Masks

Chapter VIII: The Street of Fear

It was just past 3am when she left.

It had to be dark, of course. Without the darkness to conceal it, her costume was worthless. If anything, it would hinder her. Even on a busy London street, she would stick out like Harvey’s left thumb.

So much for hiding in the shadows. With who knows how many journalists and fans blocking her way, she would be… well, a sitting duck. Criminals could catch her, and the Mail could make another dreadful pun. Ashley wouldn’t let either of those things happen.

She wondered if her admirers, those who worshipped their hero, knew how much they inconvenienced the very cause they claimed to support. Before, a criminal seeing a girl in a costume would have sniggered, or just mugged her on general principles. Now, they would see her as an enemy. Thanks to the papers, she’d lost the element of surprise.

Maybe there was such a thing as bad publicity, after all.

She’d had to confine her activities to the dead of night. Before, she’d only had to watch out for the bad guys. Now, everyone was a threat. A child, calling out their hero’s name. A reporter, rushing to grab an interview. They would expose her, and she would be caught. 

If this tattoo business was as bad as she thought, she was dealing with organised crime. If she attacked this gang, and was spotted, they would hunt her down.

The police were already hunting. After the incident with Gregson, he’d made her a priority. Ashley still felt guilty, but she figured there was only one way to apologise. If she caught him some criminals, she could prove to him that they were on the same side. That was partially what this was about, now. Making up for past mistakes. Righting her wrongs. Proving to Gregson, and to herself, that she could be a genuine force for good.

Whilst he hunted her, though, she had to be wary. A child shouting a name, even one made up by the papers, could kill her. A reporter surging towards her, trying to help, could throw her in jail. Anybody could blow her cover, and so everybody was a threat.

Ashley had to strike at night, when the city was darkest, and emptiest. Unfortunately, this was also when it was coldest.

The early bird catches the worm, as the saying goes. Ashley hoped it held true. Right now, she was only catching a cold.

It wasn’t fun, creeping through the city, in the freezing depths of night. The warm buzz of adrenalin had gone, replaced by the empty howling of wind. Ashley had been excited and scared, back at The Gutter. Wondering what she might find.

Now, buffeted by the night, she was neither. She was cold. She was tired. She was, in truth, a little bit bored.

Her hair whipped her face, her arms shook wildly, but her teeth were clenched. Through wind-squinted eyes, Ashley followed Harvey’s directions. It was an arduous trek, it was true. However, as she reminded herself, there was no pain without gain.

Something like that, anyway.

Honestly, she didn’t know what had happened to her. Usually her attitude was less ‘seize the day’, and more ‘survive it’. Superstitā diem. Rather than treating them as her last, Ashley took each day like it was her first. She curled into a ball, naked, and cried. 

Now, however, she was suffering, and she had chosen to do so. In the space of a month, she had completely changed who she was. Ashley had barely noticed she was doing it, but it had happened. It was scary.

Criminals felt slightly threatened by her, sure, but that was nothing. Nobody feared Ashley like Ashley did.

Another vigilante, in choosing a costume, might pick something they feared. Their worst nightmare. In embracing this fear, they could conquer it, and inflict it on their enemies. For Ashley, this had happened in reverse. There was nightmare-inspired transformation. She was a transformation-inspired nightmare.