Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

October 200X
Nine Years Ago

Water dripping from the pipes down in the basement

A drop of liquid hits the floor, falling not from the exposed and failing pipes of this basement apartment, but from the face of a young woman. Green eyes, periwinkle hair. She’s crying, kneeling before a shrine.

A photo of a young man—maybe eighteen—with the same dark skin and periwinkle hair. The same pointed ears. He’s smiling, but there’s something in his eyes. He stares through the camera like there’s some place he would rather be.

Flowers, candles, around the shrine. The candles are not lit. A copy of a missing person report, atop a stack of posters, buried under the flowers.

Bare feet on a concrete floor

Another young woman sits on a concrete slab in a concrete room, her feet brushing the floor. She’s alone. Black hair, a shock of white in it. Pale, blue-grey skin, held together by stitches. Bolts in her neck.

The room is empty, save for the patchwork girl in a blue dress, the slab, and a manilla envelope, which she picks up and opens.

Inside it, a bundle of cash. A month’s rent, maybe two. Nestled next to it, a notarized copy of the woman’s own death certificate.

Notches on the wall of my solitary cell

A girl—a gorgon—sits alone in her bedroom. Door closed, blinds drawn, lights out. Posters torn off the walls—sloppily, pieces still stuck, the plaster beneath scarred. In the midst of this, a photograph, anchored to the wall by a knife.

She’s hunched over a journal, scribbling furiously, while the snakes on her head fight over the body of a dead rat. A chunk of gristle lands on the open journal page, and the girl grimaces.

She brushes the wad of rodent-flesh off the page and resumes her work. Planning, plotting. An effort to get even, to get ahead.

Sweat dripping out of every pore

A drop of liquid falls on the floor, once more. Sweat, this time, rather than tears.

The girl with the periwinkle hair bounces on her feet. Spins, kicks, punches. The dull sound of the punching bag fills her ears as she strikes it, over and over and over.

There’s a face, drawn on a sheet of paper, taped to the bag. Something generic and monstrous.

Aaravi Mishra—vengeful slayer-to-be of monsters—punches the crude illustration until her knuckles bleed. If her brother is taken, she will bring him back. If he is dead, she will have vengeance. One way or another, she will have justice.

It feels like it takes forever
It's maybe five minutes on screen

The patchwork girl is in another room now. Concrete and solitude are replaced by cheap carpet and bureaucrats, as she works away at the stack of paperwork before her.

The administrative demands the city-state of Monstropolis places upon the newly undead. Applications for citizenship, residence. Affidavits and oaths and identifying documents.

All the necessities of unlife, made available to her through trial by form after form. Housing, healthcare, taxes, education. Vicky Schmidt—dead woman walking once more—pens in questionnaires until her fingers are raw. She may be dead, but this is only the beginning of her life. One way or another, she will carry on.

But the horns will swell, and the strings will sound
When that flipped quarter hits the ground

The door opens, and something arcs through the air. The green-skinned girl catches the coin, flips it, watches it land. Heads.

Her sister walks in after the coin. Pointed ears, purple fur, feline form. She sees the gorgon, the book, the state of the room, and she does not frown. She says something funny, irreverent.

Vera Oberlin—aspiring entrepreneur—smiles, chuckles, and looks up at her sister. As she joins her sister for dinner, the gorgon’s eyes are hard, ambitious. She will climb her way to the top, until there is nobody left who can hurt her, or her family. One way or another, she will achieve greatness.

Chapter Text

7:45 AM, Friday, 22 October 20X0
Front Entrance, Spooky High, Monstropolis

A black limousine pulls to a stop alongside the front gate to Spooky High. The door opens, and a woman steps out. Black heels, long, long green legs, a short black dress and a blue blazer, a scowl on her face that could quite literally kill, and a full head of snakes, hissing and venomous.

Vera Oberlin—business magnate, criminal mastermind, and member of Forbes Magazine’s “30 Under 3000” list—shuts the door behind her and surveys the school grounds as the limousine drives away. She’s early, as usual, and there are only a few students beside herself. She turns, beginning the walk across the courtyard—

“Prepare to die!”

—only to be knocked to the ground by a small, armored figure, emerged from nowhere and now pressing a knife to her throat.

