Chapter Twelve
Vulpes had one week—a narrow window to either locate and stop Lyra Sinclair before her plot came to fruition or figure out exactly where the rave was being held. Failure wasn’t an option. The thought of hundreds of unsuspecting ravers being exposed to a massive dose of Psych-D sent a chill down her spine. The long-term damage to their minds would be catastrophic, let alone the chaos of trapping so many people in a drug-fueled nightmare.
Her police scanner crackled to life, jolting her from her thoughts.
"All units, report of a break-in at the Little Maple Daycare, four heavily armed suspects spotted on-site."
Vulpes blinked, her brow furrowing. A daycare? At this hour? It didn’t make any sense. What could a gang possibly gain from targeting such a place? Still, she couldn’t ignore it, especially if the suspects were as heavily armed as the report suggested. The distraction gnawed at her, knowing every minute wasted chasing random criminals was another minute closer to Psychedelic’s grand scheme.
“Damn it,” she muttered, veering the Silver Kit in the direction of the daycare. I’ll deal with this first, then get back to finding Sinclair.
A heavy dart slammed into a map of Toronto pinned to a corkboard, its tip embedding right in the middle of Queen’s Park. Psychedelic clapped her hands with delight, her rainbow-hued heart-shaped glasses catching the dim light of her lair.
“Ooooh, looks like our next Vulpes distraction is going to be Queen’s Park!” she declared, spinning on her heel and gesturing theatrically to a grinning thug in patched-up leather. “Go find one of the loonier gangs, give them some treats, and tell them to cause a ruckus for the foxy lady!”
She turned back to the corkboard, where multiple darts protruded from different points on the map. Each one marked an incident she had orchestrated: petty break-ins, violent outbursts, and strange, meaningless crimes.
Psychedelic twirled another dart between her fingers, her lips curling into a grin. “Ah, chaos is such a beautiful thing. Keep her running in circles until it’s too late. She’s clever, but let’s see how clever when she’s exhausted.”
The dart flew, striking another point on the map. Psychedelic giggled. “And after Queen’s Park... maybe we’ll send her to the docks! I hear the seagulls need a little excitement.”
Her subordinates scattered, eager to carry out her unpredictable whims, while she danced back to her table, spinning as she sang under her breath. “And the beat goes on, the beat goes on...”
For Psychedelic, this wasn’t just about throwing Vulpes off her trail—it was a game, and she was determined to keep the fox chasing shadows.
Coraline’s week became an exhausting blur. Between the mounting responsibilities at the firm, the delicate balancing act of maintaining her double life, and the string of senseless crimes that seemed to spring up without rhyme or reason, she was running on fumes. Every moment not spent in the courtroom or poring over legal briefs was dedicated to her patrols and the hunt for any sign of Lyra Sinclair—or Psychedelic, as she now styled herself.
It was like chasing smoke. Each time Vulpes thought she’d caught a thread to pull, it unraveled into another distraction. Street gangs across the city were wreaking havoc in entirely unrelated ways—raiding pharmacies, vandalizing city landmarks, even disrupting traffic with bizarre, coordinated stunts. None of it made sense, except that whoever was orchestrating it had deep pockets and a penchant for chaos.
Through sheer persistence, Coraline uncovered a key detail: the one pulling the strings was offering payment in high-end drugs, her messengers calling her Psychedelic. It confirmed what she already suspected—Doctor Sinclair was alive and thriving in her madness, weaponizing her brilliance for new and destructive ends.
But finding Psychedelic’s location proved frustratingly elusive. No one knew where she operated from. Payments to the gangs were left at random dead drops, and her orders came down through intermediaries or cryptic notes. Even the gangs didn’t seem to know her whereabouts, just that she paid in the kind of chemical highs that earned her near-religious devotion.
Vulpes rubbed her temples as she sat in the Silver Kit after yet another meaningless skirmish with a group of thugs who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell her anything useful. Her body ached from bruises earned in fights across the city, and the fatigue of sleepless nights was clawing at her focus.
