CHAPTER TWELVE
the female of the species

warning: this chapter contains sexual harassment and attempted sexual assault. 

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THE SOUP HAD gone cold, but it wasn't like Nadine and Molly were eating it, anyway. An hour and a half had passed, and they were still sitting at the dining table, minds awhirl and stomachs shrunk to the size of chestnuts. Nadine's legs had gone numb and her throat was sore and scratchy, but she didn't move, trying to read Molly's face like a book. She'd finally finished weaving the entire long, complicated fairy tale that had become her life five minutes ago, and Molly had yet to say a word. In fact, she wasn't doing anything but staring at Nadine, mouth agape. The sight of it reminded her of the fish she'd used to work with, and she had to resist the urge to burst into hysterical laughter again. This happened, sometimes. When Nadine got too caught up in her emotions, she just... pushed them down. Swept them away as if with a broom, and hid them under a rug. All of her shock, all of her fear, all of her heartache—all of it was cleared away, leaving nothing behind. Her body didn't know what to do with it nothingness, so it laughed. But it laughed in the way people did when they found out their lives had been ruined.

Nadine had always been a little manic. Especially when she was younger. You would take one look into those ocean eyes of hers and know. Bloody fists, bruised limbs, spiders crawling up and down her arms. She'd thought she'd gotten better in the past few years. She was still a seething ball of rage, but wasn't so wide-eyed and frenzied, a wolf-girl who'd stumbled upon human civilization for the first time. Right now, though she couldn't help but revert to her old ways. She wanted to laugh until her stomach cramped. She wanted to scream until she lost her voice. She wanted to get down on her knees, tip her head up to the universe, and ask why it had given her such a shitty deal. Why her? Why not someone else? Why did it have to be Nadine that was sitting here right now, desperately surveying her girlfriend's face as if it was a key that would unlock the secrets of the universe?

She'd told Molly everything. Her childhood with Louise and her teenage fascination with the Umbrella Academy. Everything about her abilities, from the very first day they'd sparked to life. The Incident, with the bullet tearing into her shoulder and her blood spilling like an infinite fountain. Reginald's death, the catalyst that brought Nadine to the Umbrella Academy. How she'd managed to inject herself into the lives of the Hargreeves. The Week of Hell itself, and everything that occurred during it—from Five's arrival in 2019 to Vanya's concert at the end of the world. She described the Commission, and what it did. She spoke of her plunge into 1963, and the scene she'd made at Stadtler's. She explained the day Five had recruited her, and how she'd gotten fired by Leroy. She disclosed what she'd really been doing instead of hanging out with family friends, and how she'd found Molly herself in the footage that had served as their first clue. She left nothing out of the story, not even her feelings for Vanya—though that seemed so unsubstantial compared to everything else.

Finally, she told Molly about the new apocalypse. "The world is ending in a week," she'd said, her voice wavering slightly. "I don't know how, but somehow it managed to follow us here."

She'd expected Molly to say something, even if it was an outright denial of her claims. But instead, Molly had gone completely silent, those plush lips of hers parted. Every second that ticked by without a response amplified the nausea that had settled into Nadine's gut, until her leg was bouncing frantically and she could barely manage to remain in her seat. And those damn laughs still bubbled up in her throat, demanding release.

Another minute went by—Nadine watched it happen on Molly's cat-shaped clock. Her shrunken stomach growled, and Nadine remembered that she hadn't eaten since the diner—six hours ago, now. Yet, she didn't think she could pick up her spoon and slurp up that cold potato soup like nothing was wrong. Not when Molly's eyes followed her every movement.

Two more excruciating minutes passed, and Molly finally swallowed. This was such a small motion, but it was more than Nadine had gotten from her in this agonizing waiting period, in which every second was an hour and every minute a day. If Beau were here, he would've rattled off his catchphrase. Patience was a virtue. But what a bullshit, nonsense phrase that was. Nadine's leg bounced faster. She latched onto that small motion of Molly's and prayed for a response.

Someone was listening. For just then, Molly licked her lips, leaned back in her chair, and asked, "Are you bullshitting me?"

She didn't sound too angry, just confused. Nadine knew her well enough to know it was likely she was angry—because, God, she knew Molly's insides were always steaming with rage; rage for the shit society had put her through—but the anger hadn't found its way into her tone, yet. But the fact that Molly had actually sworn made Nadine's chest clench. She hadn't found a modifier. Hadn't said BS, or bull-crap, or any of the substitutes she usually used. No, she'd said the word as it was. Bullshit.

