(she didn't normally take these jobs. syndicate is a big place, full of men, women, and children that were struggling. the women did what they could, sometimes turning to that same violence that shapes all that live in this horrid place where anyone can find themselves dead in an unmarked grave. sometimes by her hand, other times by gangsters and other bastards vying for power in this hell of their own making. their playground. a place of fantasy for them to live like kings using her services if they didn't wind up dead themselves. except recently she's been hearing rumors, talk about how working girls were being sought after lately. hookers were always bound to be found in places like this, not that they have it any better from her own experience, whether they're from syndicate or somewhere as glamorous as the eastside.
poor girls, even in this neon covered hell called the eastside that she's found herself within for this job. not that she's had it better, herself, despite being a killer for hire and one of the best money can buy. this job has had something off with it since the start. typically when gangsters have things they need her to, she'd recognize them by their affiliations. carnivores, yagyu, thou voodoos, it didn't matter....except, these people were new. didn't look like yagyu, didn't have the trademark brutality of the carnivores, and thou voodoos were crazy bastards of the main three she can think about. not that she's discounting the gonzales family or red falcon, but they didn't have their look, either. this job she were offered was something "simple", they said. money up front and on the table, more if she kills one woman in particular.
she can take a guess or two on why, from how they spoke like women were toys. angell for her part silently took the money and left quickly. she wasn't about to risk being alone with them for too much longer. half of this was following around her targets, learning their schedules, she's a thorough girl whenever it comes to these smaller details. the only issue is that she can't always go around stalking targets. her name is something that gets passed around syndicate and beyond, spoken like a boogeyman from the fear found in their eyes. "grim reaper", they say. a legend on the forums, one singular woman who has the ire of many.
obviously, that's what makes it unsurprising that her job was interrupted even on the eastside. her motorcycle had been parked nearby, this woman still in her bike helmet with music playing muffled underneath from her headphones once again found herself attacked. the corpses of those who did it were strewn about, she didn't seem fazed. most she did was wipe the blood off her sword and contemplate giving up for the day, this time, anyway. didn't seem like her target was up to anything, she hadn't seen that woman they set her after, nami, at all today, on top of it. all of this felt off, odd, wrong. she's already had alarm bells going off in her head, the thought that she might be walking into a trap is there while she moves corpses away from sight in this back alley. the blood isn't her concern from them that's left on concrete, drying up as time ticks by.
better to take care of this before some bougie men and women learned there had been a murder....or three, she muses darkly, to herself. from what she's turning over in her mind, she isn't positive if she should carry this out. never mind this off feeling, she's got enough problems with being considered, by societies standards, dangerous. the thoughts, however, pause. that off feeling she's had, magnified, malice. killing intent. she's lived as long as she has in this life thanks to this ability of hers, to drop fast the corpse she was dragging out of sight and slicing in half the bullet meant for her. who? where? she despises eastside buildings for a reason, they're all so flashy under neon lights for someone like her who sees and hears too well by normal standards. capable of hiding even practiced snipers before angell pauses, the malice had faded. but she notices, a figure in a window.
feminine. beneath her helmet, she frowns, but she moves fast to climb up the nearby fire exit. someone wants a meeting from the shot intentionally missing her head. perhaps even get some answers while she's at it. her steps are careful, climbing up fire escapes is easy, and she's doubtful this is one of her enemies. they'd have gone for taking the shot, not "testing" her reflexes from how intentional it seemed to be. one gloved hand sticks near her hip, along her sword's hilt, with glass shards being crushed further beneath her boots. golden eyes glow under her helmet almost, the cat slits of her pupils prominent in what glimpse of her face one might get when a pair of gloved fingers tap the top floors window. how polite, she muses to herself, that she went for knocking first instead of simply lifting the window open. that's more a bout of healthy paranoia on her end, she doesn't know what she's getting into, but she'll wait quietly.)
[It didn't matter if she was watching the city lights twinkling from a fancy high-rise building, or slumming it in some cheaply-constructed hovel. Just like it didn't matter if she was luxuriating in the finest quality sheets, or being shoved into some threadbare, scratchy mattress. Her work would always be the same, and her thoughts throughout would be unchanging, as well.
No, none of it matteredâ because whether they wear gaudy rings and smoke the priciest cigars, or whether they hunch over her with their scarred bodies and breath that reeks of cheap booze, the men are all the same. Ready to pay for a body to use for the night, a fake name and a quick thrill, before they continue on their way. Another day acting as if their lousy existence is guaranteed, and another night where another girl will do anything they want for a small sum that never fully makes it into her hands.
Does she hate it? Does that even matter? She has long since stopped complaining of the pain and the brutality and the misery of it all, having drowned in them and still finding herself alive to see another day. The sun rising and setting on a hunger for blood that seems to be her soul's only fuel, a decade-long pursuit of the bastards who stole what was precious to her.
So close. Tonight, TrĂ€neâ or Nami now, for she'll only let her real name be a curse for those menâ would have been so close to making one of the biggest leaps towards her goal. This blood-soaked warpath would finally bear fruit, and she'd at last come face to face with one of those wretched Hill-Myna executives who had destroyed both her hometown and her life. A man who was lining his pockets using that same hellish scheme, perfected in Kiebitzenberg, in a new country, preying on new women who had no idea what they were signing innocent lives away to.
