Briggan Ave is not in a nice part of Quinstin. It’s located in what people call the Abandoned District, or AD for shorthand. It isn’t literally abandoned; that’s just the name the residents gave it. There’s barely any police presence, and only a few Capes bother showing up. The city is divided into rings, and each ring consists of four quarters, with the outermost ring consisting of the industrial district, the harbor district, the abandoned district, and then the suburbs. The suburbs are located on the opposite side of the city from the abandoned district.

The Doublin’ Down Pub is bustling even at almost two A.M. The faded brick building’s neon orange sign flickers occasionally. Below it, there are a few groups of people who are outside smoking, and a large man in a leather jacket serves as the bouncer. Isaiah pulls around the bar to park in the back. There aren’t any people hanging out by the back entrance, but there is another bouncer. This one has a bright orange beard and a Celtic knot tattooed on his face. Rorschach’s birds scouted ahead, so we’re aware that the back entrance is where people access the real club with the fight pits.

“Stagger sending in the remaining butterflies. I want the whole place mapped out before we enter,” I said.

Rorschach nods her head, rolling down her window to let all her butterflies out. The insects are nearly invisible in the darkness, and under the glow of the street lights, they appear to be regular bugs. She slowly has her scouts sneak through the door whenever it opens. She talks us through the process, having butterflies station themselves in coirners and on the ceilings. It takes her around twenty minutes to complete.

“I’m fully set up,” she said.

“How's it looking in there?” Isaiah asked.

“I was going to explain that until you fucking interrupted me,” Rorschach chided Isaiah.

“Oops,” Isaiah smiled.

“There’s a long staircase down to this giant room. In the center of the room is a caged-in sandpit with a raised platform surrounding it. On top of the platform are tables with spectators betting and being served drinks by bottle girls. It isn’t very Irish-themed down there. There are two armed men at the exits and all four corners of the room. The left side has a fully stocked bar that doubles as the betting station. One door in the back is locked, and I have no way of getting into it. I would assume that is where they keep the cash. Also, four people stand out to me as possible Cowls,” Rorschach reported.

“Why would Cowls be here?” I asked.

“The final match of the night seems like it’s a fight between two Neuvohumans. From what I've heard, there is a lot of money riding on that match,” Rorschach answered.

“Any idea who the Cowls are or what kind of powers they might have?” Isaiah asked.

“No, I don’t know the scene here in Quinstin. There are three women and a man dressed in a way that screams Cowl. I can’t figure out much about them. Unfortunately, you two will have to go in blind,” Rorschach said.

“Having your eyes and ears everywhere is already incredibly useful. This will be my first public outing as Nobody, so I will not suffer defeat or setback. Tonight has to go flawlessly and discreetly. We are not here to make alliances, enemies, or waves. We will meet with the leader of the O’Rourkes and pay off Nicholas’ debt. Understood?” I asked.

Rorschach assents and Isaiah gives me a thumbs-up. Isaiah pops the trunk, and I hand him the duffel bag of money. Isaiah unzips it and hides several flash bangs and smoke grenades in it. He takes his hoodie off, and I notice that he has two handguns already holstered. The trunk is full of weaponry and equipment, and I’m beginning to wonder where he’s getting all of this. Isaiah puts extra magazines into his waistband and then puts the hoodie back on. He still has the earpiece to communicate with Rorschach while we’re inside. I reload a fresh magazine into my gun, and we walk towards the entrance. Not much else I can do to prepare for this.

Every lesson I have learned since putting on the mask, every person I have crushed beneath my boot, and every crime I have committed has helped to craft the persona of Nobody—an enigmatic mystery with zero hesitation who can accomplish anything. Isaiah trails behind me closely and intercepts the bouncer before he can approach me.

“Oi, haven’t seen you lot before. What’re you doin’ ere?” The bouncer asked, moving his coat to reveal a gun.

“Easy, easy. We’re here to talk with the man in charge and maybe see a fight or two,” Isaiah said, flashing the money in the bag.

“And what’s to stop me from relieving you of your luggage?” he asked.

Isaiah steps forward into the bouncer’s space, looking down at him. “Me. Now, are you going to let us inside or…”

He realizes it isn’t worth the hassle, so he steps aside to let us in. Isaiah and I descend a flight of stairs that reminds me of our base. What awaits at the bottom is different than what I pictured from Rorschach’s description. It’s more of a nightclub than a basement bar. Thumping music and strobe lights mix with all the various types of smoke that fill the room.

