Strength and Salvation

The air grew heavier as she moved further from the port. The faint scent of salt gave way to the stench of spilled alcohol and cheap cigarettes. Narrow alleys glowed dimly under flickering neon signs, promising thrills to the desperate and the lonely. Bars lined the streets, their doors half-open, revealing shadows of women moving like ghosts under the weight of heavy music and even heavier burdens.

Her steps slowed as she neared a particular bar. A faint tension, almost imperceptible to others, stirred in her chest. It wasn’t just the sounds—the muffled screams or the thuds of violence behind closed doors—it was something deeper, a pull she couldn’t ignore. The repository awakened within her.

It wasn’t a physical place but an ancient, living archive within her—a collection of memories etched into her very being. With every scream, every bruise, and every stolen moment of a woman’s dignity, the repository grew heavier, filled with the weight of men’s cruelty across centuries. Tonight, it stirred, demanding action.

At the entrance of the bar, a woman’s cry shattered the clamor of music inside. The sharp crack of a slap followed.

She stopped, her heart pounding with a rage that was both hers and not hers alone. Her gaze fixed on the scene inside: a man, tall and red-faced, gripping a woman’s arm. His other hand rose again to strike. The woman flinched but didn’t cry out this time. Her silence carried its own despair.

The Peacock Woman stepped into the threshold, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, her tone calm but laced with an unshakable force.

The man turned, momentarily startled, before sneering. “Mind your business, lady. She’s mine. I’ll handle her how I see fit.”

The woman’s tear-streaked face turned toward her, eyes wide with silent hope, but also fear—a fear of hoping too much.

“She’s not yours,” The Peacock Woman replied, her voice cold as steel. “No one belongs to anyone. Especially not to someone like you.”

The man chuckled, a guttural sound that lacked true confidence. “And what are you gonna do? Call the cops? They don’t come down here. Walk away before you end up worse than her.”

She didn’t move. Instead, her gaze sharpened, and something ancient flickered within her eyes. The repository stirred again, as if pulling this man’s cruelty into its depths, cataloging his actions like so many others before him. His sneer faltered.

“I’ll ask you again,” she said, her voice now deeper, resonating with power. “Why are you doing this?”

“She didn’t listen to me,” he spat, taking a step back despite himself. “She needed to learn.”

The words hung in the air, sinking into the repository like stones into water. The Peacock Woman felt them resonate, joining the endless echoes of similar justifications, each one carved into the archive of her soul. The repository answered—not with words, but with a surge of righteous fury.

“Wrong answer.”

The air grew thick, charged with an unnatural energy. The lights from the neon signs flickered wildly, casting shifting shadows across the bar. The faint smell of earth after rain filled the room, an otherworldly scent that seemed to rise from her presence.

Her body began to change. It wasn’t immediate, but gradual, as though the transformation itself carried the weight of generations. Her skin shimmered with the iridescent hues of deep green and blue, her flesh giving way to feathers that glowed with an inner light. Her hands elongated, becoming graceful talons, and her face stretched, forming a sharp, regal beak.

The man stumbled backward, his bravado crumbling. “What the hell…?”

She didn’t respond. Her wings unfolded, massive and shimmering like a living constellation, her tail feathers spreading behind her in a fan of dazzling color. With a haunting cry that resonated like a thousand voices, she became fully The Peacock Woman—a being of grace, power, and fury.

The repository within her opened, pouring its weight into the room. The man cowered, clutching his head as though the memories were flooding into him, drowning him in the echoes of his own cruelty and that of countless others.

“Mercy!” he screamed. “I didn’t mean it! Please!”

The Peacock Woman advanced, her glowing form nearly brushing him as he scrambled toward the exit. He bolted into the night, tripping over his own feet in his desperation to escape.

The woman, still trembling, looked up at the radiant figure before her. Slowly, the Peacock Woman’s feathers receded, and she returned to her human form. She knelt, placing a hand gently on the woman’s shoulder.

“You’re safe now,” she said softly. “But you don’t need someone else to save you. You’re stronger than you know.”

Tears filled the woman’s eyes, but they were no longer tears of fear.

“What…what are you?” she whispered.

The Peacock Woman’s gaze was steady. “I am what they fear most—a mirror of their deeds.”

Without another word, she turned and walked into the night, her shadow fading into the dimly lit streets. Behind her, the faint hum of the repository settled, ready to record again when called