2019.

Rats scurried along the gutters of South Titan’s warehouse district, seeking sizzling meats whose scents rose up from street vendors’ carts into the crisp October night. The hour was late, and in doorways, on steps, and on sidewalks up against the sides of buildings, the homeless bundled themselves against the chill in sleeping bags, blankets, cardboard, and whatever else they could find.  

Gracie stomped her way past them, her dark hair cut jagged and boyish, her jeans tucked into biker boots whose steps echoed down the empty street, and her fists shoved into the pockets of her black leather jacket.

Although she might have appeared angry to those who looked her way, Gracie’s face simply held that “don’t-fuck-with-me” hardness so many Titan City denizens wore while walking its streets. She did not actually feel angry. Sure, the night had not gone as planned, but Gracie knew that any plan made with her roommate Kristen that involved something more than sweatpants and streaming television had a slim chance of becoming reality. Kristen bailing on coming out to dance at Club Terpsichoria because her dickhead boyfriend Zack was “in a mood” was annoying but not unusual.

If Kristen had been with her, though, maybe it would have been easier to dismiss the guy in the too-tight t-shirt who wouldn’t accept that Gracie did not want to dance with him. He was the kind of guy who saw a woman alone as having a target on her.

But Gracie hadn’t gone to Terpsichoria to dance with guys, or talk to guys, or anything in the guy department, really. And that particular Thursday, it didn’t have anything to do with girls either. No, this night had been about dancing for the sake of dancing. The feeling of her body in motion, one gesture flowing into another as her limbs grew warmer and warmer in the dark, heart pounding out the rhythm of the music — until everything in life felt all right. It always had.

Since she was a little girl fleeing her parents’ shouting matches, Gracie had learned that the best way to calm the grief, the rage, the desperation that loomed like a shadowy tsunami was to move her body — hard and fast — to sweat, to burn from within until nothing but peaceful silence remained. Without that, Gracie wasn’t sure what she’d do. And sometimes, that thought scared her.

Tonight’s dance wasn’t about escaping anything in particular. This was just a maintenance dance. In fact, things seemed mostly kind of okay in Gracie’s life.

Kristen’s pay from the Starpoint Diner had been steady enough that, with what Gracie made at Sprang & Sons Used Books & Media, they could keep the lights on. And that summer, her co-worker Brianna had helped her apply for a need-based education grant from the Finn Foundation, opening the door for Gracie to take some community college classes. When she had left home in her teens, she had also dropped out of school. But now that she was going back, on her own terms, making the grade was almost fun at times.

Still, Gracie knew better than to let her guard down. Things could be fine today and fall apart tomorrow. Titan City had taught her that much. And whatever came next, she knew she had to be ready. What she didn’t know was that she wouldn’t have to face it alone.

Just three blocks from her Titan Metro station and the elevated train that would take her back home, a white Mustang rumbled up alongside Gracie and slowed to match her pace. Purple neon light glowed from underneath it, and aggressive bass vibrated the window that rolled down so Tight T-Shirt Guy could shout at her from the driver’s seat.

“Well, look who it is, Little Miss Too-Good-to-Dance-with-Me.”

Gracie didn’t even break her stride. “Fuck off, dude.”

“Hey, don’t be like that. Let me give you a ride.”

“I said fuck off.”

“Come on, I know your feet gotta be tired. I’m a nice guy, I promise. Just let me show how nice I can be.”

Gracie just rolled her eyes and kept walking. 

“Nothing to say to that? Silent treatment? What do you not like about me anyway? You think you’re better than me or something?”

Still, she said nothing. The bass kept booming out of the window of the white Mustang, muffling the crunch of tires on pavement. 

Thirty feet above the two, perched atop a brick building painted with a faded sign for Chew-Rite Gum, a figure in a red cloak watched.

As Gracie and her unwanted admirer neared the next intersection, suddenly the Mustang lurched forward with a growl. For a second, Gracie thought she was done with this one-sided conversation, but no such luck. He swung his car sharply into the crosswalk, blocking her path, and left it running as he swung out of the driver-side door.

