The office for Student Housing smelled faintly of old paper, coffee grounds, and air conditioning doing its best. The walls were institutional beige, the furniture somewhere between cost-effective and cruel. Roxie sat in a plastic chair that creaked beneath her, hands locked together in her lap, as if squeezing hard enough might stop her stomach from churning.
Across from her sat Ms. Yvette Calloway—Director of Residential Life, according to the polished brass placard on her desk. Her expression was calm and practiced, eyes alert but softened at the edges by a permanent kind of fatigue. This wasn't her first hard conversation of the day, and it wouldn't be her last.
"I know this isn't ideal," Ms. Calloway said, tone professional but not unkind. "But unfortunately, you're still on the waitlist, and we've officially reached capacity for campus housing."
Roxie blinked, hard. "I applied on time. I was up before sunrise waiting for the housing portal to open. I thought…"
"You did everything right," Ms. Calloway said gently. "Unfortunately, demand this year exceeded availability. There just weren't enough beds. And your circumstances are not unlike those faced by student athletes that have to find accommodations."
Roxie's voice dropped. "So that's it? I'm just out?"
"We're beyond orientation week, and housing assignments are locked. You're currently in transitional lodging, but that ends at 5 p.m. tomorrow. After that, we need the space for emergency cases and short-term faculty accommodations."
"I don't have anywhere else lined up," Roxie said, and immediately hated how small her voice sounded. "My parents live out in Lakeland... That's an hour from here."
Ms. Calloway folded her hands over a slim manila file. "That is within commuting distance. I understand it's not what you planned for—"
"No," Roxie said, sharper than she meant to. "I didn't come here to go crawling back home every night."
Calloway gave a small nod. She didn't look offended. She looked like she understood, and that somehow made it worse.
"This kind of thing is exactly what orientation week is for," she said, evenly. "Students are encouraged to use that time to explore housing boards, local co-ops, off-campus roommate postings. I know it's overwhelming, but this is part of learning how to manage independence."
Roxie let her eyes drop to the desk. Her jaw clenched so hard it ached.
"I'm not trying to be cruel," Calloway added, her voice softening just a little. "But you have until close of business tomorrow to have a confirmed address. On-campus, off-campus, family — that's up to you. But we need to close the books by Monday evening."
There it was. The end of the line, neatly delivered with a polite smile and a ticking clock.
"I'll figure something out," Roxie murmured.
"I believe you will," Calloway said, and the worst part was — it sounded genuine. Roxie stood and left. Fighting the urge to cry. A prayer left her, as she walked out the door. *God, please, I need you now... I don't know what to do next... I need your help. Make this OK.*
------
The hallway was aggressively beige — beige walls, beige floor, beige ceiling tiles buzzing under fluorescent lights that made everything feel vaguely medical. Dianna stood out like a bruise on a bowl of oatmeal.
She leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, thumb idly tracing the edge of her phone. She hadn't looked at it in a couple minutes. She was too busy replaying that stupid moment in her head.
Roxie had walked into a door. And not just bumped it — planted herself, forehead-first, into a steel frame hard enough to leave a dent. Because she was looking at Dianna. Because she'd been listening to Dianna ramble about Morgoth like it was a damn poetry slam, and then her response had been so damned *engaged*. That huge wench, was absolutely dialed in. To her. Not her tits, perky little handfuls that they were, or the ass that Dianna was so proud of. No, what she had to say.
That damned doorframe still had a visible dent. And Roxie had still blushed like Dianna had seen her naked.
God help her, Dianna hadn't stopped smiling since.
She shouldn't still be here. Five-minute flirtations didn't earn hallway vigils. Not in Dianna's world. And yet, here she was — pacing back and forth across sticky linoleum, her checkered hi-tops scuffing in time with her increasingly confused thoughts.
It wasn't just that Roxie was hot — though she was, stupidly so. Six-foot-way-more-than-something of soft curves and nervous smiles and Disney-princess hair, like someone had Frankensteined a linebacker and a naughty librarian. She looked like she could lift a car and would apologize for it afterward.
No, what was tripping Dianna up was how... earnest she was. No games. No posturing. Just genuine interest in what Dianna had to say — like that alone was worth smashing into a building for.
And that? That was dangerous.
Dianna didn't do sweet. She did fast, messy, and forgettable. She didn't linger. She didn't wait.
So why the hell was she still standing in this godawful hallway like some backup dancer in a CW drama?