“Psychedelic isn’t just a lunatic,” Coraline muttered, her voice low with frustration. “She’s a genius lunatic. She’s keeping me running in circles, and it’s working.”
Her hands tightened on the wheel as she stared out at the glowing skyline. She wasn’t just physically exhausted—her mental endurance was being tested. The crimes were unpredictable, unconnected, and deliberately erratic. They didn’t point anywhere.
But then Coraline’s jaw tightened. “No, that’s not true,” she whispered. “It all points to her.”
Every action Psychedelic orchestrated screamed her chaotic personality—a deliberate signature in every nonsensical act. It wasn’t meant to hide her trail; it was meant to overwhelm her pursuers, to drown them in noise while she prepared her real move.
Vulpes took a slow, deep breath. “Fine, Lyra. You want to play games? Let’s see who gets tired first.”
For the first time in days, she felt her resolve solidify. Psychedelic’s distractions were working, but they were also a sign that the real plan was still in motion.
Coraline dragged herself out of the Silver Kit, every muscle in her body protesting as the weight of fatigue bore down on her. Her armor felt heavier than ever, and even the act of standing straight seemed to require an extraordinary effort. John approached quickly, extending a steady hand to his friend.
“Got good news,” he said, his voice a mix of relief and urgency. “One of our contacts found out where the rave’s being held.”
Coraline’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowing. “Good,” she murmured, her voice hoarse. “It might be the only way to put a stop to th—”
She was interrupted by the sharp crackle of the police scanner, cutting through the Den’s quiet. The voice on the other end relayed the situation: a toy store being menaced by a gang of street thugs.
Her jaw clenched as she instinctively turned toward the scanner, already readying herself to head back out. But John stepped in front of her, his face a mixture of concern and frustration.
“No,” he said firmly. “You need sleep if you’re going to that rave, Coraline. Let the police, RCMP, or even one of Toronto’s other masked crime fighters handle this one. Please—for me?”
Coraline hesitated, the weight of his words cutting through her adrenaline-fueled resolve. John rarely asked anything of her, let alone with such a personal plea.
“You can’t keep burning the candle at both ends,” he added, his tone softening. “You’re not going to do anyone any good if you drop dead from exhaustion.”
Coraline exhaled slowly, her shoulders slumping. He was right, of course. The truth was, she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep going at this pace.
“Fine,” she conceded, the word heavy on her tongue. “But wake me the second anything changes—or if the rave starts earlier than expected.”
John nodded, visibly relieved. “Deal. Now, go get some rest, Coraline. You’re going to need it.”
Coraline gave him a faint smile and allowed herself to head toward the Den’s small, makeshift sleeping quarters. As she sank onto the cot, still clad in parts of her armor, her mind spun with plans and contingencies. But for now, she closed her eyes, letting sleep take her as the city outside continued its chaotic symphony without her.
Coraline groggily blinked awake to the aroma of coffee and the sight of John standing over her with a steaming cup and a tray of food. It wasn’t much—just one of those TV dinners with its compartments of rehydrated mystery meat, mashed potatoes, and a brownie—but after days of barely eating, it smelled like a feast.
She propped herself up, muttering her thanks as she tore into the meal. John leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, a look of quiet amusement on his face as she devoured the food with an intensity that only exhaustion could inspire.
“I figured you’d want at least an hour or two to prep,” he began, his voice calm but with an edge of urgency. “On top of travel time. The Retro Rave is being held at an abandoned roller derby disco just outside of Toronto proper. Place got shut down in seventy-nine. Used to be called the Disco Queen’s Court.”
Coraline paused mid-bite, raising an eyebrow. She washed down a mouthful of overly salty mashed potatoes with a swig of coffee, the absurdity of the name finally sinking in.
“Disco Queen’s Court?” she echoed, rolling her eyes. “Of course it is. How could Psychedelic resist something that kitschy?”
John chuckled softly, but his expression quickly turned serious. “This is her stage, Coraline. If she’s planning something big, this is where it’s going to happen. You need to be ready. This might not just be about stopping a rave.”