Vera recognizes the green-eyed, periwinkle-haired girl pinning her to the ground and scoffs. The girl tightens her grip on the knife and… starts laughing?

“Say your prayers, bitch!” says the Slayer, as Vera rolls her eyes, her snakes reeling back to strike.

Neither girl gets the chance to act, however. A rock—in this case, a small chunk of pavement from the crumbling sidewalk—comes hurtling through the air and slams into the side of the assassin’s head, sending her flying sideways off the gorgon.

“Just like dodgeball!” the person who threw the rock says, in a cheery voice.

It is a lot like dodgeball, up to and including the bleeding head wounds. The would-be assassin is sprawled unconscious on the concrete. Vera turns to look at her savior:

A patchwork girl, with a shock of white in her wavy black hair, stitches holding together greyish blue-green corpse-skin, and a pair of bolts in her neck. Vicky Schmidt.

“Vicky!” Vera’s tone is, if not friendly, at least polite. “I totally had that handled, but… thanks, I guess?”

“Happy to help!” Vicky nods, and then glances at her victim—Aaravi Mishra, monster slayer. Her smile fades. “Oh, shoot, she’s bleeding. Is she okay? I didn’t mean to throw it so hard!”

Vera looks at the body briefly, frowning. “This one’s hard to kill; she’ll be fine. Which is good because I need answers, and our girl here is going to give them to me. Would you care to join me, Vicky?”

“Sure,” answers Vicky, smiling. “I’d love to, as long as we don’t have to hurt her too much. I need the interrogation credits, anyway.”

“Great. Carry her to the bathroom for me.”

7:56 AM, Friday, 22 October 20X0
Bathrooms, Spooky High, Monstropolis

Aaravi Mishra wakes up to a harsh, blinding light and an even harsher headache.

“Ugh… wha—?” She shakes her head, tries to raise her hand to it through the haze of light, disorientation, and nausea, only to realize she can’t.

The rush of adrenaline quickly clears the worst of the fog, and three things quickly become apparent to Aaravi:

One: she’s in a bathroom stall. Two: she is tied to the toilet. Thee: Vera Oberlin is still alive, scowling at her, while someone shines a cell-phone flashlight directly in Aaravi’s face.

That someone being, of course, Vicky Schmidt, who’s peering into Aaravi’s eyes with a concerned expression on her face.

“Your pupil dilation looks fine,” Vicky says as she pockets her phone, turning off the light. “That’s a good sign.”

“A good…” Aaravi shakes her head, glaring at the two girls. “Let me go, you fucking psychos!”

Vicky looks offended. “I’m not the one who tried to kill Vera.”

“No, you aren’t. Thank you for that.” Vera nods in Vicky’s direction, before turning to the monster slayer. “Now you, on the other hand… Aaravi Mishra, isn’t it?”

Aaravi’s eyes widen in shock. “How do you know my name?”

“Is that your name?” Vicky asks, simultaneously. “Nice to meet you, Aaravi!”

“I’m Vera Oberlin,” says Vera Oberlin, scowling. “I know everyone’s name, especially violent weirdos who are friends with my sister.”

“Of course you do,” Aaravi groans. “Wait, sister?”

Vera scowls at Aaravi, and the monster hunter shakes her head. “Ugh, never mind. What do you want, monster?”

“Let’s start with why you were trying to murder Vera,” says Vicky, faint sparks crackling around her eyes. “I’ve already been to one classmate’s funeral this month, and I don’t think I could handle a second.”

“I mean, isn’t it obvious?” Aaravi jerks her head in Vera’s direction, glaring. “You’ve got plenty of enemies, girl.”

“Let me guess,” Vera begins, as her snakes rise in a threatening display, “one of those enemies put a hit on me, and you took it.”

“Yup,” grunts the monster slayer. “Pretty much.”

In a flash, Vera takes out a long, thin, incredibly sharp knife and brings it to Aaravi’s throat.

“Who!” she snarls. “Who paid you?”

“I-I don’t know!”

Vera presses the knife closer to the other girl’s neck.

“I don’t know! It was an a-anonymous contract, I swear!”

“Of course it was.” Vera lowers the knife, rolling her eyes. She turns to Vicky, who raises an eyebrow.

