(Edited with Grammarly on 12/11/2025)
Who are these people?
That was the first thought on her mind when she first opened the door to HER domain. Her home away from home, where she could so easily throw away that false mask. The only place where she knew she could truly be herself.
She should feel secure here, should feel relieved. She hadn't done her cleansing, ripping away the fragments of her false-life and exposing her truest, most self. Even now, her face itched. Eyes repeatedly feeling as though dragged to HER true face hanging on the wall.
It felt wrong, standing here in her false skin. In a place so sacred and dear. But these...interlopers didn't seem like the type to provide her even this small level of dignity.
There were two of them. One male and the other female, if their silhouette was anything to go by.
The taller of the two looked to be the more threatening of the two, physically at least. Distinctly more athletic than both of them, her face covered in some form of pink war paint. Along her cheekbones, under those cold blue eyes, highlighting the clear disdain in them. Maybe she could've been considered pretty.
Too pretty.
Like those stuck-up, ditzy bimbos from school, if only her hair weren't hidden completely under that hood, but it was easy to frame some blonde hair onto her face. Fitting that image of a fool with too much air in her head, one who would laugh annoyingly and ugly. Someone who would cause people to naturally flock to her.
The perfect girl to die under a serial killer's hand.
Bimbo Viking, that sounded like a great name to slap onto her, held a phone at the ready. Obviously, recording the whole confrontation with a steady hand.
But despite how intimidating or how easily this Viking appeared to be able to break her spine in two, it was clear who the greatest threat in the room was.
This...creature, covered equally in elaborate pink warpaint, is sitting in the midst of this hall like some sort of ruler. He appeared thin, thinner than even her. Clothes hanging loosely on his near skeletal-like frame. In his lap lay one of those disgusting fleebags, its fur ebony black and shiny. Those feline eyes looking down at her made her fingers itch. Twitching as she could so easily imagine the thing struggling beneath her. Oh, how it would struggle, how it would yowl under the might of her strength.
Maybe then it wouldn't be looking at her with so much disdain.
But when her gaze landed on the handgun held lazily in one gloved hand, it brought her attention away from the disgusting vermin. Up her gaze went, until she locked gazes with him. Brown orbs, snapping wide like a crocodile's jaw, all-consuming. It was like she'd been stripped bare, secrets all so easy for him to read, like anything she tried or did was perfectly within his expectations.
Just looking at those brown pools made her feel so small, so insignificant, and...so human in comparison. Her body unleashed a slight but uncontrollable spasm, an uncontrollable urge to scramble over to claw those eyes out. To block them, or really anything, to get them to stop tearing her apart layer by layer. To have them stop dissecting her down to the bone and beyond.
This man... if she were to follow a similar theme, Shaman felt like a perfect fit here.
She could hear his question, no, his demand, but her mind was elsewhere. Gaze locked firmly on the twin pairs of shoes, each dirty and filthy. Each contaminating her sacred abode with the uncleanliness of the outside world. A world corrupted by false masks and lies.
Unforgivable.
That's what was circling in her head.
Unforgivable. Unforgivable. Unforgivable. Unforgivable. Unforgivable.
Like a chant, it repeated again and again. Her world zeroed in on the muddy shoes, reality twisting as more specks of dirt built up before her eyes. Spilling over to creep towards her collapsed figure, where even more dirt tumbled off her outside clothes to meet in the middle. Crashing like waves, they splashed against the walls, the ceiling, and even began creeping past her to wherever God only knew.
They would pay...just after she scrubbed every inch of the place with bleach. But after that? They would pay for daring to sully HER home.
"Marceline-"
She answered eventually, dark thoughts retracting from the surface. Fantasying wouldn't help now; getting out of this situation without incriminating herself was more important. As for the name? It was easy, with her being recorded, why shouldn't she lie? And there was frankly no one better out there to pin all this on than that little uppity freak.
"Cute." Shaman didn't even smirk all the way, more of a partial thing. A cruel thing, something similar she probably wore while plucking the legs from spiders. "Try again."
It was a clear taunt, arrogance seeping from every word. Speaking as though she was some sort of naughty child being reprimanded by an authority figure. She might've been caught up in her lie immediately, but that didn't mean she actually needed to answer. They couldn't hold her here forever. They would slip up or grow bored. And that would be her chance to either slip away or strike back.
She just needed to get her TRUE face, but until then, refusing to play their game would give her the most time. So, biting her lip firmly, she made it very clear that her name was completely off limits.
