Pretty Hate Machine

By Erik Scott De Bie

Vivienne Cain has really fucked up this time, and the adults in the room aren’t covering for her anymore.

Her goth punk ass gets kicked out of Supergroup and shipped off to the Midwest (ugh!) to join the Agents of Awesome: a teenage superhero team of burnouts, weirdos, and potential villains.

In Chicago, she finds drama, excitement, and something she never expected:

A family.

One she has to protect.

• Language: English
• Publisher: DefCon One Publishing
• Release date: Jan 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9798215394069

Book preview

Pretty Hate Machine

Girl Vengeance Volume 1

Erik Scott de Bie

Copyright 2024 Erik Scott de Bie

Wren Fulton-Gray created by Kelsey Dawn Scott. Used with permission.

Danica Hase created by Kai Ford. Used with permission.

Artemis Castellanos created by Dawn Vogel. Used with permission.

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

Other Lady Vengeance Stories

The Justice/Vengeance Series

Libations for the Dead (DefCon One Publishing, 2023)

Other Stories

Vengeance on the Layover, Cobalt City Timeslip (Timid Pirate Publishing, 2010)

Angels of Mercy, Triumph over Tragedy (Terrene Press, 2013)

The Curse of the Bambino, This Mutant Life: Bad Company (Kalamity Press, 2013)

Queen of Demons, Monster Hunter: The Good Fight (Emby Press, 2015)

Baggage, Shadowed Souls (Roc, 2016)

Mother of Harlots, Cobalt City Dragonstorm (DefConOne Publishing, 2022)

Eye for an Eye (originally published as a part of Cobalt City Double Feature, 2012, Timid Pirate Publishing; reprinted 2018, DefCon One Publishing)

Femmes Fatale, with Amanda Cherry (DefCon One Publishing, 2022)

Bad Intentions (Femmes Fatale 2), with Amanda Cherry (DefCon One Publishing, 2023)

CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Kickstarter Backers

Content Warnings

Chapter 1: Criminal

Chapter 2: Bitch

Chapter 3: Head Like a Hole

Chapter 4: Down in It

Chapter 5: Come As You Are

Chapter 6: Terrible Lie

Chapter 7: Smells Like Teen Spirit

Chapter 8: We're in This Together Now

Chapter 9: Kinda I Want To

Chapter 10: That's What I Get

Chapter 11: Mama Said Knock You Out

Chapter 12: The Only Time

Chapter 13: Sanctified

Chapter 14: Something I Can Never Have

About the Author

About the Cover Artist

DEDICATION

For Mat, with love and admiration.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

You know how the common wisdom is don't write your campaign as a novel? Well, turns out I'm a bit of a rule-breaker, like my (anti-) heroine.

This book is loosely inspired by a tabletop roleplaying campaign that I ran with a number of talented, creative, big-hearted individuals, and that campaign inspired me to write these two books very loosely based on that campaign. It's very different from that original game, and only a couple of the characters or events in these books are similar to the original, as noted below. As in most things regarding Justice/Vengeance and/or Cobalt City, it's more about the vibes.

Kelsey Dawn Scott is the original creator of Wren The Shrike Fulton-Gray and also the creator of the wonderful cover for this book. Like her character in many respects, her cheerleading and enthusiasm have been a key part of the writing process, and I will be forever grateful.

Dawn Vogel is both the editor of this book and the creator of Artemis Artie Castellanos, the sweetest cinnamon roll who can knock a building down if she stumbles. Must protect. Dawn has also been a saint in terms of patience as this book came together, split into two books, etc.

A special tip of the hat to Kai Ford, who created a certain character who shows up in the book but isn't actually named until the second book. He knows who I mean. Thanks, buddy!

And last but nowhere near least, Mat Murakami was gamemaster, storyteller, and beating heart of the original story that inspired these books. I am eternally grateful and glad to call them friend. I hope I did honor to your story, Mat.

KICKSTARTER BACKERS

The following awesome individuals pledged to support this project!

Demand Vengeance!

Kelsey Dawn Scott aka Wren The Shrike Fulton-Gray

Supergroup!

Bryan Quadroman Maus, Chris Shipley, Sean Eric Fagan, The Masked Butler

Bartenders!

