"Some will criticize me no matter what I do."

-Benjamin Netanyahu


Another nightmare of twisting blades and metallic laughs woke Charlotte up, into darkness.

There goes another night of sleep, she thought. She looked at her watch. 4:23. Could be worse. She'd gotten four hours. Worse than some nights, but not terrible. She could cope.

Her room was darker than usual. The small red light of her phone in its charger was off. She walked to it and pushed the power button. It was at 98%, but the charger wasn't working. She put her hand on the charger. It was warm. She opened the door to her room and smelled the smoke.

Turning on the flashlight on her phone, she saw it. The hallway was full of smoke. Something was on fire in the kitchen.

She ran to the door of her parents' room and pounded on it. "MOM! DAD! THERE'S A FIRE! GET UP!"

Her father's voice muttered a drowsy "What?"

"I'll deal with it, Scott," her mother's voice responded, and then the door opened. Her mother, standing bleary-eyed in a robe, stood for a second. Her eyes widened, sleep disappearing entirely. "Scott, wake up. There's a fire."

"Fuck," her father said, and jumped out of bed completely naked. Charlotte turned away. She walked towards the front door. She had to pass a bend in the hallway when she saw it.

The front door was on fire, as was the area around it, extending to the kitchen. Charlotte looked behind her. Her parents weren't in sight of the door. Good. She felt the hinges, the lock, the doorknob. They were useless in their current form. Softened by the heat. Unless…

She flattened them, forced them out of their place, and turned them into a sheet, covering the part of the door closest to her. She pushed, the door flying out with molten brass covering its back.

She had a moment to remember what happened what happens to a fire when oxygen rushes back in before the flames grew with a whoosh. "Fuck!" she shouted, running back to her parents' room. They were outside, her father in a shirt and loose pajama pants and her mother still in a robe. "The entrance to the house is on fire. The window in your room is the biggest."

"It's got bars on it," her father said. Almost on instinct, Charlotte pushed the bars off of the window. They took some concrete with them, but fell with a crash they could hear over the roar of the flames.

"No it doesn't," Charlotte said, and ran into the room. The screen was still on the window, but it came off with an easy push.

"You first," her father said. She sighed, and resigned herself to climb on his arms and through the window. She moved the bars away from where she landed on the damp grass. Her mother followed, and they pulled her father out of the window.

"Are you okay?" Her father asked both her and her mother.

"I'm fine. I'm calling the fire department," she said.

"I will," he said, and took her phone from her. She walked away.

Her house was relatively small – a one story affair. They had jumped into the backyard, which was going through one of her mother's inattentive phases, and was overgrown, the bushes untrimmed and weeds growing in patches. She could see the glow from the front door, where the flames were at their peak.

"What do you mean first available unit!? MY HOUSE IS ON FIRE RIGHT NOW!" Her father screamed into his phone.

Charlotte sat, trying to keep the supports up with her power.

When the sun started to rise, Charlotte and her family sat in the backyard of their now-destroyed home, holding each other. They heard the sound of sirens.


"We have people going over your home now, looking for what is salvageable as well as looking for what started the fire. Do you have somewhere to stay for some time?"

"We can stay with zeide…"

"I'm not doing that to Charlotte, Scott. Not for longer than a day. Maybe we should call the Fittses?"

"Can you do it? I think they hate me."

"Nonsense. I'll do it. We need to call insurance, can you get on top of that?"

"Our department will be more than happy to help with the records."

"But not happy enough to arrive, weren't you?"

"Marsha..."

"I'm sorry."


"And… ummm… this was Melanie's room. She said you should feel free to borrow any of her books. She also offered her clothes, since you two are around the same height. Can we get you anything?"

"Thank you very much, Mr Fitts. I think I should take a shower," Charlotte said. "I stink of smoke."

"Of course. Towels are in the cupboard in the hall. Call me Noah." Noah Fitts was a short bald man with a hook nose and thin lips, always walking with a fake smile, looking . He took his yarmulke off when he left the house, she knew. He kept the nose, though, and the nasally voice.