Her fingers toyed with the silver bangles on her wrist, clinking softly with each twitch. She hadn't planned on this. She hadn't wanted to want anything from anyone, especially not someone who looked like she'd cry if Dianna so much as bit her lip the wrong way.
But something in her gut — or lower — twisted at the memory of Roxie's stunned expression, her cheeks all pink, the sound she made when Dianna leaned in just a little too close.
She could have that. She could have that until she made herself sick of it. One push, one quiet invitation — and Roxie would melt.
But she didn't. She hadn't. And that was the weirdest part.
Instead, she waited.
The door clicked open.
Dianna straightened before she could think better of it, smoothing her expression into something halfway between smug and disinterested.
*Play it cool,* she told herself. *You're not losing your mind over a girl who talks about Tolkien like it's scripture. You're just… curious.*
Right. Curious.
And definitely not counting the seconds she'd been gone. Then her heart fell into her flats.
Roxie stepped out like someone emerging from a storm she hadn't been dressed for — upright, dignified, and soaking wet with something she didn't want anyone to notice. She didn't cry. Not Roxie. But she looked like someone trying very hard not to.
Dianna was on her feet before she thought about it, leaning against the wall in her usual I'm-too-cool-for-this pose, but her eyes locked on the tall girl like a sniper sighting a target.
Roxie stopped when she saw her, biting her lip. "Hey. You waited." And that sad little lip bite nearly destroyed the Aussie where she stood.
"Yeah, nah." Dianna shrugged, trying not to look like she'd been pacing the whole damn time. "Wanted to see if you broke another doorframe."
Roxie gave a wan smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. She looked down at her hands, fingers fiddling with the strap of her bag. "So… that was the housing officer... and I uh need to get my living situation sorted out..." She cleared her throat, and sniffed. " Anyway, Orientation, campus tour, all that stuff. I—I missed all of it. But I swear the very first day the housing portal was open I put in my application."
Dianna raised an eyebrow. "You serious?"
"I had some… things going on. I thought I'd be in the dorms, but—" Roxie shook her head, visibly frustrated. "They don't have room..." She said indicating her size with her free hand, before continuing. "The only options are a private lease with a verified address by tomorrow night, or I commute from home." She huffed. "Which is like an hour away. It wasn't supposed to be like this."
There it was again — that expression. That quiet desperation behind her eyes. Like the edges were folding inward and she was trying to hold them in place with nothing but willpower.
Dianna hated it.
She crossed her arms. "So what, you have to sort out your whole life in twenty-four hours or you're stuck living in Lakeland?"
Roxie nodded. "Yeah. And I can't— I didn't come here just to run back and forth every day. It's not fair to my family, either. I wanted to make this work. On my own."
Dianna exhaled through her nose, sharp and annoyed — not at Roxie, but at the universe for being exactly the kind of senseless place that would throw this kind of spanner into the works of someone like her.
Then, without thinking, she opened her stupid mouth.
"Well," she said, casually... like she wasn't about to just torpedo her own peace and privacy, "I know you don't know me, but I've got a room."
Roxie blinked.
Dianna kept going, too far in now. "Seriously. Whole condo. Guest room. Beautiful view. Ghosts of rich retirees probably still haunting the balcony. All yours. Rent-free."
"Wait… what? I thought you were new in town..."
Dianna flapped a hand dismissively. "I inherited it. Long story. And no, I'm not joking. You need a place. I have one. You're weird and charming and you haven't made me want to run screaming yet, so I figure that's worth something."
Roxie stared at her, utterly thrown.
Dianna scratched the back of her neck, trying to salvage some dignity. "You don't have to say yes. Hell, you probably shouldn't. I mean, I could be a serial killer. But honestly? If you don't find something by tomorrow, your options suck. And I don't like seeing you like this."
That last part slipped out. A little too honest. A little too raw. She regretted it instantly.
But Roxie didn't recoil. She just stood there, stunned, trying to process everything — her face unreadable in the flickering glow of the overhead fluorescents.
Dianna stuffed her hands into the pockets of her shorts and looked away. "You've got twenty-four hours. If you want to come check it out, see I'm not secretly harvesting organs, offer's open."
------
It felt like whiplash to Roxie.
One moment, Roxie was sinking. The next, a hand reached down and dragged her up — poorly manicured, ringed, and far too small to make any damn sense.
Dianna Rodgers. Five-foot-something, glared like a feral cat, talked like a street kid in a Tarantino flick, and looked at her like she was either prey or a present she couldn't wait to unwrap. And yet…
She had waited.