Rumor had it that he was living lavishly in Eastside, possibly with a wife and familyâ not that his business in some of the top-ranked brothels would paint him in such a domestic light. Nami had done whatever she needed to in order to glean any scrap of information she could on this man. This body of hers was but an instrument of revenge, numb to whatever dirty deed she was tasked with fulfilling for the 'right' people. Nothing mattered, nothing except what she had to do to sneak her way into working at these fancier establishments. Fancier, given the location, but from what Nami understood, the man she was after had more extreme tastes, and so she found herself situated in some ritzy whorehouse that catered to harder fetishes.
It didn't matter. She was numb to everything but her unending rage, and the taste of blood upon her tongue.
Neon lights, the sound of nightlife, heady cologne and the smell of sex. Pretending. Waiting. Inching closer to being his for the night. Imagining how she'd kill him, until sleep took her for a scant few hours. Waiting. Ensuring that there was nary a screw loose in the metal of her fake right arm, hidden cleverly beneath imitation 'skin.' Imagining what her daughter might be doing, what she might look like, if she were still alive. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
Tonight should have been the night where she'd spill tainted blood, but there was a sneaking suspicion that only grew more intense, that things were not to go her way. When had she first noticed this unsettling feeling? This kind of life had forced her to hone her senses, to not proceed in ignorance nor with a prideful ego. Her own life was forever on the line, so long as her target was Hill-Myna. Those monsters had every paid-off protection in their back pocket, so was it any wonder that she felt like something or someone was creeping after her in the shadows?
At first, Nami thought it to be her own paranoia, until tonight. When, from her hiding spot in some empty suite near her 'work,' she catches sight of that skirmish that ends up with three dead bodies and a single woman standing over them as though this was all child's play.
Of course they'd send a woman.
It wasn't the first time, and Nami doubts it'd be the last. Her assassin is a capable one, too, and this rather bothersome fact is only further confirmed when she aims and fires her rifle mere inches away from the woman's heart, only for the bullet to be swiftly sliced in two in a split-second.
Nami could have killed her, she should haveâ why did she spare her? But when she thinks on it, those questions could very well have been turned against the woman tailing her. From this little show, why hadn't she killed Nami yet? Perhaps this was connected to why her client had reneged on their 'session' today. It likely was.
As she watches the woman disappear to scale the stairs of the fire escapeâ undoubtedly to meet with herâ Nami chews her lip in resentment, wondering bitterly why the gods of vengeance continue to refuse answering her nightly prayer. Another test. More waiting. But she was so closeâ
A knock on the window comes, a helmeted figure on the other side of the glass. There's no point in running, but it's not like she has any desire to. Perhaps she can make it out of this alive. Perhaps she can still get closer to her target. Perhaps the Rachegötter have heard her prayers, at last.
Her right hand still gripping the rifle, Nami uses her free hand to open the window, feeling the night air cooling the faint film of sweat she hadn't noticed collecting upon her skin.]
Guten Abend, FrÀulein.
[She smiles at her 'guest,' her blue eyes cold despite the charm in her tone. Her dark hair falls over her shoulders, and she certainly doesn't look like someone who would have any skill at being a sniper. The black leather of her tight-fitting dress catches the neon lights pulsing outside of the window, no doubt worn for her work. Nami takes a few steps back, her legs peeking from the deep slits of the dress as she does, and she appraises the woman before her, eyes falling obviously on the sword at her hip. A mirthless laugh fills the silence, and her own gloved hand clenches around the grip of her rifle.]
A shame. We could have met under different circumstancesâ but something tells me you didn't exactly come here to tie me up and fuck me. At least, not in a way that would be enjoyable for either of us.
the window opens, the golden eyes beneath that helmet is met with the face of her target. this woman that she's after. one might wonder, why isn't she moving? she has the fastest draw if earlier suggests something, but she also doesn't doubt this woman knows her way around someone taking a sword to a gun fight. her posture suggests distrust, while also not betraying that she has doubts on why she was put up to this. the fact she hasn't moved to finish this job says it plainly for angell.
the one and only top hitman, the boogeyman of syndicate and a living legend thanks to that reputation she's earned in her work. her hand doesn't leave her blade's hilt, fingers grip it without bothering to unsheathe it. hadn't she just shot at her? she can do it again, angell knows. but she isn't yet. from that tight-fitting dress under these neon lights, was she one of the whores that had gone as far as to take up those offers around? her gaze, what can be seen of her eyes, is thoughtful while the questions plays about her mind.)
....you're not an ordinary whore. (that isn't an insult, that's said as being truth. she isn't ordinary. an ordinary hooker doesn't attempt to kill someone that might be about to end them instead. most have a fight in them starting out, but it eventually wears them down. this miserable life. she's seen hard drugs passed around by working girls to ease the pain, sometimes even dream up something else that was better than how it's going. seen more things than most would imagine despite her prestigious rank.) I was right.
(what was she even right about? she's not saying that. those gangsters weren't from syndicate. not even from discity, is what her gut tells her. they smelled like trouble, like something that shouldn't be here, and almost seemed a little too excited at contacting her. like they uncovered things about her that angell knew nothing about. figures. she walked into this, took their money and decided to maintain silence with a decision to see what happens first.
which leaves this as part of her having more questions than answers. she has two ideas about how they expected this night to go, one was nami dying and angell being weakened for whatever the hell they seemed interested in given the leers of those men. she knows when someone is undressing her with their eyes. it always caused her instincts to flare up worse than expected, not to run, but to kill them before they make their move. the other isn't as obvious.
if they accounted on her being as smart as they say, that means they're on a time limit.)