She mentally slapped herself for the uncharitable thought. The Fittses were being kind, hosting her like this. Her parents were going to her zeide's, and would probably be miserable throughout. When she was a child, one of her parents always made sure to be around when she was with him. It was only a year ago that they told her why. It wasn't that zeide was a bad person, he was just difficult. Difficult to be around, difficult to handle, difficult to stop when he flew off the handle.

At her lack of response, Noah walked to the kitchen. This house was very different. Open, where hers was closed. A two story house, compared to her one story. Bigger rooms. Bigger everything. Melanie's clothes were nicer than hers. She felt guilty for wearing them, as if soiling them with her presence.

Melanie, the perfect success story. She got a degree in Japanese History and managed to spin that into owning a successful nightclub, in the span of only a few years. She could have gotten out of Brockton Bay, but she came back, and became a success.

As the water from the shower flowed over her, she thought about it. She hadn't understood Melanie when she came back. But now she did.

When you were beaten down, and the world was crushing you, the response isn't to run. It's to look back at the world and scream "Fuck you!"

Melanie Fitts, a Jewish woman, had a successful nightclub in the middle of territory marked by a Nazi gang. That sent a message ten times stronger than opening that nightclub in New York. Than taking off your yarmulke when you left your home, or closing up the synagogue after a supervillain decided it would be fun to trash it.

A message she could send too. One Jews had sent over the ages, multiple times, in spite of one failure after another. Masada shall not fall again.

Drying herself off, she found herself smiling. Melanie had slacks and a t-shirt that fit her fairly well. The shirt had a bear on it with the caption "I'm sorry for what I said when I was hungry".

She walked back to Melanie's room, and inspected the bookshelves. The amount of manga she found there was almost alarming. Finally, she picked up one. Now and Then, Here and There. At least the title was in English.

She was around the mid-point of the book when her phone rang. An unidentified number. She picked it up. "Hello?"

"Hello, Charlotte," a deep male voice said. "I am called Coil."

"I know your name. You're a supervillain," she said. She wanted to hang up in his face, a petty act of spite that would make her feel slightly more powerful. She didn't.

"I would like to make you an offer. One you have personal stakes in. I know where Hookwolf is hiding."

"How do you-"

"I'll explain face to face. I will be in front of the Fitts family residence in five minutes. In the meantime, you have an internet connection, correct? Aryan vs Predator dot com. Vs spelled vee ess, Aryan like the losers of World War 2. Their latest update is relevant." He hung up on her.

God damn piece of shit asshole, she thought. Fucking dickwad.

She typed in the address he gave her. . It was a blog of sorts. The newest post said "Congratulations to blastedBarbarossa for joining the empire and turning a Jew's home into their more natural environment, an oven". Attached was a video. Feeling her heart thumping, she pressed "Play".

It was a handheld camera, walking to the front of their house. The camera was then held at an angle, probably cradled between a head and a shoulder, while its owner picked the lock of their house. It then went back to a normal angle, and there was a bit of a grunt in the audio. It entered, and opened the electrical box to the right. The owner of the camera turned off all of the switches.

They took a few steps forward, and stopped to look at the sign her parents had hung at the entrance to the kitchen. A hand splayed in the Vulcan sign for "live long and prosper", with Bless This Schmutz written on the palm.

"Looks like the Circle-Kays are Trekkies," a male voice said almost inaudibly, and laughed.

They walked into the kitchen. Her mother's knife rack, the sharpener next to it, the fridge with her drawings from when she was six that her parents still refused to throw away, the stove with the burn stain on it that to this day she couldn't explain… They were in her kitchen. And it was like the person in the tape knew it. The camera showed their other hand, holding a jerry-can. They started pouring it over everything, walking back through where they came from and emptying it on the doorframe, taking care to pour some on the mezuzah, and closed the door behind them.

They lit a match, and dropped it. The house lit up almost in a flash.

The rest of the footage allowed her to relive the burning of her house, up until the door flew open and the voice said "holy shit". The video ended there.