Waited in the hallway when she didn't have to. Watched Roxie nearly come apart at the seams without mocking her. And now—now—she was offering her a place to live?
Rent-free?
Roxie blinked, dazed, barely hearing the words over the rush of blood in her ears. *You don't have to say yes. Hell, you probably shouldn't.* Dianna's voice had dropped into that low, half-charmed lilt again, like she was trying not to care. Like this wasn't just the most reckless, absurd, miraculous thing Roxie had ever heard.
This wasn't supposed to happen. Not to her.
She wasn't the girl who got saved. She was the one who did the saving. Who carried her own weight and didn't make waves. Who figured it out and suffered in silence if she couldn't.
And yet here it was. The answer. Dropped at her feet by a stranger with purple-tipped hair and a grin that should've come with a government warning.
Roxie didn't speak right away. She couldn't.
She stared at Dianna, trying to understand her. Her stomach twisted with anxiety, but something deeper — something older, more sacred — stirred beneath it. That quiet, persistent echo of belief. Of grace. Of maybe this was all supposed to happen.
Because what kind of person does that? Offers shelter to someone they just met? Who looks at a walking disaster and says, *No need to fall apart here. I won't let you drown.* Not for gain, not for praise — just because.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
"Are you serious?" she asked, and her voice came out too small.
Dianna's smile tilted, as she scratched the back of her head. "Kinda wishing I wasn't, but… yeah. I am."
Roxie's legs went weak, and she leaned against the wall. Not because she didn't trust Dianna — but because something in her couldn't quite believe this was real.
"I—don't know what to say," she managed. Her voice cracked. "I didn't… I didn't think anyone would help. I just—I thought I'd have to figure it out. Alone."
"Well... You don't," Dianna said simply. "Not right now."
Roxie looked at her, really looked. The bangles. The flat soled canvas sneakers. The chipped nail polish and the sharp tongue. She was chaos in motion.
She was also, impossibly, *kind.*
Was she a blessing? A temptation? A trickster dropped into her path to test her?
Was she divine? Or was she a devil in a faded band t-shirt?
Roxie didn't know.
But for the first time in days — in weeks maybe— she didn't feel lost.
She nodded, slowly. "Okay," she whispered. "I'll come see it. Just… to look."
Dianna grinned. "Sure. Just to look."
And for the first time, since the meeting with Yvette had ended, Roxie let herself take a breath.
----
Dianna hit the stairs two at a time, her hi-tops thudding loud against the metal steps, muttering like a madwoman and scowling at nothing.
"What the hell were you thinking, Dianna?" she hissed. "Seriously. Are you fucking possessed?"
The first landing came up fast. She clipped her shoulder on the wall taking the turn too sharp, hissed, and shoved off like the drywall was somehow complicit.
"Just invite her over, sure. Real normal. Bring a seven-foot-in-flats muscle-girl, with tits like basketballs and hands the size of your sternum into your home like it's no big deal. Fantastic idea."
Eight blocks from campus. Third floor above a vegan bookstore and a surf shop that never had actual boards. A quiet spot with an ocean breeze and way too much sunlight — not punk, not grimy, not her, but Bernice had left it to her and Dianna hadn't been able to let it go.
Now she was dragging someone else into it. Not for a night. Not for a fling.
To stay.
"You've lost the last three braincells holding the line," she muttered, climbing faster. "Coulda just bought her lunch like a normal person. But nooo! Let's go full disaster lesbian in the first five minutes. Let's hand her the bloody keys! She could be straight, for all you know. Goofy bitch."
And wouldn't that just be the fuckin cherry on top of the whole thing? She'd gone full simp.
The stairwell echoed every stomp and curse. She reached the top floor, heartbeat pounding, teeth grit. Her hand was already in her jacket pocket, thumbing the key like it might shock her back to sanity.
"God, she could snap me like a twig," she said to no one. "And wasn't that the whole fuckin' point?"
Because Dianna had a type, and it wasn't 'stay for breakfast.' It was quick, messy, consensual, and gone by morning. Hot girls, cold beer, a little bite, a little burn, and then never call her again unless the bitch wanted a rerun.
But this?
This wasn't that.
Roxie had looked at her like Dianna had offered her a lifeline. Like she mattered. And that kind of look? That shit was volatile...explosive. The kind of look that could send a girl to heaven or drag her screaming to hell.
She paused at the door. The old paint was chipped, faded from years of sea spray and Florida sun. Dianna thunked her forehead against it gently, just once.
