A Dance with the Devil in the Pale Moonlight

City of the East

The Outlaw rides a trolley to the edge of the city, where not even the dirty men of factories who worked 16 hours a day lived. It was a slum that contrasted heavily with the nice, ladylike clothes the Outlaw had started wearing regularly; her usual Stetson hat was replaced with a straw boater with a ribbon tied on it. Her hair was even combed down; the woman didn't feel the need to braid it outside of work. Her single-action army rifle still hangs on her hip, the cartridge belt fully stocked for a battle, as she came here to deal with a particular specter that called to her past and wanted to drag her away from the relative peace she enjoyed living with her angel and working a simple job.

She climbs the bell tower of an empty church as she keeps a lookout for her target, an old man with a peg leg, wearing a very nice suit, and wielding a strange experimental handgun that loads itself.

A bullet from an angle she didn't expect hits the bell, releasing a few waves of deafening tinging as the gunshot is far off. The Outlaw can't smell the gun smoke and knows she needs a new position. She gathers her skirts and uses the rope to climb onto the tiled roof, requiring her to throw her heeled shoes off as she looks for the man who called her here.

"{Come now, Miss McCathy. You know you don't belong among the sheep. You're a wolf, a killer, and a woman with a God-given gift for smiting sinners and believers alike. Yet you waste your days with all the trappings this society forces onto you, like weights tied around your wrists, keeping your shooting hand down.}"

The Outlaw perks her ears up at his words, attempting to trace the sound. It's close, meaning he is in the church and must have entered while she was scrambling for cover. She walks slowly toward the domed skylight, a beautiful work of stained glass that stood above the preacher's lectern.

"{I'm not here to kill you; I'm here to hire you,}" the man says loudly, as if smugly pleading with the Outlaw. It's enough to give her pause, given the price on her head and the people she's angered in the past.

"{Ah, you're listening. Very good. I need a student to teach, one who can pull the trigger against a man society deems innocent, but God does not. Your work in the West was simply artistic, getting away with murder and all. It's not something most can do, let alone a lady as young as yourself.}"

"{I can offer you quadruple the riches and comforts of the life you and your angel are trying to carve out of caustic, unsteady stone. I can give you security, purpose, meaning, and practical lessons to boot. Your angel may talk in flowery prose, but he speaks sweet poison.}"

The Outlaw thinks back to her meager lodgings: The creaking bed, the cold and bitter air, the loud neighbors, and the broken water pipes. Her angel still ate and usually ended up giving away portions of his pay to the homeless or needy. The Outlaw hesitates as she reaches the stained glass dome, seeing the man at the lectern.

The old man looks up at the prospect and says, "{You've already spent so much blood getting here; why stop letting it flow? You simply deny yourself purpose for an angel that does not realize the cruel nature of man and that God already gave us means to judge others for him.}" He draws his strange pistol, firing a round through the dome, which the Outlaw rolls to the side to avoid. The Outlaw's white dress is stained muddled brown by rainwater, dirt, and mud as the top of the man's pistol slides back, chambering another round by the time he has drawn a bead.

The two stare at each other, each knowing they have an equal chance of ending the other's life on Earth in less than a second.

Two gunshots ring out.

Darkness is all the Outlaw sees; rain is all she hears; and a sense of numb warmth takes over her senses.

(Music: https://youtu.be/-a8T3RHWj6U )

Sally McCathy awakens a few days after the festival, the sudden end of her dream causing her to immediately write it down. It's been a habit of hers to keep a dream journal, simply because she regarded dreams as visions from God given to everyone for a reason only he was privy to. The girl lies in bed and looks at the rainy September day. She had, for once, a true day off. It's just a shame that Noah was busy; they could have done something today. She still could feel the boy's soft lips against hers, and the feeling was one she treasured as much as a chance to give her prayers and praises in the house of God.

She drags herself out of bed and works on some breakfast while some variety show host blathers on too fast for her to keep up. The text on screen is cramped and in eye-searing colors, as she cracked an egg over a pan to make an omelet for herself. That was about all the food she had in her refrigerator, and that meant a trip to the supermarket for some essentials.

Sally puts on a short brown skirt with a white sweater tucked into it. She combs her hair out and just lets it hang down as she puts her essentials in the leather handbag she was given for her 13th birthday (handmade, down to the clasps) and slips on a pair of black flats over some white knee socks. She boards the elevator and stands on the opposite side of the other occupant, Christopher. She chooses to look at her phone instead, not wanting to deal with the boy today.

However, he did. He approaches, and it strikes her how much stronger he's actually gotten. Not quite as ripped as Bobby or Kaylee, but much stronger than when she arrived.