“The platforms these contracts are made through tend to take user privacy way too seriously,” she explains. “Even if I were to buy the platform, they just don’t hold on to the information. Yes, I’ve tried.”

Vicky’s eyes light up. “Well, if you can’t beat ‘em…”

Now it’s Vera’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

“Come on,” Vicky says, “I have an idea. To the library!”

The two leave the bathroom, Vera’s heels clicking on the tile floor.

“Um, help?” Aaravi Mishra, monster slayer, is still tied to the toilet. “Argh!”

8:02 AM, Friday, 22 October 20X0
Library, Spooky High, Monstropolis

The plan is simple—at least, as simple as any plan made by students of Spooky High can be:

“The existing assassination apps are a lost cause,” explains Vicky, “but that still leaves us an opening.”

“Are you saying…?” Vera’s interest is piqued.

“Start your own murder app and corner the market? Yes, ma’am!” Vicky grins.

Vera returns the grin with one of her own, partly in response to the idea itself and partly to Vicky’s term of address.

“I like it,” says Vera. “Crimes, money, and information? Three of my favorite things!”

The two begin working, finalizing the details as they go. Vicky handles most of the code herself, with incredible speed, while Vera (through her web of shell companies) takes care of the business side of things.

A few hours and a few missed classes later, the two have themselves a shiny new business entity with no clear ties to themselves, offering a shiny new app: Murdr.

There’s only one thing missing…

11:35 AM, Friday, 22 October 20X0
Cafeteria, Spooky High, Monstropolis

“We need a hook,” Vera says to the group assembled around the table before her. “Assassination apps are an incredibly saturated market, it turns out.”

“We need something to make our app the best app,” explains Vicky. “Something to really make it stand out, you know?”

The two are seated side by side at one of the numerous circular tables that dot the cafeteria. Across from them sit Liam de Lioncourt, an ageless vampire wearing a bowtie and suspenders, and Polly Geist, the translucent-cyan sunglasses-clad ghost of a young woman. Neither one is eating, as neither needs to, but Liam is preoccupied taking pictures of the cafeteria food while Polly downs a bottle of what’s either vodka or something stolen from the janitor’s closet. Vera, meanwhile, eats an exquisite slab of almost-raw steak while Vicky scarfs down a PB&J from her backpack.

“Wait, I know,” says Polly. “Boobs.”

“Just… boobs?” Vera asks.

“Yup. Just boobs.”

Vera rolls her eyes at this, but it isn’t an unexpected answer. She turns to the vampire instead. “Liam?”

“I don't understand why you’d ask me for help making something more mainstream,” Liam scoffs. “My ideal form of ‘marketing’ is ‘as little as possible.’ Even ‘organic’ growth is more than enough.”

“Aha!” Vicky shouts, startling everyone. “Organic, that’s it!”

“Organic?” Vera’s snakes hiss softly with interest.

“If we emphasize free-range, organic, ethical murder,” Vicky says at a more reasonable volume, “we can attract the pretentious hipster crowd, like Liam.”

“I’m not sure if there’s such a thing as ‘ethical’ murder,” Liam says, deadpan, “but I am intrigued.”

“Well, then,” says Vera with a smirk, “that’s settled. Perhaps you would like to advise me on the details, Vicky?”

“I’d love to!” Vicky smiles. Coming from Vera, an invitation to offer advice is a lot. A continued invitation? The patchwork girl must be doing something right.

The four continue eating lunch, Vera and Vicky discussing the nuances of marketing a platform for assassinations, while Liam ignores them and Polly tries to (and eventually does) annoy him.

2:00 PM, Friday, 22 October 20X0
The Dark Side, Undisclosed Location

“You put a hit out on Vera Oberlin ?” asks a figure in the shadows.

“What, pray tell,” asks the person the figure is addressing—a handsome vampire as pale as he is shirtless, “was I supposed to do?”

“Literally anything else. Break into her house or something. I need the damn earrings, Dimitri. I do not need Ms. Oberlin’s attention, and neither do you.”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”

Dimitri nods, seeming to shrink away from the woman in the shadows. A tall woman, with pale skin and dark hair that seems to dissolve into a red glow at the ends. A woman wearing sunglasses in the dark.

