Glitch in the System

The first time, it was an accident. Phaedra didn't mean to perform an act of outright villainy. All she wanted was to break into the vault, just to prove that she could. But two things happened that day: she discovered how much fun villainy was, and she saw the Azure Vixen in action.

Vixen was the city's local superhero, a fact of which Phaedra had been superficially aware. It hadn't really mattered before, but now? Well, now it mattered a lot. Seeing Vixen up close and personal had been an... interesting experience. Phaedra, thief and hacker extraordinaire, bit her lip, a flush creeping up her neck. She'd gotten away, but for a moment, she hadn't wanted to.

So she devised a plan.

---

The second time she went face to face with Vixen, it was months later and she'd managed to pull off quite a few heists in the meantime. She'd finished before the superhero could arrive, and with some amount of frustration had retreated to her headquarters without seeing the fox. This time, however, she'd taken a calculated risk. The job would take a while, and she'd be exposed for a good deal of it.

As if on cue, Vixen arrived to take her down. Phaedra (or Glitch, as the papers were calling her) had to blow the system. "That's a lovely tail you've got, Vixen!" she called even as she fled the scene.

When she returned home, free of her alter identity, Phaedra congratulated herself on being able to say anything at all, even if it wasn't as witty as she would have liked.

---

The next few months were cat and mouse games between the two of them. Vixen would say something dutifully clever and sly, and Phaedra would sometimes manage to respond in kind, and other times would sputter something out.

The media at least was in her favor; they only ever published the witticisms that passed between the two of them, heroine and villainess. Phaedra was aware that a subculture of the city had started to ship them, and she was young enough to know what that meant, and infatuated enough to be embarrassed. (She would never admit that she'd submitted a 'fan' theory or two.)

There were other villains in the city, of course, and other heroes, all of varying degrees of dastardly or heroic. Phaedra never killed; she was a thief, not a murderer. And the media eventually discovered that she really only stole from corrupt organizations. Phaedra was, well... not a hero, exactly, but not the pure villain that others were. She'd seen the term 'anti-hero' bandied about a few times, but never paid much attention to it.

She got better at laying traps, both real and digital. Other heroes would get ensared and she'd be long gone before they could reach her. She even managed to trip up Vixen a few times, but true to her name, the heroine was elusive. Phaedra was convinced the other woman never made mistakes.

When Vixen got tripped up by one of the more vicious villains, it came as quite a shock.

Of course, Phaedra had long ago found out where Vixen's headquarters were, even if her real identity was locked down tight. After seeing the news and finding out how badly Vixen had been injured, she decided a visit was in order.

---

Phaedra knocked politely on the door of the house. It was out in the suburbs, at the edge of "city" and "rural". Plenty of space for a hero to train and recuperate away from their identity. The house itself was listed as belonging to Sylvia Wilde, though she suspected that was just another identity, used to give Vixen some amount of privacy.

She tried not to fidget on the doorstep, keeping herself relaxed. Just as she was about to knock again, the door opened, just a sliver. "May I help you?" came the husky voice that could only belong to Vixen.

"I'm so sorry to disturb you, miss, but I have a delivery here for someone at this address." Phaedra held out the bouquet of multicolored daisies. She'd taken the liberty of arranging it herself, and had even included a card (carefully devoid of any evidence, of course.)

The door widened, and Vixen frowned down at her, calculation flickering in her eyes. She took out the card, her eyes narrowing briefly before she gave a small shake of her head, chuckling softly. "Thank you for the delivery. Do you need me to sign for anything?"

For a brief moment, Phaedra wondered what Vixen's signature would look like. Would it be sharp and angular? Loopy, flower, feminine? Some combination? One could tell a lot about someone from their handwriting, after all. But the moment passed and she beamed, shaking her head. "Not at all, miss. You have a pleasant day!" She retreated from the steps and to the (borrowed) floral van, giving Vixen a little wave before the door closed.

Once she had driven out of sight, Phaedra gave a silent cheer. She'd made progress, even if it was under somewhat false pretenses.

---

While Vixen was out of commission, Glitch laid low a while. Internet speculation either had her out of the country, plotting something truly extraordinary, or simply bored while her favorite superhero was recuperating.

Phaedra did not go to the home of one Sylvia Wilde again, though she did send two more bouquets, each with personalized cards.

"To the foxiest lady I know,

Get well soon. You are missed.

