Evelyn pulled her hood tight, tugging the zipper of her costume until it was almost to her chin as another gust of wind carried beneath the underpass like a funnel, cooled by the temperamental waters of Kingsport Bay. She sat crouched atop a small length of concrete, watching the docks only a few yards away, tracking the figures of KCPD officers moving along its surface.

“Galaxy, ETA on the boat’s departure?” she called, pressing a finger to the earpiece she’d been given to keep contact with the young woman back at The Planetarium.

She awaited a response, the silence broken only by the wind setting waves to crash against the seawalls and the voices of the men on the docks, faint chatter that she could make out even over the distance.

There was no response.

“Galaxy? Are you reading me?”

Still nothing. She hissed a string of curses, having always held a marked disdain for all the gadgets and tools for reasons like this. Either the girl was busy, caught up in God knows what, which was its own unwelcome thought, or their comms were on the fritz - irritating, but something she could handle.

She rose into a stretch, before breaking into a sprint, keeping low to the seawall as she approached the pier. 

“ - in five, get those dickheads to the boat and let’s go. It’s fucking freezing.”

She could make out the complaints of one of the officers clad in uniform and a coat that threatened to swallow him whole. Towards the beginning of the dock, she could see the prisoners being led forward, most on foot and handcuffed, but a few pushed along - strapped to steel restraint devices like wheelchairs as they were loaded onto the boat. 

Amongst them was Gridiron, the sight of him bringing a smirk to Evelyn’s lips as she watched three guards push the mountain of a man across the pier, the wood creaking with every roll as they moved. He was clearly sedated, as were a few of the others, a necesary precaution for some of those deemed worthy of Fox Island, a place reserved for the worst of Kingsports unique criminal element.

Evelyn made a quick leap over the sea wall, pressing herself low in order to avoid being seen by any of the guards, lest she alert them to her attempted infiltration. Sea mists rolled along her check, sprinkling the side of her suit, and she was glad for the moisture wicking, or she would have been soaked. She approached the pier, halting in a slide across the few inches of beach front present beneath the dock.

“Climb up,” she heard, the same voice as before, “Any sudden movements or funny shit, and you’ll end up at the bottom of the bay.”

The engine hummed to life as the final few prisoners were loaded on.  She moved on all fours, keeping to the shadows as they began to press forward.

“Eyes on the fucking ground, scumbags. You look anywhere but between your god damn feet for the remainder of this ride and we’ll have issues.” Called another guard, voice gruff and low with the familiar rasp of a smoker.

There were two guards on the back, though given the threat of the cargo, their attention was turned towards the prisoner. She could hear, and smell even  - the scent of cheap cologne and sweat, several more in the cabin. As the boat began to pull off, churning low waves behind it as it began to drift from the dock, she broke into a run, wearing the darkness as cover as hands and boots kicked wet sand up as she darted along the shore. 

She leapt as she approached the edge of the bay, the motion carrying her the brief distance the boat had covered, landing with a silent whump, atop its roof. She paused for a moment, crouched low, one arm raised and prepared for attack if necessary as she waited to see if anyone had heard her approach over the roar of the engine driving them forth.

She kept low and on all fours, caution tensing her every muscle as she prowled forward, peering over the side of the roof which covered only the cabin and helm, gripping it tight. She could tell she was leaving her potentially exposed to the prisoners and two guards on the gathered on the deck unless pressed as close against the surface as possble - and even then only the cloud cover obscuring the moonlight had allowed for her to successfully remain unseen, only the smallest twin points of her hood’s cat ears visible in the darkness to those who might look, as she watched them people on the deck below.

She could see just how securely Gridiron’s restraints were from this angel, thick bands of steel fixing his arms and legs to the chair at several points as though he’d been soldered into the thing, his head held low with a series of chains affixed to something that looked like a bulging weight attached to the top of his helmet-head, forcing his neck into a slope.

The others were hardly better off, a few just as securely restrained in transport chairs fit for their respective, less imposing sizes, though indicative of abilities that made them a particular threat in transport. She scanned the sparse few faces she could make out from the angle, finding in them a myriad of differing yet related expressions; resignation, fury, and outright terror, as all came to terms with their new reality.

She supposed she couldn’t begrudge how any of them responded, even if it was their own actions that had landed them there. 

They were headed to Fox Island. 

Kingsport City’s most feared prison and perhaps one of the world’s most infamous due to the type of offender it housed. Despite the jokes and the comments about how it had struggled to hold some of the most infamous of its captives over the years - the reality of Kingsport was a staggering one. It was a cold, slab of steel and concrete beneath a shitty island in the freezing bay, housing the worst and most powerful people the city could offer.

And for most, it would be their last stop.

She watched as the two guards at the back scanned the rows of prisoners, balaclavas pulled over the lower halves of both men's faces, and rifles tucked close with fingers hovering near triggers. 

Jumpy, she thought, To be expected after the last few days. Can’t afford a slip-up, everyone here is going to be trigger-happy.

She slid back, staying low and being careful not to let the leather of her costume squeak against the fiberglass roof, setting in for the remainder of the almost fifteen-minute ride to the island, watching as the twinkling shoreline grew smaller and distant, and the black fleck on the night that seemed just a part of the horizon grew, a dark and imposing mass of land who’s eerie appearance still did no justice to the near machiavellian detention center below. 

