October 31, Mistral
A police officer patrols the streets of Mistral on Halloween night, quietly chuckling to himself as he watched costumed civilians go about the festivities: trick-or-treating, scaring each other, and generally having a good time.
Suddenly, his ears picked up what sounds like quiet crying originating from an alleyway.
"Shit." he cursed. Halloween night can be as fun as it can be dangerous, especially for children. Some of the rookie officers still have nightmares after investigating the crimes committed against the young.
The officer rounded the corner of the alleyway into a scene right out of a horror film. Sprawled out on the pavement was the corpse of a middle aged man, lying in a pool of his own blood. His torso was riddled with shallow and messy knife wounds, not like one from a psychotic attacker, but one from a panicking person defending themselves.
A gaping wound at the man's throat continues to leak blood, likely the wound that ultimately killed him.
Standing before the body was a small figure in dressed in sparkly, black robes and wearing the ever popular Father Death mask that can be found in every five-and-dime store on Remnant this time of the year. The figure is clearly a child, likely a girl no more than 10 or 11 years old.
Parts of her costume has been torn or ripped slightly, especially around the sleeves and chest area. The plastic knife in her hand is snapped in half, the jagged edge glinting dully in the dim light of the alley.
The officer's hand instinctively moved to his weapon, but he hesitated. This was no ordinary crime scene. The girl's shoulders shook with silent sobs, her costume splattered with blood.
"Hey there," he called softly, trying to keep his voice steady. "Are you hurt?"
The girl's head snapped up, her mask hiding her expression. She took a stumbling step backward, the broken knife falling from her trembling fingers.
"It's okay," the officer said, slowly approaching with his hands raised. "I'm here to help. Can you tell me what happened?"
For a moment, only silence filled the alley. Then, in a small voice muffled by the mask, the girl spoke. "He... he tried to grab me. I just wanted to go trick-or-treating."
The officer's stomach churned as the implications sank in. He knelt beside the body, careful not to disturb the evidence. Up close, he could see defensive wounds on the man's hands - and something else clutched in his fist.
A torn piece of black fabric, likely from the girl's costume.
"You did what you had to do," the officer said gently, turning back to the child. "You're safe now. Can you take off your mask for me?"
Hesitantly, small hands reached up to remove the Ghostface mask. As it fell away, the officer found himself staring into a pair of haunted green eyes, set in a face far too young for the horrifying experience she likely just went through.
"Hey, what's your name, sweetie?" the officer asked, kneeling down to look the girl in the eye.
The girl's emerald eyes darted nervously between the officer and the body on the ground. Her voice trembled as she whispered, "Pyrrha. My name is Pyrrha Nikos."
Nikos… Nikos. The officer has heard that name in passing a few times. His colleagues mentioned that the famous Nikos family of champion fighters has had a daughter, whom they plan on raising to continue their legacy. Could this be her?
"Okay, Pyrrha," he said softly, trying to keep his voice calm and reassuring. "You're not in trouble. I need you to tell me exactly what happened."
Pyrrha's gaze fell to the broken knife at her feet. "I... I was just walking home. He came out of nowhere, tried to pull me into the alley." Her small hands clenched into fists. "I fought back, like I was taught. But he was so strong, and I was scared... I didn't mean to do it."
The officer nodded encouragingly. "It's okay, Pyrrha. You only defended yourself. Here, I'll take you to the station, and I will get your parents to come pick you up, okay? I'll even get you some snacks from our vending machine!"
Pyrrha nodded hesitantly, her eyes still wide with shock. As the officer gently led her out of the alley, she cast one last glance at the body behind her. For a brief moment, something flickered in those emerald eyes - not just fear or remorse, but a spark of... something else. Something darker.
At the station, Pyrrha sat quietly in a plastic chair, a blanket draped over her shoulders and a cup of hot chocolate warming her hands. The shock was beginning to wear off, replaced by a strange numbness. She barely noticed when her parents burst through the doors, their faces etched with worry.
"Pyrrha!" Mother cried, rushing to embrace her. "Oh, my darling, are you alright?"
Father stood back, his expression a mix of concern and something harder to read. Pride, perhaps? Or disappointment that his carefully groomed champion had been caught in such a messy situation?
As the adults spoke in hushed tones, Pyrrha's mind drifted back to the alley. She remembered the weight of the knife in her hand, the sound it made as it tore through flesh, the screaming and yelling of that mean stranger as she stabbed him repeatedly. The fear, yes - but also the rush of power that came with it. The realization that she, small as she was, could end a life.