- MissingNo"

It wasn't a real encryption by any means, but she wasn't about to use either of their alter egos on the cards. There was no telling who might take a peek. (Though she thought the reference to the glitch Pokémon had been a stroke of mild genius on her part.)

Still, the time was not spent idling around. Phaedra did, in fact, come up with a delightful scheme that involved taking down the villain who'd hurt Vixen in the first place. She even had a follow-up plan, with a specific goal in mind.

---

It wasn't easy, but she managed to deal with Snare, and even kept it reasonably quiet. The media made no comments on it, no one assigned her name to it. It really was as if he had just... disappeared. The fact that he was in prison escaped notice entirely. Well... almost entirely.

It seemed that Vixen had figured out a little bit, herself, while she was out of action. A simple vase with a few flowers was in front of her headquarters that evening, with a simple, typed note attached.

"Missy,

Thanks for today.

Sylvia"

Phaedra went to sleep with a smile on her face that night. Maybe things weren't so bad, after all.

---

It took several weeks for her other plan to take root. Phaedra did very little in public. In fact, the Internet was oddly concerned at the lack of any Glitch action. She was touched, if somewhat confused. Apparently people liked a villain with morals.

She spent a lot of time at her computer, long hours poured into hacking this system or that one. While this was not meant to be her grand finale, it would be a masterpiece... and she really hoped it would pay off.

Finally, it was time. Armed with her traps and a small bit of liquid courage, Glitch stepped out into the night. The smartphone she used for her heists was in hand, and once she was in position, she used it to remote start the dozens of programs she'd installed across the city.

All but the most important lights went out, district by district, until only a soft glow remained where there were smatterings of traffic lights. (So sue her; she had morals, after all.) Glitch had an excellent vantage point from a nearby skyrise, and watched with pleasure as the city stadium lit up, its giant screen coming to life with the message she'd told it to display.

"VIXEN, ARE YOU READY?"

The letter flashed, bold and bright and obvious against the dark backdrop of the city.

"I AM WAITING."

Glitch tightened the harness around her waist, testing the line. This was a theft she'd been dying to pull off since the moment she'd laid eyes on Vixen.

"COME AND GET ME."

She dove off the building's roof, following the line down, down, down. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see movement. The pale blue glow that was part of Vixen's natural abilities (what had led her to be a hero? Phaedra wondered, not for the first time) glimmered to the side, following her descent with ease.

As if on cue, several of her more harmless traps and diversions went off, slowing the heroine down, tripping her up. (It was all a ruse.)

The end of the line was near; the ground was growing closer, and she wondered what would happen when she reached it.

The villainess never really found out. Vixen pounced from the shadows, tackling her and rolling them both along the ground. Surely they would both have bruises by the end of it. Before she could struggle to her feet, Vixen had her pinned down, golden eyes staring out of the kitsune mask she wore. "Show's over, Glitch. It's time to admit defeat."

Phaedra smiled as if she were playing a marvelous joke. "Ah, but you see, I have one last weapon." She gripped a (harmless) bit of tech between her teeth before withdrawing it, careful not to swallow. "You'll have to get it from me. Creatively."

Vixen paused, her head tilting at the woman beneath her, before she slowly lifted her mask up. "You know... if you'd wanted a date, all you had to do was ask. You didn't have to take over the city."

In Loving Memory

They had been dating for almost a year before she asked him to move in with her. He'd been hesitant, at first; it was a big step, after all. Eventually, though, he'd agreed. He loved her, so why shouldn't he make that next step? There were a few weeks left on his lease when she'd asked. He planned it with her, so that he would move in as soon as his lease was up.

The first few months together were just as wonderful as he'd imagined they would be. They sat in companionable silence many nights, with him reading a book while she graded papers for her history classes. He admired that she'd worked so hard to become a full-fledged professor. His own work seemed inconsequential in comparison, though she assured him it wasn't.

"Every job, no matter how small, is important," she would say, and he'd smile because the conviction in her eyes made him really believe that, almost as much as she did.

He had odd dreams from time to time, of places both near and far, scattered across time. He chalked it up to watching too many documentaries with her. They were pleasant dreams, for the most part, and she featured heavily in them. That was not surprising, since they spent so much time together. He knew everything about her, and she knew everything about him.