Nadine was definitely in trouble.

She shook her head vehemently, desperately. Please believe me, Molls. "I'm not bullshitting you," she said. "I wish I was. Fuck, do I wish I was."

Tears welled up in Molly's eyes, glittering in the dining room light. "Well, then, prove it," she begged. "Because this all sounds like a load of baloney. I mean, really, Nads? You expect me to believe that my girlfriend of a year is from the future? And part of some superhero league?"

"I'm not making this up." Nadine finally drew her cellphone from her lap and slid it down the table to Molly. There were probably time travel rules about showing people inventions from the future, but at this point, the entire guidebook had been thrown out the window, stomped on, and set alight. "This is my cellphone. It doesn't work here—probably because it hasn't been invented yet. But I brought it here, from 2019."

Molly reached forward and cautiously lifted Nadine's phone. She turned it around in her hands—which were shaking, just like Nadine's were. She slid her thumbs across the black screen, pressed down on the volume buttons, and slid the whole thing from its case (dust-pink and patterned with cherries). "This is..." her voice trailed off. "I don't even know what this is."

"You use it to call people." It was surreal, to explain a cellphone to anyone younger than eighty. But even seniors at least had a grasp on what a cellphone was, even if they called it 'new-fangled technology' and scorned the idea of texting. "I mean, it's not all that it can do, but it'd take at least a few hours to explain..."

"Well, anyway, this doesn't prove anything." The anger was creeping into Molly's tone now—light, like a child on tiptoe, but still there. Nadine flinched. "So, these... these so-called superpowers of yours. You said you could create illusions?"

"I can," said Nadine. It would be easy enough to prove. "If I show you, will you believe me?"

Molly shrugged. Her eyes still sparkled with tears. "If you can prove that you really do have superpowers, then I'd have to believe you. Despite... despite, well, everything."

"All right," said Nadine. She splayed out her fingers and began to seek the hum in her forehead. "I'll show you."

Her eyes darted to the window. From her angle at the table, she couldn't see it, but she recalled it with perfect clarity. The Moon: not the one that hung from a chain on Molly's throat, but the real one. It was fat and full tonight, having finally completed its full circle. It sat in the sky like a cake ready to be tasted, and when Nadine had seen it earlier tonight, she'd been reminded again of that glorious night. The one that had changed everything between them.

The skeleton of the full Moon began to form, light blue. Nadine reached out her hands and cupped them underneath the orb. Then the miniature celestial body began to fill in, taking on shape and colour in a matter of seconds. It wasn't long before an exact replica was hovering right above Nadine's hands, as if she was holding it there.

Molly's eyes widened. Nadine wished she could see the reflection of the Moon in her eyes, but, of course, that wasn't how her abilities worked. Instead, she had to settle for Molly's dazed wonder. It was so similar to Elliott's childlike excitement, yet different. Perhaps because Molly was genuinely surprised.

Like Elliott, she reached out a finger in an attempt to touch Nadine's illusions. But, just like with the flying burrito, it passed right through, emerging on the other side.

"It's not real?" she asked, somewhat breathlessly. Her eyes skittered down to Nadine's palms themselves, which the lifelike projection cast in a silvery glow. "It really looks like it's there."

Nadine raised her hands—and the illusion—and held them right in front of her nose. "Look into my eyes," she instructed. "There's no reflection. I planted it in your mind, and in my own, but it doesn't really exist." She watched Molly lean forward and inspect her pupils. The shock that flitted across her face proved to Nadine that she saw nothing but her own face there. "It's not the most useful of powers. More of a party trick than anything substantial. I've really had to learn how to be creative with it."

"It's... it's wonderful," Molly breathed. She reached out. The backs of her hands lay atop Nadine's palms, so it was as if they were both holding the Moon now. But just as soon as a smile crept across her face, it dropped. Her hands fell to her sides, and she swallowed again. "You... you really are telling the truth."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you until now," said Nadine. "I didn't—I mean, you know how complicated all of this is. But the world is ending, and those assassins are likely going to be after me, soon. So I might—I might have to go. Stay at Elliott's, until everything is over. They won't come here if I'm not with you."

She curled up her legs. "All I want is for you to be safe. That's why I lied in the first place. I didn't want to drag you into any of this. Because I love you, Molls. I love you so much. But now things have changed. Now the safest thing for me to do is to let you go."