My eyes wander across the room, taking in every detail and filing it deep within my brain. Most of the people here look to be of Irish descent, but there are a few groups that are clearly not part of the O’Rourkes. I count around a hundred people, including staff and guards. The guards are each holding a shotgun and alert as they watch over the floor. Isaiah approaches the betting bar and I stay back a bit amongst the crowd. I join the mass of dancing people, avoiding any interaction with them and maintaining a distance to where I can still hear Isaiah. He’s leaning over to talk to a staff member. It’s an Irish woman wearing a tight white blouse that shows off her ample cleavage and a black pencil skirt with matching tights.

“Hi, how can I help you, Sir?” She asked.

“I can think of a few ways,” Isaiah said with a smile.

If flirting gets us into a meeting with the boss, then he can fuck her for her help. Would she still be attracted knowing that the man she finds so handsome is a cold-blooded murderer? She does work for a criminal; perhaps her type happens to be violent killers.

A faint blush washes over her freckled face, but she quickly regains her composure.

“Me ma warned me about men with fast lips and their wicked ways,” She said.

“The things I do with my lips have been called wicked before, so she isn’t technically wrong,” Isaiah said.

“You talk a big game, lad. I hope you can live up to it.”

“If you have an hour to spare, I’d be glad to show you,” Isaiah replied.

“I don’t get off for another few hours, but why doncha gimme a call?” she said, passing Isaiah a napkin with her number on it.

“Well, now that pleasure has been sorted, we can get down to business. I would like to meet with the owner of this fine establishment. Can you arrange that for me, darling?” Isaiah asked, folding the napkin into his pocket.

“Sure, just lemme grab Mickey,” she said.

She walks away from behind the bar and approaches one of the security guards to talk. With the music and general noise of the place, there's no hope of knowing what she’s saying. If this goes sideways, we could end up attracting the kind of attention I have avoided for so long: Capes. The guard she’s speaking to pulls out a small walkie-talkie and says something into it. She comes back and continues to flirt with Isaiah.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“I told them you wanted to meet with Mickey, and I realized I don’t know your name, stranger. I can’t just think of you as the hot guy from the bar.”

“Isaiah Jules, at your service, Miss?”

“Miss nothing, name’s Riley. And Mickey’ll be out soon to meet with you. Do you want to have a drink first?” Riley said.

“I’m here representing my boss, and he’s a bit no-nonsense, so he might frown on that. Flirting with the lovely staff is one thing; getting fucked up is another,” Isaiah laughed.

I can let him have his fun tonight as long as it does not interfere with our objective. I trust that he knows how much alcohol he can handle. If he wants a drink, he can have one. I am not against letting others have their fun. Isaiah and I have very different ideas of what constitutes fun. Fun might not even be the correct word, and I cannot think of anything in my life that I would consider more than a performance. The act of pretending to experience enjoyment is something that came easily to me. I should carve out some time to practice drinking; college life will be harder if I abstain from alcohol.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the sleaziest-looking man I have ever seen in my entire life. Even after dealing with traffickers, thieves, and transients, he is the sludge of the shit. Bright red dreadlocks with gold bands clasped around the tips hang from his head. A curly waxed mustache and multiple scars cover his face. He’s got a bulging belly and thick, hairy arms with fingers adorned in rings. Dressed in a white polo completely unbuttoned, black slacks, and brown suede shoes. Ugly and loud.

“Oi, heard ye want to speak to the ole man? Name’s Mickey O’Rourke,” the man said with a thick Irish accent.

“Yes, my employer and I have business to discuss with him,” Isaiah said professionally.

“And where’s yer employer? I don’t see anyone around.”

I take the opportunity to step forward out of the crowd and approach them. “That would be me.”

“Oo, yer propah fuckin spooky aren’t ya? So why doncha tells us why yer here? I’ll decide if it’s worth da’s time,” he responded.

Isaiah glances back at me, and I shake my head. I am not wasting time talking to grunts, even if they are related to the man I want to meet. Will this provoke him into attacking us?

“No, can do. This is a bit of private conversation,” Isaiah said, gesturing to the room.