It should have terrified her. Instead, she felt a thrill of excitement mixed with her guilt.
"Can we go home now?" Pyrrha asked quietly, interrupting the conversation.
"Y-yes, sweetie. Just give us a few more minutes, okay?" Mother replied. "Daddy and I will answer a few more questions from the officer."
Back home, Pyrrha sat alone in her room, still dressed in her costume, and the man's blood still wet on her hands. Pyrrha slowly lifted her hand and wiped her thumb across her cheek, leaving a small streak of crimson blood across her pale skin. She glanced at the mirror, staring at her reflection, transfixed by the stark contrast of red against her pale skin. The blood smear was the exact same color as her hair: a beautiful, vibrant red.
A soft knock at the door startled her from her reverie. "Pyrrha?" Mother called gently. "May I come in?"
Quickly, Pyrrha grabbed a tissue and wiped the blood from her face. "Yes, mother," she replied, her voice steady despite the turmoil within.
Mother entered, concern etched in every line of her face. She sat beside Pyrrha on the bed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "How are you feeling, sweetheart?"
Pyrrha considered the question. How was she feeling? Scared, certainly. Guilty, perhaps. But also... alive. More alive than she'd ever felt before. "I'm okay," she said softly. "Just tired."
Mother nodded, stroking her hair. "What you went through tonight... no child should ever have to experience that. But you were so brave, Pyrrha. So strong."
Strong. The word echoed in Pyrrha's mind. Yes, she had been strong. Stronger than her attacker. Stronger than fear itself.
A few years later…
A 15 year old Pyrrha nervously walked through the hallway of a hospital, a bouquet of flowers clutched tightly in her hands. Ashley's room is just ahead.
She didn't mean to do it. She remembered the moment clearly - the surge of power as she landed blow after blow, the crack of bone, Ashley's cry of pain. She should have stopped. She knew she should have stopped.
But she hadn't wanted to.
It has been a few days since the accident. She knocked softly and entered. Ashley lay in the bed, her face pale and bruised, one arm in a cast. Her eyes widened slightly as she saw Pyrrha.
"Hey," Pyrrha said, forcing a smile. "I brought you some flowers."
"Can it, Nikos."
Ashley's cold response sent a chill through Pyrrha. She hesitated, still holding the flowers awkwardly.
"I... I'm so sorry, Ashley. I never meant for this to happen," Pyrrha said softly, taking a tentative step closer to the bed.
Ashley's eyes narrowed. "Didn't you? Because from where I was standing - or lying, after you put me there - it sure seemed like you meant every hit."
Pyrrha flinched at the accusation, even as a small part of her thrilled at the memory. She pushed that feeling down, disgusted with herself. "It was an accident. I got carried away in the heat of the moment. You know how intense training can get..."
"Training?" Ashley scoffed. "Is that what you call it? You practically demolished me, Pyrrha. And you didn't stop when I yielded. You didn't stop when I begged."
The flowers trembled in Pyrrha's grip. She wanted to deny it, to explain away her actions. But the truth was, Ashley was right. She hadn't wanted to stop. The rush of dominance, of power, had been intoxicating.
"I'm truly sorry," Pyrrha whispered, her voice barely audible. "I don't know what came over me."
Ashley's laugh was bitter. "Sure, you do. Is that what you said when you broke Hannibal's collarbone last month? Or two of Alexander's ribs just less than three weeks ago?"
Pyrrha hesitated. She and Ashley had been friends since childhood, and both of them signed up to be trained for tournament fighting at the same time. For her to suddenly turn on Pyrrha like this… it made her mad. So very, very mad.
Pyrrha gently set the flowers on the table, while maintaining that perfect smile she had been forcibly trained hours upon hours to master. In one fluid motion, Pyrrha moved to the door, locking it with a soft click.
Pyrrha took a deep breath, her smile never wavering. "I understand you're upset, Ashley. And you have every right to be. But those incidents were different. Accidents happen in training all the time."
"Not like this," Ashley spat. "Not with such... enjoyment."
So, Ashley thinks she enjoys hurting people? Oh she had no idea.
Pyrrha's smile faltered for a moment, a flicker of something dark passing behind her eyes. She took a step closer to Ashley's bed, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone.
"You're right, Ashley. Those weren't accidents. And neither was this."
Ashley's eyes widened in fear as she realized her mistake. She tried to reach for the call button, but Pyrrha was faster, snatching it away with lightning reflexes.
"What are you doing?" Ashley whispered, panic rising in her voice.
Pyrrha leaned in close, her breath hot on Ashley's ear. "Finishing what I started."
