The Original Chronicles of the Nightshade

Ego and Image

After paying for her meal, she made her way out of the brightly lit sandwich shop and ducked quickly into a familiar alleyway, letting out a sigh of relief as her skin rippled in the dark shadows. She inhaled the aroma of the warm sandwich she had purchased with what little money she had left. Melted mozzarella, tender grilled chicken, and fresh cut lettuce on a toasted Panini bun, spread with that famous tangy secret sauce that she adored.

The owner of the shop had been kind enough to give her a free peanut butter cookie on the side that she immediately slipped into her pocket; it was a delicacy to her, to say the least. And the smile the old man gave her as he handed it to her in the brown paper bag. She couldn't help but think about what would have happened if he had seen her face for what it really was.

She tried not to dwell on it as she undid the tattered, dirty shawl from her face and tossed it aside in anticipation. She pressed the warm paper-wrapped sandwich to her face, feeling her skin quiver on contact under the sudden heat. It was exhilarating, and a relief from the biting cold that her oversized gray jacket did almost nothing to block.

Nightshade unwrapped the sandwich, letting it momentarily steam in the air before taking a mouthwatering bite. It was the same sandwich she got every time she had the rare opportunity, but eating it was always a new experience. The flavor bursting through her mouth put her mind in a euphoric state, as she slowly chewed savoring every moment before feeling the warm substance fill her empty stomach. It hurt to swallow her raw throat from the scarce amount of water she had in the past 24 hours, but the action was worth the pain.

She was going to take another bite, but a newspaper flitted in the dark alleyway, flashing her infamous inky black face on it, shrouded by the very gray jacket she wore now, slapping her in the face: The Nightshade Has Struck Again!

It was a surprised she even got the front page. She was what the city would call a 'lesser villain.' She made the mistake of skimming the paper, clenching her jaw at words like 'rising threat' and 'dangerous thief' and 'mysterious monstrosity.' The picture wasn't even a good one of her. It was one of the few a photographs they had of her, the graininess and bad lighting making her look much less human than she was in reality. They may as well call her a lesser demon instead.

Hot tears started to form at that thought, as she snatched the newspaper and crumbled it in her hand, watching the ink and printed press bubble, then burn in the air, as she released the dark acid from the tips of her fingers. Why couldn't the stupid reporter go get the latest scoop on some other villain or the drama between the high profile superheroes instead of picking on her? Anything she's ever done was to survive, but the citizens of this 'fine city' thought she was a monster.

Perhaps she was.

To distract herself, she took another bit of her rapidly cooling delicacy, dropping the remains of the disintegrated paper. Travelling down the alley way, she started to wonder. Was it the color of her skin that made them fear? Dark and inky as the new moon, like some smoothed ebony stone? Or maybe it was how her skin rippled in the darkness like a river disturbed by a pebble. Unlike everyone else, the surface of her skin was covered with shards of a smooth scale-like substance that flexed open to allow her to release toxic gases from the pores underneath, or rippled shut on instinct to act as an armor against adversaries. Was it her eyes? A deep pool of violet that shifted in the shade or under the moonlight; was that what they hated? The way they looked a little further than the surface?

Every time she saw her own reflection, she used to cringe at the fact that she didn't look like everyone else. Even as her self-proclaimed birthday approached, she didn't care...yet, she has never forgotten how the others would point and stare, when she was but eight years old. Raw, and exposed to the elements of oppression. Or maybe they just wanted a reason to hate her. Her habit of robbing convenience stores blind and hitting the occasional safe box of some rich guy didn't go entirely unnoticed. The newspapers and magazines were quick to label her a villain before they had even seen her face. Calling her 'the Nightshade', and planting the single grainy photo of her blurry shape in every database. Not a name she preferred, but it was better than the one she had come up with.