Aftermath—that’s the only word that comes to mind when I think about what followed Alice’s surrender to the RCMP. I stayed in the shadows, watching as she calmly disarmed herself and walked into the arms of the authorities. That single act of bravery might have been the only truly good thing to come out of what the media now calls the “Wonderland Incident.”
The media frenzy was inevitable, but the way they’ve chosen to portray Alice makes my stomach churn. Headlines scream accusations: “Mad Genius Turned Supervillain,” “DID and Danger: The Hidden Threat,” “Terror at Macentyre Systems.” They’ve latched onto her Dissociative Identity Disorder as if it’s some malevolent force in itself, a convenient scapegoat for their lurid narratives. Alice’s struggle with her mental health, her courage in seeking treatment, and the tragedy of what pushed her to the edge—none of it seems to matter. Instead, they’ve painted her as a monster, a symbol of chaos rather than a victim of betrayal and circumstance.
It’s been labeled the most sensational act of supervillainy in decades. The headlines tally the damage with cold precision: countless victims now in desperate need of psychological aid, billions of dollars lost, Macentyre Systems’ reputation dragged through the mud. Not one reporter seems to care about the woman at the center of it all—a brilliant, kind-hearted person who was pushed past her breaking point by the very people who should have protected her. Empathy is missing from every article, sympathy drowned in the din of angry, reactionary journalism.
The world is quick to cast blame, slow to understand.
But I remember the Alice I knew—the woman who, despite her struggles, wanted nothing more than to build a better world with her inventions. The woman who turned to whimsy and fantasy to make sense of a world that often alienated her. She wasn’t a monster. She wasn’t evil. She was broken by betrayal, by a system that thrives on greed and discards those who refuse to conform.
And now, as she sits in a high-security containment facility awaiting trial, I can’t help but wonder: will the world ever see the real Alice Little? Or will they cling to the story they’ve created, the fiction of the evil Wonderland Queen?
For her sake, and for the sake of everyone who has ever been misunderstood, I hope the truth prevails. But in this world, where the lines between hero and villain blur so easily, hope feels like a fragile thing.
I know Arthur has connections, and I’ve all but begged him to pull strings and get me assigned to Alice's case. I can’t just stand by and watch the system fail her. Alice doesn’t belong in some high-security prison for hardened supervillains; she needs help, understanding, and a second chance. She doesn’t deserve to be thrown into the same cell as the kind of people who exploit the world and destroy lives without remorse. I need this—I need a win.
After what the world has done to Alice, after Michael proved to be the true monster, it feels like the least I can do. And yet, I can’t stop the gnawing guilt that eats away at me. I feel like I failed her, like I should have done more, said more, been louder about my doubts when she first brought him around. If I had trusted my instincts—if I’d pushed harder—maybe none of this would have happened.
John might say my guilt is misplaced, that I couldn’t have stopped Michael or prevented Alice’s choices. But that doesn’t stop the whispers, the ones that say this is somehow my fault. That I could have saved her from all of this if I’d been a better friend, a better ally.
Whether that’s true or not, I can’t undo what’s been done. But I can fight for her now, and I will. For Alice—for the friend who once believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself—I’ll do whatever it takes.
I also need to make sure Michael doesn’t try to weasel out of this by playing the victim. He’s good at spinning narratives, but I doubt he’ll manage to buy his way out of this one—especially since Malcolm Macentyre froze his accounts and cut him off from the family fortune. I have to give Malcolm credit for that; it couldn’t have been easy learning that his son had not only been stealing from the company he built but was also betraying everything the Macentyre name stood for. Still, he did the right thing, even if it meant cutting ties with his own blood.
Michael deserves to have the book thrown at him. He deserves to rot in a cell and never see the light of day again. And given what I’ve uncovered, I think we can make that happen. Selling Project Wonderland to hostile military powers? That screams high treason. No amount of charm, excuses, or wealth will save him from the consequences of that. If I have anything to say about it, Michael Macentyre will finally face the judgment he’s been dodging his whole life.