"{Nice work at the festival,}" he says as a compliment toward the girl, who simply looks away.

"{I just... did my job; Noah did all the hard work. Not sure what kind of crazy quirk got people to try and kill themselves, but gunshots are like lightning: They provoke a natural fear response in people who don't listen to them every day,}" Sally says gloomily as the rain comes down harder outside.

"{I take it you're pretty well adapted to it then?}"

Sally nods. "{Been shooting since I was four; it always seemed fun... then... it just became an outlet.}"

"{Something changed, I guess?}" Chris states as Sally nods with a haunted expression.

The elevator reaches the bottom floor, and the American starts to walk off, only to hear Chris following her. "{If you want to open up to someone, I... I can tell you that it's much easier to carry a tragedy when others know.}"

Sally looks at him, as if desperately hoping he was being honest, before giving him a scornful look mixed with apparent self-loathing. "{If you're trying to ask me out, then I'm taken already. You'd never understand anyways... only Chihiro and Noah can understand..." she says quietly before walking off with the crowd, leaving Chris with the best words she could come up with in the moment.

Sally endures the stares of the other women as she sounds out the prices of the eggs to herself. She looked for bargains wherever she could, since she didn't have time to work and her parents only sent so much money over. Currently, the target was laundry detergent as she squinted toward the small characters, like the asshole who wrote it wanted to make it hard to read so people would just take the deal.

"Hello McCathy-San!" A familiar, slightly digital voice says from across the aisle. It was unmistakable, especially when the girl was in view: Takara Tame, AKA Android.

"Oh... Hey, Takara, can you make this out? You're always really good at Japanese tests..."

The cyborg nods as her eyes focus in on the text, and a second later she turns to the American. "'35% off a purchase of 2 or more bottles' is what it says. According to my calculations, it would be more efficient to take the deal here," she says as she points to a lower shelf with older-looking bottles at a 60% sale for 2. Sally puts them in her cart without hesitation.

"Thanks!" Sally says with as much cheer as she can muster. Besides Noah, her usual lunch buddy was Tame since she really liked hearing Sally's insights into American culture, particularly the old cartoons that she watched on public access.

"I was watching more Joney Ex Periment, and there was this really funny episode about those two secret agents getting Joney to pose as a princess's body double, and he learns how hard the life of one is, and then he fights bad guys in a mechanical dress!" She says enthusiastically, causing Sally to laugh a bit as it brings some scattered memories back.

"Yeah... I kinda remember that one. I always hated those agent characters, even if seeing feds drawn as stupid gag characters was funny," Sally says with a snort.

"I like the two sisters the best! They always fix things in the episode they're in anyway, and it's funny when they try to outdo each other!"

"Can we both agree that a dog named after shit is kind of annoying, though?" Sally says.

"Yes, but I think that works better for Joney's dad: He's funny with how pedantic and feminine he is."

Sally laughs a bit. "I hope Noah doesn't end up like that... though I doubt he'll be the one who minds the house."

The robot tilts her head, the actuators and servos whining a bit at the sudden movement as her eyes refocus on Sally's features. "If you're still able to work, I'm sure you'd be a great hero! Your accuracy over long distance is better than anyone in the class, and you even helped take down that villain on the beach."

"...He's better with people. It's not exactly inspiring to watch someone scream and cover their eyes because of a pepperball round, then get knocked out by a loud rubber bullet, which the media will say cracked their skull..." Sally says in a quiet, almost fearful voice as she looks at the barrel cavity in her right arm.

"There are more than just public heroes, you know. Some work outside the rankings," Takara says with a more serious tone as Sally picks up a large bag of chips, giving her pause.

"What? Really?"

"Yes, they are known as underground heroes, and they have no information about themselves released but are legally allowed to fight crime. If you're not confident in your ability to reach the public, then it might be a good route to take," Takara says with a thin, encouraging smile.

Sally considers it. A way past all the worst parts of the hero world she always saw as either sinful or things she was entirely unfit to do with her lacking charisma and short temper. She could have a normal life by day and a job peacefully cleansing the world at night. She turns to Takara and says, "I'll talk to Sensei about it. I never really kept up with hero stuff; we had just one in our community that actually had a license."

"Really!? Who was he? What kind of quirk did he have?" Takara asks, eager to learn more about Sally's hometown hero.

"He called himself Windrider. He could surf air currents, manipulate wind to make his punches and kicks land harder and faster, or do other stuff like redirect bullets. Knew how to handle a gun too."