A woman who seems hauntingly familiar, and yet…

Somehow, in some way, something about her seems fundamentally wrong, as if it were somehow at odds with this world.

The woman in the dark smiles.

“We will deal with Vera,” she says, “and then we will bring this world to its knees.”

Chapter Text

10:11 AM, Saturday, 23 October 20X0
Zombie John F. Kennedy Expressway, Monstropolis

Cold rain beats down on the windshield of an unadorned black sports car, the droplets shining red in the refracted glow of other cars’ taillights, before being swept away by the wiper.

“It might help if you told me where we’re going.”

Vicky Schmidt sits in the driver’s seat, eyes on the road ahead. Beside her, in the passenger’s seat, Vera Oberlin watches her.

“It wouldn’t,” says Vera. “I planned the route there very carefully.”

“I’d still like to know, Vera.” Vicky turns to the gorgon and gives her a look.

“Ugh, fine.” Vera relents, rolling her eyes. “We’re going to some hole in the wall called the Piss Wreck Bar. It’s neutral territory, and the other crime lords have agreed to meet us there. Next exit.”

“The Piss Wreck?” Vicky’s eyes flick upwards in thought as she activates the turn signal. “I’ve been there! That was quite a night, you know? I remember…”

Vicky reminisces while the car takes the exit. Vera, half-listening, watches the rearview mirror as a nondescript black sedan suddenly peels off from the flow of traffic to take the very same exit.

“Hold it,” Vera says suddenly, interrupting Vicky’s story. “We’re being followed.”

“Oh!” Vicky checks the mirror, eyes wide. “That sedan? Who do you think it is?”

“No idea. Could be the cops, could be some gang, doesn’t matter. You took Offensive Driving last year, didn’t you?”

“With Mr. Rockatansky, yeah. You want to shake our tail?”

“That’s precisely what I want.” Vera smiles. “Floor it.”

Vicky does just that, the sports car’s engine roaring as it surges ahead. The sedan follows suit, a little more sluggishly, shaking any doubt as to the vehicle’s nature as a tail.

“Crap,” says Vera, “there’s no way I’m opening the window to shoot at them in this rain.”

“We might not have to,” replies Vicky, as she throws the car into a ninety-degree turn, barely maintaining control on the rain-slick pavement.

The tail, unfortunately, is not deterred by this, simply slowing down and taking the turn more carefully. It is, however, now lagging further behind.

Vicky continues the game of cat-and-mouse for several minutes, cutting through three or four alleyways, two parking lots, a construction site, and a public park. The sedan, amazingly, stays on their tail through all of this.

“There,” says Vera. “Take us into that tunnel.”

Vicky complies, as Vera reaches into her purse and rustles around, eventually taking out something small and round, and rolling down the window.

Vicky sees the item in Vera’s hand, nods, and swings the car into a drift before straightening out once more. For a brief moment, the car slides sideways in the tunnel, and Vera pulls the pin from the grenade in her hand and tosses the grenade out the window.

The grenade skitters along the ground for a moment, and the sedan swerves to avoid it, but it’s too late. The throw was perfectly timed, and the grenade detonates just as it passes beneath the vehicle.

There is no fireball. This is a high-explosive grenade, and flashy things like fireballs are a waste of energy better spent on the subtle, delicate task of violently separating things into tiny pieces.

One moment, the sedan is there. The next, it is replaced by a rapidly expanding cloud of dust, debris, a few stray body parts, and a very loud noise.

Through the still-open window of the sports car, the blast is briefly deafening.

“Fuck!” Vera clutches her right ear as her snakes writhe in pain.

“Vera!” Vicky looks over, concerned. “Are you alright? That was pretty loud!”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Vera waves her off, checking her watch. “Come on, we can still make it on time, assuming no other idiots try to chase us.”

Vera and Vicky drive away, leaving behind a smoking crater, a scattering of debris, and two very dead bodies on the road, walls, and ceiling of the tunnel.

10:25 AM, Saturday, 23 October 20X0
Oberlin Household, Monstropolis

The Oberlin family home is a small, comfortable two-story house in a quiet, hilly suburb on the outskirts of Monstropolis. Brown siding, sturdy trees in the yard, rolling hills in the distance leading to the crumbling remains of the old city wall.