I need this win, especially after the Agosta case. Seeing that dismissed before it even went to trial felt like a personal failure. A hitman with blood all over his hands gets to walk because of Bianca Ruso and her damned mob lawyers. That woman is just as guilty as Michael in my eyes. She’s as slick as they come, and her team managed to get crucial evidence thrown out by claiming it was tainted by anti-Italian bias. It’s a joke—a sick, disgusting joke. Now a forensic officer is under investigation by Internal Affairs, and I’d bet my last dollar it’s because someone in the department broke under the mob’s cash flow and planted enough seeds of doubt to derail the case.
It’s infuriating. People like Michael and Bianca keep thinking they’re untouchable, that the system can be bent to their will. But I refuse to let them win this time. I owe that to Alice. I owe it to every victim who’s been swept aside by the greed and corruption of people like them. This time, I’ll see justice done. No matter what it takes.
The worst part is carrying how much this hurts in secret. Coraline—she’s doing her best to console everyone: Martha, Jason, Alice’s parents, and poor Dorothy. Dorothy suffered more than most; the trauma nearly made her relapse. Watching her struggle to keep it together breaks my heart. The fact that she, along with the others—the people who truly know Alice—can forgive her speaks volumes. They don’t see her as a villain. They see the woman who needs help, the friend, the daughter, the genius they know and love. They want her to get the help she needs, and they’ve put their faith in me to make sure that happens.
I promised them I’d do everything in my power to fight for Alice. I won’t let them down, and I won’t let her down. But every time I see their faces, hear the cracks in their voices, or catch the glimmers of hope they’re holding onto so desperately, it feels like the weight of this burden doubles. I can’t let them see how much it hurts, how much I’ve questioned whether I could’ve done more to prevent this. They’re counting on me to be strong, to be the one who doesn’t falter. So I’ll carry it, even if it’s breaking me. For Alice. For all of them.
I’ve always known how ugly and cruel the world can be. I’ve known it since my grandfather was gunned down in the crossfire of a mob drive-by—a senseless act that shattered our family. I’ve seen it firsthand, both as a lawyer and as a crime fighter. But I never thought that ugliness would seep into the life of Alice Little, someone so kind, so brilliant, and so undeserving of the world’s malice.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt this hollow before. It’s as if the whole world has dimmed, the light that once flickered with hope now snuffed out. The evil feels ever-present, looming, and undefeatable. It’s in the system that failed her, in the media that vilifies her, and in the people who refuse to see the truth.
Alice didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve to be broken by someone she trusted or turned into a scapegoat by a society too eager to assign blame. And yet, here I am, watching her carry the weight of it all, wondering if the world I’ve fought so hard to protect is worth it. Right now, it feels darker than ever, and I don’t know if I have enough left in me to hold back the tide. But I have to try—I have to stand against the tide even if the waves crush me because it’s all I know how to do.
Even if I can’t win, I still have to fight. The Vulpes has to fight. Because if she doesn’t, who will? Who will stand up for the lost, the broken, the people thrown under the bus by a world that eagerly casts them as monsters just to have a scapegoat? Right now, it hurts—hurts more than I can put into words—but that’s exactly why I have to keep standing, to keep fighting. When it hurts the most, that’s when you have to weather the storm and press forward.
Maybe Wonderland was right about one thing: maybe the only justice in this world is the justice we make for ourselves. I can’t condone torture or murder, but I can understand. I can understand having no faith in the system, seeing only the worst in the powerful, and feeling like you have no other way to make things right.
So I’ll put the mask on again, likely as soon as the sun goes down. I’ll do it to force justice on those who escape it, to dig for the truth buried under money and corruption, and to remind myself that there are still people fighting for what’s right—even if we feel like a dwindling minority in a world that thrives on greed and cruelty.
Because that’s what the Vulpes does. That’s what I have to do.
– Coraline Penrose, the Vermillion Vulpes
