As we all know, there are few things I hold onto dearly: Freckles, food, and my morals. Those are the three things that have gotten me to where I am today. Which is to say, alive.

Freckles. My first and only ally on the cruel streets of a lopsided Carmsborough. The proverbial rock to which I stand on, or however that saying goes. My motivation, my power, my life.

Food. Aside from the obvious, it leaves me feeling a little less empty. It helps me remember the meals Mom and I would cook after a long day at work. The frozen steaks we grabbed for special occasions. My freedom, my memories, my humanity.

Morals. I like to think that they haven’t changed since my come-to-Jesus-and-be-turned-away moment. In reality, my present-day situation couldn’t be further from that of lost Luna, age fourteen. She didn’t have to experience the loneliness, the cold, the heartbreak. My guide, my growth, my rules.

My rules.

Carmsborough isn’t ruled by Bijabers anymore. Not with his cohort dead, crumbling, or slipping away to countries where there’s less to worry about. It’s ruled by me. It’s ruled by the people again, or at least, it should be. And really, I think that’s what my morals come down to. That oppression that forces a minority group down, that tip of the scales that hurts those at the bottom, that disregard for human life.

Maybe the details weren’t important. Worrying about whether or not I should kill someone, or my public perception, or having one, just one damn person on my side. Maybe it wasn’t about the fact that I had been wronged, and instead was about the hundreds, even thousands of others that were or would be.

Maybe it’s me trying to justify all of the things I’ve done. Am I really better than those I’m hunting down when the fear on the street has shifted to me? At what point does it shift from me being the one standing up for the Luna’s and the Mary’s, and at what point do I become the Slaphand? The big, oppressive hand of Carmsborough that does what it wants without repercussion?

And it’s not only me anymore. I’ve inspired a group, a movement, the destruction of a group of people who feel the same way about the world. The girl in the shipyard. The person in that alley. A ten-year-old boy in Italy, as I found out this morning, who died trying to stop a batch of Bijabers’ men from evicting an older resident from the apartment building he lived in.

That could’ve been me. That was me.

And you know what? I was upset. Not because a child had died, but because he hadn’t succeeded. I heard a news story about a literal child who was following my lead and died doing it, and my first thought was “If that were me, I would’ve succeeded.”

And so maybe that’s what sparked my long-winded thoughts this evening, with my eyes locked on the full moon ahead of me. Freckles has been curled up beside me the whole time, his rhythmic breathing pushing ever-so-slightly against my leg.

He’s been a lot quieter as of late. When I realized it, at first, I felt like my lungs had collapsed in the thrashing waters off the coast again. Was he getting old? Was he wearing down? Was he losing interest in me? Was he disappointed in the person I’d become?

I wouldn’t blame him. When I’d lost him the first time, we’d made our reunion and I’d become a totally different person. This time, I’m afraid I’ll lose him of my own fault and never have the chance at a reunion.

A reddish tint begins to soak the moon, slowly crawling across its reflective surface. The air, as if in response, falls silent around us. All the world has its eyes on that mystical being normally associated with purity, love, and dreams. Tonight, it takes on a different meaning.

I stand from my spot on the deck of the Constellation and make my way to the cockpit. Inside, the radio station is talking about my latest escapade with Hazmonaught. I almost move to turn it off, but something strange happens. A thing I haven’t expected to happen in months.

“That’s right, everyone,” the host says, “Hazmonaught has been brought down by The Blood Moon Pirate. We knew he would be her target at some point, but it almost seems that she had planned it out perfectly for us all. You see, documents brought anonymously to us from S6, the American-based espionage group, reveal that Hazmonaught, alongside his boss, Bijabers, had nearly completed the construction of a laser weapon so deadly it can destroy the side of a mountain. This seems to be related to the weapon that was fired on a dock over a year ago that baffled authorities.

“This, of course, brings up another thought. Not long after that, The Blood Moon Pirate claimed her first victim, Slaphand, who had been Bijabers’ right-hand man at the time. Is it possible this is something she’s been working to prevent this whole time? Have we been blinded by the negatives that follow her, only to never see the positives? After all, this is an international crime syndicate she is clearing from the streets of our country. It’s bound to be messy.

