual friend would approve."
I don't jump. I'm too tired to jump.
"Bane's Not here thankfully," I say. "And if he was he'd be neck-deep in some Venom knockoff here and working for the Animals anyway."
A shape leaks out of the corner of the room, dimmer than the shadows at first. Scarecrow unfolds from it like a bad thought.
Blitz lifts his head and gives the arean a loook like it could sense something then decides it isn't worth the effort and goes back to purring. Halo doesn't even blink.
"Cats," Scarecrow says mildly. "Always so sure of their place in the world, no matter what shares the room with them."
"Maybe they're right," I say. "They outlived Sasha. They'll probably outlive me."
His head tilts at that. The eyeless mask doesn't move, but something in it feels amused.
"She's quite eloquent, your Detective," he says. "The grieving one. Yakovleva. I like her. She understands that everyone has blood on their hands. Even if she's still clinging to her little ideas about Jail and courts."
My jaw tightens. I can still hear her voice from the broadcast. You want to help? Talk. Testify. Bring us what you have… Stop playing executioner. Don't make some other sister stand their family and wish they had stayed home.
It sat wrong in my chest. Not because she was wrong, exactly. Just because it was her saying it. Sasha's sister. Same face if you squint, same eyes, different life. She gets a badge and a studio mic. I get a mask and a pile of bodies and a nickname.
"I didn't ask for a lecture from a cop," I say, mostly to myself.
"Yet you listened," Scarecrow answers, stepping closer. His boots don't make sound on the floor, "You always listen, especially to the ones who remind you of what you've lost."
I keep my gaze on the dead TV. His reflection hangs behind my shoulder, stretched and thin.
"She's not wrong that people are dying because they wanted to be you," he goes on. "Contagion, remember? I believe that nice doctor used my favorite word."
"He's an idiot," I say. "He's mad people like me make his job harder. That's all."
"And yet," Scarecrow says idly, "copycats, bodies, masks on sale in the street, gangs using your image as an excuse. You must be very proud, little Hood. Or is it little Cat today?"
I finally look at him.
"Really?" I ask. "We're doing this again?"
His shoulders lift in a lazy shrug.
"You drape yourself in felines," he says, counting on his fingers, "keep two domesticated ones at your feet, clawed cybernetics, a red cat on your bombs, a tail on your jacket, and slink across rooftops like a certain Gotham thief. Yet you carry guns, leave bullet holes, and toss explosives around like a certain hooded boy who never met a line he wouldn't cross." He spreads his hands. "You are not subtle."
"I'm not copying anyone," I say. "I'm using what works."
"Yes," he agrees. "That's what we all say. He insisted he wasn't mimicking the Bat, you know. Just 'doing what needed doing.' You are in good company, my dear. Though it is a shock to me you havent gotten his engram yet."
Blitz butts my ice pack with his head and I hiss again. The cold has numbed the skin, but the deep ache is still there, pulsing.
"It worked and im planning too," I say, gripping the pack harder. "Those Animals are not walking away from that warehouse. Neither are the scavs. I don't regret any of those fucks."
He huffs out something that's almost a laugh.
"'Fucks,'" he repeats. "You have such a charming way of minimizing. It's very Gotham of you. But yes, it worked. Barely. You were one good hit away from waking up in a Trauma Team morgue drawer. You are not the batman. Not yet. You do not have his skills or tools."
"Thanks," I say flatly. "Next time I'll ask them to hit my good shoulder instead."
He leans down a little, burlap face inches from mine.
"Next time," he says softly, "you go in with the proper tools. You saw how they moved when your little bombs went off. Imagine them when their brains are drowning in pure, manufactured terror. Strong men reduced to crawling animals. Screaming. Begging. Tell me you don't want that."
I don't say anything for a second.
The broadcast replays behind my eyes. Grainy footage of me stumbling behind the forklift. The flash when the bomb went off. The doctor saying copycat contagion. Stella saying turn yourself in. The mother talking about her dead daughter in a plastic mask.
Part of me feels… I don't know. Twisted. I didn't ask those kids to put on my face. I didn't invite them into this. But the gangs made examples out of them, and they did it using my brand.
My HUD pings.
A little chime in the corner of my vision, soft blue icon blooming open.
QUEST LOG UPDATED
New Questions Added:
— Identify Animals crew responsible for "copycat purges."
— Map Scav safehouses repurposed as "Blood Cat trap zones."
— Make your own custom brain dance of the hunt.
— Punish responsible parties.
"Of course," I say under my breath. "You'd call them Questions."
Scarecrow glances at the space my eyes are tracking, though he can't actually see the UI.