Aaravi Mishra crouches in a bush, watching the house, as the rain runs in beads off her waterproof cloak.

As far as she can tell, the house is empty. No car in the driveway, no lights on indoors. The monster slayer darts across the yard to the front door, picks the lock, and lets herself in.

The interior of the house is as brown as the exterior, but the effect is more cozy than anything else. Aaravi shakes the water from her cloak and looks around the dim space of the front hall.

“If I were a pair of enchanted earrings,” Aaravi mutters to herself, “where would I be?”

She makes her way into the house, up the stairs, freezing at the creak of a step. Her head darts around, looking to confirm that she’s alone, and—

“Aaravi?”

“Gah!” Aaravi’s gaze lands on a pair of faintly reflective eyes at the top of the stairs. She jumps in shock, and tumbles down the steps, landing in a pile on the floor.

“Ow, fuck,” says the monster slayer, sitting up and rubbing her head. She looks up the stairs, as the figure on the landing turns on the lights.

A purple-furred, purple-haired cat girl, dressed in a torn white tank-top with the icon of some band and a pair of pajama pants. Valerie Oberlin—feline entrepreneur and shopkeeper—stares down the stairs in surprise at her most regular customer.

“Valerie?” Aaravi half-shouts. “What in the gods’ names are you doing here?”

“I live here, Double-A. What are you doing here?”

“Breaking and entering, obviously!”

“Well, yeah.” Valerie hisses in frustration. “But why?”

“I thought it was Vera’s house!” Aaravi stands up, leaning on the wall for support. “I’m supposed to steal some earrings from her.”

“Oh my God,” Valerie says, putting her hand to her face. “This is Vera’s house. We’re sisters, idiot.”

“Wait, what?”

“Come on, join me in the kitchen.” Valerie jumps on the banister and slides down the stairs. “I’ll explain, and then you’ll tell me what the hell is going on.”

10:30 AM, Saturday, 23 October 20X0
Piss Wreck Bar, Monstropolis

“Did you really have to kill them, Vera?” Vicky asks as she eases the car into a parking spot.

“I mean, what did you expect?” Vera scoffs. “I know you’re, like, a pacifist or something, but you did make the choice to associate with me.”

“Point.” Vicky nods, choosing to table the discussion for later as she and Vera step out of the car, turning to enter their destination.

The Piss Wreck Bar is a hole in the wall in a very literal sense—the metal door is set in a wooden patch over an actual hole in the brick façade of the building. The only indication of the establishment’s nature is a small sign at head height beside the door.

“Ugh,” says Vera as she straightens her jacket, “what a dump.”

“It’s not the most charming place,” Vicky agrees. “Why are we having the meeting here, again?”

“It’s neutral ground,” Vera explains, walking to the door. “None of the city’s major crime lords have a strong foothold in the area, so they use the Piss Wreck’s basement as a meeting area for negotiations.”

“Like this one?” Vicky follows, clutching her backpack strap nervously.

“Like this one.”

True to its name, the inside of the bar is a wreck. Scratched tables, beaten-down patrons, and an ever-present scent of urine and stale beer. The bartender—a weathered, one-eyed mer-person—glares at the two young women as they make their way to the back of the room and down the dim, filthy concrete stairway to another door.

This door, also metal, is sturdier than the last. There’s a small slit at eye-level, which slides open to reveal the beady eyes of some hired thug.

“Password?”

“It’s losers all the way down,” Vera replies. “Stay undefeated.”

The slit slides shut, the door squeaks open, and the girls walk through it into the space beyond.

It’s a surprisingly clean room, given the state of the stairway. Concrete walls, cheap carpet, and a pool table in the center of the room, around which sit the participants of the day’s meeting.

At the head of the (pool) table sits Gunbozo Gianetti of the Deranged Clown Assembly, a rotund man in full clown makeup, smoking a cigar. Behind him stand two more clowns, each wielding shotguns decorated in pastel colors.

To Gunbozo’s right, the meanest-looking baby in Monstropolis scowls at the two girls. Timmy the Knifebaby sports a five o’clock shadow and exactly as many knives as one would expect—which is to say, a truly worrying number.

