Chapter 28

[Erratic Shapes]

Bubbles's upper lip curled briefly in a sneer as she observed the Gangreen Gang from the rafters above. They'd presently taken up residence in rusty, abandoned factory. It was almost dawn, but they were still hooting and hollering and patting themselves on the back for sake of last evening's haul. Taken, she expected, the same place most of their recent success had come. Random muggings. Purse snatching. Even the odd store holdup.

Bubbles didn't have long to finish this. Only the length of a long shower. Less if Princess checked in on her back at the hotel room.

She gripped the sickle in her hand. Wondered if she was ready for this. Fuzzy had gone all wrong. She wasn't prepared. Wasn't ready to be someone else. She'd tried to scare him, to hurt him a little, and he'd wound up dead.

She wasn't sad about it. Not anymore. She might have set things in motion, but in the end he did it to himself.

This would be different. She knew it would.

The Harvester dropped from the ceiling, wooden geta hitting the concrete floor with a reverberating smack. She heard a small tearing sound beneath her as her knees bent and spread to absorb the impact. She winced, reminding herself to cut a slit in her "skirt sack" later for freer movement. At least, if she planned to keep wearing this getup.

The Gangreen Gang scattered, reeling backwards. Ace fell into a chair, which then tipped onto its back.

Cries of "Whoa," snippets of profanity, and...fear. Genuine fear. Maybe it was the sudden, unexpected entrance, but for once they weren't taunting and teasing. For once, they were afraid of her.

"Wh—who the hell are you, man?" Ace demanded. "What do you want from us?"

Bubbles paused. She hadn't considered she might need a name. She'd been a superhero her whole life, but this dual identity thing was pretty unfamiliar territory.

She spoke in the roughest, gruffest voice she could manage without sounding ridiculous. "I'm..." She paused, hoping it would be interpreted as dramatic effect. "The Harvester. And I'm sick and tired of scum like you left to walk around."

"Heh," Ace laughed. "Heh heh." Soon, he and the others were laughing as uproariously as they had before her entrance. And why wouldn't they? What did it matter to them? Another hero, another cop. It would all play out the way it always had. Nothing to worry about. Not in the long run.

Beneath her "hood," Bubbles gritted her teeth and pulled her lips back in a full sneer. This is exactly what she was here to change.

She darted over to Ace, taking a swing with her sickle. She was careful to come up short of causing serious injury, but she left a pretty nasty gash on his forehead before she back-flipped back to where she started.

It bled profusely. She expected his. Head wounds were...scary. But he'd be all right.

Their laughter had stopped.

"There's nothing funny about this. About what you do. About what I'm about to do. Creeps like you need to face consequences for your actions. The 'heroes' who get their hands on you and walk away, knowing—knowing you'll walk free again, knowing they'll see you again...and again...and again. People like that are no better. But I'm not like them. I'm here to change things. I don't want to see you hurt anyone again. Ever."

Ace once more wiped blood from his eyes, having tied a bandana over the wound during her tirade. "Well up yours, scumbag," Ace taunted, emphasizing the "bag" part of his denial. "Get 'im, boys!"

This was the easy part, Bubbles thought to herself. The hard part would be holding back. But only a little. She'd given some thought to how far she was willing to go. No killing, obviously, but scars were okay. Maybe damage some leg muscles and leave someone with a limp to remember this night. If they still didn't get the message, she might lop off a finger or two. And if absolutely necessary...she'd be okay if one of them lost an eye.

But it shouldn't come to that. It was all about how far she had to go to get her message out. With pushovers like these, it wouldn't be that far.

Big Billy would have been slow to lumber over, but was surprisingly quick to throw an empty oil drum from across the way. Bubbles dipped low, further ripping her "skirt" as she reduced her profile to less than a foot. For anyone without powers of flight, it would have required remarkable balance.

In fact, why not play up that 'agility?' Who needed to know she could fly?

Just as quickly as she'd dodged the barrel, she shot up and leaned backwards, avoiding Snake's swift swing of a metal pipe. If the fight against Mojo's turrets had seemed to go in slow motion, this fight was practically at freeze frame speed. Still leaning backwards, Bubbles carefully lifted her sickle, running just the tip through Snake's front side.

She felt the scratching, tearing sensation as the point ran through his skin. It tore his shirt at first, but after she got a good hole started his shirt just pulled up with the blade.

His skin fared worse. She watched as Snake's body finally reacted to what was happening. Slowly, his sneer turned into a grimace. As the blade inched upwards, his teeth started to part in what she knew would become a yell of pain.

She glanced downward. Even distantly, through the blade and handle, she felt the ripping sensation of what would probably come out as a clean cut. At this scale of time, a quick swipe was a rich experience. She watched with detached fascination as Snake's shirt continued to ride up, slowly revealing the cut she was making.

Lost in the moment, she was surprised when she felt stronger resistance. Glancing up, she realized she'd reached his sternum. Almost reluctantly, she withdrew the sickle. It would have been just as easy to continue cutting, but that kind of strength might be too revealing.

Her perceptions accelerated as she resumed moving backwards, turning what had been a dodge-and-slice ages ago into a back-flip. Time slowed again as she hung upside down in midair. The movement was putting her close to Grubber, charging from behind. His head was lowered, and he seemed ready to leap into the air. Whether to headbutt or tackle, she wasn't certain.

Again time sped up. Bubbles just wanted...more. More than a snapshot in time could offer. Her geta clapped onto the floor again as she completed her flip. The sound echoed, reverberated in the vast, hard spaces of the factory. Even as the scene moved forward she heard it. A loud clack as she landed. A softer one echoed shortly after—then two more, intricately intertwined as they rebounded off opposite walls to return to her ears in the same moment.