While the betting bar is vacant, I do not want to be overheard. I keep my eyes focused on Mickey, watching and waiting for any sign of an attack. Mickey chuckles before erupting into laughter.

“Yer a funny one, you right, big bastard. Well me Da won’t be free till the end of the matches. You’re welcome to wait fer em, but you better be buyin’ or bettin’. Don’t give a damn if your boss is the fuckin’ pope; we ain’t runnin’ a goddamn charity,” Mickey said, walking away from us.

“I’m going to grab a table. Take ten grand and do whatever you want with it,” I said.

I leave him to wander through the bar. A few people are dancing on the floor, while most are centered around the giant fight pit. I can hear sporadic shouting over the music, presumably coinciding with vicious hits from the fighters. People cluster around tables, holding drinks and screaming. I spot a table that has no one at it and take a seat at it. Perfect. Tonight is meant to be lowkey; if I start a fight over a table, that goes out the window. It is better to stay out of the way while waiting for the O’Rourke boss.

The high-top table is surprisingly spotless. From my chair, I scan the room like a marksman in a tower. Rorschach said there were four Cowls. Why do I only spot three? A man in a grey full-body suit with a white cross on the chest and a gold collar around his neck. The outfit only leaves his mouth and jaw exposed. He’s got a long, wispy beard, black glass orbs over his eyes, and a crown of spikes on the top of his head. He's got several empty glasses at his table and is cheering loudly at the fight. He’s shitfaced. It reminds me of Jean-Luc on Christmas.

Another table on the opposite side of the pit from the loud, drunk Cowl has five women sitting at it. Three of the women are dressed in typical club wear, with heels and plenty of skin showing. The other two are clearly Cowls. One is a lilac-skinned woman with bright blue eyes and hair. Her crop top and skirt are made out of dense purple energy that I can see moving from where I’m sitting. I will have to look her up in the database. It might be a power worth taking. Taking powers from Quinstin Capes and Cowls might be dangerous while I am unaware of who they are connected to. Her fellow Cowl is tan sandy colored skin and wearing a white pantsuit that’s unbuttoned at the top. She’s wearing a thin piece of cloth across her breasts, and the right side of her face, neck, and torso is covered in tattoos of rising waves and oceanic creatures. Her straight black hair is pulled back into a ponytail, with her bangs sitting just above her eyes. She would appear approachable if she weren’t leaning on a claymore that’s longer than I am tall. In terms of danger, I would rank Lilac, followed by Claymore, and then the drunk. Where the hell is that fourth Neuvohuman?

I continue to scan each table, ignoring the fight in favor of finding the fourth Cowl. The two men fighting are probably behind on payments and being forced to fight to pay off their debt. Is this where Nicholas would one day end up if he had not had the fortune of meeting me? If I could only locate that final Cowl, I would be more at ease. All it takes is a single surprise to kill a plan.

“Hey, who are we looking for?”

My head whips to my left to find a woman sitting right next to me. Asian, no older than mid-twenties. The fourth Cowl. How long has she been sitting there? How long have I been sitting here? Did she do something to me? She’s close enough to touch, and she seemingly appears out of thin air. There’s no way I could have missed her; she is too eye-catching. A white rabbit masquerade mask covered in sequins is strapped to her face like it’s a Halloween costume. Black lipstick contrasts with her mask, and she has a large scar on the right side of her face that goes from her mouth to her ear. Painful looking, but no attempt to hide it means she is proud of it. She has blue and pink striped tights on that go into black combat boots and an oversized tie-dye sweatshirt with spiked pauldrons attached to it like she’s in a fantasy RPG. The sleeves on her sweatshirt have stitched-on additions that make them significantly longer than they should be. We look like polar opposites. Her whole outfit screams look at me, so how did I miss her? She waves her hand in front of my helmet.

“You in there? I asked you a question, and it’s rude to ignore a lady,” she said happily.

She is trying to throw me off and keep me on my back foot. The best defense to someone like her is to counter your opponent with their own momentum.

“Forgive my rudeness, miss…?”

She just barely controls the subtle twitch at the sound of my modulated voice. “Tuesday, you can call me Tuesday. And I’ll call youuuuu?”

Her voice has a sing-song quality that is hard to pinpoint. Is it an ability?