“To the Blood Moon Pirate, if you’re out there: I see you now. I do not know you, or your reasons, but I see you. And to Bijabers, who seems to be the last of his own chain of command here in Carmsborough, I offer you this thought: tonight is Halloween. Combined with a full blood moon, I’m not sure you can do anything to stop her from coming for you tonight. And the world would be better for it.”

The host continues, but my mind stops. I have once again stopped Bijabers from having and using one of those supermassive laser weapons without even knowing what they do. Maybe, for once, the radio host was right: I am in the right. All my worries are moot points compared to the good I’m doing for the world. The people I’ve killed are nothing short of evil, and I’ve been the good clearing them out.

I am good. I am good.

“Meow.” Freckles walks up to me and stretches.

“Yeah, buddy. I’m good. Let’s finish this.”

I take my first step off of the Constellation and onto one of the many asphalt roads of New York City. A few people turn their heads to look at me, a crescent moon mask concealing half of my face, but I pay them no mind. If they don’t know who I am yet, they will soon.

I never thought this would be how my first visit to America would go. I always expected it to be a vacation, and not just going overseas for work. Still, it is beautiful, even if it is busy at night. I can’t think of a single section of Carmsborough with this much happening at nearly midnight. Advertisements, elevated crosswalks, and half-drunk adults wander the streets, all celebrating a holiday that doesn’t exist across the ocean in Carmsborough.

But that’s not even the weirdest part of it all, somehow. On almost every corner, I see me. Not actually me, but women dressed as me. The coat, the pants, the boots, and most importantly, the crescent moon disguising half of my face. Some even have headbands that sport my afro puffs, if the hair isn’t natural.

“Nice costume,” one says to me, about a foot taller than me. “How’d you get such a high-quality jacket?”

I’m not even sure how to respond. Normally I’d have some sort of witty remark, but with as odd of a situation as this, I’m blanking.

Before I can even muster an answer, she’s gone, off to chase some group of friends further down the sidewalk.

It’s hard to keep focused on my mission with all of this excitement happening around me. People in America must actually like me. Why? Is it because of what I’m fighting for? Is it because they’re so far removed from the things I’m fighting for? Do they even know what I’m fighting for?

Amongst the tall buildings standing in front of me is one with a large ‘B’ inscribed on it. The sign on the ground labels it as B Realty.

The front door, which would usually be automatic, doesn’t budge. No matter. I know he’s in there. A quick loop around the whole building reveals another entrance in the back, also locked, but it also gives me a scalable portion that would allow me to get in through a second-floor window. I begin that process, swinging myself up the frame of the door and onto an outcrop, before pulling myself all the way up to my feet. The landing hurts a little, as my bullet wound still isn’t fully healed, but I go unnoticed.

For a split second, at least, before I shatter the window in front of me and step through.

I wait a moment, ears ready. No alarms, no footsteps, no yelling. Silence in B Realty, at least on the second floor. Still, it’s dark, and I’m in completely unfamiliar territory. I need backup.

Fortunately, that’s on the ground below. I watch as Freckles runs up to the side of a nearby building, bounces off of it, and pings onto the same landing I had reached moments ago. Then, he blinks hard and his eyes light up, illuminating two large swaths of the office complex.

There’s no telling which floor of the four-hundred-foot-building Bijabers is on, but the odds of him being on the lower end are, well, low. Still, a quick sweep of every one of them is necessary, making sure we pick off any extra enemies to leave the battle as even as possible.

With floor two apparently clear, floor three is next, then four and five, until our first sign of life on floor six: two guards making their rounds.

“Yeah, boss is on edge,” one says into a radio. “Blood moon an’ all. I doubt if she’s showing her face today, though. A trip to here from Carmsborough is long, and impossible in a cloudship. Still, you see any suspicious costumed people outside, you give 'em a thorough lookin’.”

“What about inside?” I say, pistols level with their backs. They turn, but it’s no use. Two silenced bullets later and they’re on the ground, radios too far away to call for backup. I finish looking around, and we continue our ascent.

Floor seven, one guard. Floor eight, none. Nine and ten both have two, eleven has one, and twelve has one. So far, none of them have had much of a suspicion, save for one on floor nine that saw Freckles’ flashlights for a split second before his untimely death.

Floor fourteen, however, marks the beginning of a much more challenging battle.