Molly wouldn't come to Elliott's. She'd remain here, or leave the city entirely—go somewhere the Swedes would never find her. Because Nadine didn't know what she'd do with herself in Molly got hurt. She thought that she might just fall apart.

Molly drummed her fingers on the table. She was still shaking. "I need some time to think about all of this," she said. "I mean... it all sounds insane. Not just the end of the world or the superpower thing, but... well, the future. People really won't hate us for who we are? We'll be allowed to marry? You can really become an Ichthyologist without any trouble, and I can be... well, whoever I want?"

"We can," said Nadine, then shifted slightly. "Nothing is perfect in the future, Molls. Racism, sexism, homophobia... they're still there, and I don't think the fight for equal rights will be over for a long time. But at least there's hope. And... you deserve to know that someday, things will get better. At least, if the world doesn't end."."

She stood up. "I'm going for a walk," she explained. "I need... I need some fresh air. I'll be back soon, though. I promise. I wouldn't leave you without a proper goodbye."

"Okay," said Molly softly. Nadine's eyes burned at the sight of her, so small at the table, staring at the miniature Moon that still hovered above her soup. Her face was nearly bloodless, and her eyes had taken on a glaze to them, the sort of expression that comes when one has just received too much information.

She gave her a watery smile, and set off to get her shoes on.

Surprisingly, she managed to make it outside before the first sob broke free.

THE MOON'S RAYS illuminated Nadine's path as she walked through the desolate streets of Dallas, kicking a stone in front of her. There was a lump in her throat that refused to depart, even after she'd finished crying—a long, drawn-out sobbing session that was utterly out if character. But she couldn't help it.

Molly believed her. The illusion of the Moon had been enough to prove that she was telling the truth. But Nadine had seen the terror in Molly's eyes, the overwhelming burden that Nadine had wrought weighing down her shoulders. And then, suddenly, she hadn't seen Molly at all—instead, there was Colette, thirteen years old, averting her eyes whenever Nadine looked her way. Then Manon, seventeen, screaming at Nadine after she broke Blaise Chapelle's nose (he'd spat at her a word that Nadine felt sick to even think of). Mirabelle, twenty-four, who had always been so sick, so fucking sick of Nadine's constant flashbacks to the Incident, the debilitating terrors that would plague her dreams. Camille, twenty-eight, sitting Nadine down at that damn café and telling her it just wasn't going to work out.

Finally, there was Vanya. Not the Vanya from today, who didn't remember Nadine's name. The Vanya who seemed lighter, somehow, as if not knowing the Umbrella Academy—not knowing Nadine—had cured her of her darkness. No, she hadn't seen that Vanya. She'd seen the Vanya of two years ago, power a whirlwind around her. The Vanya with blood on her hands and dripping from her violin bow. The Vanya whose face had been screwed up, who'd turned to Nadine and said, "You've never been a part of this."

By now, they'd become a mantra in her mind. Colette. Manon. Mirabelle. Camille. Vanya. All of the women she'd loved but hadn't been enough for.

After Camille had broken up with her, Nadine had wondered if this was her curse. Was she doomed to leave a trail of women behind her that she just wasn't good enough for? Would Molly be added to the end of the list, forcing Nadine to close off her heart once and for all?

Now that Nadine was finished crying, she was strangely blank. Although she swore her insides were rotting, wilting like fallen stems, her face remained wiped clean, as if someone had taken an eraser to it. Her tears were still frozen on her cheeks, their tracks etching lines into her skin, and her eyes were still clearly rimmed with red. Yet, she made no effort to wipe this clear evidence of her heartache away. Maybe the world should see. Maybe the world should know. Maybe she should scream into the sky and warn it that she was going to shatter all over again.

Every time she thought she'd pieced herself together, there was another girl, another woman. Another one who seeped through the cracks into Nadine's heart, who rooted there like a bird to its nest. And Nadine swore that this would be the one that stayed.

But there was always heartbreak. Always another piece of her chipped away when the bird inevitably took flight again.

She won't want me, Nadine thought. The toe of her heel ground into the rock, sending it skittering forward. It skipped over top a cigarette butt and a candy wrapper, then stopped beside a bench. I can't even blame her. Who wants a girlfriend who brings such chaos wherever she goes?

Even though it was late, Nadine could still hear police sirens. Their wails cut through the air, and Nadine closed her eyes, breathing them in. They sounded like babies crying, flailing their little fists into the air. It was an appropriate way to set the mood.