"She's gonna say yes."
Of course she was. She didn't have anywhere else. And Dianna had known that when she'd said it. Knew it, and said it anyway.
She let herself in.
The loft was just as she'd left it — airy and way too big for one person. Tasteful tile floors, mismatched rugs, thrift store finds, shelves stuffed with books and half-working tech. Instruments of all sorts, both medical and musical, leaned haphazardly against the walls. A beanbag chair sat like a lazy dog under the window. It was chaos wrapped in architecture. Her chaos.
She dropped her keys in the ceramic bowl by the door. Bernice had made it in pottery class, all lopsided and imperfect and full of love. Dianna rubbed her thumb along the edge, jaw flexing. Bernice's old ass shook so much by then it was a wonder the two of them had managed to get that far. She shook her head.
"Hope you don't mind, B," she said quietly. "I might've just brought a... person."
She kicked off her hi-tops and stepped onto the rug. Socks mismatched. Shoulders tense.
"Not a hookup," she muttered, talking to the ghost of the woman who had taken in a crazy Australian stray. "Not a girl from the club. Not someone who's gonna sneak out before dawn."
She ran a hand through her undercut, fingers tugging hard at the roots like it might pull the stupid out of her skull, before she started ranting at herself again.
"No, you brought home a lost fucking puppy with thunderous thighs... and baggage... and feelings. Jesus Christ, Dianna."
The worst part?
She meant it.
She wanted Roxie to come. Not just for tonight. Not just for safety. But for real.
That thought made her stomach lurch like bad tequila.
She flopped backwards onto the couch, arms flung wide, one leg still hanging off the edge. The room swirled quietly around her — salt air, old floorboards, incense remnants from the night before.
"Goddamn idiot," she groaned.
And wasn't it always the same pattern?
She could sleep with anyone. Anyone. But the second someone looked like they might stay — that they might see her?
She panicked.
And now?
Now she'd invited a stranger into her last line of defense.
And she was already rearranging furniture in her head.
*Fuck it...*
The couch creaked as Dianna sat up, slow and deliberate, fingers laced over her knees like a boxer trying to center herself before the bell.
She stared at the loft like it was a stranger's place. Or like it had been one, and now it had a guest coming. A roommate. Maybe. Sort of. Possibly just for a few days. Maybe longer.
"Christ," she muttered, rubbing her face hard. "Okay. So I've completely lost the plot."
But she didn't move like someone panicked anymore.
She stood with a quiet sort of finality, rolled her shoulders out, and nodded to no one in particular.
"Right. Fine. You invited her. You meant it. So own it, Rodgers."
The words gave her spine again.
She moved through the space like a storm with a plan — pulling open the curtains to let in the last light of afternoon, shoving clothes off the chair in the corner, rearranging her mess into something that looked almost intentional. The kind of mess that said, *I read books with the spine cracked and I live like a person with priorities*, not *I use pizza boxes as coasters.*
The guest room was untouched over the last six months and it was just as palatial as the rest of the loft. It had been where Bernice, that old rickety battle axe had lived the last remaining days of her life, having been unable to climb up to the master bedroom for years. Since she had died, Dianna had only been in it once. To clean the place up and make it usable again. It was still old lady compliant. But now, Dianna made everything right. She removed the old air-musted sheets and walked into the closet to grab fresh ones.
The scent hit her like a hammer blow. Way too much lavender and a hint of antiseptic.
Bernice's scent.
She paused at that. Fingers on the cotton. A breath that caught in her throat.
"Hope you'd like her," she said softly. "She's... strange. But good. I think."
She made the bed like someone trying to make a point. Corners tight, pillow fluffed, blanket folded at the foot like she hadn't stolen it from a roadside motel two years ago. Then she stood back and stared at it before walking away and closing the door.
It didn't mean anything.
It was just a place to crash. Someplace Roxie could be while she figured her shit out. That was all.
"She's probably the kind of girl who'll try to pay rent," Dianna said aloud, pacing back into the kitchen like the sound of her own voice would make it feel less weird. "Leave chore charts on the fridge and organize the spice rack by pH level for reference."
She opened the fridge, frowned at the half-eaten Thai leftovers and the six-pack of grapefruit seltzer. And the Tupperware container that could probably be labeled as a biohazard...Closed the fridge again with a sigh.
She might have to go shopping.
It wasn't about impressing her. It was just... you know. Basic decency.
