Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
VOL I / CHAPTER ZERO
BRIDGET DIOTTE WAS THE BIGGEST SKEPTIC KNOWN TO MAN. She didn't believe in the many hoax's of New Orleans. In her eyes, it was just one big fat cash grab so the city wouldn't go bankrupt. If they kept tourists coming in, they'd be able to pay for the all hazards that swept through so frequently.
However, superhero's did exist — so, was a ghost or goblin that far fetched?
She was more afraid of the people that lurked beyond the shadows. They were the main predator where she came from. And, unfortunately, she had a foul run in with one of them — the night her life changed for the better (that could be argued). Before then, she never had a reason for her fight or flight response to kick in. So... Bridget had no idea that she was different.
It took an aggressive, hooded man to threaten her for everything she had. A silver revolver sparkled under the foggy light poles, as they stood before a graveyard. She didn't plan on giving anything to him — it's not like she had much to give. He was robbing the wrong person. Oh, he was definitely robbing the wrong person. In her school's soccer uniform, she held up her palms with quivering eyes. "Please, I'm just trying to get home—"
"Give me your fucking bag!" He exclaimed, pointing the gun at her with force. Using it as a form of diction.
Her heart beat through her chest and loudly in her ears. "I can't— I can't do that..." She trembled. Her soccer shoes were in there — her only pair, and she couldn't afford another.
The rest happened really fast. So fast that she could barely recall it after. For a split second, Bridget could feel something pulling at her. An idea. A thought. A discernment that he was going to pull the trigger. It prickled at her gut, ascending up her body like a thrust of power. Simultaneously, as he squeezed the trigger, the palms that faced his direction emitted a dark shadow. The lights flickered and darkness filed from her palms like smoke, turning into twists of obsidian rope. It struck him, viciously. Sending him into the bricks of a closed boutique. The gun hit the ground as the back of his head slammed into the brick wall.
Collapsing to the ground, he was unmoving. Blood pooling around his head, through his black hoodie. "Fuck," She whispered, glancing around — looking for any peering eyes. Bridget could've swore that she seen the blinds of someone's house quickly close. The fifteen year old still watched him, seeing if he twitched or breathed at all.
He didn't. So she quickly fled. And, it would only be the beginning of her own personal fucking hell.