She might've gone on like this. She might have carved a path through the night, taking that single stone with her. She might have found her way to an open field, where she'd trek through the long fronds of grass until her feet went numb. Or she might have made her way to the diner, which was open twenty-four hours a day, and ordered herself a tower of waffles so large it would hit the ceiling. She might have headed back to Elliott's, crept inside so as to not wake the others, and ignored their questions in the morning.

She might have even gone back home, eventually. Might have braced herself for Molly's inevitable rejection.

There were a lot of things she could do—would've done. But they were all thrown out the window when she heard the scream.

It was a muffled sort of scream, the kind that occurs from beneath a punishing hand. It was one that was obviously meant not to draw attention, but it drew Nadine's anyway, though only because she'd been so focused on letting in all sounds. It was a scream that carved out the letters D-A-N-G-E-R into the air, and perhaps if Nadine was wiser, and calmer, and less manic, she would've heeded that warning.

Instead, like the first victim in a horror movie, she found herself heading to the source of the sound.

Her walk had taken her back to downtown Dallas, now, though it was strangely quiet, save the ever-wailing sirens. If Nadine had been paying attention to the news, she would've known why. She would've known that residents had been ordered to close their stores early, to flee to their homes to evade the chaos. But Nadine hadn't been paying attention. So, to her, those empty, dark buildings were another sign for her to turn away.

She didn't. Instead, she kept moving forward, until she reached it.

An alleyway. Not the one near Commerce and Knox, where she'd dropped into two years ago. No, this alleyway was the gap between a twenty-four-hour laundromat and a cheap nail salon. Against one of its walls was a row of garbage bins, all of them being attacked by flies. Against the other...

It took Nadine a moment to process what she was seeing. A young woman, pressed up against an advertisement for perfume, her handbag at her feet. A man—a police officer—pushing himself against her. His lips were on hers, violent to the point of bruising. His hands...

His hands were moving up her skirt.

The muffled screaming was coming from the woman, who was hitting at him desperately. As Nadine stood there, frozen in place, she realized that it wasn't a hand that was muffling it. It was a pair of filthy lips.

The police officer, still in uniform, was larger than the woman—large enough that he could pin her in place with just the weight of his body. That left his hands free to do whatever he wanted, and Nadine knew right away exactly what he was planning.

She didn't think. She didn't even realize she was moving until she was on him, plowing into him with the force of an American football player. Her shoulder caught him in the chest, and it was enough—he fell to the ground, Nadine tumbling after him.

The woman broke away from the wall and picked up her handbag. She stood in the mouth of the alleyway for a moment, face pale with shock, looking down at Nadine with a trembling jaw. Although it was dark, Nadine could tell that she was in her twenties, at the oldest. And the man that she'd just tackled?

He had to be in his sixties.

"Go!" Nadine shouted at the woman. "Get out of here!"

The woman hesitated for a little longer, eyes moving from Nadine to the police officer. Then, clutching her handbag close to her chest, she ran.

The police officer grappled for his gun, but Nadine got there first. She took it in her hands and pointed it right at his head. She shook slightly, holding the gun as if it was a venomous animal, because as soon as she'd touched the weapon, a hoard of unpleasant memories had come to her mind. Then she reminded herself that this wasn't the first time she'd held a gun—no, that had been in the Super Star bowling alley, when she'd disarmed her attackers and sent bullets into their feet. Still, she was uneasy.

"What the fuck are you doing, you little bitch?" the police officer spat. By now, Nadine was straddling him, pinning his arms down with her legs, effectively rendering him trapped. He wasn't much taller than Nadine was, and it made him easy to dispatch—a police officer, taken out just like that. God... the realization struck Nadine. This repulsive asshole was supposed to be on duty. Instead, he'd taken advantage of the quiet streets to launch an attack on an unsuspecting woman.

It was no wonder Nadine hated law enforcement.

"Call me that again and I'll plant a bullet between your eyes." The confidence in Nadine's tone was false, but the hostility was real. It sprang from her tongue in the verbal equivalent of a slap. All rational parts of her mind—the parts that might have screamed at her to stop, to walk away now that the woman was free—had dissipated into nothingness. They were bullshit, anyway. If she just walked away, then there would be a new target, a new woman to push against the alleyway wall.

She couldn't walk away. This man—this rapist—needed to be taught a lesson.

The communicator on the cop's shoulder buzzed. Nadine seized it and threw it across the alleyway. It clattered at the foot of a garbage bin, and a tinny voice emanated out of it. "Officer Coldwell? Coldwell, you copy?"