"Sure, Di. Basic decency. That's what you're doing," she muttered, grabbing an old Sharpie from the drawer and scribbling "TO DO: FOOD. BEER. NO DEAD PLANTS." on the dry-erase board by the door.
She capped the pen, stared at the space a moment longer, then blew out a long breath.
"You made your bed."
She grinned, teeth bared. Sharp and fierce.
"So fuck it. Make it yours."
And just like that, Dianna Rodgers — foul-mouthed, punk-rock hurricane, with her bad tattoos and worse boundaries — decided she'd be fine.
She'd be a goddamn lioness.
Even if the girl she just invited in could break her ribs with a hug and made her feel things that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with a quiet, dangerous kind of want.
She shook her head and reached for the incense.
Burn a little sage. Hide the worst of the chaos. Pretend this wasn't a red-alert level meltdown in the making.
She could do that.
She'd done worse with less.
----
Roxie stood still in the soft hush of the afternoon, the scent of ocean salt and old brick curling around her like a shawl. Dianna had disappeared around the bend — just out of sight, but not out of reach. Roxie's lips still held the aftertaste of soft jokes and laughter and something else, something dangerous and warm.
The moment teetered like a votive candle flickering in cupped hands.
Then —
"Unit Seven-One, priority one-five-one-zero. Cape on scene. Suspected unstable. Officers requesting enhanced intervention."
The voice came soft through the tiny receiver tucked discreetly into the collar of her hoodie. The volume was barely above a whisper — quiet enough that only she, or someone with precise tech and clearance, could have picked it up. Most people wouldn't even register it. They don't hear the things she hears.
But Roxie did. Of course she did.
The smile dropped from her face as though it had never belonged there.
Her hand moved on reflex, brushing the zipper of the duffel bag slung across her shoulder. Muscle memory now. Every inch of her body already preparing for what came next.
There was no pause. No sigh. No protest.
Just the shift.
She stepped off the path, just enough to be between two parked maintenance vans — neither particularly big, but enough. She didn't need a perfect blind spot. She needed a breath.
No flash of light. No swirling cape. No magical girl sequence.
Just a girl bowing her head and letting the Queen crawl up her spine.
The change was... small. Cruel in how small it was. A switch flipped somewhere in her core. Her hoodie dropped. She crouched low, opened the duffel, and pulled the bodysuit free. Black. It shimmered dully in the light, the fabric not made for glory or protection — just modesty and classification.
She didn't rush. Didn't need to. Every movement was the same it had always been, rehearsed to monotony. Strip. Step in. Zip. Strap the vest. Buckle the boots.
And then the helmet.
It lay in her palm like a relic. A battered thing — matte black with faint scratches across the mirrored visor. She stared into its blank face and, for just a second, saw her own eyes reflected there.
Wide.
That gross watery green, always like someone on the verge of tears. Still rimmed in the memory of something soft.
They didn't belong to a Queen.
They looked like Roxie's — scared, irrational… weak.
She hated them. Hated how they looked at her like that. Like she was betraying something.
She put the helmet on.
With a practiced hiss, the seal engaged. The visor turned cold and the heads up display flickered to life.
Titania stood up.
Seven feet of armored silhouette and authority. There was no smile now. No lightness. Only silence — the stillness of thunder before the strike.
And then, like the barest exhale, the Queen took flight.
BOOM.
A sonic ripple cracked across the air — not enough to break windows, not anymore. She'd learned how to cup the force in her wake, to cradle the boom like a baby bird.
The city didn't flinch at the sound anymore.
It was just Monday — and Titania, St. Petersburg's beloved Iron Queen, was answering a call.
She streaked up and over the city. Out past the stuccoed murals and into the half-forgotten boroughs — the places tourists didn't visit, where glass bottles were wedged in storm drains and the heat never quite left the pavement. These were the places where the forgotten went to forget.
The sound of her landing was soft compared to the echoing boom that had preceded it — just the heavy thud of armored boots kissing asphalt. Controlled. Measured. Deliberate.
Titania rose from her crouch in a seamless motion. Seven feet of silhouette and silence. Her armor gleamed only in patches where light scraped against the matte black finish, broken up by reinforced edges and the dull gray of a reused police vest. On the chest, a Velcro strip bore a single word in stark white:
TITANIA.
She was already surveying the scene.
Three patrol cars boxed in the intersection, lights spinning in silence. Civilians were gone — evacuated, or smart enough to cower behind walls when scanner chatter turned sour. At the far end of the street, between a bus stop and a boarded-up pharmacy, stood a man.