With practiced ease, Pyrrha's hands found Ashley's throat, using all her strength to start crushing her injured friend's windpipe. Ashley struggled weakly, her injuries limiting her movement.
"Pyrrha… please…" Ashley sputtered weakly, her good arm trying and failing to force Pyrrha off her. "I'm sorry…!"
"Shh," Pyrrha cooed. "It'll be over soon."
Pyrrha's hands tightened around Ashley's throat, feeling the frantic pulse beneath her fingers. A part of her screamed to stop, horrified by what she was doing. But that voice was drowned out by the intoxicating and familiar rush of power, the thrill of holding a life in her hands.
As Ashley's struggles weakened, Pyrrha felt a surge of exhilaration. The room was silent save for the faint beeping of monitors and Ashley's choked gasps. Pyrrha's emerald eyes locked onto Ashley's terrified gaze, drinking in every drop of fear and desperation.
"That's it," Pyrrha murmured, her voice eerily gentle. "Just let go."
Ashley's eyes began to glaze over, her good hand falling limply to her side. Pyrrha could feel the life ebbing away beneath her fingers, and it was glorious; better than any victory in a tournament or any of Father's shallow praises after she pushed herself to breaking point.
Suddenly, a sharp knock at the door jolted Pyrrha back to reality.
"Everything okay in there?" a nurse called from the hallway.
Pyrrha's hands flew from Ashley's throat as if burned. She stumbled back, heart racing, as Ashley gasped and coughed weakly.
"F-fine!" Pyrrha called back, her voice shaky. "We're just talking!"
She turned back to Ashley, who was staring at her with a mixture of horror and disbelief. Pyrrha's mind raced. She couldn't leave Ashley alive now, not after what had just happened. But how to finish it without raising suspicion?
As if in answer, her eyes fell on the IV drip beside the bed. A plan began to form in her mind, cold and calculated.
With practiced calm, she reached for the small medical cart beside the bed, fingers deftly locating an empty syringe. The plastic wrapper crinkled as she tore it open, the sound deafening in the tense silence.
"Pyrrha," Ashley croaked, her voice raw and barely audible. "Please... don't..."
But Pyrrha was beyond hearing. Her emerald eyes were focused, almost trance-like, as she pulled back the plunger, filling the syringe with air.
With surgical precision, Pyrrha located the injection port on Ashley's IV line. Her hand was steady as she inserted the needle, the soft hiss of air entering the tube barely audible over the hum of nearby machinery and fans.
"Shh," Pyrrha soothed, her voice a gentle murmur. "It won't hurt, I promise. Just like falling asleep."
Ashley's eyes widened in terror as she realized what Pyrrha was doing. She tried to call out, but her bruised throat could only manage a hoarse whisper. "No... please..."
Pyrrha stroked Ashley's hair tenderly, a stark contrast to the coldness in her eyes. "It's okay," she murmured. "This is better than what I had planned. No pain, no mess. You should thank me, really."
As the air bubble traveled through the IV line, Pyrrha watched Ashley's face intently. She saw the moment panic gave way to resignation, then to a glassy-eyed stillness. The heart monitor's steady beeping became erratic, then flatlined with a long, mournful tone.
Pyrrha calmly disposed of the syringe and straightened Ashley's blankets. She took a deep breath, let her shoulders slump, and put on her best distraught expression before rushing to the door.
"Help!" she cried, flinging it open. "Something's wrong with Ashley!"
The hallway erupted into chaos as nurses and doctors rushed in. Pyrrha allowed herself to be gently ushered out, playing the part of the shocked and grieving friend perfectly. As the medical team worked frantically to revive Ashley, Pyrrha felt a familiar thrill course through her veins.
She had done it again. Taken a life, felt that intoxicating power, and walked away without anyone suspecting a thing.
Several days later…
Pyrrha pushed her cart down the cereal aisle, scanning the colorful boxes with feigned interest. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh glow on the tiled floor. She was grateful for the quiet monotony of grocery shopping, a welcome respite from the chaos of the past week.
As she reached for a box of whole grain cereal, a small voice piped up behind her.
"Oh my gosh! You're Pyrrha Nikos!"
Pyrrha froze, her hand still outstretched. Slowly, she turned to face a young girl, no more than eight or nine, bouncing on her toes with excitement. The child's father stood nearby, looking apologetic.
"I'm so sorry," the man began, but his daughter cut him off.
"I saw you fight in the Mistral Regional Tournament last month! You were amazing!" The girl's eyes shone with admiration. "Can I have your autograph?"