Lynda Shirreffs, Rynn Masterwork Idhril, Vi Mini Boss Tran

Last Call Regulars!

Austin Rainbow Mini Buelt, Ben Bone Fingers Dobyns, Carlos Ovalle, Derek Lindbloom, Dominic Franchetti, Doug the Merchant Meyer, Kai The King in Red Ford, Logan Bonner, Nancy West Johnson aka The Digital Celt, Randy Mcfadden, Scratchpad Publishing, The Year TWO THOUSAND

Patrons!

Alexandra Pitchford, Alice in Wonderland, Amanda Ratchford Cherry aka Ruby Killingsworth, Andrea Brandt, Brian Loremaster James, Bruce Rampage Cordell, Caroline Seadog Dombrowski, Chad Brown, Chris A. Jackson, Chris Tulach, Collin Shaneyfelt, Daniel Helmick, Daniel Kemler, Darren Morrissey, Derek Guder, Dwayne Farver, Eboni Obanero, Elizabeth Tereno, Eric C., Eric Slaney , Erica Vulpinfox Schmitt, Erick The Recluse Christgau, Erin M. Evans, Gabrielle Harbowy, Gerald The Corner of Story and Game Ford, Gina Catloverbooklover Costa Jones, Insane Angel Studios, J.M. Saul, James Do Hung LEE, James Baker, Jimmy Campbell, Jason Hatter, Jeff Pfaff, Jil The Goddess Scott, Joel Everett, Josh Vogt, Katherine Monasterio, Kian The Fox Grey, Lori Jadehorn Krell, Lynne The Empress de Bie, Matt Youngmark, Nick Epic Realms Sampson, Robert N. Emerson, Sara Kick Johnston, Sarah Grant, Scott James Magner, SE. Grizz, Sean K. Reynolds, Spike Murphy, Stephanie Bryant, Torrey Podmajersky, Travis Armstrong, VonEther, Will Willie G Lorenzo, Zan Christensen

CONTENT WARNINGS

Profanity, nudity, substance abuse, psychological abuse, demons, occultism, self-harm, violence, gore, sexual situations. Reader discretion is advised.

CHAPTER 1: CRIMINAL

The alarm buzzes, making her wince slightly despite herself. One ear still rings--the big fucker got her good there, and her hearing is still wonky.

They document her wounds with flashing Polaroids that don't make it any better. They bandage the cut on her forehead and her eyebrow and take another set of photos. More flashes. The puffy, split lip still oozes a bit of blood, salty on her tongue.

They press her fingers, one by one, down onto the little boxes. Her fingertips leave smears of black, and her hands are still stained when they stand her up.

Hold this, one bad-breathed cop says, practically drooling on her. She holds up the placard at an indifferent angle. His fingers linger for a second, but she doesn't give him the satisfaction of a look.

The Polaroid flash captures her from the front. The purple-black around her eyes is half-makeup, half-developing bruise. Like her.

Turn to the right. No, your right. No ... ugh, whatever.

The light flashes again. Her nose stings with occasional pulses of pain. Broken, probably. Not the first time.

They put her in a room. A gray, featureless, ten by ten room with a big mirror on one side. A camera. A poster that says Just say NO to drugs. Her purple eyes gleam in the two-way mirror. A challenge.

A chorus line of soggy pigs comes through, asking about what she saw. What she did. What she took tonight. Some of them get a little handsy. None of them get any answers.

The last one is even a woman--blonde and gold-skinned from too much sun, though how she manages that in rainy Seattle is anyone's guess. A Stepford-wife type; Fox News reporter in all but badge.

The girl doesn't talk to her either.

The whole time, she looks down at the Styrofoam cup of coffee they left for her, until it stops steaming. She doesn't touch it. She knows better.

Instead, she rubs her fingers together, scraping away flecks of black ink. Mostly she just smears it.

Another buzz. The door opens.

This time, it's a white guy like most of the others, but he's wearing a suit. Not a lawyer sort of suit, but a less perceptive suspect might make that mistake. He's a detective. His face is deeply lined, his voice gravelly, and his hair graying. The look he gives the girl is half-disgusted, half-exhausted.

You look terrible, the detective says. Those boys got in a couple good ones, huh?

