Chapter Text
Washed up on the shore of Fear Cay, you vomited great bouts of water and knew that you were supposed to be dead. The sun was just beginning to rise, the smoggy skies of Blüdhaven turning a sickly rust color. Your stomach clenched and you coughed up one last mouthful of bile before pushing yourself up onto your hands and knees. A dull ache had settled into your heavy limbs, a faded memory of the pain that had come before. You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand, grimacing. There was a cold that permeated your bones, making you shake as you forced yourself to your feet.
You should have been dead.
Wet clothes clung to your skin as you slowly walked towards the city. Even after your impromptu swim in the bay, you had a large blood stain blooming across the front of your shirt. Still, you knew very few people would even bat an eye at your appearance. You had seen weirder before, everyone in Blüdhaven had. Even if you had grown extra limbs and were on fire, no one would have spared a second glance. Barefoot and shivering, you made your way to the rail terminal. By some continued stroke of weird luck, your wallet was still in your back pocket and you were able to scan your rail pass without any issue.
You were supposed to be dead.
You got off at the Woolrich Avenue stop, your brain kicking into force of habit to keep from assessing what had happened to you the night before. Steps still slow and painful, you moved purely off muscle memory and routine. Right at St Bernadine’s church, three blocks down, left one block, up the steps to your little rental house. Key under the doormat, hip bumping into the door when it stuck to knock it open. Rusty hinges screamed as you closed the door behind you, dim light already filtering through the thin curtains of your living room. The puppy came trotting up to you, apparently unaware or uncaring of your state in her quest for pets. You obliged, wincing when you saw the blood and grit left in her soft, thick fur.
“I’m sorry, girl,” you said. Your voice was thick and rasping, like you had spent all night gargling nails and razorblades. The sound of it made you wince again, your throat raw and stinging.
You should be dead at the bottom of the ocean.
The puppy let out a tentative whine, paws tapping against the floor in an anxious little dance. You trudged across the living room, through the kitchen, through the laundry room to open the back door and let her out into the sparse yard. Watching her spin in excited circles before finding the optimum pee spot, the entire night came crashing back down on you.
Why weren’t you dead?
Letting your knees give out, you sat heavily on the backstep and cradled your head in your hands. A horrendous ache was building in your temples, spreading to the base of your skull. Tears pricked at your eyes.
Dead, murdered, killed, sleeping with the fishes, rotting at the bottom of the sea, food for the sharks.
The ache spread to your jaw, molars throbbing with the pain. A whine worked its way out of you, the first tears rolling down your cheeks. You were glad that you had managed to make it home before having your breakdown, but you’d hoped to postpone the freak out indefinitely. No such luck. The streak ended as you hugged your knees to your chest and sobbed.
The bullet ripped through your chest, pierced one of the fragile arteries around your heart. Another shot through your gut, another through your knee. A final round through your throat. Hot, searing pain cooled by the cold embrace of the ocean as you fell.
A cold, wet nose nudged at your elbow. The dog whined and pressed into your side, tucking her head under your arm to lick at your face. A wet, laughing sob escaped you. A dead girl and her unnamed dog.
“It’s okay,” you rasped. Straightening, you let her crawl into your lap and carded your fingers through her warm fur. “It’s okay, girl.”
God, what a lie. Everything was so far from okay that you may as well have been in a separate universe from whatever passed for okay. The not-okay-and-in-denial universe was where you currently sat. How could you come back from what had happened? How were you supposed to process it? Still scratching the dog behind her ears, you brought shaking fingers to the column of your throat. Instead of a gaping, bloody wound, you felt rough scar tissue. It was impossible. Shifting the dog in your lap, you pulled down the collar of your shirt. Puckered scar tissue just over your heart. Another scar over the wound in your gut. Another scar where you’d been shot in the knee.
“What the fuck,” you whispered. “What the actual, flying fuck?”
Something shifted inside of you. You couldn’t explain what it was, but it shifted all the same. Like a switch being flipped, a quiet thing pressing against your skin. The ache got worse and you whimpered again, the dog hopping out of your lap and running inside. A pain spread down to your bones, a stretching of your very self. Dragging yourself to your feet, you stumbled back inside and just managed to make it to the bathroom before you fell to your knees and vomited into the tub. It seemed endless, burning the back of your throat and stinging at your eyes as you retched and retched and retched. You slumped when it was finally done, feeling hollowed out, vision blurred with tears. Breathing harsh and labored, you wiped at your face and blanched when you saw the inside of the tub.