No. I'm not here for that, also been thinking this is a setup....you know that those types account for that, right?
(she doesn't need to say it anymore bluntly than this. they both should have an inkling. it hasn't been an hour yet, angell knows that. her client hasn't bothered to contact her to see about any updates, either. if there's one thing about her, it's her intuition isn't wrong. not about this, not about how she glances down at the alley entrance and even the fire escapes own. she's expecting it, expecting trouble. she's waiting for it as that faint sound of cars passing by fills the air, the scent of sex from certain rooms and the muffled sounds of pleasure she catches faintly despite the sound of music from her headphones.
syndicate, eastside, it doesn't matter, does it?)
Nobody hires someone that will be suspicious of their offerings without it.
(what a headache, but she does believe they both have this understanding of how things can go. one dies, the other gets dragged away. they both even could, it isn't like her clients seemed to care. as soft as her voice is, it's clear and firm. she isn't used to talking, it's something notable in how she raised her voice to make sure she wasn't speaking too quietly. for someone there to kill this foreign woman, she seemed too calm about what is sounding like her job is deviating quickly. like she also expected that to happen, given she couldn't find anything on this woman.
nami. the name itself has to not be her real one, but she muses that makes two of them. her own name isn't exactly her true name, either. that's been long since abandoned underneath the blue rain covered streets of syndicate.)
Thirty minutes.
(thirty minutes of questions, despite the cryptic phrase and nothing more. she doesn't bother to remove her helmet, that's not important. no need. she'll need that whenever she makes her escape, with or without this woman. that and it's easier to avoid attention with one, the eastsiders never did take kindly to syndican trash like her. she already has the look of someone that doesn't belong in eastside. pale skin, the scars that stick out along her collar and stomach. her demeanor, too, they'd all be enraged their perfect world is breached by rough garbage like her. it's agitating to think about, or would be, if she were any younger.)
[On any other night, some john might've been thanking his lucky stars that he had not one, but two beautiful women in the same penthouse suite of this swanky brothel. Sure, he might have found himself caught in the middle of a potential bloodbath, but what's a little pleasure without a heavy dose of risk?
Alas, the only witnesses to such a tantalizing sight are the glaring lights that dance outside of the large windows, watching the two of them clutch their respective weapons while eyeing the other warily. Talk is cheap, after all, especially when the payment for a life has already changed hands. Nami doesn't expect a proper conversation with her would-be killer, but the first thing out of the other woman's mouth catches her off-guard.
That rather frank observation causes her to erupt in genuine laughter, the amusement finally touching her eyes this time. Or, eye in the singular sense. A particularly bright flash from one of the billboards outside casts an eerie light upon a faint scarring around her left eye, a prosthetic fitted in the socket that looks real enough to fool anyone less discerning. Tonight, she had decided on utilizing the one discretely embedded with the cameraâ she had intended on making that executive cough up the names and location of his cronies before giving him a different sort of death than what his money had paid for.
Wellâ in the end, someone is to die tonight, no? A grim thought, to be sure, though not grim enough to wipe the smile from Nami's face.]
You're not the kind of hitman that they would hire to snuff out some ordinary whore, FrÀulein. Most men would be happy enough to do it, themselves.
[If not the customers themselves, there were always the pimps or drug dealers who never seemed to shy away from some violence to keep their filthy little businesses running smoothly. Nami has seen enough to know that spending any more money to silence some run-of-the-mill hooker makes little sense, when there are so many out there who'd do it for free.]
I saw that bit of fun you had, down there in the alley.
[Her voice takes on a knowing edge, insinuating that someone like Angell doesn't come cheap. Not with those skills.
Nami doesn't ask what the woman is right aboutâ she doesn't really need to. She has a strong hunch about who might've hired her, and who exactly it is that they hired.]
You made quick work of them. Ein wahrer Todesengel.
[Who would have thought that she'd ever come face-to-face with the famous Grim Reaper herself? She had only thought the tales to be pointless pillow talk after her clients had their fill of her, happily talking her ear off of stories about a certain boogeyman who can kill without leaving a trace. Some of them would half-joke about hiring this Angell to take out political opponents, business rivals, and the like. Others were acquainted with people who had used her services, and who could only sing the hitwoman's praises at how cleanly she carried out the job.
An ally Nami wished she could have in her own back pocket, but without names, faces, or the vast sums necessary to commission such a legend for a hitâ well, it was cheaper to do the job herself. And besides, the satisfaction of their deaths needs to be hers alone. She has to see their final expression before she crushes them.
She can't die tonight. Not before she renders those bloodied fantasies into reality.
A setup, sounds about right. She can imagine that those bastards would want to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Taking out their old ghost from Kiebitzenberg for good, while forcing the infamous assassin to become one of their broodmares. What a mess they've found themselves in, these two womenâ that is, if they can't manage to both escape this unscathed.
Nami watches Angell carefully, catching how the woman casually mentions that she was suspicious of her own client's money. A killer with morals? Maybe she can twist this to her advantage, yet.]