It would've worked too, if only Bimbo Viking hadn't thrown all those plans down the drain.
"Her name is Charlotte Wagner." For one moment, her heart stopped. Eyes widening a hair before she forced them back down to their normal size, but she knew it was too late. He'd seen her reaction; the jig was good and completely up. "She goes to Gotham City High School."
At that, she could feel even the small bits of defiance slipping out of her like grains from a sandbag. But soon, Charlotte narrowed her eyes and looked up sharply at the camerawoman. Gaze trying and failing to gleam noticeable features under the intricate war paint.
This person already knew who she was, already knew her name and what school she went to. She didn't bring her wallet or any of her IDs. Nothing of note that would really lead anything back to her, so that only really left a few possibilities.
Either they'd been watching her for a while, or Bimbo Viking had personally encountered her somewhere in school. Instantly, her mind went to all those skanks that could match. A series of faces caked in make-up, grinning and laughing, flashed behind her inner eye. Using that height as a filter, it quickly narrowed itself down to three different people. And of that trio of athletic but stuck-up girls, only one of them had those icy blue eyes.
Angeline Gramercy.
A very well-liked and popular girl in school who, for some reason, maybe pity, hung out with one of the school's biggest outcasts. A little freak that looked like she just stepped out of a graveyard, who stared off into the distance like she was better than anyone. The same freak that, when Charlotte had tried to extend a welcoming hand, turned her nose up. As though being around a fellow freak was going to hurt anyone.
Marceline wasn't any better than her; she just knew it. The slut was just more willing to open her legs to those two doofuses who hang on her every word like their gospel. Why else would they hang out with her otherwise? Why else did she deserve to giggle and laugh like she wasn't a freak as well?!
It made her jaw clench, teeth ground against each other.
"Well, Charlotte," Shaman spoke once more, and she had to resist the urge to flinch away from the look in his eyes. Akin to portals to an inhuman and monstrous soul. A creature, wearing the skin of a man. Grinned. "Let's talk."
"…." She didn't respond verbally, but instead triggered something within her. Dropping her head, eyelids held up wide until they began to burn, and tears sprang to the surface. Breathing raggedly, lips pulling back, sobs soon wracked her whole body. Looking back up, she stuttered out. "W-who are y-you people? W-why are you blaming m-me?"
Bimbo Viking, Angeline, didn't stop recording, still as stony as ever. That was fine; she wasn't the one this act was for. But Shaman didn't even appear in phase.
That was okay, though; her act was just beginning.
"I-I just came across t-this place," Her chest rose and fell rapidly, fingers coming up quickly to loosen the front of her shirt. Face growing flushed, but inside, she felt nothing at all. No matter that snot was running freely down her face, nor that tears were now freely falling. "I-I swear I won't t-t-tell anyone! I'm just an urban e-expl-lorer! I s-swear! J-just please, p-please let me go!"
Men were always such easy creatures. Give them a sob story, force a few tears, and flash some skin, and they'll bend themselves in half just to earn a woman's favor. It didn't matter how perceptive he might be, or how smart he believed himself to be. He would have no choice but to fold to his own baser instincts.
But instead of the concern, pity, or really anything she expected, only a stone wall met her. A blank gaze, slashing at her outermost self and exposing the truth. It seemed she'd underestimated Shaman; he would not be fooled so easily. Fine, so be it.
"What do you want?" The tears and snot dried quickly, sobs stopping all at once as a truer version of herself slid into place. From the parasite-riddled pest in his lap, and the open cages filled with those mewling fleshbags, she had a general idea of why he was there.
"When was your first?"
He didn't even acknowledge her question and only bulldozed his own to the forefront. Typical. She could decide to play the fool, but it was useless. Eyes sliding off to the recording girl, it seemed like her secrets were going to be laid bare. No worries, she knew this blonde and would surely get the chance to enact her revenge.
"A couple of months ago." Three months, seven days, six hours, thirty-two minutes, and five seconds ago. There was no way she could ever forget her first. But that was only for her; these people would only get vague answers. It was sacred, a turning point. A splash of color in her monochrome life, something she would never allow them to take from her. "It was a fat, gray thing. With white paws and a white tip. Ran it over on my bike by accident. And I came back to finish the job."