Black, shining ichor. Some foul-smelling goo had been expelled from your body, streaked through with dark blood. Your stomach churned at the sight, empty as it was. Movements clumsy and limbs numb, you turned on the tub in an attempt to clean out whatever had just come out of you. The dog barked somewhere else in the house. You stood on weak, shaking legs and turned on the sink to wash the grime from your hands. Sand and blood and back gunk swirled down the drain, hypnotic as you watched it wash away. The dog barked again. Shaking yourself from your trance, you splashed your face with cold water. When you looked up, a different you watched you in the mirror. Startling back from the reflection, you rubbed your eyes and blinked rapidly before looking again. A normal reflection stared back at you: color drained from your skin, eyes heavy and bloodshot, lips chapped and raw. You sighed, shuffling out of the bathroom for the time being.
There was a knock at the door. You startled, bumping into the dog as she continued barking. Your heart raced, fear running hot in your veins. Another knock and the dog moved to stand in front of you, growling. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you pressed a hand over your chest. Dead girl with a racing heart. Impossible and terrifying. Realizing you were still in bloody, dripping clothes, you cleared your throat and spoke as loudly as you could.
“Just a second!” Your voice cracked painfully, stinging at the volume. “Just… Just a second!”
Stumbling into your bedroom, you peeled off your ruined shirt and shorts. Left in a little pile on the floor, you rushed to the closet and threw on the first shirt and jeans you found. Hoping there wasn’t too much gunk in your hair or on your skin, you nearly tripped in your rush to get to the door. You picked up the puppy, her barks quieting as you tucked her under your arm and swung the door open.
“Whoa.” Your neighbor blinked at you, taken off guard by your appearance. “You sounded bad, but you look terrible.”
“Oh. Um.” God, did you sound even worse? The puppy squirmed in your grip, tail wagging as she tried to get at the man standing on your front porch. “Rough night.”
“I thought so.” He looked you over and you felt hot shame flush your skin. Of course your hot neighbor came over after you threw up a gallon of gunk into your tub. “I saw you walking back here. You looked rough, so I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’ve been better,” you admitted. Giving up, you set the puppy down so she could run in eager circles at your feet. “Also been worse. Uh, thanks for checking up.”
“No problem.” Kneeling, he gave the puppy a scratch behind the ears. You realized he had dimples when he smiled. “Honestly, I’ve been looking for an excuse to say hi to your dog, too.”
A startled laugh escaped you, making you wince. Your throat seemed somehow more raw than just a moment before. Clearing it again, you placed your hand on your chest and counted each rhythmic beat of your heart. You’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive.
“You’re welcome to come see her any time,” you said. “Probably good for her to socialize with someone other than me, um…”
Oh fuck, you forgot his name.
Showing you mercy you surely didn’t deserve, he turned that devastating grin on you. “Richard Grayson. My friends call me Dick.”
“Right… Dick.” Old fashioned, but he was so good looking of course he could pull it off. “Sorry, my memory is just the worst. I would appreciate her jumping all over someone other than me, Dick.”
“I’ll take you up on the offer, then.” He winked at you. He winked at you. Your supermodel-hot neighbor winked at your gross, somehow-not-dead ass. “Sounds like you’ve got a bath running, so I’ll leave you alone. Just wanted to check in on you.”
Oh, right. The bath. You needed a hot shower. Reality set in and you wished you’d stayed at the bottom of the ocean. You had to be at work in just under a couple of hours.
“Thank you,” you said. The puppy ambled back inside and you shifted from one foot to the other. “I, uh. I appreciate it. I’ll… see you later then?”
Lame. So, so lame. You almost winced. But he just kept smiling and nodded.
“See you later. Take care of yourself, yeah? If you need anything, you know where I’m at.” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder at the house he lived in across the street. “I’m happy to help any time.”
“I appreciate it. Um, Dick.” You forced a weak smile and waved as he headed back across the street.
Closing the door with a shriek on its hinges, you leaned against it and heaved a heavy sigh. You pressed your forehead to the cool wood, closing your eyes. All of it was just too much. But even if you did tell your boss “hey, I got shot last night and thrown into the ocean, can I have a day off?” you had no chance in hell of getting away with taking a day. Deadlines loomed over everyone, your current project needing to get done ASAP. There was no way it could get shoved back and even less of a chance that your boss wouldn’t fire you if you didn’t show up. Night from hell or not, you had to be there.
“Right,” you mumbled. “Hot shower first. Coffee next. Then you can figure out what the hell happened.”