Oh, I know quite a bit about those types. I wonderâ if you knew what I did, FrĂ€ulein, if you would still accept this job.
[She's not throwing her entire faith behind appealing to some sliver of morality that this assassin might have, but there must be a reason why she's still standing and not in some pile of corpses under the shadows of an alleyway.]
But you look like someone who will do almost anything, if the price is right. Wir sind gleich.
[Blood, sex, death, vengeanceâ are they really so different, when they're being puppeted by the same monsters who intend to carry on once these two have ceased to be useful?]
DreiĂig Minuten? That's fine. There are two things I want to know firstâ are you the 'Angel of West District', and is your client the Hill-Myna Corporation?
[She had her doubts about the second question being confirmedâ it's just as likely that it's some local gang affiliated with their protection, much like the yakuza had been in Japan. But answers are answers, and the more she knows, the fewer missteps she'll make next time.
Next timeâ there has to be a next time. Maybe the gods of vengeance have sent her an angel to watch over her.
(interesting. she's silent, climbing in through this open window while ignoring possibilities of the john coming in. doubtful he would be. they hired her, he must have known. his whore tonight wasn't going to be someone normal. angell holds no doubt in her mind that he sped off thinking that he's safe. that his hunter is gone, they'd have her locked away while the body is disposed of without much question behind it.
it's the words, the matter of her identity at the end, that causes her to be given pause. she's frowning, unseen, and the air feels nearly frigid at first. what is angell thinking about? on the job and at home while alone, she's two different people. she doesn't react to these words. the things said, the attempt at tugging at her sense of morality. this isn't a detail she lets anyone have in their hands freely. that she holds nothing against her targets. this was only a matter of living, surviving. nobody else had to die if they weren't her target. they didn't need to lose their lives in the grand scheme of things.
but she knew of her rep. eastside has no shortage of people wanting her services, the same way syndicate doesn't. both ends are rotten to the core. one more open than the other in the violence behind it, instead of sex and murder behind glamorous lights of neon color.
she wasn't wrong. she isn't at all, not when angell reaches eventually to grab her motorcycle helmet. originally, she intended to keep it on. pretend that nothing happened if things went that way, while considering this contract not worth her time if given opportunity to find her employer alone. but from how they spoke with her? she doubts it'd also be that easy, too. she was meat to them, something to fuck pretty and play ignorant to her pleas for it to stop as they carried on against her will.
they didn't care, she's simply a toy. the helmet lifts, revealing now the face beneath it. intimidating, cold, and imposing. gold eyes like a cat's own, sharp and piercing. lengthy strands of black and white falling along her shoulders as the ponytail it's been tied into slips out freely. attractive. beautiful, even, otherworldly in how she has a handsome face with sharp features themselves. from her jawline to her lips, not just those beautifully dangerous eyes that look so calm and indifferent to what's going to be happening tonight.
because she was right. the grim reaper, an angel of death. called upon by the masses when they wanted someone murdered. they held no reason not to call her. she is their tool, she even earns a pretty penny from it. six months worth of bills, food, anything else that she might have found herself needing from requests to end a life or two.)
....I don't recognize that as the name of the client, the request itself came from a new gang that's been rising fast in Syndicate.
(as calm as her expression is in its indifference and apathetic looks to it, one can notice that she's thinking. her posture is guarded, but that's a constant in her life while she glances again out the window. they're not there yet. the thirty minutes was how long she's assuming they'd have before trouble makes itself known on their temporarily door step.
there's no way they're leaving this without it. angell already has broken the contract by having this conversation and refusing to kill her as expected. or perhaps they did expect that. killing this nami meant she was gone, they might do as they please with angell after. forcibly partaking in a body that doesn't belong to them, to anyone, for that matter, while expecting her to have her own uses dried up when they're done with her.
that's what she believes she noticed, the intent of treating women like whores and abusing them for wanting something like money or a better life for their children.)
You know something, I only have suspicions.
(she can hear it, unlike nami. the faintest sounds of sex, the cries. not all were pleasure filled. if she were any younger, she might have found herself sickened by it. hearing women be fucked in such disgusting ways, vibrators and chains. comments she catches about how tight they are. more than that, though she can't tip her hand. not about how good her senses are, nami only has seen her reflexes are beyond normal for what would be a killer.
headache aside, she's taking a considerate approach in how much she might let out without spilling everything too quickly. they needed to get out of here, after all.)
However, you're right. I don't do anything without reason behind it, money might be on the table, but at the end of the day I don't kill without reason. There's nothing personal in it, it's only business. Me or them.
(someone has to die, is what she means. it won't be her that dies, not even with allowing herself to be captured by those bastards and their ideas for her.)
....that is me, also. Angell.
(if there is a god, he surely did send nami quite the angel. the one and only angel of west district. she isn't just the best that money can buy, but she has something of a heart within her. angell's surprisingly easy. easy to read when she wants to be, to figure out from simple remarks and idle moments of watching her catlike demeanor.)
I don't usually come to Eastside. They know how to make girls like us feel less than welcome.
(they always did that. making that clear how they felt about trash like them. syndican girls, girls who didn't fit their vibe and image. they're always the same. focusing on beauty, on things that shouldn't matter while any poor souls got lost in their attempts at following trends. angell's always been the sort to focus more on other things while denying the simplest of pleasures for herself. some might wonder how she's even alive were they to learn her habits.)