Flashes of that time came easily to the forefront. It's ragged breathing, large blue eyes looking up at her with equal parts confusion and disdain. She could remember feeling nothing, only that since it was already on death's door, it was better to 'help' it along to the next life. The rock was so heavy in her hands, weak arms straining, but eventually it got the work done.
"How many?"
"Sixteen." Another lie, but if these fools hadn't released her prey for the week, then that would've been the number. A little fib here should unnerve them.
Instead, Shaman only reached down out of sight and pulled out a rather familiar wooden box. Every hair on her body stood on end, goosebumps spreading rapidly, a frigid finger running along her spine. Of course, they found her trophies. But of course, it wasn't fear she felt in that moment. It was a burning, all-encompassing wrath. Like molten lava, it forced itself against the very edges of her control.
How dare they touch HER trophies? What right did they have to take?!
"Twelve."
She answered through gritted teeth, resisting the urge to lung at the man in a haze. No matter how she wanted to rip him to shreds with nothing but her bare hands, the specter of death was looming too close on her shoulder. He would shoot her, that she could tell.
Finding her answer adequate, he only nodded before setting the box down beside him. It's exposed edges taunting her at the minute distance between them. She'd worked on those, countless hours of research and labor, now out of her reach.
"How did you find your victims?"
Victims. A shiver ran down her spine at that word. A spark of it was clear recognition for her work, her art. And suddenly, this confession didn't feel so bad. They thought her a serial killer from the way he was questioning her. And with everything being caught on video….wasn't this an opportunity? Why shouldn't she play this up for the camera?
They just needed to get through these questions, and she could really go wild. Just thinking of the visceral reaction they'll have to her vivid descriptions filled her stomach with warmth. Would they be disgusted? Frightened? Intrigued? Or maybe it would awaken something inside of them, exposing the fact that they're just like her in the end.
Her per-rehearsed lines, long since formed. Taking inspiration from the endless interviews with some of the World's most infamous serial killers, she was even ready to monologue about her philosophy, tell them her sob story.
If anything, she wanted a copy of this recording. Just so she could finally hear herself to take notes on what to improve for next time.
"I find them in back alleys." Charlotte began carefully, her previous trepidation and defiance now nowhere in sight. She even moved her gaze away from the bigger threat and looked directly into the camera. "They're so easy to snap up when they're head deep rummaging through garbage like rats. I used to go after loose kittens, running outside behind their owners' backs. But too many missing cat forms started popping up, so I moved on to strays and ferals. In such a large group, snatching one is nearly impossible, but running into a crowd of them? Only the slowest ones will remain. They need to have specifics. White paws and tail tip. They remind me of my mo-"
"Where did you dump the bodies?"
He coolly interrupted her story, cutting off the segway to her childhood trauma with not even a splash of disdain. No matter, there would be plenty of times for her to monologue. That's what these sorts of interviews or interrogations were for after all.
"…." She sent him a glare, before looking back up at the camera with the same blank expression she's seen plenty of killers use to unnerve a reporter or cameraman. "After I strangled the life out of them, I cut off their white-tipped tails. I try to get an inch or two below the white, but I make do. I then preserve them and store them in a nice and secure location with a date attached so I have something to look back on fondly. For instance, number five was a tubby gray striped-"
"That's all we needed." Shaman turned away from her, cutting off her dialogue before she even had the chance to really get started. Craning his head just far enough back to keep both his companion and her in line of sight, he nodded once at the openly sneering 'blonde'. "Let's go."
"Wait!" She only barely stopped herself from hopping to her feet, a shaky tinny to her voice that made her want to squeeze out that internal weakness. But she couldn't help it; none of this was making any sense. Weren't they here to interview her? To expose her? Where was her moment to monologue? To be provided a chance to regurgitate these thoughts within her head? "Why are you leaving so soon?! It hasn't even been fifteen minutes! Don't you know how this works?!"
The man only looked on blankly, in no way bothered or even shaken by her outburst. His companions, though, weren't so kind. Angeline scoffed, rolling those cold blue eyes of hers before shoving her phone into a pocket. But worse of all, it was the black vermin reaction that tickled at her nerves the most. It raised its chin at her, yellow orbs not even deigning to meet hers, and instead turned completely to partway crawl and peer over his shoulder.
"I am very well aware of how this goes." He answered after nearly suffocating for a couple of seconds, but he sounded more bored than anything else. "Most serial killers are narcissists at heart. They love the power they have over someone's life, and love even more when they get a chance to tell people about it. It allows them to relive that moment and provides them with attention. And if they can make themselves seem remorseful enough, maybe a reduced sentencing. But most of them do it for the fame. The same goes for potential serial killers."