“Who’s there?” someone calls out, pointing their flashlight in our general direction. When they don’t get a response, they begin to walk closer. “Anyone below fourteen seen or heard anything tonight?”

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“I’ve been trying to get Greg on six for ten minutes now,” a voice on the radio responds. “Figured he was taking a bathroom break. Are we compromised?”

Before he can answer, I send a bullet through the man’s chest. He collapses, and the sound of footsteps follows.

“Hey, are we compromised?” the radio repeats.

“We’ve got a body!” a voice yells somewhere in the room, echoed by the dropped radio fifteen feet away. “She’s here!”

“Get the payload to the roof immediately,” a voice says, immediately cut off by another.

“You moron! You can’t just announce we’re taking him to the roof!”

Well, that makes my job slightly easier. I still have to chow through sixteen or so more floors before that happens, though.

“Plan B, buddy?” I ask Freckles, who nods in the darkness. “Okay. I’ll take odds, you take evens, meet on the floor before.”

“Meow.”

“Me too. Let’s go.”

I bolt for the stairs, quickly ascending them, and pull out my own little flashlight. It’s nowhere near as good as Freckles, but it’s certainly better than nothing.

Floor fifteen: three people. I patiently wait for Freckles to finish up below me before we run up the stairs together. He pounces on the first person he sees on sixteen, and on seventeen, I find one person. Eighteen through twenty-two are empty, and on floor twenty-three, we encounter the largest group yet. At the head is an escort party with none other than Bijabers himself, dressed as some sort of pumpkin royalty with a cane.

Bingo.

Freckles and I pair up to pounce and pelt the horde protecting them, which fires some bullets back. One grazes past my arm and another dangerously close to my neck, but with Freckles distracting half of them with close-range attacks, we make quick work of them.

Floor twenty-four. We catch the tail-glimpse of the escort party climbing the stairs before another ambush occurs, this time with close-range weapons. I ready my fists, and we clash with the group of three men preventing me from reaching my target.

The first charges, perfectly choreographing his next move. As he reaches to swing for me, I rock him in the jaw, and he tumbles down the stairs. I doubt if he’ll get back up.

Numbers two and three try to attack from either side, but Freckles snags one of them in the arm, leaving it a one-on-one in two places. This fighter is much more skilled, looking to wear me out with fake swings and flurries, but he makes a fatal flaw: he doesn’t realize I have a knife in my pocket, and when I pull it out, he swings right into the blade. It lodges pretty nastily in his fist, and I rip it out with a scream. The pain sends him to his knees, where I finish the rest of the job with a swift kick. Freckles has also taken care of his latest victim.

Floor twenty-five. I can see the moon peeking out from the top of the staircase leading to the roof, and we skip three steps at a time as we bound up them. Sitting atop the building is two helicopters, a vent in a cage with a lock, a maintenance closet, and lots of loose gravel.

The group are all rushing for the helicopter to my left, and are nearly there when I open fire on the metal beast. It takes seven shots, but the engine roars with flames before exploding loudly. Shrapnel and fire scatter across the roof and to the streets below, and the group is launched back slightly by the shockwave. I use the chance to reload my pistol and take out a few of them as they scramble to stand back up.

Three left. Freckles rushes the group, knocking one over with a sickening thump, while the remaining two engage in a gunfight with me. I roll behind the maintenance shed and return fire. Six total bullets later, and only three people remain on the roof: Me, Freckles, and Bijabers.

“Do you remember me, Bijabers?” I yell out against the freezing wind. Freckles is behind him and me in front, where he leans against his cane with a worried face.

“Of course I do,” he says. “I didn’t at first. It took starting your sadistic little campaign for me to see who you were.”

“Who am I?”

“That girl who stole from Slaphand. Who killed him in the wreckage of his own ship. Who has killed quite literally at least a hundred of my men. All in a search to get to me.”

“Oh, don’t act so important. You’re just the last in the chain of command, Bijabers.”

“That’s right. We both know this stopped being personal after you killed Slaphand. Now it’s just bloodlust.”

“Don’t you dare talk to me about bloodlust,” I say, waving my gun at him. “You don’t get to tell me my own motivations.”