Pyrrha's stomach twisted. She forced a smile, the same one she'd perfected for cameras and crowds. "That's very kind of you," she said softly. "I'm glad you enjoyed the tournament."
The girl fumbled in her pocket, producing a crumpled receipt and a pen. "Please? It would mean so much!"
Pyrrha's smile twitched as she accepted the pen and paper from the child and scribbled an autograph on it. Gods, she hated being known. To be recognized by complete strangers who don't give a shit about who she really is, and forces her to maintain the facade of perfection.
"Wow! Thank you so much!" the girl said as she took the signed receipt back. As her father ushered her away, she turned and waved. "Bye bye!"
Pyrrha waved back, her smile never faltering. As soon as the girl and her father rounded the corner, however, her expression darkened. She gripped the shopping cart handle tightly, her knuckles turning white.
The adoration in that child's eyes haunted her. If only they knew the truth behind the carefully crafted image of the "Invincible Girl." The expectations, the backbreaking training, her complete and utter lack of social life and freedom.
Pyrrha's thoughts drifted to Ashley, to the moment life had faded from her eyes. The memory should have filled her with remorse, but instead, she felt a familiar thrill. She had gotten away with it, just like before. Just like she always would.
As she continued down the aisle, a sight caught her eye. Hanging from one of the many hooks on the walls was a knife. It was the same knife she used to defend herself in the alleyway from that man on that Halloween night. Except this knife was real. The metal gleamed under the artificial light, its edge wickedly sharp. The black handle was textured for a better grip, promising to never slip in one's hand, even when slick with water, mud, or other things…
She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as they closed around the handle. It felt right in her grasp, like an old friend. Or perhaps a long-lost part of herself.
"I should get this," Pyrrha murmured, her voice barely audible. "For... for the kitchen. Yes, that's it. Our old knife is getting dull."
She knew it was a lie even as she said it. Their kitchen knives were perfectly fine. But she couldn't bear the thought of leaving this one behind. It called to her, singing a siren song of memory and possibility.
As Pyrrha grabbed it, feeling her trembling hands calm down the moment it clasped around the hilt. It was a perfect fit. Without second thought, Pyrrha gently set the blade into her shopping cart.
As she approached the checkout, Pyrrha's eyes fell on a rack of Halloween masks. It was still months away, but stores always stocked holiday items early. Her breath caught as she saw a familiar white face with hollow black eyes - Father Death.
Without thinking, she grabbed the mask and added it to her cart. The cashier raised an eyebrow but said nothing as he rang up the eclectic mix of groceries, kitchen knife, and Halloween mask.
"Big plans for October?" the cashier asked casually.
Pyrrha's smile was radiant, her voice warm and friendly. "Oh, you know how it is. Better to be prepared early!"
As she left the store, paper bags clutched in her arms, Pyrrha felt a sense of giddiness. She now has everything she needed. The mask, the knife, her skills. Mistral thinks they have a prodigy in their hands, the new champion fighter and the model for everyone to follow. Oh how wrong they will be.
Late at night, Pyrrha applies the finishing touches to a small, white, handheld device. She turns it on and tries it out, and sure enough, the voice changer works.
The soft glow of her desk lamp illuminates her workspace, casting long shadows across her bedroom. Pyrrha holds the device up to her lips, her heart racing with anticipation.
"Hello, Mistral," she whispers, and a deep, menacing voice emerges from the speaker. A shiver runs down her spine at the sound - so unlike her own, yet somehow fitting for the darker part of herself she's embraced.
Pyrrha fine-tunes the settings, adjusting pitch and tone until she's satisfied. She practices a few more phrases, relishing the way the distorted voice masks her identity completely. "What's your favorite scary movie?" she asks the empty room, and the gravelly response sends a thrill through her.
The knife, which she decided to call "Buck", lies on her desk, gleaming in the lamplight. Pyrrha picks it up, testing its weight and balance. It feels like an extension of her arm, deadly and precise. She makes a few practiced slashes through the air, imagining the damage it could do.
As dawn approaches, Pyrrha looks out the window as the first rays of sunrise pierces the horizon. The kingdom of Mistral begins to stir, unaware of the monster that lives amongst them.
Pyrrha runs a finger along the knife's edge, feeling its sharpness. A small bead of blood wells up, and Pyrrha watches, transfixed, as it rolls down her pale skin. A smile spreads across her face. Not the false ones she's been trained to do for publicity and promotional events, but the genuine, joyful grin of a girl who has found her true calling.
"Soon," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "Soon, Mistral will know the real Pyrrha Nikos."