She nodded, her mind already racing. The location made sense. Isolated, spacious, and oozing with a retro aesthetic tailor-made for someone like Psychedelic. It was the perfect venue for her madness—and for an experiment that could destroy countless lives.
Coraline polished off the last of her food, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Prep the Silver Kit,” she said firmly. “If she wants to put on a show, I’ll make sure the curtain drops on her before the night’s over.”
John gave her a sharp nod and disappeared into the Den’s garage, leaving Coraline alone with her thoughts. She swung her legs off the cot, the weight of the coming confrontation settling over her. It wasn’t just about stopping Psychedelic; it was about making sure no one else paid the price for her own failure to save Lyra Sinclair.
She stood, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, and headed for her locker. It was time to suit up.
The Disco Queen’s Court, a roller rink from days gone, seemed as if it had been revived and transported back to the heyday of its youth. Neon lights flickered in vibrant pinks, blues, and greens, painting the cracked facade in dazzling hues. The Retro Rave as it had been called has turned it into a weird fusion of the modern rave scene and an homage to the summer of love.
The Disco Queen’s Court, a roller rink from days gone, seemed as if it had been revived and transported back to the heyday of its youth. Neon lights flickered in vibrant pinks, blues, and greens, painting the cracked facade in dazzling hues. The Retro Rave, as it had been dubbed, had turned the place into a surreal fusion of the modern rave scene and an homage to the Summer of Love. Psychedelic artwork covered the walls outside, vivid depictions of flowers, peace signs, and swirling, mind-bending patterns. Music from bygone eras, remixed with heavy electronic beats, pulsed from within, giving the event an electric, timeless vibe.
The air outside buzzed with anticipation as revelers streamed into the building. Groups of attendees, clad in tie-dye shirts, bell-bottoms, neon accessories, and vintage sunglasses, mingled in the parking lot. Some had come dressed in full 70s-inspired costumes, complete with platform shoes and sequined jumpsuits, while others mixed retro fashion with the glow-in-the-dark staples of a modern rave. The scent of incense and faint traces of questionable substances lingered in the cool night air.
Inside, the roller rink had been transformed into a sprawling dance floor. The old disco ball spun lazily overhead, scattering fragments of colored light across the crowd. Black lights made neon paint glow vividly on the dancers’ faces and arms, their movements a kaleidoscope of wild energy. The DJ booth, set up where the old skate rental counter used to be, was surrounded by pulsating LED panels that shifted between patterns of blooming flowers and hypnotic spirals.
On the far side of the rink, past the thrumming mass of bodies, were makeshift lounge areas where people lounged on beanbags and cushions, laughing and passing around drinks or other substances. Vendors lined the walls, selling everything from glow sticks and novelty sunglasses to handcrafted jewelry and psychedelic posters.
The music grew quiet for a moment, a rare lull that caused the sea of dancers to pause, their movements stilled by curiosity. The lights dimmed, leaving only faint glimmers of neon in the darkened space. Then, with a mechanical hum, a spotlight flicked to life, piercing through the haze of smoke machines and swirling colors. It found its mark at the center of the old roller-skating rink.
She stood there, commanding the space as if it were her personal stage. Dressed like a disco queen reborn, Psychedelic dazzled in a glittering silver jumpsuit that hugged her form, the sequins catching the light and refracting it in every direction. Her roller skates gleamed under the spotlight, their neon wheels glowing faintly as she struck a pose, hands on her hips and a wild grin plastered across her face. Her rainbow heart-shaped sunglasses perched perfectly on her nose, obscuring her eyes but not the mischief they promised.
The crowd erupted into cheers and applause, the energy of the room shifting into overdrive. Psychedelic basked in it, spinning slowly in place to let the audience take her in. She brought a microphone to her lips, her voice smooth yet electrified with manic energy as it boomed over the sound system.
"Welcome, my beautiful freaks and funky friends!" she declared, her arms thrown wide as the crowd hollered in response. "Tonight is more than just a party—it’s a revolution! A kaleidoscope of chaos, a technicolor escape from the dull grind of this gray, gray world!"