---
The Blüdhaven Chronicle offices were in the central business district, across the street from the courthouse and just two blocks away from the mayor’s office. Your desk was positioned near a window that looked out over towards the docks, high enough that you could see the smog from the city’s industrial district swirl in your line of sight. You had barely made it to work on time (the gunk hadn’t been easy to clean out and you’d had to shower fast), a fresh cup of coffee steaming on the desk in front of you. Staring at it, you tried to sort out the previous night in your head.
You went to the docks just past 2 am. It had been important. You’d needed to talk to him, try to get him to see reason.
How long had you been in the water? The conversation you’d had definitely hadn’t lasted hours and you’d regained consciousness on the shore before the break of dawn. Closing your eyes, you rubbed at your temples and tried to dredge up more memories.
Blood in the water. Salt stinging your wounds, screams bubbling to the surface. World fading, darkness encroaching. Heart breaking. A movement in the dark waters.
“You look like shit.”
You barely managed to bite back a scream as you whipped around to see your boss glaring down at you. Jonathan Law was an imposing man, even on his good days. Unfortunately, you could tell he was not having one of them. A muscle in his jaw ticked and you offered a sheepish smile.
“Late night chasing a lead,” you rasped. God, you still sounded terrible. “Got a little out of hand.”
That got his attention. Irritation melted into concern in the blink of an eye and his voice dropped. Law was an imposing man, but he wasn’t cruel or inconsiderate.
“How out of hand?” he asked.
“Maybe we should talk in your office,” you said.
His frown deepened. Making sure to take your coffee with you, you followed him into his office. He shut the door behind you before walking around his desk and sitting down. You stayed standing, fingers tightening around the mug as he folded his hands in front of him.
“It’s worse than I thought,” you told him. You cleared your throat, taking a sip of coffee before continuing. “Went to talk to my… source. Just wanted to get clarification on a few things, but we were interrupted.”
“Who was it?” No beating around the bush. You both knew the story. Law leaned forward in his chair.
“Tiger Shark.” You shuddered, remembering the razor-sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight. “He had a detective with him. I didn’t recognize him, but I’d bet he’s from Vice or Major Crimes.”
“Shit.” Law ran his hands over his face. You let him sit in the new information for a moment, chewing on your lip. “How the hell did you get out?”
You hadn’t gotten out. Not really. Killed and betrayed and dumped in the ocean to be forgotten. Something in you bristled at the thought, jaw clenching. You took a deep breath, tamping the sudden surge of anger back down. That could be unpacked later. But you couldn’t tell the editor-in-chief that you’d been killed-but-not-really. Not only would you be pulled from the story, he’d likely ship you off somewhere for treatment. You weren’t crazy. You had a new scar under the scarf wrapped loosely around your throat to prove it.
“My source pulled his shots,” you lied. “I made it look like he’d hit me and jumped into the bay.”
“Fucking hell, Koshka.” He shook his head, ignoring the way you flinched at his tone and his use of your last name. “This is getting too real, you need to—”
“I’ll have a draft on your desk after lunch,” you interrupted. “Just enough of a story to light a fire under their asses.”
Law narrowed his eyes. You could see his thought process, the risks and losses being calculated. It was a big story. The kind that could change things. Ukranian gangs smuggling illegal weapons and engaging in human trafficking on the docks was one thing. The involvement of a crime lord from outside Blüdhaven and a cop turned it into something very different. For weeks you had been gathering information, putting together a story that would drag the Ukranians out of the shadows and into the spotlight. It was personal.
“Koshka.” Law’s voice was soft as he placed his hands palm-down on his desk and looked you in the eye. “You’re a good reporter. It took balls for you to take this story. Are you really sure you want to keep going?”
“I’m sure.” You drew yourself up, chin held at a defiant angle. Even if you were exhausted and confused and dead-but-not-really, you weren’t going to stop. “I got shot at by my brother, Mr. Law. The Malina took him from my family. I’m not going to rest until they’re destroyed.”
It hurt to admit out loud. Your own older brother had shot you, had looked you in the eye as the first bullet ripped through you. Your blood, your family, the last person you had. At first you had dug up the story to try to get him out of the life. Now you would write it to take him down with the rest of them. Your parents were six feet under back in Ukraine. Their hearts had been broken the day he’d left and they’d died thinking their son was a monster. One final act of vengeance. Maybe that was what had kept you alive.
Vengeance. A voice echoed in your head, soft and certain. It was not your own. Vengeance. Blood for blood. Let the waters run red.