“You still think you’re doing this for the good of society or something? You’ve divided, scared, and disrupted all of Carmsborough. Half the population hates you, and you will never know peace.” His face shifts from worry to a twisted smile. One that almost feels genuine, but has that intent behind its eyes. “Congratulations. You’re officially the next me.”

I fire a warning shot, which pings against the destroyed helicopter behind him. Thirty stories below us, the sound of police sirens fills the air, no doubt questioning the flaming debris coming from B Realty.

“Get in the cage,” I say, gesturing to the fixture. “Now.”

“Why?”

“Do it,” I say, raising my gun again. He complies, one hand raised, the other supporting himself with the cane. He still wears that twisted smile, which makes my blood boil.

As soon as he’s in, I approach, still ready to fire if I have to, and lock the door.

“What’s your plan now, vigilante?” he asks.

“I’m going to shoot you, let you bleed out up here in the freezing air, and when the police get to your body, you’ll be a bloody popsicle.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“Any last words before I put a bullet in your head, Bijabers?”

He pauses just for a moment. The realization of what’s about to happen must be setting in.

“Yeah, just four. What’s that over there?”

He points to my left, and immediately after, a familiar whistling sound fills the air. It starts off quiet, barely noticeable over the wind and humming of the remaining helicopter’s blades, but before long, Orion and the Clockwork land on the roof not thirty feet away.

No.

NO.

NO!

“No!” I yell, gun already pointed at them. “No! No! What are you doing here? No!”

“Let him out, Luna.”

“Tell me what you’re doing here. Tell me how you found out.”

“An informant told us you were attacking today. Let him out.”

“No. Get off this roof or I will kill both of you.”

“Give me the key, Luna.” Despite my warnings, Orion steps forward, hand outstretched.

“Get back!”

“Give me the key!”

“You mean this key?!”

Without missing a beat, I place the key in my mouth and swallow. It’s cold and rough and hurts going down, but the shocked and disgusted look on his face makes it completely worth it.

“Luna,” he says, “it’s over. You’ve locked him up. Let the police take care of him.”

“Never. You don’t know the things he’s done. The things he’s done to me. The things I’ve lost. The people I’ve lost.”

“I understand what you’re—”

“No! You don’t understand! You’ve never lost anything! What do you even fight for, you weak-spined government drone?!”

“You don’t speak for me or my motivations,” he says, and for a moment, I'm stunned.

He steps ever closer, hand still outstretched. “Please, Luna, just walk away.”

Instead, I charge at him, replacing my gun with a knife. He braces for the attack, revealing a heavy bracelet from under his coat and shattering my knife against it. In the same motion, he swings his free fist towards my stomach, launching me off my feet and right in front of the stairs down to the previous floor.

Freckles and the Clockwork decide to chime in as well, going for each other in some synchronized mechanical dance. Freckles is much more agile than the massive mechanism, and climbs up its back, trying to tear away at it. The scene distracts me for only a moment before I’m back on my feet, rushing toward Orion.

He effortlessly dodges away, but of course, I expected this. As I pass him, I grab onto his arm and spin him around before planting my spiked boot in his own boot. He winces in pain, but only a little, before using the momentum to throw me directly into the maintenance shed.

I hear a crack that sounds like one of my bones, but for now, I land on my feet with no sign of serious damage. I’ll find an American hospital whenever the adrenaline wears off.

Over in the brass battle, they seem to be evenly matched, although the Clockwork is slowly figuring out how to deal with Freckles. It won’t be long before our two fights have to merge into one.

Luckily for us, I brought a secret weapon from R&D. Syndra recommended I take it to New York just in case, and said it was able to take down some serious electronic equipment. He called it an EMP. I have no clue how it works, but as long as it does work, I don’t care. My only concern is making sure Freckles hears the trigger word and gets out of the way of it.

“Please don’t make this harder than it has to be,” Orion says, approaching again. “You can still walk away.”

“I could never walk away, Orion. That’s the difference between me and you.”

I go for another attack, which he almost dodges. My knee lodges firmly in his chest, and as he gasps for air, I send a boot to the same place. He crumples, still able to breathe and get to his knees, but it’s not a chance I’m willing to take right now.

Orion doesn’t deserve to die. We have differing opinions and wildly different styles, but he is good, whether or not I like it. Therefore, I lift my boot to his head, and kick out.