So when he discovered a dusty, leather-bound scrap book, the contents came as something of a shock. He saw himself staring out of the pages... except, it wasn't really him.

Not all of the pictures were photographs. The earliest ones were sketches and paintings. Papyrus, vellum, even delicate Xuan paper (she'd schooled him soundly when he'd called it rice paper, going on and on about how many types there were.) His face, his eyes, looked out at him. The hair style wasn't always the same, but the colors were right. The dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks. His smile, a little shy but mostly playful.

Her impeccable handwriting was clear on every page. Location. Year. Name. Sometimes the gaps between pictures were small - perhaps thirty years or so. Sometimes there were much longer stretches of time. The longest he'd seen had been nearly a hundred and fifty years. In between, she'd included a note:

I didn't find him in time. I showed a sketch of what he should look like in every place I went to. By the time I found where he lived, it was too late. The fever took him, they said.

There were splotches on the paper, where he knew tears had fallen and smudged the ink.

He was still paging through the enormous album when she came home, startling him at the sound of the door closing. She stood stock still, her eyes wide and yet so sad. "You were never supposed to see that," she said, her voice strained.

Slowly he stood, turning to face her fully. "What is it?" he asked. "What does this even mean?"

She explained to him, then, about her curse. Immortality, she called it. He was inclined to believe her when she slit her wrist in front of him and he watched it heal within seconds. It dawned on him that she was such a brilliant history professor simply because she had actually lived it. Living forever, well, he could see how it could be a curse.

When she was through, the silence stretched. She shifted uncomfortably, nervous and looking ready to run. So he asked the one question that had been burning in his mind. "Why me?"

The woman he loved took the book from where he'd left it, her fingers brushing each picture as she turned the pages. "Because it's always been you," was her simple reply. "You just haven't remembered it yet."

The Voice of the Sea

The ship had set sail under clear skies and good winds, which had the sailors in good spirits despite her presence. Every now and again she would still catch one glowering at her. When she stared coolly back at them, they would spit at her feet or make signs against evil, despite the growls of the captain telling them off for their rudeness.

She was used to it, this animosity towards women aboard ship. The superstition was ridiculous, and she'd had good fortune to end up with captains and crew who, for the most part, held no stock in the ideas of women being bad luck on the seas. There had been a few, though, who'd cautioned her to dress as a young man and keep to herself, so she wouldn't distract the sailors.

It was unfortunate, then, that this was the only vessel going in the same direction as she.

Even more unfortunate was the storm that came from seemingly nowhere, turning calm seas and steady winds into a thrashing, churning mess that tossed the small ship about, its sails straining at the ropes. She was below-deck in the small room the captain had granted her, reading by the dim light of a candle and generally doing her best not to let the tossing bother her.

That, above everything else, is likely what set off the men who came barging into the room, convinced that she was the one who had angered the seas and caused the storms. She kicked and thrashed against them even as they tied her legs together with a spare bit of rope. One found the knife she kept on her person, and divested her of it, his grin malicious as he tossed it aside.

Her gown - gathered by the binding - fanned out around her feet like the delicate fins of a fish. She struggled against them as they dragged her topside, her voice going hoarse as she screamed in rage and fear, the sound lost under the ferocity of the storm that raged around them.

She could see the captain, running towards them, trying to make them stop, but it was too late. They dumped her unceremoniously overboard, her layers of skirts quickly soaking through, dragging her beneath the waves. She struggled, but with her legs bound, she was unable to kick. They'd left her arms untied - only because she was moving too much for them to do otherwise - but it did her no good. She couldn't reach the rope, and even if she could, she felt it swelling around her legs, now impossible to untie.

Slowly, she sank, her lungs burning as she gasped for air. Her life was over, she knew that with a certainty as the next breath she took was filled with seawater, the salt burning her throat and choking her. Her body tried to cough, tried to expel the fluid, to get air into her, but it was no use. Too late, she sank further and further. Her vision went spotty, and then ... black.

Silence.

It felt like an eternity. She floated in darkness, her body limp. Is this the afterlife? she thought, absently.

Then she heard it, a slow, musical humming, almost like singing.

No, it was singing. It grew louder and louder around her, surrounding her, filling her with life. The dress she wore shimmered with a faint light, the fabric rippling until it became scales of a brilliant blue. Her feet became fins, tipped with a blue so dark it was almost black. The magic rippled up her torso, covering her to her stomach in scales. She grew gills, and suddenly she could breathe again, and it was so wonderful and yet strange all the same.