The girl keeps staring at the coffee cup and scratching at her ink-stained fingers.

Says here-- The detective opens his notebook, puts a pair of reading glasses on his nose, and scans a couple lines. Officers responded to a disturbance at ... the Fenix. I've been there. That explains the goth outfit. Downtown, right? Wait--Pioneer Square.

The girl rolls her eyes.

The detective keeps reading over the notes. Says the report, teenage female ... Arab? Persian?

The girl glances at the detective, who updates the report.

Unnamed teenage female, five-foot-six, buck ten ... no ID on you. How old are you? If you're a minor, that has legal implications.

No reply.

Victims: three males, ages twenty-one, twenty-three, twenty-six. All of them in the hospital, one in surgery. Any comment?

The girl shrugs.

For someone who assaulted three people, the detective says. You're not helping your cause.

The girl continues to exercise her right to remain silent.

You know that whole thing assholes say about not hitting women? The detective clicks his tongue. That's only good until you call them a-- He refers to the report. A small dick wonder. Good one.

The compliment doesn't arouse any reaction.

So. You provoked the fight. Or was it some sort of party?

The girl looks at her smeared fingers, unimpressed.

I get it, the detective says. Sometimes, you just gotta fight. Y'know, for your right--

The girl looks at the detective with the utter insolence only the young and disaffected can manage. That expression is one-hundred percent whatever.

If the detective is disappointed by his pop culture fumble, he doesn't show it. You know, he says. Maybe it was self-defense. Or maybe you were helping somebody else. Girlfriend, maybe? Or--

The girl isn't paying attention. She's looking down at her chipped fingernails, the black lacquer of which has splintered and started to peel off. She picks at one of her nails, leaving little bits of black on the table.

Look. The detective closes the folder. I watch TV, you know. I know who you are.

That finally gets the girl's attention. Her wine-hued gaze, eyes bloodshot and full of anger, rises to meet that of the detective.

I'd like my phone call, the girl says, her voice husky and cracked.

She speaks. The detective pauses, then makes another note. Why do you think you get to use the phone?

"Law and Order, the girl says. It's this TV show. It's new. You should check it out."

Jesus Christ, the detective says. Well, that's not how it works--

It's not for me, the girl says. It's for you.

The detective frowns. What did you say?

The girl's purple gaze fixes on the detective. She doesn't back down one bit. Sitting there together, a kind of darkness swells around them. The detective visibly shivers and glances at the mirror on the wall. The girl follows his gaze and smiles at her own bruised expression.

There's another buzz, as of an electric lock opening. The red light on the surveillance camera blinks off.

Too late, the girl says.

The door clicks open, and the detective looks around, fingers curled tight on his pen. Also the revolver in his shoulder holster.

Too late.

A dark shape wraps around the detective, yanking him back tight against the chair. He tries to speak or shout, but the thick fabric muffles his voice. A vague outline of his features appears against the cape, and he struggles, blinded and unable to breathe.

The revolver comes up, but a gloved hand seizes it and holds it wide, fingers pressed hard into the detective's wrist. His fingers twitch and tremble, then the gun slips loose and clatters onto the interrogation table. That done, the gauntleted hand releases the detective's wrist, and an arm wraps around his neck, squeezing him back against a strong, Kevlar-armored chest. The detective chokes and gasps as the man uses his cape to smother him.

She reaches for the gun.

The sound of the report is a loud clap of thunder in the interrogation room, and a crack lances through the two-way mirror. The sound makes the detective shudder in startlement, but The Raven has cut off the flow of blood to his brain, and he can move only weakly.

Ringed with a handcuff attached to just a few links of chain, the girl's hand reaches across the table, her black-nailed fingers sparkling with purple energy. She touches the struggling detective trapped in the entangling cape, there's a flare of power, and the man jolts taut in his seat. His shrouded mouth goes wide as with terror, opening and closing soundlessly, and then he slumps to the floor.

The attacker lets him go, freeing up his cape in the process. He locks gazes with the girl, eyes vivid and dark behind the beaked mask.

The Raven is nothing if not efficient.

Viviana. His voice is rough with the texture of a Latin accent. He dangles a ring of keys he palmed off the detective. You could have waited.