Not that you stick out, they just have a way of noticing when someone doesn't "fit" their image.
[Another night, another bitter disappointmentâ Hill-Myna's monsters have escaped her once again, living to gloat about their triumphs for another day.
Nami isn't surprised to learn what she had already suspected, that this despicable corporation had known well enough to cover their tracks and hand off all of their dirty workâ ha! as if their own hands weren't already irrevocably sulliedâ to whatever thugs who would gladly cash in their humanity for a significant sum. But the disappointment stings, either way, and the rage she feels wants to claw her bloody from the inside out.
She tempers it, though, having learned the hard lesson of giving in to that blind anger when she is still missing the necessary pieces to claim her ultimate victory.
Besides, the night may not be entirely a disappointmentâ after all, Death has come to pay her a visit. Nami is a bit surprised when the helmet is removed, revealing an icy attractiveness befitting a phantom killer from its otherworldly nature. Disarming, truly, but that's always been the most dangerous kind of beauty, no? How many get to behold such a sight and live to tell the tale? When Death comes calling, there tends to only be one path ahead.
Still, Nami thinks, if Death should have a face, it should be as beautiful as this one.
She'll appreciate that handsome woman in her own way, reaffirming to herself that it was indeed a pity that they had to meet this way. The time ticks on by, and Nami is quick to consider that whatever gangsters that Hill-Myna definitely had waiting in the wings aren't going to be like the petty thugs Angell had taken care of in the alley. There's a reason why Angell was called upon for this job, instead of pawning it off on to one of the gang members.
The hitwoman looks like she's contemplating something, and Nami decides that she'll take advantage of this reluctance over turning little rendezvous into proper carnage.]
The pleasure should be mine, shouldn't it, Angell? But, the two of us already know each other, nicht wahr?
[Introductions are a formality that seems laughably out of place in a world where only bodies and their uses are of paramount importance. That includes whores and killers. Still, Nami maintains a pleasant tone, though never letting her own guard down.]
Your suspicions are likely correct. Surely you didn't think that your payment was just for my head. You're more clever than that, if the stories I've heard are true.
[And she's heard plenty, enough that might have given her younger self nightmares, were Nami's entire life these past fifteen years not a nightmare in and of itself. She watches the bright colors of the city play across the impassive face of this Grim Reaper, and decides that she can sacrifice one of the cards that she has been holding close. She can afford itâ a better way of thinking, rather than accepting that she has no other choice.]
The client who hired you to kill me is a mere lackey for a company who's set up shop here in your lovely city, FrÀulein. Whatever they paid you is pittance compared to every dirty dollar filling their fat coffers. If you think you'll be free of them after you've delivered on your end of the bargain, you're sorely mistaken.
[A bitter look crosses her own expression, almost rueful, almost pitying this pretty woman who carries herself like she doesn't trust a single soul she walks amongst. They truly are the sameâ another reason why Nami feels like those bastards shouldn't get the satisfaction of ruining them both, tonight.
Chances are good that they'll send someone who can overpower Angell, locking her up for the company's own perverse use once the thorn in their side has been yanked out for good. What they'll to to Angell is likely to be on par with whatever sick acts are being carried out in the adjacent rooms of this brothel. Given the nature of this fetish establishment, the walls are thick and mostly soundproof, unless one's senses are unnaturally sharp.
But Nami doesn't need to hear the sounds to know what evil lurks in the hearts of these clients. She's lived it, over and over and overâ in Kiebitzenberg, in Huamei and Ishikunagi-jima, and now here in DisCity. This world, the world of purchased flesh and crumbling souls, is a world that will always continue to spin, no matter Nami's personal thoughts and experiences.
All she wants is to eradicate the men who had opened her eyes to the hell they've created on earth.
And they, too, have every reason to want to kill her, yet it seems as though this Angel of Death gets the final say in whose reasoning triumphs in the endâ contracts be damned.
All this does is instill a greater sense of confidence in Nami that she won't be dying tonight. Furthermore, that she and her would-be killer might have a chance at escaping a rather nastier fate together, should they combine their efforts.]
Then, let's go someplace where we won't stand out too much, ja? After all, a living corpse and a killer who failed her task certainly don't "fit in" around here, do they?
(This isn't anything personal. Some men were just that wicked, willing to destroy and crush those who made the mistake of crossing them. Angell is a tool for that. A means to an end, ruining those who were the poor souls that met her. Death is a beautiful creature. Her face cutting something sharp, lovely, for what most often see as their last in whatever bleak lives they had. She doesn't say it, he doesn't need to say anything more than that while listening along. Her sharper senses means she always might hear such things without meaning to. Sex, or worse than that in how the vague cries of pain plays about her ears through muffled music she has playing about.
She's a ghost.
Frightening, beautiful. Her hands another instrument while she thinks again that they wouldn't have much time to speak in this glamorous den of debauchery. Fetish clubs, brothels, dens of depraved pleasures that the rich often indulge in without complaint. They know she's here, the same way they know she's suspicious of them for their games they decided to play using her. It almost was too fitting she found herself once more dragged into another situation like at the start of her work as a killer.