Takara looks him up on the internet and turns back to Sally. "I see... and he is an avid supporter of civilian militias, which has put the validity of his license in question."

"Don't listen to that Fed shit: He's more of a hero than their CIA-backed scumbags who only stop the crimes their paid too will ever be," Sally says with spite leaking into her words as the robot girl looks at Sally with a curious look.

"Do you not trust the heroes in America?" Takara asks as Sally picks out a carton of eggs. The American places them roughly in her cart.

"There are no cameras or news crews out where I lived, in the southern end of Montana. Was a day trip just to go to the mall and get new clothes or school supplies. We were easy prey for whoever wanted to come rob us or extort us until Windrider helped us organize a militia."
"Then they learned even the quirkless people could put them on the ground with a 20 gauge or a .223 if they wanted to fuck around and find out," Sally says coldly to the Japanese android girl.

Takara nods. "I see... I will try and do more research," she says as she waves to Sally, going her own way as she starts surfing the web to research American militias and buying groceries on autopilot according to her list.

Sally finishes up her shopping, remembering Rosethorn's announcement a few days ago that Orochi got hurt really bad and needed a week to recover even with regeneration. She'd taken handgun rounds and regenerated the wounds right in front of her before.

The real wound must be mental, then.

Sally got a bundle of flowers before she left, asking the class group chat if they knew where Orochi was recovering so she could visit.

Sally approaches Orochi's hospital room cautiously, adjusting her skirt and sweater before taking a breath and knocking.

"Come in," a tired-sounding Orochi says as Sally peeks her head through the door with a bouquet of flowers in hand, filled with aloe and bluebells, as she notices other, more brightly colored flowers around the girl as she sits on her bed.
"Hey McCathy-san, I didn't figure you'd come after Noah came by without you," she says as Sally pulls a chair over so she can face the hydra, her skin clear of scarring and blemishes as her body had done its work fixing itself under the guidance of doctors.

"I... Uhm... I..." Sally stammers, speaking slowly to try and phrase the words right in Japanese. "I... figured your wound might be more than just physical. I've... seen enough blood and guts personally to know that it changes someone. When they see a lot of it, or are there to see it come... out," Sally tries to emphasize with hand motions, her face full of pressure and grief as she does her best to look Orochi in the eye.

The girl's head looks away from Sally: "...I've seen a lot of my own blood before, but I was... ripped apart by Feral; I could only slow her down with how much she kept hacking through me."

"...Do you see it in your dream?" Sally says, taking deeper breaths.

"I try to dream past it. I can't go back and do better, and my pain served something, at least," She says, putting on a brave face that Sally's frown doesn't buy.

"Back when I still lived in America... I shot a bird for no reason at the range I practiced at. One of the old timers who owned a farm said he saw me giggle as I collected the corpse when the range wasn't hot," Sally says like she's confessing to a crime, a lump in her throat. Orochi listens to the story, assuming it has some relevance to her own bravado.

"He invited me out to his farm with my parents... and told me I was going to help him slaughter his cattle. He had me use my quirk to kill them... Their... brains spewed out of the exit wound at the back of their skulls along with the blood... then..." Sally tries to continue, but chokes up.

"Sally..." Orochi says, slowly reaching a hand out to the girl, seeming to relive a nightmare in front of her.

"T-The point is that if you keep seeing yourself getting butchered in your dreams... please... find someone who can understand that kind of pain... and help you carry it. I carried mine for a long time... and you're right," Sally admits.
"And you can't just... regenerate mental scars. They stay, they get infected, and they fester the longer you try to pretend nothing's wrong with you."

Orochi lays a hand on Sally's shoulder as the American tries to collect herself: "I'll keep it in mind, but I recall your humbling with Chihiro didn't do it for you."

"It took a while to kick in," Sally says. "I know the crosses I bear are more me being sick with myself, but... if you need to talk to someone about flashbacks or bad dreams... I'll do my best to put my thoughts into Japanese for you."

"At least your quirk manifested right..." Orochi says with a chuckle as she pets one of her dragon heads.

"I'm still a mutant... just one with holes in arms and legs and a weird bone structure. It's hard to control what ammo I load some days."

"But you're not a monster," Orochi reminds the girl, something Sally seems hesitant to believe.

"I'm close enough," Sally says as she stands up.

"Sally, wait!" Orochi says, her tired legs taking longer to get her upright as the tall girl grabs Sally's shoulder.
"You're here to control that ability and do something heroic with it instead of letting yourself become a monster. It's what we're all trying to do: Any of us has the potential to be S-class with enough effort."
Sally turns around to face Orochi. "But you're fighting it; I was around for the shot you pulled off on the beach," she says with a surprisingly gentle smile.