She had no idea how to feel about someone poking a hole right through her own logic; it was true. She only really calmed down when she believed they were there to force a confession or interview out of her. She was even willing to overlook their dirty, fucking shoes infecting her domain. But now, this guy was telling her all that was in vain?!
Rage, both somehow cold and blazing, rose to the surface. Control slipping through her fingers like sand as the reality came charging in.
"What's wrong with wanting attention or fame?!" She waved her hand at the taller girl with a flailing arm. Seething through her teeth, those most venomous thoughts came flowing out. "Sluts like her can get it just by existing? All she has to do is smile and wave, and people will just fall over themselves trying to please her! Is it because I'm not a dumb, fucking blonde like her? Is that why you're so goddamned dismissive of me? I bet if it were her on her knees, you would be all over yourself!"
Her fists clenched, jaw flexed as she glared hotly at the still sitting Shaman. Not even caring that she herself was getting a pretty nasty stare as well from said blonde bimbo.
"It's simple, you're boring." Those words cut her deeper than any blade possibly could, striking at the depths of her own insecurities with such stone-cold efficiency that she didn't even have the chance to be angry before he continued. "You're bland. Easy to read. You like to believe yourself the equal of those famous serial killers when you're not. You might have similar mental afflictions as they do, but you're not them. You're a pale imitation, trying so desperately to grasp at their fame. I find them pathetic, every one of them. But at least they actually left an impact on society. You haven't. Nor will you."
"You're not the second coming of the Zodiac Killer nor of Jack the Ripper. Just some deranged creature that looks up to these pathetic monsters. A fan-girl. A cat killer."
"If I'm so pathetic!" Charlotte shouted back, nearly falling to all fours as she held back from frothing at the mouth. Unaware of the handgun ready, the girl was only moments away from forcing him to use it. "Then I'll just keep on killing! Killing! Killing! Killing! And if a pile of cats isn't enough for you, I'll start killing humans as well! Let's see how high and mighty you are when my first victim is found! You can't fucking stop me, you goddamned coward! Shoot me if you have the fucking balls!"
But it was like she was screaming at a brick wall, and there wasn't even a minute expression on that warpaint-covered face. Those brown eyes didn't even look fully at her anymore, off focus like they were peering right through her. The black fleshbag patted rapidly at his shoulder, and craning his head back, he looked behind himself to the shattered window.
After looking for a few seconds, he rose to his feet without even a sound. His companion hopped from his lap and sprinted to the back door. Her heart leapt in her throat as she saw him scoop up her trophy box. Next to Angeline, Shaman looked so incredibly short and small. Fragile even. But it was a mere mask that she knew.
"I'm not going to shoot you, your life is not worth my freedom." He shrugged, motioning her to stand. A small, minuscule but cruel smile played on his lips. "I might not be able to stop you...but they can."
And he stepped back, exposing her eyes to a fresh flash of light. When she blinked the blurriness out of her gaze, she began to rub at her eyes. Once, twice, thrice. Before her heart sank to the pits of her stomach. Cold sweat dripped down her back, goose flesh spreading across her skin like moss on stone.
No.
There, through the broken window, filling every bit of exposed cement were small eyes gazing back at her. A near-endless sea of cats of differing colors, sizes, and levels of health. Some had fur that positively shone under the ambient sunlight, others possessed fur so mangy it would probably break a brush in someone's misguided attempt to groom it. From young kittens no larger than her palm to fully grown felines that looked big enough to knock her over if they were given adequate speed.
All of them sat. Tails lying flat and motionless, an army of slit eyes glaring a hole right into her very soul. There were too many, far, far, far too many for her to even begin counting. Ten, twenty, thirty, or even fifty! None of those numbers seemed like enough, and from what she could see, they went on all through the alley. Some are still coming in from the street itself, only further reinforcing their numbers.
But it wasn't just the sheer number of them all just staring at her that caused her heart to palpitate, no. It was the near-deafening silence that was completely alien to such a large gathering.
Charlotte probably would've stood there frozen for all of eternity as something within her mind just refused to accept the image before her, if not for the lone portly orange tabby cat being flanked by those very same kittens she'd snatched so soon after birth. Each sitting with their chests puffed out and clear hatred, far too human not to be unsettling.