His shirt hung in tatters. His arms were scored with burn marks and twitching. Sparks peeled off his shoulders like embers from an invisible flame. His hands moved in frantic patterns: counting, cursing, conjuring, maybe praying.
"The Devil's in the sidewalk cracks," he whispered, too loud. "He talks through the flies. He makes me see. I didn't want it. I didn't— I DIDN'T MEAN TO WAKE UP—"
Officer Morales didn't turn as she stepped beside him — but she saw the micro-shift of his stance, the way he lowered his weapon a fraction. He didn't need to aim it anymore. The Queen had arrived.
"Ma'am," he murmured. "Calls himself Firestarter. No ID. Name might be Jeremiah. Keeps quoting scripture and screaming. We've tried everything short of force."
Titania gave a quiet nod.
The man looked up then — eyes wide, bloodshot, unfocused. He felt her before he saw her. Her presence hit like pressure, like altitude. Something old behind the steel.
"You…" he whispered. "You're her. The Queen. The one he told me about. The burning sword. The hammer. The gate."
He shuddered.
"Jeremiah has a wicked heart! Jeremiah has died to the Firestarter! Let me die before he gets here. Before the Devil takes me all the way down."
The air cracked.
A flare of burbling liquid flames split his back like a faultline, setting fire to what little remained of his shirt and exposing blackened necrotic flesh that rapidly calcified. A streetlamp burst overhead. Sparks rained.
Several of the cops raised weapons and looked like they were about to move in.
Titania raised a hand, in silent control.
Hold.
This was her scene now.
She stepped forward — careful, calm. Her voice came low through her speaker, barely modulated.
"You don't need to burn, Jeremiah," she said, arms open. "You're not alone."
He hissed.
"Don't lie to me," he spat. "You wear armor but I see you. The girl under the kevlar. She's scared. Just like me. Just like—"
He screamed.
Flames surged, and with them, the first blow — a wave of force and furnace-heat that melted curb paint and buckled concrete. Officers ducked behind cruisers. Titania stood her ground.
Her suit caught fire in patches. That was going to be miserable, later.
"Jeremiah, please," she called out, steady as stone. "You have to calm down. Let me help you—"
He shrieked.
And in one savage motion, his fingers drove into his left eye, and with a sickening squelch tore the orb from its socket.
"The flesh stifles!" he howled, blood gushing down his face, and it seemed to combust on contact with the air, seering "I SEE NOW! The plank in my own eye must be removed! ALL HAIL THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS!"
It began.
Titania struck first — a single punch, measured but immense, meant to end it.
Her knuckles met his sternum in a thundercrack that knocked birds from power lines. The asphalt cratered. A car alarm wailed half a block away.
He flew a full city block. Crashed through a parked van. Lay still.
And then—
He stood.
Not even a stagger. No bones broken. Something inside him — some twisting, furious reservoir of power — refused to let go.
She could've chased him, but he moved first.
Jeremiah screamed into the sky — flame erupting from every pore, his outline flickering like a figure behind stained glass. But the outburst wasnt aimed at her. He poured out heat and fire into the overpass above and that hellish heat did its work. Steel girders buckled and bent, asphalt liquified, concrete turned to powder. And the bridge collapsed. Titania pivoted on instinct, because suddenly it wasn't just her life at stake. Civilians. Gas lines. Stray cars sucked skyward by heat currents.
She moved.
One car — a hatchback tumbling end over end — was caught mid-air. She caught it, landed it gently. Another, she shoulder-checked like a battering ram into the side of a brick building, away from a fleeing paramedic.
Three more she caught with impossible speed. One in each hand and One on her back like a tired child.
All saved.
But it cost her time.
He was already rising again.
She did not have herself fully prepared when he struck her and she spun end over end through the street, skidding to a stop in a low crouch, her ankles disappeared into the broken asphalt. She felt it bubbling, that blackness that lurked at the core of her, and blue light began to dance across her body in wispy tendrils. She clamped down on it. That hatred, that rage... It would not win. She growled and launched herself back at the flaming menace, fist first.
She through this man, this Firestarter up the hill and away from people. Into an abandoned railyard. The second phase of the fight was no longer mortal. No longer urban.
This was myth.