"Put my gun down, little miss," said the police officer, leering. "You'll get yourself in trouble you can't get out of."

Nadine pressed the barrel into his forehead. Perhaps, if she wasn't in such a frenzied state, she would've bypassed the threats and simply knocked the man cold with his own gun. She'd done that, too, in 2019. It was as easy as pushing a button.

But today, after everything she'd been through, she couldn't do something that simple. "You should worry about yourself, you piece of shit," she spat. She hurled the words at him—he even flinched when each one hit. "You better think of one good reason why I shouldn't blast your brains out right now."

"You really want to get yourself in trouble with the Dallas Police?" he asked. "We can ruin your life, you know."

"I've already ruined my own life," said Nadine. She was shaking all over. "Nice try, though."

She couldn't walk away. This was the force she'd been fighting ever since she came to Dallas—no, not even Dallas, not even 1963. This was what she'd been fighting her entire life.

Nadine had her first kiss when she was ten years old. A boy in her eighth-grade class (fourth grade in America) had kissed her on a dare. Nadine had been eating lunch with her friends—back when she'd had real friends—and he'd walked right up to her, took her face in his boney hands, and kissed her on the lips. Being so young, he wasn't exactly an expert on the art. It had been more of a peck, a bird to a seed. But it had still been a kiss. And it had been without Nadine's permission.

That year, plenty of boys told her she was pretty. Even more expressed their puppy-love for her in the little boy way—or, in other words, they'd made her life miserable. Whether it was throwing gum in her hair, shoving her into a mud puddle, or pinching her hard enough to bruise, Nadine couldn't go anywhere without bullies following her. And if she tried to fight back? Well, that was a one-way trip to the principal's office.

"Boys will be boys," her teachers would say, punishing Nadine with lines while the boy who'd twanged her bra strap got off scot-free. "They're just picking on you because they like you," they'd chide, when Nadine found her homework scribbled over.

But they were hurting her, and Nadine wanted them to stop. And because her teachers wouldn't do anything, the only way to get them to stop was to use her fists.

The first time Nadine had been kissed, she hated it. It was repulsive, and slimy, like kissing a dead fish. Nadine had broken away and shoved her fist into the boy's gut. He'd broken into a crying fit. Nadine had been suspended for three days, and the boy got a strawberry lollipop.

This was only the beginning, though. For her entire life, Nadine had been trailed by harassment. Men wolf-whistled at her from their cars, even though she was thirteen and wearing her school uniform. Men sat a little too close to her on the train, spreading out their legs to trap her in the corner. Men asked why she didn't smile more, or told her to lighten up, sugar. Men she barely knew put their arms around her like they were old friends.

In Dallas, much of the same cycle, repeated, except this time, it was even more normalized. Leroy thought she didn't have the brains to be an Ichthyologist. Thomas balked at the fact that she wasn't married, and expected her to drop everything to become a baby-making machine for him. The racist at Stadtler's gawked openly at her breasts in public.

It wasn't like Nadine was the only woman dealing with this, either. Women all over the world, in 2019 or 1963, quietly dealt with the kind of trauma men would never understand. The trauma men didn't want to understand, because that might mean they were the bad guy all along.

Nadine wanted to protect them all. She wanted to build a wall around every woman who had ever been viewed as an object first and a person second. She wanted to be its shield, to stare down the men trying to burst their way in and laugh. You'll have to get through me first.

But the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Looking down into the police officer's eyes, Nadine knew he would do it again. And again, and again, until he left behind a path of broken, battered women. He'd be left off with a slap to the wrist, if he even got that. So it was to be a white man in power. They stood on a pedestal nobody could ever come close to reaching.

But Nadine wasn't looking to build her own pedestal. No. She sought only to knock his down.

⋆*✧･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ:

HAVEN: in any year, nearly one in five women will experience gender harassment. one in ten will experience unwanted sexual attention. 

sixty-five percent of women in the united states have been victims of street harassment (though this number is debatable—there is a chance of it being more). a 2007 survey showed that sixty-three percent of new york public transit users have been sexually harassed either on the subway or at the subway station.

nearly every woman you know has been a victim of some sort of gender-based harassment from a man. i have. my friends have. members of my family have. and i wish it was different, but it's not. none of the harassment spoken about in this chapter was in any way exaggerated. this is all real. and i wish it would end.

thank you for reading. if you ever need someone to reach out to, my pms are always open. i love you all <333