Sally takes a deep breath: "I-I Uhm... Thanks. I thought I would be the one giving the therapy session today," she says with a weary laugh.

"I get the message. You stay positive, okay? I know I give you shit a lot, but it's just because you're pretty easy to read. And if you wanna come down to the arcade, I'd love to crack the high score on the Time Crisis machine. Hell, there's this one airsoft game I think you'd kick ass at."

"Oh, y-yeah, I'll message you about it later!" Sally says as she waves goodbye, exiting the girls hospital room.

Maybe she knew her sins and was just being polite. Maybe Imai skimmed it off the top of her head while she was sleeping in class and told them all.

But for once, the paranoid ranting in Sally's head stops. "{They don't hate you,}" a voice like Noah's says in a ringing tone as she walks toward the elevator. She always attributed the lack of bullying directed toward her to people being afraid of her quirk, but for the first time all year, her gentler side managed to calm the tougher side down without being in front of a screen, at home, or with Noah.

She walks to the train station, imagining how her classmates might react to the knowledge that Sally intentionally killed two people in cold blood over a bunch of family heirlooms that weren't even hers while sleep-deprived. The only other person who she knew for a fact had killed people was Chihiro, unintentionally and tragic as it was.

Later that night, Sally goes to pray in solitude as the volunteers at Kawarmachi Church clean the place and dust under candlelight. The only two guests here were a young priest she didn't recognize and an old man. They went into the confession booths, something that Sally didn't like using. Something about getting boxed in and poked for answers reminded her of the police station and brought back feelings of numbness and panic she never wants to feel again, especially in a house of God.

Her prayers are scattered as she wishes for the safety of her classmates, praises the heavenly father for allowing her a guardian angel, and desperately pleads for peace in her own life at the same time. It felt good to whisper this all to God, even if he rarely responded directly.

It was enough to know he was listening to her during her great trial, offering her blessings and grace despite her failure to achieve one of the goals she imagined God had set for her: To make friends amongst the faithless and learn from them. She tells him about the festival and her first kiss. She tells God this is all a mess and doubts her own worth to his kingdom as the old man kneels beside her and begins to pray.

"{Dear God, I praise your forthrightness and graces bestowed upon me, despite my failings. I shall do my upmost to follow your plan and trust you as the lost lamb trusts the shepherd who leaves the 99 for the 1.}"
"{Amen,}" the man says. His voice is familiar. Desolator.

He takes a briefcase off of a pew and heads for the exit, with Sally about to shoot: She could give her testimony later; now was the time to bring him in for almost blowing her head off after the Provisional License Exams.

The man's own words echo in her mind: She was in a public space, with few sightlines and many witnesses. If she wanted to commit a violent act, an active house of God was not her best choice unless she wished to prove everyone against her in the USA right.

That she was unstable. That she needed a muzzle to block her barrels. That the quirk God himself blessed her with was in the wrong hands and needed to be sealed instead of used for heroics against the evils of the world.

She follows at a distance, thankful she wore flats instead of heeled boots, as the man heads to his car and gingerly produces a handgun, which he aims over his shoulder with ease. "{Oh, please, do keep walking. I need to make sure my sight is lined up and your footsteps are ever-so loud,}" Desolator says as he shoves the briefcase into his car.

"{What's in the case, motherfucker?}" Sally says angrily as she readies pepperballs, trying to use some of the tactics Majestic had prattled on about: talking to your target to get the best possible situation to start the fight in.

"{Frankly, none of your business, Ms. McCathy. But since I quite like you, I am simply picking up paperwork for my associates.}"

"Bullshit! It's guns, right? It's impossible to bring a gun in this country, but you probably make a killing on the side selling and buying pieces!" Sally growls as the man starts to turn around.

"{I'm afraid this is not a game of 20 questions, Ms. McCathy. It is quite late, and I imagine a young lady such as yourself needs her beauty rest.}"

He turns his stoic face to her, and she fires on instinct. The man quickly dodges behind his car door while Sally switches to rubber .357 Magnums, but he counter-supresses with a silenced .45 that only wakes up the immediate neighborhood. Sally presses herself against a stone wall and watches as her quirk guides the bullets barely off their mark, enough that she can see the slug spiraling through the air for a moment. The man is in his car, on his phone, driving away before Sally can feel her tired arms shaking at the near-death experience. She notes down the license plate:

A Clue To Chase

A particular boy who lives in her building comes to mind as the first person to show this to. She runs for home, ready to sketch it out in case her memory fails her.

The extra miles should keep her in shape.