Ragnarok in miniature. Prometheus gone mad. A Queen and a Madman battling across rooftops and fractured ground. One moment Titania was winning, using Firestarter's face to smash holes in abandoned freight cars. Then those infernal flames would blast her away. It becomes a destructive slough. Fists and flames, fire burning every where and in the center of this vortex, a blue glowing spot of radiance. Grabbing, rolling striking, blasting. A whorl of endless frenetic energy and the ground paid the price. Asphalt melted in the blaze, train cars became projectiles and old forgotten tracks bent in their wake. But it became obvious who had the upper hand. Between Titania's endurance and Firestarter's impressive power it was the Iron Queen of the Fae who held sway in this yard of broken dreams. She tried to restrain. To hold back. Every blow she threw with caution — not because she feared him, but because she hoped. Because she saw the sliver of a man underneath the monster.
But restraint had its price.
Jeremiah wouldn't stop. Couldn't. His flames grew wild. Language failed him — now he was all motion, all madness. He lashed out with waves of molten air, screaming things no living man should know.
"She will cost you everything!"
"Your heart — your body — your fucking soul!"
"You'll kneel in glass for her and call it worship! You'll BURN and scream in ecstatic damnation!"
It wasn't clear if he meant her — Titania — or someone yet to come. But the Devil delivers prophecy, too, and his voice was the voice of fire and ash and fate.
She moved the fight uphill, further into the abandoned railway yard. No civilians here. No one to burn.
But he burned anyway.
And she endured.
When finally he fell to one knee — coughing smoke, weeping flame — she approached.
She could kill him. It would be a mercy. It would be justice. The practical thing. The tactical thing.
But instead—
She knelt behind him, locking her ankles around his waist in all the fluid inevitability of a hydraulic press.
Then she sang.
A lullaby. Something old and soft and Persian, though her voice crackled through the modulator. Her armor hissed and scorched as he caught fire again — burning her arms, her sides. But she didn't let go.
She wrapped him in a chokehold — gentle, almost loving. Arms like iron. Holding him not to hurt, but to silence. To still. To save.
But damnation wanted a final word with the Queen and in a choking whisper Firestarter laid out one last piece of madness
"And she will claim your sanity…
And you will thank God, oh deaf and uncaring creator, for her.
And when she dies…
She'll drag you screaming into Oblivion."
And finally, through sobs and crackling nerves, Jeremiah went limp. Not dead. Not defeated.
Just asleep.
---
The medics arrived less than a minute later. They found her still sitting with him, fire-charred and bleeding.
"Take him. And keep him sedated, no matter what." She commanded. They obeyed quickly, taking the charred and bubbling remains of the madman, somehow still alive, still hot to the touch and strapped him to a gurney. Three men and a cop Carried the mad Prometheus off on a stretcher while smoke curled from his fingers.
Titania stood.
Medics moved to her — but she waved them away. A young man started to utter a protest but when she turned her body to him and stood to her full height, his voice fell silent. Silenced by the sheer presence of her.
"I'm fine."
She wasn't. But she would be.
A familiar voice broke through the chaos. A man in a suit stepped forward, dark shades and a stoic frown. He was every bit a state agent. As if he had been plucked from some cheap noir film. The trench coat was an especially egregious touch, complete with limp cigarette, barely held in his lip.
Special Agent Richard Turner, of the Florida Beaureu of Investigations, Superhuman Affairs Division. Tough old grouse, and Titania's handler.
"Hell of a show," he muttered, setting a black case beside her, and folding out a thin field-changing box. "Fresh gear. Paperwork's inside." He adjusted his tie. "You wanna get paid, you put in the forms."
She didn't laugh. Didn't open the briefcase. Not yet.
The people were gathering behind the tape. Phones out. Cameras up.
She turned from Turner. From the wreckage. From the blood under her nails and the burns crawling up her ribs.
"I'll handle the paperwork later."
Her voice dropped, solemn.
"Right now, the city needs its Queen."
She reached down and undid the strap on the edges of the box, holding her briefcase in her mangled left hand. It popped up with a *fwump*. That always got a smile from her, because her little cousins had a tent that they had gotten from Wal-Mart that acted the same way, and the silliness of that touched a smile to her lips for just a moment. In a flash she was taking off the easiest parts of the suit to remove. The helmet was mostly intact so it slid free easily. What remained of the vest was... Tolerable. It made a sickening sound as it tore away from her lower right ribs. She sucked air in through her teeth and steadied herself for the next part. What little remained of the bodysuit was fused to her. So, as slowly as she could manage she peeled away the remaining strips of black material. It tore at her and was almost as painful as the fight with Firestarter. She had gotten pretty used to pain over the last eight months but being burned always hurt. She twisted the length of her hair into something she could hold between her teeth, and bit down. Now with the gag in place, in one motion, she snatched. A muffled scream escaped her as she ripped the clinging black cloth away and pieces of skin went with it. She prayed silently as tears streamed down her face, her vision blurred and her knees nearly buckled *Lord Jesus, oh great comforter, please dont let me pass out... lend me your strength and help me to bear this cross*. After a second or two, she looked down at herself. She was a mess. But already, the lesser parts of her wounded frame had begun to regenerate. Dead skin fell away in real time, cuts clotted nearly instantly and even the burned away sections of her hair came back. But she was going to show bruising for days and her left shoulder was not sitting right. Oh well, it would heal. *Thank you, God, for giving me strength* Gingerly, she moved and put on the new uniform— emerging clean, immaculate, composed for the cameras.