Her mind reeled. Thoughts following thoughts in a circle, leading nowhere. And a deep, bubbling anger, so thick she almost felt like she was drowning in it.

It was decided.

Mr. Fitts didn't even notice her walking out the front door, down the steps, to the street. She looked around, but nothing stuck out. No limousine, no tank, not even a black Skoda with a driver wearing sunglasses. Just a normal suburban neighborhood. The door of a blue Prius opened, and a very tall, nearly skeletal black man stepped out of a blue Prius. He smiled when he saw her, and spoke. "Charlotte Morgenstern? Hello. I spoke to you on the phone. My name is Thomas Calvert. Is there anywhere you would feel comfortable to sit?"

"I'm fine in the car," she said. Surrounded by metal, in case anything happened… Yes, the car would fit.

"Very well," he said, and sat back in the driver's seat. She briefly wondered how he fit – he must have been around seven foot seven.

She sat in the passenger's side seat. "How do you know who I am?"

"Ms Morgenstern… I am a resourceful man. I have spies in organizations. I know Hookwolf recently escaped his Birdcage transfer. I know, from sources inside the Empire, that someone is hunting for him. And I have someone working for me whose powers are to pull truths from minor details. The door to your home did not fly open because of pressure differentials, whatever the idiots in the Empire and the fire department believe." He spoke in measured, powerful tones. He was a gifted orator, she decided. Probably a politician of some sort.

"Why unmask to me?" she asked.

"Honestly? Because we share a problem. Empire Eighty Eight, for their twenty years in Brockton Bay, have been manageable. How many black heroes are in the local Protectorate? Director Piggot, is she by any chance Jewish? Mayor Christner? We don't even have someone like Legend, holding some form of gay flag high, even though any activism on his part is entirely coincidental. Nobody the Empire would prey upon is in a position of power, and they know it. It's why their crimes go under-reported. Why your house was allowed to burn down, rather than send a fire truck and policemen immediately to the site of a hate crime as it was being live streamed. I contacted you for the same reason I hope you will not go to the police, knowing the identity of the supervillain Coil. Because they are not on your side, and I am. I have spies in all of the criminal organizations and in the PRT. I have finances that can help you. And all I want in return is for you to do what you were doing. Make the city safe for people who aren't good white Christians."

"Your gang hurts people. They sell drugs, too," she said. It felt weak. This was a point of no return. A brink.

"When was the last time we destroyed a synagogue?" he asked, and she felt the last bit of resistance she had disappear.

"Will you help my family get on our feet? You say you have connections."

"Yes, I can do that. Will you help me eliminate Empire Eighty Eight? Remove the stain of their hatred from this city?"

"Yes," she said. Calvert extended a hand to her. It seemed disproportionately large, more like a large spider than a hand. She shook it.

"Hookwolf hosts dogfights. His next one is on Tuesday night, at the basement of a club called Schmidt's. I suggest you continue your hunt for him until then, as to not tip him off that you know about it."

"Okay," she said. "Smart. I'll do it."


"Where is Hookwolf?" she asked the cowering man in front of her. He whimpered, and crawled away. She snaked a steel rod under his throat, and curled it around him. She pulled him towards her. "Answer me!" she screamed. She kicked at him, and he whimpered more. "Shut the fuck up! You don't get to cry! You don't get to be pitiful. Answer me! Where the fuck is Hookwolf?"

He looked almost human, crying like this. Miserable. She tightened the bar around his throat. He started gurgling.

Should I be doing this? She wondered. She knew where Hookwolf would be. This was just torture it was just…

Making her feel better. Hurting these monsters, who hurt other people for no real reason. It felt right, to do it. To do to them what they did to others.

It was only fair.

She walked out of the bar. It wasn't Schmidt's, but one Nazi bar was like all others, really. She tore the supports from the walls behind her, and flew to the Fitts's home as the bar toppled behind her. She wouldn't have to live there for long. Apparently, the insurance company was paying out in record time, even funding a rebuild of their home pro bono.

The world was finally turning in the right direction.