She's always liked how Tony says her name. She says nothing as he unlocks her other cuff.

An alert sounds in the precinct, a deafening alarm out in the corridor. It seems they heard the gunshot. She hears rushing boots.

Hey. Vivienne looks up at him with a smile. You wanna fight some cops?

~

The red emergency lights flicker down the hall, accompanied by groans, cries, and the wet thump of flesh on flesh.

Tony pounces like a cat, leaping between targets with wild abandon and smashing them into the floor with his fists and feet. His cape swirls, obscuring the view of the cops, and he knocks their guns skittering out of their hands, which he then grabs and twists, tangling the men into a heap of confused bodies. He slips a fist and counters with a left hook that puts that cop down for the count. Even as the man falls, Tony pulls the pistol out of the man's holster and smashes the butt into the nose of the next cop to step up, even as he fumbles his own weapon. With five quick motions, Tony dismantles the gun and discards the pieces.

Vivienne comes up right behind him, her eyes blazing with purple fear energy, her mouth wide in a rictus of glee. She tackles that cop, smashing hook after hook into his ribs, and the man goes down as though she hit him with hammers. They're scared, the cops are, and that gives her power. Fueled by their fear, she punches as hard as Mike Tyson knocking the shit out of the Hurricane.

Three cops come around the corner, shouting commands, and level long guns at them. Tony hisses a warning, but Vivienne has this: she raises her hands and unleashes a wave of purple energy toward the cops, who shiver as it washes over them. Their eyes go wide, their mouths slacken, and most of them freeze in terror. Only one of them manages to fire, but her power has chased away all his training and coordination, so the bullets scatter wildly into the walls and ceiling.

Tony leaps away from the bullets' path, kicks off the wall, and hurls a trio of feather-shaped blades arcing down the hall to stab into a hand, an arm, and a torso. The first two cops fumble their weapons while the third sinks down, looking blankly at the shrapnel protruding from his gut. If Tony minds dealing a serious wound, he doesn't show it.

Vivienne smiles madly. These fuckers.

A door opens to the corridor and two more cops emerge, batons raised and swinging. One smashes into her jaw, jerking her head to the side, but she turns back, spits blood, and uppercuts the man off his feet with the enhanced strength of his own terror.

Tony is saying something, but her ears are ringing from the hit, and Vivienne doesn't understand. She looks at him, and his lips form the question are you all right? She nods ferociously. The heat and rage are flowing through her like blood, singing in her veins, and she laughs uproariously.

She's practically cackling.

These pigs should have picked on someone their own size.

And best of all, Supergroup will make it all go away, just like they always do.

~

No, Justice says.

No? Vivienne pats the package of frozen peas against her split lip. What do you mean, no?

No means no. Athena smirks.

Vivienne shoots her sister a glare. I wasn't talking to you, bitch.

She looks back to Justice, who sits at the apex of the star-shaped table in Supergroup Tower. Behind them, the Seattle skyline is cloudy and obscured, shifting slowly as the tower spins at a snail's pace, letting them take in the city. It's stormy tonight--unseasonably wild. She thinks that's lightning flickering in the distance. Appropriate.

We can overlook your legal entanglements, Justice says. The fighting, the drinking, the drugs, the public indecency ... I don't approve, but I know you're struggling. It's tough being young--

Don't condescend to me, Vivienne says. Just give it to me straight and neat.

Okay. Justice's silvery eyes are bright against his dark skin. No more second chances. You attacked a police precinct--

"Me and Tony."

The Raven will be disciplined appropriately, Justice assures her. We're talking about your unprovoked attack that left four men seriously injured, one in critical condition. He might die.

Sucks to suck, Vivienne says. Maybe if they were trained better--

Vivienne. Justice shakes his head. We have no choice but to remove you from the team.

Vivienne scoffs. "What does that mean?"

It means you're out, little sister, Athena said. You're fired.

Silence reigns in the council room. Lightning crackles out in the stormy night. Lightning that flashes in Justice's eyes.

This is bullshit, Vivienne says. "First you practically beg me to join, now you're kicking me out? Because I beat up a few pigs? Fuck you."

We must respect the law, Justice says. We are heroes. Not villains.

You fucking hypocrites. Vivienne sneers.