She began to spin, crouching lower as she went. Another tiny clack rebounded from another wall, and a tinier one still from some other surface she couldn't pinpoint. How long would that one slap continue to echo for ears like hers?

Her arm swung wide as she continued her spin, sickle held tightly. It made a funny sound as it swung through the air. Soft, but heard clearly over the ever-fainter barrage of clacks reverberating from every surface around them.

Grubber's toes were all that connected him to the ground, and not for much longer. Though he moved in slow motion, Bubbles understood he was doing his best to launch himself into the air at her.

As the sickle's edge drew closer to him, Bubbles understood its sound more clearly. Not just a whistling as it cut through the air, but a faint, melodic ringing. A musical sound of the thin, pristine blade vibrating as it pushed through the air around it.

Well, the blade was almost pristine. Tip stained with Snake's blood, the momentum of the swing was causing even that thin coating to pool on the edge. Bubbles watched closely as it swelled ever so gently. A moment later, a tiny droplet of blood separated, suspended in the air. Slowly, it spun and wobbled, carried by momentum and forces Bubbles would never put to numbers like a physicist. Yet, those physics were beautiful and enticing.

She felt her sickle hit something, hit Grubber, but her eye continued to follow the path of the wayward droplet of blood.

Only when her spin turned her too far to watch any longer did she take note of what she'd done to Grubber. It was a deeper cut, she realized, but her speed was such that she'd run the blade from one side of his abdomen to the other before he drew too close. If he'd been moving any faster, or she any slower, it would have been a deep cut indeed.

She'd subconsciously extended her leg for balance as she swung about. Adjusting its position, she shifted her weight onto it. It started as a sidestep and turned into a cartwheel.

The moment was so present. So "here." The muffled sound of air as she moved through it. The clumsier sound of her blade as it whooshed through on its broad side this time. She noted that it didn't sing. It only sung when the thinnest sliver of it danced through the air. It only sang when it reached for flesh.

Her movements felt so graceful and easy. She imagined his is how it felt to truly practice Tai Chi. Fluid. Graceful. Flowing.

Blood flowed. Limbs flailed, bodies recoiled, sending more droplets soaring. A cut along someone's forearm, and soon the specks seemed to be floating everywhere.

She wore more than a nightgown. Her feet were not allowed to feel the weight, the power of the floor beneath them as they had at Mojo's. Instead, she felt the caress of her clothes and her burlap disguise as it slid to and fro. Her feet felt a different kind of solidity in the stiff wood strapped to them, only the barest cushion of sock attempting to disguise it.

Even through the sack on her head, even in the stale air of a factory that no longer breathed, her every breath could have been drawn of a crisp, autumn breeze in untouched wilderness. Every slow, measured breath. Every methodical, calm beat of her heart.

Once again, there was no fear. No doubt. No past. No future. Only the here and now mattered.

In time, the flow stopped. The dance slowed. The tiny, beautiful worlds of red drifting through the air ceased.

Her foot clacked against the floor one last time. This time, the echo came and went in an instant.

In that same instant, the air became grimy and warm. Her heart began picking up pace, seeming eager to make up for lost time. She felt the heat and blood drain from her face, and from the sudden weight in her stomach it seemed to have dropped there all at once.

She turned her head, her eye, peering through the featureless sack covering her head. Streaks and trails of blood marred the floor, many smeared by wandering feet. Fleeing feet. Feet of people who had long ago reached and exceeded the level of fright she'd planned.

There seemed to be no movement now. No sound other than her breath as she began to pant, and pant for reasons other than exertion.

Panic arose. It stole her attention, and the slow-motion world so full of sensation became a distant memory.

She turned her eyes and ears to the bodies around her. So many cuts. Never too deep, but always too many. Her own heart skipped a beat as she heard a quiet "wa-thump" from Big Billy's heart. Focusing her senses on it, she waited, hoping. Desperately hoping.

After moments that could have been eons, it swelled with half a final beat. Then, it relaxed, and stirred no more.

She looked around again, hoping she was mistaken. She was not. Not one of the four limp forms around her would ever rise again.

Four?

She perked up her ears.

Yes! A heartbeat. A strong, fluttering heartbeat. She spun around and looked, but saw nothing. Listening closer, she narrowed down its source. Adjusting her eyesight, she peered into a nearby locker. Arturo peered through tiny slats, heart threatening to beat out of his chest as he tried to hyperventilate as quietly as his panic would allow.

Earlier, their fear was all Bubbles had wanted. Now the weight of it threatened to heave up her last meal.

Her body, her more primitive mind, snapped into auto-pilot as her thinking mind continued to struggle. Bubbles made a show of glancing around the room, as if looking for survivors. In the process, she noted the first rays of dawn's light grace the skies outside.

Rather than take flight or zip out in the blink of an eye, Bubbles made a point of running out of the factory like a normal person. Her geta slapped and clacked against the floor as she went.

Though neither the run nor the fight were any struggle, Bubbles continued to pant. Indeed, as she ran it felt as if she were running away from something. Meanwhile, she continued to listen to Arturo's own panting, his horror not abating in the least as she departed.

Bubbles did not relish his fear.

She shared it.


"Bubbles!" Professor called out, trying to work his way back to roughly where he thought she landed. "Bubbles, where are you!"

He heard a faint, wet cough. He ran over, fumbling for a pocket flashlight.

He shone it on her as he arrived. Blood was pooling under her head. Flecks of it dotted her face. Perhaps coughed up a moment ago, only to land on her.

"Bubbles, God—no!" Professor cried as he ran to her side. He set the flashlight down nearby to free up his hands, its glow only indirectly illuminating the two of them. "It's going to be okay, sweetie. Everything's going to be okay."

Bubbles smiled up at him weakly. "You're right. I know. Everything's going to be okay now."