Cohost writing prompt: @Making-Up-A-Villain — Magical Girl Whose Uniform Has Bat Wings. And A Cloak. And A Lot Of Black. And Are We Sure She's Supposed To Be The Hero...?
"So you're Fern's squeeze, right?" Captain Clobber says, lurching unsteadily across the room, a limited-edition local brewery ale in hand. "That's. That's some getup you got, ain't it?"
"Yes," Memento Mori says.
Stormhammer's throwing an evaded-the-authorities housewarming party in his new loft in the meatpacking district, which is awkward in the way that shitty house parties full of antisocial strangers are. And then there's Memento Mori, sitting on Stormhammer's Febreze-damp kerb-find couch like the worst-posed Victorian sepulcher grotesque, feet flat on the floor, hands flat on her knees, the sinisterly impenetrable dark of her hood pointed dead ahead of her.
"Personal question, ha ha," Captain Clobber says, "but what's the — what's the deal? Are you, like, a human person in there?"
"Yes," Memento Mori says, "that is a personal question."
"Yeah but like." He tries to swig from his beer, then unsteadily squints into the empty, his other eye screwed shut. "But like. When you were younger — were you younger? Or did you start out just like, come into being somehow exactly the—"
"I am a magical girl," Memento Mori says.
"Haha?" Captain Clobber laughs experimentally. "Wow it's hard to tell if you're joking, ain't it?"
Infernaga drops heavily on the couch, pries one of Memento Mori's hands up, and transfers it to her own knee. "Last time anyone tried to follow that rabbit hole," she says, "—well, we're not allowed back into Philadelphia. Ever." She narrows her eyes up at him. "No further questions."
The stygian cowl turns toward her, pauses for long seconds, then turns back ahead. "No," Memento Mori agrees.