She struck a dramatic pose, her skates gliding her a few feet forward as the crowd pressed closer to the rink’s edges, hanging on her every word. "The music, the lights, the love! It’s all part of the grand design, baby. A new age of freedom! A new way to see the world! Tonight, we throw off the chains of normalcy and embrace the beautiful madness that lives in each and every one of us!"
The crowd's cheers swelled into a tidal wave of excitement, shaking the very air inside the old rink. Psychedelic glided effortlessly across the smooth floor, her roller skates humming in time with the beat as the spotlight followed her every move. The shimmering silver of her jumpsuit seemed to dance with her, catching the neon and refracting it like a prism, dazzling the ecstatic audience.
“Tonight,” she purred into the microphone, her voice dripping with mischief and charisma, “I’m your sultry psychedelic siren, here to remind you that the Summer of Sixty-Nine never has to end!”
The audience erupted, arms thrown in the air, voices screaming in collective euphoria. With a dramatic flourish, Psychedelic tossed her head back, her heart-shaped sunglasses gleaming under the lights as she struck a triumphant pose. Then, with a snap of her fingers, the music shifted gears—a funky, bass-heavy beat straight out of the disco era thundered across the rave, filling the space with pulsating rhythms.
The crowd surged forward, caught up in her energy as she rolled and twirled across the rink, her movements smooth and hypnotic. “That’s right!” she shouted, spinning in place, arms outstretched like a conductor orchestrating the chaos. “Let’s keep the groove alive, baby! Let’s burn so bright that the gray world outside can’t stand it!”
Every step she took, every move of her skates was deliberate, weaving an intoxicating spell over her audience. They cheered louder, their bodies moving to the rhythm she set, the energy of the room palpable as they fed off her wild charisma. Psychedelic laughed, a sound like silver bells laced with madness, and threw herself into a dramatic glide across the rink, the spotlight chasing her like a star across the night sky.
Tonight wasn’t just a party—it was a performance, a declaration of her presence in the world, and she intended to make it unforgettable.
Behind the glamour and bright lights in the dark and gritty bowls of the Roller Rink figures were on patrol, they were far from the eager young ravers, hardened and armed men wearing tie dyed Tees and iconic yellow happy face pins and peace signs that stood on contrast to the guns they were armed with, guns that had been garishly painted and adorned with colourful stickers. Their faces were obscured by brightly coloured gas masks creating a strangely menacing look. Two guards with pink shotguns were patrolling the perimeter.
"So, this whole place is like some kind gas chamber huh?" inquired first.
After a few moments of thought the second replied "Yeah that's how the boss set it up, plan is we gas 'em them rob them blind"
"Money is money I guess and it makes the boss happy and I don't want to see her unhappy" offered the first thoughtfully.
"Yeah, she is kinda scary when she gets mad" the second replied his voice hinting with fear of the mad woman who was in charge.
The guards barely had time to react as the sudden snap of a line echoed in the darkened corridor. They were yanked off their feet with a startled grunt, their brightly painted shotguns clattering to the floor. The faint creak of ropes and the shuffle of boots against the rafters were the only sounds left as their muffled cries of alarm were swiftly silenced.
High above the gritty underbelly of the roller rink, the Vulpes crouched, her form shrouded in shadow. Her eyes glinted beneath her mask as she secured the now-unconscious guards with precision.
She descended silently, her gauntleted hands gripping the line as she lowered herself into the hallway. With a deft motion, she retrieved the discarded shotguns, examining their garish paint jobs with a mixture of disdain and curiosity. "More form than function," she muttered, setting them aside.
Her gaze shifted to the gas masks still strapped to the guards' faces. The design wasn't random—these were custom-made, and they looked like they were built to filter something very specific. Something she suspected would soon be coursing through the ventilation system.
"Gas chamber," she murmured, echoing the guard's earlier words. "Of course, she’d turn this whole place into one giant trip."
A faint hum of bass-heavy music reverberated even down here, and she knew the party above was in full swing. Time was short. If she didn’t act fast, she’d have an entire building full of ravers falling victim to whatever chaos Doctor Lyra Sinclair—Psychedelic—had cooked up.