Finally, on the left of the table, sits a reptile in a suit. Larry the Actual Crocodile picks chunks of flesh from between his many, many teeth.

Vera Oberlin takes her seat opposite from Gianetti, as her snakes taste the air around her.

“Good, everyone’s here,” says Vera. “Let’s begin.”

Gunbozo honks his nose disapprovingly.

“What did he say?” Vicky leans to whisper in Vera’s ear. “I don’t speak Clown.”

“Mister Gianetti feels that it was impudent of you to call us all to this meeting here, Miss Oberlin,” Larry the Croc translates. “Personally, Timmy and me aren’t inclined to disagree.”

The Knifebaby sharpens one of his many knives in agreement.

“You’re not wrong,” Vera says to the clown, “but I have a proposal. One I think you’ll all want to be in on.”

“And what’s that, miss?” Larry sneers.

“I’ve started offering a service—Murdr, an app for coordinating hits. Its growth is quite frankly incredible.”

Vera’s right. In the last twenty-four hours, through a combination of clever niche positioning, viral marketing, and sheer luck, Murdr has already grown to become a major contender in the assassination-app scene.

“The growth has been incredible,” the gorgon continues, “but it’s just the beginning. I aim to corner the market, and I’d like to bring the three of you in on it.”

Gunbozo ties a balloon into the shape of a dead accountant.

“He says you’re playing with fire, girl,” Larry translates. “What makes you think we’re interested?”

“I think you’re interested in coming out on top,” Vera answers. “Starting tomorrow, Murdr will start covering hits on our competitors’ employees and users. That can include you… or you all can switch to coordinating all your hits through Murdr at a discounted rate.”

The three crime lords, predictably, do not take the offer well.

“Counterpoint,” Timmy the Knifebaby says in a high-pitched yet surprisingly gruff voice, “we kill you with knives.”

“Please don’t,” says Vicky. “I have homework, and dying again would really hurt my GPA.”

“Should have thought of that before coming here, girl.” Larry grins, pulling a gun from his coat and making eye contact with the thug at the door.

Gunbozo nods at his two guards, who each raise their shotguns.

Vicky moves first. Panicked, she grabs the heavy wooden pool table and flips it on its end, sending the gangsters flying.

The next few seconds are a brilliant demonstration of the downside of using firearms in an enclosed space. Bullets fly, blood is spilt, and the noise is very literally deafening.

And then it’s over. The room is still, silent but for the ringing in the two girls’ ears. The smell of gun-smoke and viscera hangs in the air. Vera and Vicky stand alone in the room, ears ringing, surrounded by dead bodies. Two of the gangsters have been turned to stone, gruesome statues with frozen expressions of shock. The rest are scattered on the floor, riddled with holes, in a pool of blood.

Vicky stands there, frozen, staring at the scene until she feels a hand on her shoulder. She jumps, turns around, but it’s just Vera. Vera’s shouting, trying and failing to be heard over both the girls’ hearing damage. Realizing this, she falls silent, a frustrated expression on her face.

Vicky blinks for a moment, thinking, and suddenly springs into action, raising a finger in a “hold on” gesture. She traces a circle in the air, a faint smell of cinnamon and copper joins the overpowering smell of blood in the room. Gradually, the ringing in the girls’ ears falls silent, until the only noise in the room is the hum of the overhead lighting.

“Vera, I—” Vicky begins.

“That was good, Vicky!” Vera interrupts with a satisfied smirk. “I’m impressed.”

Vicky blushes, for a moment, but her face quickly falls. Vera sees this, and her expression softens. She reaches down to pocket the submachine gun in her hand and winces.

“Vera!” Vicky looks down and gasps. “You’re bleeding!”

Vera is indeed bleeding, from a small gash on her thigh.

“It’s fine,” she replies, gritting her teeth. “The bullet just grazed me.”

“Are you sure?” Vicky frowns, peering at the wound. “I left a first aid kit in the car. Do you need it?”

Vera is silent for a long moment. Vicky reaches out for her, but her snakes bare their fangs, and Vicky quickly retracts her hand.

“Come on,” Vera says, finally. “Let’s get out of here.”