Killers don't need introduction, the same way a whore doesn't with expectations they'll do the job right and well. Nothing more than people meant to be thrown away like tools once they've worn out their uses to the masses that use them. But she will admit, Nami is beautiful. The thought hangs and stays within her mind before being brushed aside for more important matters, they did need to get moving.
Soon. She gave the thirty as an estimate depending on how they play it, but they can arrive quicker than that or later. That also depends on if they were in a hurry to catch a cat and a woman who should be a corpse getting ready to make their move. Angell knows these streets, even if she doesn't always come to Eastside for a job. They might have people around, waiting, she doesn't wish to be seen as the one caught off guard by people intending to use her for other things that are not in her job description as a killer.
For that, she glances at the alley entrance again while her mind goes over everything. They have to do this with some caution, as well as recklessness girls like them can afford to have.)
....they've been gathering the prostitutes in Syndicate, too. However, they're not as fortunate as the girls here. Syndicate isn't a friendly place.
(It never was, maybe at the start, but now? Nobody lives easy in Syndicate without risk of the violence coming for them quickly. Good people don't last on those streets, she surely isn't doing anything more than surviving herself. They didn't need to know. Nobody else had to about what she deals with, Syndican women are a different breed and Angell is surely not going to stop showing that now.
It's better not to lie about it. She isn't sure what they've been looking for, but they were positively pleased that she responded. Like she was a prize for their machinations without ever realizing the bleaker reality behind that.)
As for anything else, I can't answer that for you right noâ....
(She pauses, the words hang and a mere second later she tosses the motorcycle helmet to Nami. It was fast, the slice of bullets and a shift in her demeanor. They're here. Fifteen minutes, that wasn't too early, but she muses that she ought to get started with their now soon to be partnership whenever Angell knows she won't have to hold back. No need for that, not even to feel guilty for their impeding demise as they're all horrible and rotten souls that don't deserve the notion of mercy.
For that reason, she's going to act first. The women and their cries had paused, her music shifts into something different at the press of a button on her part. Slow won't suit the mood, even if that's her preference by the sound of heavy instrumentals and lyrics beginning.)
Times up. My safehouse, then. Bikes nearby, I'll clear the path.
(Malice. She feels it thickly between the confused voices of men and women fading whilst she charges out onwards. This fire escape is their best chance, the elevator would be a trap and she isn't going to risk a bit of parkour to get around. Mania weapons are a threat even in Eastside, Nami didn't need to discover that so soon as a foreigner from what Angell has realized.
They were waiting, but they also were surprised. She soared out, coming over the top floor railings to the floor beneath with ease. A cat like grace that has her moving quick, blood flies and corpses fall. Some even were met with boot planting into their faces. The force kicking them into a nasty fall and end by the sick crack that fills the air. She's got the sword, it only fits she takes them on dead ahead.
Might as well trust those bullets will shoot them and not her.)
[A bit of intel-tradingâ unexpected, but no less welcome. Time is precious and only growing rarer by the second, yet through this brief conversation, it all but confirms that they aren't fighting on completely opposite sides.
This is shaping up to be quite the surprising partnership, isn't it?
'The enemy of my enemy is my friend'â or perhaps a better take on that saying would be 'the killer hired by my enemy is now my savior.' Nami will have a good laugh about that later, once they've made it safely to whatever lair that the Dark Web's top killer holes herself up in.
Indeed, Nami is aware of the same manner of operations being carried out in that godforsaken district known as Syndicate. Life was worth less than garbage there, or so she's heard, and she can only imagine the depraved conditions those other women 'gathered' by Hill-Myna and their gangs exist within. It's almost certain that they have little choice, those women, and see these paltry crumbs fed to them by those intruding monsters as their way out of that dismal life. But no one ever escapes, especially not when one's life is so pitifully cheapâ they'll be robbed of everything they can give and wrung dry beyond that before they're dumped in some unmarked pit, waiting in decay for the next batch of girls to join them.
There's no reply to Angell's remark that the whores here in Eastside have it better, merely a wry smile curling Nami's lips as she recalls all of the nights she had spent 'employed' here in the ritzier district of DisCity. If that was fortunate, being so used and abusedâ though she makes herself endure, of course, this rage of hers mostly numbing her mind and body to whatever her customers put her throughâ then she shudders to think what horrors her counterparts in Syndicate have the misfortune of experiencing.
It seems as if she is to find out soon enough, though. Nami has overstayed her tenure here in the wealthy eastern district, now that a price has been put on her life. But this is merely a deviation in her warpathâ perhaps she can get farther, working in the shadows of Syndicate. Perhaps she can get closer, closer to those devils, with an Angel of Death watching over the corpse-strewn road she'll carve in the pursuit of revenge.
Rightâ there may not be any more time for getting further answers from Angell's lips, but the hitwoman sounds like she's extending an invitation to Nami, once the first hail of bullets are swiftly dealt with by the blade's edge. She catches the helmet with a bit of surprise, the weight of it unsteady at first in one hand while the other remains firmly around the rifle. Nami doesn't have time to consider if this might be a trap, if Death's sickle will end up against her own throat later tonightâ no, for now, she'll throw all of her trust behind this Grim Reaper, because the only other option she has is an abrupt end to her only reason for living.]
I'll be right behind you. Alles Gute, mein Engel.