“Have it on my desk before the end of the day.” Law’s voice snapped you back, the voice still echoing at the back of your mind. “And be careful.”
“Yes, sir.” Feeling unsteady on your feet, you gave him a small nod before leaving his office.
Fighting back a new wave of nausea and dizziness, you shuffled back to your desk and sat down heavily. Fractured memories from the night before surfaced as you pulled up your working draft and began to type.
Sharp teeth flashing in the moonlight. Gleaming metal. The thieves’ code. The smell of gunpowder. Muzzle flashes. Blood in your mouth. A shadow in the water and a cold touch to your throat.
“Please,” you screamed to your brother. “Please, мій брат, don’t do this!”
A cold stare, eyes that you had once recognized stripped of all compassion.
The screen stared back at you as you stopped typing. You were close to being done, just a few more touches and the story would be done. But the nausea was getting worse. Trying to look as casual as possible, you power walked to the bathroom and locked the door behind you. Knees hitting the linoleum, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath.
“Please,” you whispered. “Not right now. Just a few more hours, that’s all I ask.”
A sharp pain in your stomach made you whimper, fingers clutched at your shirt. Even the bagel you’d shoved down earlier didn’t seem to make a dent in the twisting, ravenous hunger you felt. Your teeth ached, a hot pain in your jaw as it clenched. A cold sweat broke out on your skin, your pupils dilated. You were dead. You were dying. They would find your body in the bathroom and all your work would be for nothing.
Not yet. Not fucking yet. Snarling, you pushed yourself off the floor. Your legs shook, hands braced on the sink to keep yourself standing. Nails scraped against the porcelain. You took another deep, steadying breath and looked in the mirror.
A monstrous version of you stared back. The reflection’s eyes glowed an eerie green, pupils dark slits. The teeth bared were razor sharp, rows of them crowding the mouth. Your scarf had loosened, and the reflection had scaled skin were the bullet had torn through, gills just visible at the sides of the neck. When you reached up to touch your face, the reflection mimicked the movement, revealing nails replaced by long black claws and stripes of dark scales running up the arm. The reflection’s hair was damp, seaweed and pieces of glass tangled in it.
“Who are you?” you whispered. The reflection did not mirror the words.
Instead, the other you smiled, baring more of their sharp teeth and cracking their chapped lips. Instead of blood, a thick black ichor oozed from the crack in the skin. The reflection pressed a hand to the other side of the mirror, leaning close. When they spoke, you heard the soft, hissing voice in your head.
Vengeance, the reflection said. The word was melodic, sweet to your tired, strained soul. We found you. We smelled the fury in your blood.
“I’m going crazy.” You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut. So many impossible things happened. Too many. You had a job to do, a story to write. “Not right now, please.”
When you opened your eyes, your own reflection stared back at you. The monstrous version was gone, slipped back into the hungry twisting of your guts. Splashing your face with water, you did your best to collect yourself. You said you would have the story on Law’s desk by the end of the day. So, you would put aside whatever crazy shit was happening. And you would write that story, even if it killed you.
---
The draft was on Jonathan Law’s desk at 5 sharp. He didn’t say a word as he picked up the story, frown growing as he took you in. You had caught a chill at some point during the day, shivering violently as you stood in front of him. Pale and drawn, you wrapped your arms around yourself. The sandwich you’d scarfed down for lunch had done nothing to sate your new hunger. It had only made it worse, a hollow pain that radiated through to your bones. You looked like shit, and your editor’s scowl said it was worse than you thought.
“Go home,” he finally said. “Take tomorrow off and go to the doctor.”
“But sir—” you started.
“If I have any revisions I want you to make, I’ll email them to you. You can work on them at home.” Law held up a hand when you started to argue again. “You look like death warmed over, Koshka. I’ll expect you to come back here on Monday back at 100%.”
There was no point in arguing. You would have the next day and the weekend to figure out what the hell was happening to you. At least at your house, only the puppy would be witness to whatever freakish illness you’d come down with. You gave in, offering only a small nod as an answer before leaving his office. Shame and guilt weighed heavy on your shoulders. You’d fucked up, made a stupid move and gotten yourself sort-of-but-not-really killed. Gotten yourself infected with something that kept you from your job. If you didn’t get a fifty-page email eviscerating your writing in the morning, you’d be surprised. With the hunger-fever distracting you, you doubted that the story was your best work. Retrieving your backpack from your desk and ignoring the piercing gazes of curious co-workers, you left the building.