10:59 AM, Saturday, 23 October 20X0
Oberlin Household, Monstropolis

The only noise in the car is that of its engine and its wheels on the pavement as it pulls into the driveway. The two girls inside haven’t said a word to each other since the drive began. As Vicky sets the parking brake, Vera fidgets with the bandage she wrapped around her leg during the drive.

The two sit there silently for a moment. Vera glances over at Vicky, and sees that her companion’s hands are clenched around the steering wheel, her already pale knuckles bleach-white. She sighs.

“Vicky,” Vera says. Vicky jolts in surprise.

“Huh? Sorry,” she responds quickly. “Just thinking.”

“Do you want to… come inside?” Vera almost seems to hesitate as she makes the offer. “I could make, like, tea or something.”

“Tea. Yeah.” the other girl’s expression is distant. “Tea sounds good.”

The girls leave the vehicle and make their way to the front door. Tired and distracted, neither notices that the door is not locked. They enter, doff their shoes and coats, and make their way to the kitchen, only to find—

“Hey, sis. Hey, stranger.” Valerie Oberlin, seated at the table with, out of all the people who could possibly have made their way into the Oberlin family kitchen, Aaravi Mishra. Aaravi Mishra, currently frozen in horror, hand stuck midway between the table and one of the many knives hidden on her person.

“Valerie.” Vera scowls, addressing her sister. “What is she doing here?”

“Stealing jewelry, apparently.” Val sounds amused, leaning back in her chair. She nods at Vicky. “Who’s this?”

“Vicky Schmidt,” Vicky says with a smile, extending her hand. “We’ve met, but I don’t think I ever actually got your name.”

“Valerie Oberlin, at your service—for a price, of course.” She winks. “You can call me Val.”

“Nice to finally meet you, Val!”

“Girls, it’s nice that you’re bonding, but can we deal with the home invader first?” Vera pinches the bridge of her nose in frustration.

“Did you get shot?” Aaravi asks this, and the room falls silent.

“I’m fine,” Vera says, to which Valerie gives a faint smirk.

“Gang meeting didn’t go off as planned, sis?”

“I said I’m fine, sister.” She turns to Aaravi. “I appreciate your concern, but I really do need to know what you are doing here.”

“Ugh,” the monster hunter groans in return. “I really need to stop taking contracts against you.”

“You really do,” agrees Vicky.

“Anyway,” she continues, “I was supposed to steal some magic earrings from you. Client didn’t say what for, or even what the earrings look like.”

Vera raises an eyebrow upon hearing this, pulls out her phone, and dials a number.

“Hope,” she says into the phone. “I told you not to mention it.”

The others watch, silently.

“What? The earrings. No, I don’t care if you’re busy. You know the ones.”

Val offers Vicky a glass of juice from the fridge. She accepts.

“Yes. They seem to be attracting some… unwanted attention, and I need to know from whom.”

Vera nods, a grave expression on her face. She doesn’t notice as Vicky sits and watches her, wide-eyed, while sipping her juice.

“Of fucking course.” Vera ends the call. She turns to Aaravi. “How would you like to actually hunt a monster for once?”

“Which one?”

“Dimitri.”

“The shirtless guy?” Aaravi and Vicky ask simultaneously.

“Joy’s ex?” Valerie raises an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

“Fuck it,” answers Aaravi with a sigh. “Sure. Sounds safer than the last few jobs.”

And so, in suburban homes and shadowy somewheres, plans are made. Subordinates are gained and lost. Drinks are had, schematics laid out on tables. Beheaded gangs regroup and recuperate. A police detective stands on the stairs above a room full of dead bodies, face grim, calmly issuing orders. A suit of animated armor, blue flame shimmering through the joints, nods its faceless head and moves down the steps.

A patchwork girl and a self-styled monster slayer make their separate ways to their separate homes. Somewhere, a vampire broods melodramatically. Elsewhere, a witch furrows her brow and shakes her head, dismissing one concern in favor of other, more immediate ones. Midday turns to afternoon.

Cold rain beats down on the windshield of an unadorned black sports car, as it is joined in the driveway by a small, economical sedan. A father, home from work, greets his daughters.

All across the city-state of Monstropolis, the rain beats down in sheets as afternoon turns to evening.