Right before I connect, Freckles launches into me, and we tumble a good ten feet towards the metal cage. I look at him, angry, before realizing the Clockwork was barreling towards us. We barely lunge out of the way in time, and the Clockwork decimates the metal cage, sending it hurtling off the side of the building. Bijabers is crunched down, hands over his head, still bracing for the impact of the Clockwork, which never comes.

“You stupid humanoid machine,” I say, cracking my stiff knuckles. It responds with a mechanical whirr, and steps forward, squaring up. One of its heavy limbs reaches out to hit me, which I slide under with ease, despite the gravel scraping my shins. Then, I send my sharpest knife into its hull, where only the tip sticks in. This makes it mad, and it tips over, looking to crush me under its weight. It snags my leg under its, which cracks, but once again, doesn’t seem to fully break.

The pain dots my vision, but I quickly slip my leg out and stand back up, limping.

Maybe it did fully break. Either way, I can’t let it slow me down.

I stumble for the EMP in my coat pocket, a small metallic orb, which was described to me as “like a grenade.”

“I’m over this whole thing,” I say, looking between the hurt Orion and his infallible counterpart. “What do you say we ground this bird?”

“What?” Orion asks, as Freckles perks his ears up and makes a break for the staircase.

One. Two. Three. I press the button right as his tail disappears from sight and drop the EMP, which attaches to the Clockwork like a magnet. It stands back up just in time for a strange blue wave of energy to emit from the grenade, which short-circuits the machine and sends it back to the ground with a heavy thump.

“What did you do?” Orion asks, getting to his own feet.

“An EMP. Not fatal, probably, but he’s gonna be down for the count for a while.”

“He’s getting away.”

“No he’s not. He’s disabled on the ground.”

“No, Bijabers. He’s getting away.”

I look over in horror as the second helicopter fully lifts off the ground and speeds away towards the inky black sky. In one last hopeless attempt, I fire all of my remaining bullets at it, but it’s no use.

He got away.

Bijabers got away.

My heart sinks, and a rage warms my blood quicker than the adrenaline had. If it hadn’t been for these two, Bijabers would be dead. His crime syndicate would be no more.

I would have closure. I’d be done.

My fists clench and unclench as I walk towards Orion. Freckles peeks back up the staircase to see the remains of the battle, and carries a heavy look on his face.

“Now, Luna, I know you’re mad,” Orion says, hands up, “but you have to understand that—”

My fist connects with the side of his head, and he falls over.

\-----_____-----/

“Now, ma’am, I know I probably don’t have to tell you, but I can’t recommend getting into fights on Halloween,” the doctor says, finishing up whatever paperwork he was in the middle of for the past fifteen minutes as he recounted his previous years’ stories. “Especially in New York.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind next time,” I say, massaging the aching spot on my head. A good quarter of my body has some sort of bandage on it, including two spots on one leg, an arm, and my chest, where I once again have a broken rib. Despite the extensive damage, the doctor wasn’t too worried. American healthcare must be much better than Carmsborough’s.

Once given the all clear, I stand up and leave the room, crutch underneath my arm and Freckles following close behind. My watch only just started to work half an hour ago, and Syndra has tried twice to call me since. Likely hoping for some good news. Either that, or he heard the news from the American media.

When he calls the third time on my way back to the Constellation, I ignore it. For now, I want quiet. Peace. No more missions. No more fighting. I’m tired.

The radio is on when I get to my room, and an ad finishes right as I set the crutch down and sit on the bed.

“If you’re just tuning in, welcome back to the show. The big news of the day is of course the Blood Moon Pirate’s expedition to America, where she seems to have failed in her mission to rid the world of Bijabers. We have unending talk about this situation, as well as speculation over why Orion and the Clockwork were there, so be sure to stay tuned in.”

I grab my crutch and use it to smash the radio to bits. For a few happy moments, I sit in the silence, until my watch buzzes again.

“Hey, boss,” I say, finally answering his call.

“I’ve heard it didn’t quite go according to plan,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“Have anything you want to say?”

“Yeah.” I lean back in bed and rest my head against my pillow. It hasn’t felt this rewarding in a while. “I’m thinking of taking a vacation.”