The smallest of them all, a skinny and large-headed creature with dark orange fur and a white-tipped tail, hissed at her.
Her body was moving before her mind could keep up, and she was soon fleeing from that accursed building. A primal fear choked her lungs, eyes wide in a frenzy. All the while, she could feel that army of gazes falling onto the middle of her back. Constantly burrowing in deeper and deeper. Her pace only increased when she could see even more feline eyes watching her from passing alley-mouths.
***
The evening was somber that day. Two humans stood before a burning fire, the smell of burnt fur and old trash filling the air. Albert looked down at the twin objects in his hand before placing both upon the pyre. The wooden box caught aflame instantly, burning with a crackle that sounded a bit like a kitten mewling sweetly. At the same time, the other object, a half mask in the shape of a mouse, covered in a differing array of pelts, didn't burn exactly. It melted under the crackling blaze. Slowly but surely erasing it all from the world.
At his side, Angeline stood quietly. Gaze locked onto the blazing dumpster. Lips opening and closing multiple times before forming into a firm line. Both of them knew the elephant in the room, but neither of them wanted to be the first to bring up the abnormality of the situation.
He knew that black alley cat wasn't normal...but what happened back there had shown a whole new light on not just her, but every single cat in Gotham. They might've all dispersed when the perp fled, but that did nothing to get rid of the unease eating at him.
It reminded him of The Cats of Ulthar (A/N: I really liked this story). An old tale by HP Lovecraft that spoke of a couple of cat-killers being eaten alive by an entire town's worth of cats. And with his clear favoritism towards felines, it had only cemented their invulnerability in all things touched by his work.
And now, the teen had nearly witnessed that exact scene play out today. He didn't doubt for a second that the cat-killer would constantly be watched, just waiting for her to cross the line again before swarming.
"You know," The blonde started. "Marcy has me dealing with the dead, and I've seen some things...But I gotta say, I prefer that to over whatever this shit is. I am sorry, Albert, but you're on your own next time. I don't think I can handle anything more than this."
"For what it's worth, I am truly sorry."
And he truly meant it. He hadn't meant to strike a mark against her psyche or anything. He'd expected something light-hearted, not stumbling across some cat-killer's secret base. But honestly, he should've known better. This was Gotham, not Metropolis.
"Not your fault." She shoved her hands in her pockets, still locked onto the crackling fire. "You had no way of knowing...but at least I know who in our class I need to look out for."
"What's the deal with her and Marceline?"
The medium might be a bit too much at times, but that's no reason to want to frame her for something so heinous as this.
"Marcy got the creeps from her when she first moved here." The blonde turned a bit to catch his eye. "And actively avoids her in school. She says she gets a bad feeling from Charlotte and her friend. We mostly discounted the fact that their personalities didn't match; we didn't know she was like this. You know, due to her not having any ghosts clinging to her...but now I think it was one of Marcy's Specter Pieces warning her. That and this other girl….Uh, I think her name is Alexis Kaye? Both of them are known to be obsessed with serial killers, so maybe I should've seen it sooner."
The name didn't click for a few seconds until a black haired, green-eyed woman with purposefully drawn-in rosy circles as blush on her cheeks flashed in his mind.
'Punchline.'
Or better known as 'Harley Quinn 2.0', but worse. Not as in she was stronger or more deranged than the blonde, but instead she's someone whose whole origin story is being a fan girl of the Joker. Not a psychiatrist being warped, having her mind broken, but someone who looked at the Prince of Crime and worshiped the ground he walked upon.
"Do you think she'll go after Marceline?"
The vendetta was there, no matter how minor it might've started. It was better to at least entertain the idea than dismiss it outright.
"I'll put her through a fucking wall if she even tries."
Yeah, he really didn't think the girl would have any chance against the psychopomp with her absolutely stacked security force. That only really left him vulnerable.
Just as he was prepared to add to the conversation, a sudden warmth walking back and forth through his legs told him of his guest.
Looking down, he saw the same black feline. Her large yellow eyes looked up at him as she held something small in her mouth.
"What do you got there, girl?"
He crouched down slowly, hand stretched out to accept the coin-sized and beat-up object with small letters etched into its surface. But only the front was really legible; the back was nearly ground down to be smooth to the touch.
[Case Closed: Feline Aid!
Requirements: Find out what this kitty wants!
Difficulty: F
Reward: 1 IP and Feline Keepsake.]
"Your name is...Sundae?"