She crept down the hallway, slipping past graffiti-covered walls and dimly flickering fluorescent lights. Her next target was clear: the ventilation system. If she could find and disable the dispersal mechanism, she might be able to stop this madness before it started. But as she moved deeper into the belly of the rink, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone—or something—was already watching her.
The Vulpes moved with surgical precision, her body low to the ground as she advanced deeper into the bowels of the roller rink. Every shadow was her ally, every flicker of light an opportunity. The rhythmic pulse of the rave above was a reminder of how little time she had. If Psychedelic was as unpredictable and theatrical as she seemed, then the moment her performance ended, the gas would pour into the crowded arena, turning the party into a hallucinogenic nightmare.
Her path was blocked by another pair of gang members, their garish masks glowing faintly in the dim light as they chatted idly, oblivious to the danger in their midst. One leaned casually against the wall, a handgun resting loosely in his grip, while the other fiddled with a colorful inhaler.
Vulpes didn’t hesitate. She sprang from the shadows, her claws catching the inhaler-wielding thug first. A swift strike to his solar plexus left him gasping, and she pivoted, using his own body to block the second thug’s line of sight. Before he could react, she drove her elbow into his temple, dropping him like a sack of bricks.
"Too slow," she muttered, catching the inhaler mid-fall and tucking it into her utility belt for later analysis. She had no time to dwell on her victories.
She spotted a map pinned to a wall near the guards—a crudely scrawled layout of the rink and its infrastructure. Her eyes zeroed in on a marked section labeled "Ventilation Hub." A line had been drawn from the hub to the arena above, with a note in bright red crayon: "Gas dispersal control. Showtime!"
"Gotcha," she whispered, memorising the path.
The music above shifted gears, a new beat building, faster, more intense. Her heart sank as she realised the tempo matched her limited window of opportunity. Psychedelic’s showstopper was imminent, and so was the chaos it would unleash.
Steeling herself, Vulpes moved quickly but cautiously. Every second counted, but rushing blindly would only get her caught—or worse. As she rounded the next corner, she found herself staring at a fortified door marked "Staff Only."
Two more guards stood watch, their stances more alert than the others she'd encountered. These weren’t the distracted flunkies she’d faced so far. One of them hefted a shotgun, while the other cradled a stun baton that crackled ominously with energy.
"This just keeps getting better," Vulpes muttered, formulating a plan. She had no choice but to take them down—and fast.
The faint hiss of the smoke bomb was drowned out by the pulsing music above, and the two guards had no time to react. The sphere burst with a muted pop, and dark smoke billowed out, thick and cloying, filling the narrow hallway.
"What the hell?!" one guard shouted, his voice ragged as he coughed, waving his shotgun blindly through the air.
The Vulpes struck. Silent as the shadows, she emerged from the haze, taking advantage of their disorientation. Her climbing claws raked across the shotgun guard’s wrists in a precise motion, sending the weapon clattering to the floor. Before he could cry out, she followed up with a spinning kick to the side of his head, dropping him into unconsciousness.
Vulpes dodged effortlessly, ducking beneath the wild swing and slipping behind him. She grabbed his arm, twisting it sharply, forcing the baton to fall from his grip with a pained yelp. A quick strike to his kidney sent him crumpling to his knees.
As the smoke began to clear, she stood over the incapacitated guards, adjusting her gauntlets with a grim determination. "You should’ve invested in better training," she muttered, grabbing a keyring from one guard’s belt.
The fortified door loomed ahead, the words "Staff Only" now barely visible through the thinning haze. Vulpes didn’t hesitate. She stepped over the unconscious guards, finding the right key with practised efficiency, and unlocked the door.
The room beyond was dimly lit, filled with pipes, tanks, and industrial machinery humming softly. Her eyes scanned the space quickly, landing on a central console labeled "Ventilation Control."
A timer flashed ominously on the console: 01:56... 01:55... 01:54...