No rags. No blood.
Queens don't address their subjects wearing the ashes of war.
The press had gathered like vultures in a storm's wake.
Titania stood at the edge of the police cordon, pristine in the fresh uniform Special Agent Turner had delivered — her black body-armor replaced with something newer, sleeker, worthy of a queen. Still bland still GI as single-ply toilet paper but clean. Her hair had been hastily brushed free of soot, lips rouged to hide the blistering split beneath. The medics had offered treatment. She had refused. She would heal.
Roxie always healed.
But her people did not need a survivor. They needed a sovereign.
So she stood there, calm and composed, while camera drones buzzed overhead and microphones jostled at the edges of her vision. They asked their questions — about the fight, about Jeremiah, about the destruction. Some wanted blood. Others wanted inspiration. She gave them neither.
She gave them grace.
"What you saw here today was not an act of terrorism but a tragedy. We don't know the identity of this man at this time except the name he claimed for himself, Firestarter." She addressed them professionally and ignored the stream of questions with regal disdain. "I believe he was having some sort of psychotic break with religious undertones. We, as members of law enforcement will ensure that he receives counseling not simply a cage." Another flood of questions but once more that silent visored gaze quieted the crowd. "I made the choice of mercy in this moment. I do not claim to have all the answers," she said, voice steady as stone beneath moonlight. "But I will stand. I will stand when others fall. I will bleed when others must not. And I will carry those who can no longer walk. That includes not just my people but if God allows, also my enemies."
A murmur passed through the crowd — the hush of awe, or disbelief, or both.
She gave one last glance to the broken overpass in the distance, where smoke still curled like incense to the heavens. Then she bowed her head, not to the press, but to the people behind them. The stunned. The shaken. The spared.
And then she rose.
Without fanfare or mechanical flourish, Titania lifted into the sky. Silent. Effortless. A sovereign angel carried not by machines, but by something older. Something holier. The city fell away beneath her. She did not look back.
She did not have to.
---
The campus was hushed by the time she returned. Long shadows clung to the walkways, and the ocean's slow breathing framed the stillness in rhythm. Somewhere distant, a student laughed — brittle, unaware. Life was already returning. That, too, was grace.
She landed beside the line of rusted maintenance vans where her day had begun. Not long ago she had stood here alone, a stranger in borrowed clothes, the world too big and her heart too heavy.
Now she was Titania.
Now she was exhausted.
She found her duffel bag slumped behind one of the vans, half-crushed beneath a maintenance cone. The strap had snapped. A smear of soot covered the fabric. But it was hers. She knelt beside it, suddenly slow, fingers trembling as she unzipped the flap.
Inside: notebooks, a battered copy of Revelation and Rebellion, her mother's rosary, a half-melted protein bar. And tucked near the bottom, wedged between papers she no longer remembered packing, was something ridiculous.
A gum wrapper.
Crumpled. Faded. Smelling faintly of strawberries.
She smoothed it open with both hands. The gold foil had cracked slightly, but the writing remained, stubborn and urgent. No hearts. No name. Just jagged handwriting and a private spell, written in the language of fantasy they had both claimed as children and never quite let go.
It was a simple phrase in Sindarin.
It translated:If you're real, come find me.
It struck her harder than any punch.
Roxie let out a soft, reverent sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a sob — and held the wrapper to her chest. Her armor felt too tight around it, like something divine was pressing outward from within.
Dianna had saved her, maybe in a way Jeremiah never could be saved. She had offered sanctuary in a chaotic scrawl on the back of a gum wrapper. She had knelt in the dust and held out mercy with strawberry-stained fingers and a crooked grin.
A messiah in cut-off shorts and foul mouthed self-aware sex appeal.
And Roxie — bruised, blistered, still burning — believed in her.