She looked down at herself, moving what used to be her legs experimentally. They moved more sinuously now, and the motion propelled her upward. Her hands were much the same - in fact, everything above her waist was fairly normal save for the gills - and she clenched them in silent fury, her nails biting crescents into her skin. Only belatedly did she realize that her skin had taken on a rubbery texture, like dolphin skin.

She had no idea how long she sat, suspended in the water, learning her new body, but she could feel when the sea calmed around her, the storm having passed. Curious, she swam upward, blinking at the brightness of the sun. There was no sign of the ship, of course, beyond a few pieces of flotsam that hadn't been lashed down securely. Disappointed, she swam back into the depths.

It was several days before she found another living person - or, what used to be a person. She'd finally given voice to the fact that she'd become a mermaid, though she wasn't sure what magic had caused it. The whole thing still seemed so surreal. The woman she found was much older than she, and had been turned some decades past. She was taught how to harvest seaweed, how to catch fish, the best ways to eat both.

More importantly, she was taught about The Pull.

The Pull, she was told, was when a ship was near. She was shown a few rocky islands nearby, encouraged to perch on them, her lower half in the water, letting the waves roll over her. She could still breathe air, but only for a little while. It was better to keep her gills in the water, when she could.

She first experienced The Pull almost a month after her turning. Following the older mermaid, she laid herself across a rock. Music, undeniable and fierce, almost seemed to pull itself from her throat, the sound melodic, but also sharp from the salt water that she now breathed. They were alone at first, but more and more mermaids found themselves on the rocky outcroppings, their voices united in a siren's song.

The ship drew near, her wide eyes taking in the sight of sailors abandoning ship to dive into the sea. They never resurfaced. The ship continued on, only the most willful of the crew fighting their song until it was long out of view.

The last, dying breaths of the men who'd jumped found their way into her skin, her blood, breathing new life in her. Every woman around her gave a collective sigh of contentment, before they departed, magic singing in their blood.

And so continued the pattern, until at long last there was nothing but silence.

City Trails

Thump, thump, thump, thump...

Despina's feet hit the pavement in a steady beat, her pace eating the ground, covering the distance in a short amount of time. Her breath came in ragged gasps, proof of how long and hard she'd been running. The sun was setting, creating a beautiful backdrop to the city, but she didn't see it at all. She was far too worried about the ground ahead of her.

She heard a growl from behind her and increased her pace, skirting dumpsters, jumping over piles of trash, and not daring to look back for fear of tripping. What that creature was doing in the middle of downtown Chicago was beyond her ability to explain; all she cared about was getting away from it, somewhere safe. And 'safe' was a relative term in this part of town.

The growl sounded closer, but she couldn't be sure if it was real or her own imagination, using her fear to play tricks on her. Either way, if she didn't get to safety soon, it wouldn't much matter. That thing would be on her any minute now.

A light shone up ahead, then sharpened into the headlights of a car. She screamed, waving her hands, and moved into the road. "STOP! STOP, PLEASE!"

The car screeched to a halt, the smell of burned rubber rising in the warm summer air. "Are you fucking crazy?" yelled the drive, a man, as he leaned out his open window.

"Please, help! There's something out there!" she said, pointing behind her.

"What are you talking about? There's nothing there! Are you drunk, lad- oh, FUCK!" He slid back into his seat and gestured wildly at the passenger side door. Despina wasted no time in yanking it open, and the driver tore off down the street before she was even fully seated and had the door closed.

"Thanks for that," she said, gasping for breath. "It's been chasing me for about fifteen blocks."

"Fifteen!" He looked as if he would say something else, then shook his head. "Back alleys, huh?"

"Yeah. I thought I'd lost it for a while there. No such luck, I guess. Really, thanks for the lift."

"Any idea what the hell a panther is doing loose in Chicago?"

"None. Zoo escapee, maybe?"

He shrugged. "Possibly. Looked a bit big for a zoo panther, though. My name's Jack. You?"

"Despina. Pleasure to meet you." They rode in comfortable silence for a few more moments, before they heard a thump on the roof of the car. "This day... just keeps getting better and better," she said, turning to look at Jack. "Sorry I got you into this mess."

He shot her a small, tight smile. "It's okay. Just hang on."