A hand wearing a red leather gauntlet secured a grappling iron near the cloaked figure’s rooftop perch and readied the fast-repelling winch at his belt 

Tight T-Shirt Guy swaggered his way around the car toward Gracie. “Maybe it isn’t me you don’t like. Maybe you just don’t like men, huh?” His lopsided leer showed how drunk he was, drunk enough to say out loud things he ought to keep quiet if he wanted to stay a member of polite society. “That doesn’t bother me. Hell, I kinda like a challenge. I bet I can make you like me. All it takes is one good dick, right?” He drew closer. Gracie kept her feet planted in her boots, kept her eyes on his. “It would be my pleasure to be your first.”

One, two, three smoke pellets were pulled from their container and the red cloak brushed aside, as the unseen observer raised his arm to throw.

But then Tight T-Shirt Guy reached out to touch Gracie’s hair — big mistake. 

With the fluid ease of someone who had performed this exact same move way too many times, Gracie took hold of his wrist, jerked him forward and down, right off his feet. She kept her grip firm and side-stepped his stumble, bringing his arm behind him and pushing into his back. 

He went down. Chest and chin hit asphalt. From there, Gracie’s grip on his arm and her knee upon the small of his back was all it took to subdue him. The blood coming out of his face was just a bonus.

The watcher in red paused.

With his words muffled by the pressure of his face against the pavement, Tight T-Shirt Guy shrieked, “You little bitch!” He attempted to throw her off, but a twist of his wrist cautioned against that.

Gracie’s tone was steady, simply stating facts. “If you move, I break your arm.” 

“I’m gonna break your face!”

Another twist made him scream, then shut him up. 

“What you are going to do,” said Gracie, “is go home. You are going to sleep this off. If you are lucky, you won’t remember being such an asshole tonight. If you are very lucky, you will, and then you won’t ever try shit like this again. Understood?”

“Fuck you,” he panted into the street. Gracie started turning his elbow ever so slowly, really letting him feel the torque on that joint. “Okay! Okay!”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I give! Whatever you want!”

She held him there and listened to his breathing, listened to the sound of aggression fizzling away and defeat sinking in. “I’m going to release your arm now, and when I do, you are going to stay right here and count to ten before you get up. Do you understand?”

“Yeah.”

“Start counting.”

And he did. “One… Two…”

Gracie began to release him slowly, gently, watching for the slightest sign of movement as she eased her weight off his back.

“Three… Four…”

She didn’t start running as soon as she stood. Gracie’s first steps backward were measured, wary. Her eyes found a shadowed alleyway where she could disappear.

“Five… Six…” 

Quietly, she withdrew into darkness. From behind a garbage bin, she watched him count.

“Seven… Eight…” 

His head turned, and, no longer seeing her, Tight T-Shirt Guy shambled to his feet. 

“Fucking bitch.” He spat. Again he looked around, and seeing no sign of Gracie, he shouted, “Fucking bitch!” 

With a bit of a limp, Tight T-Shirt Guy staggered back into his Mustang. The engine roared, and it shot off down the road in a neon purple haze. 

From underneath his hood, the observer watched the confrontation end, then turned his attention to the alley where he’d seen Gracie escape. Tapping a control on his wrist band changed the light sensitivity of his mask, allowing him to see her there in shadow.

Now Gracie felt the terror hit. In the middle of a fight and the moments right before, when she could see it coming, Gracie usually felt an eerie calm. Immediately after, though, the suppressed terror blossomed within her, like her body had produced too much adrenaline and suddenly had nothing to do with it. 

Her veins ran cold. Her stomach clenched and lurched. Suddenly she was sobbing, and she let herself fall into a crouch.

 A directional microphone brough to the unseen observer’s ears the sound of Gracie’s sobs and then her voice as she tried to calm herself.

“You’re okay, goddamnit,” Gracie hissed through chattering teeth. “You are fucking okay. Stop it. Just stop it!” But still she trembled, and her anger with herself only seemed to make it worse. She cried and rocked back and forth, squeezing her knees to her chest.

He wanted to comfort her, to tell her how impressed he was with how she had handled herself and her attacker. But he decided that it may not be the night for that, not with her feeling like she was and him looking like he did. He let her take her time and watched her emerge from the shadows and continue on her way.

They would talk. Later.