The only sign of man’s touch on the island was the dock that they were approaching, an unmoving steel platform extending towards them, and a lighthouse watcher tower set up, twin lights fixed to a massive pillar one rotating lazily to warn any passing ships, the other roving across the waves and beachfront in seemingly random patterns in search of anyone leaving or approaching, who shouldn’t be.

Evelyn tensed, muttering a silent prayer that the spotlight had avoided the boat. Her prayers were answered as the vehicle approached, movement below audible as one of the men in the cabin stepped out, working to lower the anchor as the boat came to a lolling halt alongside the dock.

She watched, unmoving as the boat was cleared, heart freezing for a moment as she watched the spotlight draw near, only for it to follow along with the marching line of prisoners, being directed or carted off down a non-descript trail, disappearing behind the treeline.

She disembarked quickly, sprinting along the docks lest the spotlight rove in her direction, and making a b-line for the obscure path the inmates had taken, carving an almost hidden opening amidst the treeline, as she disappeared within. 

She stayed low, wary of cameras, sticking close to the path as she wove through the underbrush, and around the trees which towered like monuments to a world untouched by man, never letting the path or the group leave her line of sight.

They came to an abrupt halt atop a platform of concrete. It was large, almost 40 feet across at any side, and stuck out amidst the green, brown, and blacks of the brush like sore thumb - as the inmates and their guards piled atop it, guards angling themselves at the sides so that they were all facing inwards towards the prisoners. 

As the last guard made it securely on, there were a few seconds of silence before a loud rumble shook the island, followed by the groan of massive gears as the platform began to descend.

The next part would be the hardest, she knew, approaching the now pit in which the inmates were descending. She manifested her claws, peering down and waiting until they’d descended far enough that she knew she would remain unseen, before jumping fixing them firmly into the concrete walls of the pit as she began her climb to the bottom.

By the time she arrived, the platform had been cleared, leaving the room at the bottom empty - a massive cavernous tunnel of concrete and steel at the end of which sat a door in the wall of earth, sliding closed with a staggering slowness, its weight impeding its every inch of movement.

There would be no reaching Tracy from down here, she knew, and no need either. She’d memorized this place hours ago, she’d committed it to mind once more, this time with a specific location. She darted down the hall, sliding through the closing door with moments to spare as it shut with a thud. 

The room on the other end seemed to descend forever, as far as the eyes could tell, even her own making the floor difficult to discern. It was a square all the way down, steel floors ringed with railing and lined with so many cages she couldn’t begin to count, with so many bars she couldn’t begin to make out the inhabitants.

And the sounds…the smells…her eyes watered as she bit down hard. 

Still, there was no time to focus on that. She was here for one reason, to speak to one man. She climbed over the nearest railing and dropped, catching herself on the one below, and repeating the process, passing guards and prisoners as she timed her freefalls to avoid detection. 

By the time she arrived at the bottom, every muscle was tense. It was dark, the lights that illuminated the higher floors hardly reaching this low. ‘Floor 1’ was scrawled on one wall in fading white paint. Where they kept the worst of the worst. Somehow it was the most silent of all of the floors, a fact she found unshakably eerie as she drew nearer the room at the end of the hall.

She could hear it before she could see it. A tapping - rhythmic, almost musical, and continuous, echoed from the cell she approached. Her heart began to pick up, and she cursed the faint tingling of nerves she felt, the sound almost worsening the sensation of dread as she crept forward into the darkness.

“Heh, heh, can’t say I’m surprised, little kitty,” another few taps from the darkness, and Evelyn knew what she was hearing.

He was dancing she could almost see it now despite the darkness. Bare feet slapping against the filthy ground in a manic and yet strangely captivating motion. His face was covered by a makeshift mask, gray with holes ripped through it - the remnants of his shirt, leaving his chest bare for the world to see the countless scars and wounds that littered his chest.

Even then, he wore that fucking grin, and it made her blood boil.

“I knew you and I must have a dance, too much ties us, too too much.”

She tried her hardest to inject steel and grit into her tone as she spoke, but it was more difficult than she’d anticipated.

“Shut up, you lunatic,” she hissed, raising one hand and allowing the claws to manifest in a clear threat.

“I’m here to ask you some questions. If you answer them maybe, maybe, I won’t rip your throat out for what you did.”

The man only giggled, tapping his feet quicker in something she could only describe as a jig.

“Oh, I’ve done so many - many wonderful things. Put on such staggering performances and left audiences dead on their feet. But I don’t think I did what you’re here for to punish me,” his grin grew, fresh blood visible on cracked lips. 

“And what do you think that is?” she growled through gritted teeth.

“You think I made the Star fall…l,” he chuckled, but his expression quickly shifted into something serious, almost angry 

“But no, that finale was not mine. For my greatest dance partner I’d always reserved something…special.”

“So what are you saying, psychopath?” she spoke, trying her best to sound intimidating though she felt a new sort of unease, Tracy’s ideas playing back in her mind.

Something in his words made her feel strange, the confidence in them. The Dancer was a maniac, but he’d always been proud of his work, to deny this…it didn’t track

“I’m saying - I’m being framed, dearest kitty. I’m an artist, and artists don’t claim the work of others. I didn’t kill our precious Darkstar.”