"How pleasant," he murmurs. "Your little System has a sense of drama. Revenge as a bullet list. Efficient."
I sigh, but it pulls at my ribs, so it comes out more like a hiss.
"There's no rest for the wicked, apparently," I say. "Even when the wicked has an ice pack and a bruised lung."
"Rest," he says. "Then work. Even executioners sleep."
I roll my eyes. "I need at least a day," I admit. "Maybe two. Shoulder's shit. Ribs hurt. Last thing I need is to go swinging around Kabuki and have something give out mid-jump. I'm not dying because my idiot pride can't wait."
"Practical." He sounds pleased. "Good. We have much to plan."
I shift the ice pack off my shoulder and set it in a bowl on the table. The cold burn lingers. I peel back the edge of my shirt to check the damage. I've seen worse. Skin darkened, faint pattern of bruising where the mesh under the flesh caught most of the impact. There'll be a nice yellow-and-green galaxy there in a few days. No obvious swelling around the collarbone. No grinding when I move my arm slowly in front of me.
"Nothing's broken," I say. "Just pissed off."
"Like their gang," he says. "Crude, overbuilt, dangerous if you let them get close. You learned, yes?"
"Yeah." I think back to the moment that big bastard got a hand on my hoodie, yanked me off my feet like I weighed nothing, and tried to slam me into the floor until something snapped. "Don't let them grab me. Don't waste bullets on the chest plate when I can shoot the knees. Use more bombs."
"And gas," he reminds me.
"And gas once i make it. I should have everything" I echo.
My gaze drifts to the duffel by the door. I dragged it in earlier and haven't had the energy to unpack it yet. In there, under the torn hoodie and the backup gun and the spare mask, are the things I went for besides bodies.
Vials from a Scav stash. A crate of half-legal combat stims labeled with some garbage brand name, but the chemical codes don't lie. A box of aerosol carriers used in their cheap party foggers. The hallucinogenic base, the neuroactive push, the binder.
All three ingredients Crane spelled out for me.
"I got what we needed," I say quietly. "Not all of it, but enough to start. Some synth-dream trash the scavs were cooking. A couple rigs of Combatrush from the Animals. Binder spray. I can work with that. At least for testing."
"First iterations are always crude," Scarecrow says. "You refine with experience. With bodies. Your city has supplied you with an excellent test population."
I stroke Halo's back, calmer now. Her tail flicks against my wrist.
"I'm not testing it in my apartment," I say. "I like my cats."
"Ah yes," he says. "The old den, then. The abandoned building near your colorful ladies of the night. If what i can see in your memory is true."
"Yeah." My throat feels tight for a second, thinking of that hollow place near Lizzie's, all peeling paint and busted pipes, mattresses on the floor, cheap BD stains in the walls. My first real hideout. I used to crash there doing small jobs for the Mox.
"I have most of the tools we will need in my system storage," I say. "Chem burners, filters, some glassware. Perfect spot for a little mad science."
Scarecrow gives what passes for an approving nod.
"Not quite a Gotham asylum," he says, "but it will do. A forgotten corner of a rotten city."
I lean my head back against the couch.
"You're enjoying this way too much," I tell him.
"Fear is the only honest thing people have left," he replies. "Your city sells fantasies. Braindances, filters, brand-managed emotions. You will give them something real, Yumi. Your cats will be fine. Your enemies will not."
"That's the point," I say. "I'm not here to scare them straight. I'm here to ruin them. If some gonk drops dead from a heart attack because he tried to be big bad Animal number five and picked a fight with the 'Blood Cat,' that's on him."
"And the children?" he asks, almost idle. "The copycats?"
I stare at the blank screen again. My reflection looks back, tired and a little mean.
"I'll use the brain dance and leave a message for them to stop." I say.
Scarecrow is silent.
"But," I add, jaw tight, "the ones who hunted them for sport? The ones who said 'this is what happens to Blood Cat fans' and laughed while they stomped a kid to death? Those are mine. They wanted to use my name as a warning." I feel my lips curl into a smile. "I'll make them wish for death."
The HUD flickers again.
NEW SUB-QUESTION:
— Capture one offender alive for gas trials.
I huff out a sound that's almost a laugh.
"See?" I say. "System gets it."
"Delightful," Scarecrow says. "You're progressing nicely."
I shift, carefully, easing Blitz off my lap. He complains and then resigns himself to curling up against my shins instead. Halo pads up my chest and tucks herself under my chin like a furry scarf.
"Tomorrow," I tell him. "Today I ice, I sleep, and maybe hit up a ripper doc that isnt vik to get patched up. Last thing I need is for the old man to worry and go telling everyone i know. Plus get the lab set up. Start cooking."