She didn't have long, She knelt down and examined the device as she races over ways to stop the heavy duty mechanism. She didn't have time to figure out how it worked and just shut it down or figure out the power source she realised every second she spent trying to figure it out was one second closer to doom. She hated doing things quick and dirty but she didn't have much choice. She drew out a small canister and started to spray a gel onto the surface. The reaction was nearly instant as the gel flashed and burned with a sudden intense heat cutting an opening in the side of the machine.
The gel burned through the metal casing with a hiss, molten droplets sizzling as they hit the floor. The acrid smell of scorched machinery filled the air as Vulpes worked with surgical precision, keeping her breathing steady despite the rapidly ticking timer.
"Time to get creative," she muttered, pulling a compact incendiary device from her belt. The small, cylindrical explosive wasn’t designed for elegance—it was raw, disruptive power in a neat package.
She glanced at the timer again: 01:23... 01:22...
No time to hesitate. She pushed the device into the exposed guts of the ventilation mechanism, wedging it deep between the pipes and circuits. She flicked a switch on the device, arming it with a countdown of its own. The digital display blinked: 00:45.
The console’s timer continued its relentless countdown: 00:38... 00:37...
She dashed to the corner of the room, crouching low behind a heavy maintenance cabinet. Her body tensed, every nerve on edge as she listened to the hum of the ventilation system.
00:03... 00:02... 00:01.
The explosion erupted with a sharp BOOM, the incendiary device releasing a torrent of fire and shrapnel that gutted the console. Sparks rained down, and the air filled with the sound of machinery grinding to a halt. The timer’s display flickered and died, replaced by a satisfying silence.
Smoke billowed from the destroyed mechanism, and the faint hum of the ventilation system fell still. Vulpes let out a breath, adrenaline still coursing through her veins. "That should do it."
She stood, brushing off debris, but her victory was short-lived. Above her, the music abruptly cut out, replaced by the sound of Psychedelic’s amplified voice echoing over the speakers.
"Well, well, well! Looks like we’ve got ourselves a party crasher!" Psychedelic’s voice dripped with amusement, followed by her signature laugh. "Don’t be shy, foxy lady. Come join us on the dance floor—I insist! After all, this party is as much for you as it is for me!"
The crowd above erupted into confused murmurs as the lights flickered, shifting into a chaotic strobe. Vulpes straightened, her jaw tightening. The real fight was just beginning.
Psychedelic stood at the centre of the rink with a grin on her face "Oh, round three is starting to look just like round one! Vulpes will swoop in and ruin my toy but there is one difference this time! I have more playmates and better accessories! Tyrone! Gun!" She snapped at one of her goons who hurried to bring her an old fashioned tommy gun with a drum magazine adorned with garish pastel colours. Psychedelic took up the gun and let out a tittering giggle. "No do be a dear Tyrone and... kill that foxy bitch for momma!"
The rink erupted into chaos as Psychedelic spun on her roller skates, the garish tommy gun in her hands adding a surreal twist to the scene. The crowd gasped, scrambling back toward the edges of the rink, unsure whether this was part of the performance or a real threat.
Tyrone, a hulking enforcer clad in a tie-dyed leather vest and a gas mask, cracked his knuckles as he stalked forward, armed with a massive sledgehammer painted in clashing neon colours, he casually unslung from across his wide back. His muscles rippled with every step, and he looked more than eager to crush anyone who got too close to Psychedelic.
From her hidden position in the rafters, Vulpes took in the scene. Psychedelic had turned the rink into her stage, her deranged charisma mesmerising her goons and terrifying the ravers. The tommy gun twirled in her hands like a prop in an absurd stage play, but the way she casually handled the weapon made it clear she wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
Vulpes didn’t have much choice, the rink was too open, too brightly lit and if she didn’t act Psychedelic might just decide to focus on the crowd rather than her. This wasn’t how she liked to fight, but she had no choice as she came into the rink prepared to keep the mad woman and her goons attention on her so people could escape.
So she dropped into plain view, her cape draped around her shoulders, yellow lenses flickering in the erratic lights, she extended a hand and motioned for Tyrone to come get some.
"You heard momma, Tyrone!" Psychedelic called out, clapping her hands. "Get cracking!"