[It's truly a sight to behold, watching the woman leap from the top of the fire escape to where the gangsters were lying in wait. Much like that display near the alleyway, Angell's blade makes quick work of these men, slashing at arteries and limbs, while others meet a more gruesome end splattered upon the pavement several stories below. No wonder she's the best that money can buyâ those skills aren't human, rather, cat-like in every way from the graceful way she moves her body to the swiftness and precision of her attacks.
The Rachegötter will be receiving prayers of gratitude that Angell is on her side, tonight, as Nami slices through the thick leather of her dress using the blades hidden in her right thumb and forefinger, cutting the garment off well above her knees. Unfortunately, the blades shred through the fabric of her evening gloves, too, slightly ruining their hiding spot. Still, she doesn't have the luxury of time to be worrying about showing a bit of her hand, this time quite literally.
Though she's not as quick as her new partner, Nami can still move easily enough now that her legs are freed from the bothersome skirts. She follows after Angell, her arm looped through the visor of the helmet, while both hands steady the rifle before firing at some of the men approaching the other woman from the side. The shots will no doubt attract further attention from patrons, workers, and authorities alike, but hopefully by then, the two of them will be long gone and zooming down the road to this safehouse of Angell's
Nami laughs darkly as she watches her bullets lodge squarely in the skulls of the thugs who thought they'd be feasting upon some pretty flesh this evening.]
(Not that any whore has it better, but there's a stark difference in Syndicate and Eastside. The Syndican streets are full of bastards willing to kill, fight, or dole out their own sort of justice. They're always so willing to murder if it means their anger is satisfied. Some may even abuse what power they hold in that hell she considers with resignation, her home. But that is a topic for another time, another place when the telltale sign of bullets flying grabs her attention. She expected that. Angell knew better than to place trust in strangers, much less those she only had just met, seems that tonight is a night of better choices made for the sake of survival that she did. For her part, what she divulged isn't something that most knew about without being near the source.
They all have struggles, some have mouths to feed and others are desperate to claw themselves out of impoverished conditions for a chance at a better life. One day, she might have been the same as any other in Syndicate. Desiring more, wishing for it with a desire to not carry on this blood covered road she's entrenched in deeply. But that isn't so simple, not that she knows it as any different in what life has taught her heavily in lessons meant to serve as a reminder for her transgressions. She was not meant for the light. A woman like her who remains impassive and cold at men dying by their hand. At screams and murmurs about what's happening, violence isn't an Eastside occurrence, is something she bets they'd think. That only Syndican mongrels are willing or capable.
Anyone is capable of it, it was foolish to believe otherwise for even a second. They're all capable of violence, some more than others. They didn't need to be a sinner or even Syndican for that much whilst her descent becomes much quicker with this aid she receives. The cops are more proactive here than Syndicate, after all, best they don't linger now that one of them is making use of her rifle. Loud isn't her style, but they did think that this hitwoman is someone that can be ambushed with relative ease. Unfortunately for them, they were wrong.
With that pretty face and pale skin, even Angell is more capable than they know of. Her steps a dance, well rehearsed and like a machine. One woman who knows the grace of death like its music in how efficient she is at this. Clearing away rotten souls who move to strike her, killing without pausing to ever consider if peace is an option for this beautiful demise she brings out in the neon night covered sky. This is a punishment befitting those who cross her path with horrific intentions.
She didn't need to feel guilt or sorrow for that, no matter her own hatred for killing and lamenting often to herself about how it was her or them. At the very least, these men were not worth the reflection of how violence is the only thing she may ever be good at among these innocent and corrupt souls on the road before them. Her steps pause finally after the last falls, just in time. She can faintly hear the sirens and Angell would prefer the MBCC to not catch her so soon. They have work to do, being locked away as a Sinner isn't on the table whenever she can presume they wouldn't let her go naturally with ease.
Her bike isn't far away from here, no need to be shy about it or pretend that Nami won't be sharing a ride with her. Part of her wonders if she might even get some thrills at watching her work without considering she's drawing too much attention in what will be an interesting escape for a change. They didn't have to avoid admitting that, either, truly. Though later, she might ask if Nami is from the Outland. Some hold similar accents from there to her recollection. Similar manner of speech, but not all do.
Then again, it's better not to assume things knowing she couldn't uncover anything on this woman they expected her to kill. She's the first to reach her bike after carving their path, the first there and revving up the engine naturally once her keys are in the ignition. A second helmet is placed upon her head, they're not going to have time to chat while on the run. Angell has to focus.
She didn't get this far as a killer without that, or without her own ability as a Sinner.)
Cops are coming.
(If asked how she knows, she would answer that another time. The sound of sirens isn't close enough for someone normal to catch, but she is far from it in how Angell seems relatively unfazed by the development. Naturally, she also will assume this Hill-Myna may have sneaked people into the police force. Eastside does have it's own problems with corruption, just nowhere near Syndicate's own in her experiences between both.
Another thing that she notes to explain later, the gangs laugh if anyone does try threatening them with police action in Syndicate. A funny joke. None of those cops should be called cops, but she also won't say a word on that, either.
Better left for another time as well, not when she's about to zoom off across the highway with her new client.)
[Tonight is a veritable concerto of violence and death.