The ride back on the bus was a blur. You’d dug out your headphones, staring out the window as Max Barskih’s voice washed over you. It had been years since you’d left the country, but you still found yourself gravitating towards Ukrainian musicians. Even when they sang in Russian, it was a small dose of home when you heard their voices. Odessa had been so heavily Russian speaking that you’d grown up speaking two different languages at home and at school. When your stop came, you did not take off the headphones. Instead, you continued listening as you walked to your house. Let someone come up and try to mug you. The only thing they’d get for their troubles was vomit on their shoes, given how nauseous you still were. But you remained unbothered the rest of the way. Digging your keys out of your backpack, you unlocked the door and froze.
The puppy was not there waiting for you.
Pushing the headphones down to hang around your neck, you dropped your backpack and closed the door behind you. The dog was always there waiting for you. She still was not running up to greet you. You reached for the phone in your back pocket, pausing the music so you could pull up 911. Just in case. After all, you had been murdered just the night before. Ignoring the amplified intensity of the twisting in your guts, you slowly made your way into the kitchen.
A man in a black costume with neon blue accents and a mask sat at the table, scratching your dog behind her ears. The dog looked up when you came in, barking happily. The little traitor. The man looked up and you braced yourself. Was he going to shoot you? Stab you, slit your throat? Surely, he’d come to finish the job. Instead, he smiled and stood up.
“Sorry, I went ahead and let myself in. Your dog is really friendly,” the masked man said.
“Who the fuck are you?” you demanded. Keeping an eye on him, you edged around the kitchen towards the knife block. Just in case. “Why are you in my house?”
“Right.” He sighed, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Sometimes I forget people don’t know me here. I’m Nightwing. I’m here because of what happened at the docks last night.”
Oh, shit. Your fingers closed around a knife and you brought it up in front of you. Sweat broke out on your forehead again, a chill running through you. If he knew what happened at the docks, then did he know about what had happened to you? Did he know that you were a dead girl walking?
“Are you here to kill me?” Your voice was still rough and raspy, weak from the sheer exhaustion. How long had it been since you’d slept? You were so tired. So hungry and so tired.
“Whoa, no!” Looking surprised, he took a small step back. “I’m definitely not—”
“My brother sent you,” you rasped. You felt weak, dizzy. The knife wavered in your hands. “He knew I lived, and he sent you to finish the job.”
“Wait, hold up.” This time he took a step towards you, ignoring the small wave of the knife you made in a pathetic attempt at a threat. “Your brother? Are you saying Anatoli Orlov is your brother?”
“Don’t play stupid,” you spat. Your fingers felt numb. The knife fell from them with a clatter and you pressed a hand to your temple. So dizzy. “Don’t… don’t play that game with me.”
“I didn’t know, honest.” The man took another step towards you, one hand reaching out towards you. “Listen, Miss Koshka, you’re sick. Let me help you.”
“Don’t touch me!” The scream shredded your throat further as you flinched away from him. “I’m not stupid! Anatoli sent you here to kill me since he couldn’t manage to. He wants to silence me, but I won’t let him.”
A wave of nausea hit you and your knees buckled. Strong arms caught you before you hit the floor, wound around your waist. Your vision blurred but you still pushed weakly at the man’s chest. He did not let you go, instead holding you against him. You willed your stomach to spill up its contents, but it, too, proved to be traitorous. After a brief, weak struggle, you gave in and let him hold you up.
“It’s okay,” he said. His voice was so gentle, for a man who had broken into your home. He smelled good, too. Like citrus and musk. The hunger intensified and your hands curled into fists against the blue emblem on his chest. “I’m going to get you help, okay?”
“Принаймні я помру від рук прекрасної людини,” you murmured. You were delirious, with fever and with hunger, thanks to the push to get the story in. That was all the reflection had been, a fever dream. Perhaps you should accept this kinder fate. “Принаймні зробити це швидко.”
The man’s grip on you tightened for a second before he lifted you in his arms. Your head lolled against his shoulder, eyes unfocused as he carried you out of your home. The dog whined, and you wished you’d at least been a good enough dog owner to name her. Hopefully someone would find her soon. Maybe she would go to an owner less shitty than you. Your eyes drifted closed, the cold sensation of the ocean washing over the edges of your consciousness.
“Я врятую тебе. Я обіцяю,” the man said.
You smiled, knowing that was likely yet another feverish delusion. Cheek pressed to the hard body armor he wore, you let oblivion drag you into its watery depths.