Vulpes gritted her teeth. She needed to neutralize Psychedelic and her entourage without causing a stampede. The crowd’s panic was already simmering, and the last thing she needed was an uncontrolled mob making the situation worse.
Psychedelic laughed and The tommy gun barked to life, spraying a line of brightly coloured tracer rounds that stitched across the rink. The bullets pinged off metal supports and shattered a nearby mirror ball, sending shards of reflective glass raining down. Screams erupted as the crowd finally began to scatter, pushing and shoving their way toward the exits.
Tyrone roared, hefting his sledgehammer and charging with terrifying speed for a man his size. Vulpes hurled one smoke grenade at his feet, the canister hissing as a thick cloud of smoke enveloped the rink’s center. Her other hand snapped a retractable baton out, a man as big as Tyrone was going to require a force multiplier.
"Aww, spoiling my view!" Psychedelic pouted, firing another burst into the smoke. "That’s okay, Vulpes. I’ve got plenty of bullets for you!"
Through the smoke, Vulpes heard Tyrone’s heavy footsteps barreling toward her. She ducked low, sidestepping just as the massive hammer came crashing down where she had stood. The impact cracked the floorboards, sending splinters flying.
Vulpes whipped around, striking Tyrone’s exposed wrist with her baton, forcing him to drop the hammer. A swift kick to his knee brought him down with a grunt, and she followed up with a well-placed jab to the side of his neck, knocking him unconscious.
"Oh, Tyrone, you big baby," Psychedelic cooed, shaking her head as she spun toward Vulpes. "Looks like I’ll have to take care of you myself!"
Vulpes narrowed her eyes, gripping her baton as she closed in. "Your party’s over, Lyra."
"Party’s just getting started, darling!" Psychedelic replied, raising her tommy gun with a manic grin. "The party I threw just for you! So I could thank you for helping Lyra see the truth!"
The Truth? That's what she called it? and moreover this was all for her? Psychedelic had wanted Vulpes to be here to thank her? A pang of guilt rose in her and Vulpes retorted calmly. "You aren't well Lyra, you need medical help"
Psychedelic froze mid-spin, her heart-shaped sunglasses gleaming under the shattered mirror ball’s flickering reflections. Her manic grin twisted into something darker—mockery, disdain, maybe even hurt. She cocked her head to the side, like a curious predator.
"Medical help?" she repeated, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Darling, I am the help. Lyra needed me. I saved her from her dreary little world of rules and restrictions, of ethics and morality. And you—you started it all!"
Psychedelic pointed the garishly painted tommy gun at Vulpes, her finger resting lightly on the trigger. "You opened Lyra’s eyes, showed her the chaos she was blind to. And for that, I owe you everything. So I thought, why not throw a party? One last hoorah for Toronto’s lovely little fox before I show everyone the Truth!"
The pang of guilt in Vulpes' chest tightened, but she forced herself to stay composed. "This isn’t the truth, Lyra. This is madness. You’re hurting people—innocent people."
"Innocent?!" Psychedelic burst out laughing, the sound a twisted symphony of delight and derision. "Oh, sweetheart, there’s no such thing. Everyone’s guilty of something. I just give them the freedom to admit it—to revel in it. No more masks, no more lies. Just pure, unfiltered chaos!"
"You can’t believe that," Vulpes said firmly, stepping forward despite the tommy gun aimed at her. "Whatever happened to you... whatever you think I did to you... this isn’t who you are. Let me help you, Lyra."
Psychedelic’s grip on the gun tightened, and for a moment, her mask of insanity slipped, revealing something raw, something human. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a wide, gleaming grin.
"Help me? Oh, darling, you already did!" She pulled the trigger, unleashing another volley of bullets that tore through the rink, forcing Vulpes to dive for cover behind a toppled speaker. The thunderous sound of gunfire and Psychedelic’s laughter echoed through the arena.
Vulpes gritted her teeth, her mind racing. There was no reasoning with her—not like this. Psychedelic was too far gone, too wrapped up in her delusions. The only way to stop her now was to take her down, quickly and decisively, before anyone else got hurt.