“Nobody. I’m Nobody,” I said.

“You’re nobody? Oh, you mean you’re Nobody, like with a capital N. I get it; very clever, very chic,” she said.

This girl is odd and possibly insane. She could be hiding any number of weapons under that sweatshirt. If she is a Traveler, I might not reach my gun before she attacks. This is like dealing with Maria. How do I keep attracting psychotic women?

“So, are you here alone, or are you meeting someone?” Tuesday asked.

Tuesday crosses her arms to prop up her breasts in a seduction attempt, which doesn’t work due to her being flat, the oversized sweatshirt, and my having no interest in anyone.

“I am here with someone, but I am also here to meet with someone.”

Damn you, Offset. Where the hell is Isaiah? Before she can ask me a more personal question, I go on the offensive.

“You are clearly a Cowl, Tuesday: a Mentalist, possibly a Manipulator. Is your power the reason you have chosen to approach me, a complete stranger?”

“Nope, just a love of mysteries and poor impulse control. I mean, my dude, you’re dressed head to toe in black with a scary helmet. Your whole aura screams evil villain. All you need is a cat to pet while you threaten the president with nukes. So naturally, being the second coming of Agatha Christie, I had to do my civil duty and investigate the spooky man sitting by himself. My curiosity must be satiated once it's been piqued,” she said.

She is unpredictable, and I do not need any complications to arise. I adjust my posture to be less rigid, more relaxed, and casual. Slouching back in my chair, I reach for my gun with my left hand hidden by the table. I move close, keeping the pistol under the table, and lean over to her.

“You seem to be a woman who appreciates direct instructions, so let me be crystal clear. Walk away from the table, and do not bother me again, or I will kill you.”

“Didn’t you read the sign on your way in? No violence unless it’s in the pit,” she chided me.

“Rules exist for the rabble. I do not ask twice,” I said.

“The more you turn me away, the more interested I get. But a proper lady knows when to quit,” she said, getting up from the table.

“Were you talking to somebody, boss?” Isaiah said.

The moment I turn to look at Isaiah, Tuesday disappears from my view. I whip my head around, trying to catch a glimpse of her ridiculous costume. How is she hiding from my notice? There is no point in asking Isaiah if he saw her; she seems to be invisible.

“Keep your head on a swivel. There is a woman named Tuesday, dressed loudly and wearing a rabbit mask. She has some kind of Mentalist ability that affects people’s perception of her. Of everyone here, she represents the most danger to my plan,” I said.

“I got it. If I see her, I’ll take her out. Don’t worry; I’ll keep it low-key,” Isaiah responded.

“Excellent. What did you learn from the woman at the bar?”

“Besides her number? Well, the staff are not part of the O’Rourkes and are just employees. She told me that the headliner match tonight is between two Neuvohumans named Ciggs and Lincoln Locke. She wouldn’t give me any info about who they are. I bet ten thousand on Ciggs for the two-to-one odds. Still leaves us with plenty of money after we handle the other thing.”

A bell dings and I look over to the sand pit. The sand pit is large and seems to be modeled after a MMA octagon. There are two doors, one on either side, from which the fighters enter. From our table, I can see down the fifteen-foot drop to the pit itself. The sand is discolored in various shades of brown and red from the competitor’s blood. The match has ended, and the victor is standing above his opponent. Based on his looks and tattoos, the winner seems to be one of the O’Rourkes. His hands and bare chest are covered in the other man’s blood, and he has a black eye and a broken nose. At his feet is the badly beaten other man. He looks terrible and keeps vomiting blood onto the sand. Gleeful outcry intermixed with boos as the victor raises his hands high. After he celebrates for a minute, two men enter the sand pit from below and drag the loser out. The winner follows them out, and the music slowly fades away. The lights dim as Mickey’s voice comes through the speakers.

“Oi, give it up fer Finn! Attaboy, you showed that bastard. Now that our undercard has ended, we can finally get to the main event. The one you fucks have been frothing at the mouth like rabid dogs fer. ARE YOU READY FOR BLOOD?” He screamed.

The crowd erupts in agreement. I spot the drunk Cowl nearly fall out of his seat. All around the room, people are emphatically demanding blood.

“I SAID ARE YOU READY FOR BLOOD?”