Upon the stage of this neon-drenched skyline, with its impossibly tall buildings built on unimaginable wealth, Nami is merely an accompanist to the real star of this performance. The sharp boom from each shot of her rifle certainly draws attention from those out of sight, concerned Eastside citizens who hurriedly contact the authorities about these frightening soundsâ but the truly lucky audience are the hapless fools who find themselves on the other side of an artfully-wielded blade, cut down in seconds with each beautiful movement.
In the end, the real mongrels are the ones who dine upon the misfortune of others, who subjugate whomever will net them the tidiest profit, while claiming that what they do is for a vague "greater good." Is there anything so wrong about putting down a few rabid beasts who think in such twisted ways? After all, Nami doesn't believe that there is any "good" greater than that.
They deserve this, she thinks as she watches the life drain from the eyes of a thug who Angell runs through with her sword. They deserve this, each severed limb and shattered skull, each spray of blood that paints the pretty pavement of the Eastside streets. Let them scrub away the signs of tonight's violence, let them all foolishly believe that peace has indeed been restored. But Nami knows that the ripples of fear and unease will make their way to the people she wants them to the most.
Let them know that Nami Savrasovaâ that TrĂ€ne Leuchtermachâ still walks amongst the living, and that she shall not die until revenge is hers.
Once the last gangster's corpse joins his buddies in the bloodied heap, an eerie silence befalls the scene, only disrupted by the sound of Nami's heels upon the last flight of stairs on the fire escape. No, she can't hear the too-distant wail of sirens, but Nami does catch the increasing hum of concerned murmurs and agitated questions being called out from the pedestrians and patrons from nearby establishments. Won't they be in for a surprise when they see what these two women have wrought upon their pursuersâ but neither she nor Angell are willing to stick around to bask in the glory of their shock.
She locks eyes with the hitwoman, her own alight with the intensity of this little bout of excitement. An enigmatic smile plays upon her lips before Nami hides her face away beneath the helmet she carries, as if to convey that she did feel a thrill at bearing witness to how the Grim Reaper slices the threads of life from the mortals who cross her. And nothing beats the thrill of living to tell the taleâ she knows her 'client' must be feeling a similar way, having escaped her wrath, but his luck won't last. Not if she has anything to do about it.
Slinging her rifle strap over her shoulder, Nami situates herself behind Angell upon the bike, her thighs locking tightly around the driver's hips, and her arms encircling just as securely around her waist. She presses her body against Angell's back, unfazed by the close contact while finding it mildly enjoyable all the same.
Nami leans in, then, and speaks just loudly enough to be heard over the engine, her voice carrying more than just a bit of playful insinuation.]
Dann fahr schnell. Go fast, mein Engel, and don't stop.
[While she's left a few important things here in Eastsideâ her various prosthetic eyes, a book of contacts, a repair kit for her arm, and a bit of cashâ they don't have time to waste driving around the district and increasing their chances of getting captured. She doesn't have a single doubt that there are cops here who are on Hill-Myna's payroll, happy to sweep a few things under the rug, turning this bloodbath into some non-issue for the public after they secretly deliver the two women to the company's doorstep.
Fortunately, Nami's belongings aren't somewhere easily found, kept secure in some unmarked location unrelated to her work or lodging during her stay here. If she can't find a safe opportunity to make the trip back to collect them, she muses that she can probably strike up a deal with her new partner to do the retrieving. There are plenty of ways she can repay the effort, surely.
For now, she'll let their chatting come to a close as they escape the scene of the crime, the city lights bathing them in their sickeningly bright colors as they ride through, the chill of the night whipping across their skin as they pick up speed.
Well, tonight didn't go as plannedâ but better to be disappointed than dead.]
(as interesting as this night became, angell isn't expecting much of an improvement for this turn of events. one positive is that the two seem to mesh well despite their rather....annoying situation. she isn't complaining, she doesn't say anything more aside from knowing what they needed to do. staying won't help them, it won't save them under this neon colored hell that makes up eastside. the lights are pretty, but they don't hide the fact that so many of them lost their soul and will never get that back in her experience alone. everyone falls to these grand delusions, money is king, and it always will be in a place like eastside where the almighty discoin speaks for anyone.
not that she was interested in that. as long as she has money for food, bills, it didn't matter. she didn't need anything so fanciful and lovely. all angell needed is that blade she holds tightly on to like her life depends on it that she does. if she lets go, it'd only mean she broke to pieces under the stress of it all. they're on a fast track to getting away from this mess. the people's murmurs, remarks about uncivilized behavior and unwanted trash gracing their fine streets whenever they had just moments ago indulged in sins of the flesh. carnal desires that only the rich could afford by expending their riches as they see fit for their wanton delights.
she despises it, she always will. killing, the violence, but it is the only thing she's good at. the things that no other sane soul would do without question. killing doesn't hold any honor. she's ended lives for less than some might have expected, she's even tortured slowly with the expectation to record it for clients and other gruesome misdeeds that can be afforded from a killer like her. her services are spoken of so highly for a reason. but angell cannot help herself, in the rarer times she dreams about what life would've been like had things not turned out this way. a pity, she's realized that those dreams were never meant for her. they're only sweet thoughts, things she brushes aside for more current matters that are before her golden gaze.
she's already certain they'll be ahead of the police by the time that they start to arrive. the only problem is going to be the mooks that they got on payroll among the population of various thugs and other unsightly blemishes that society despises as a whole on the side of those who stay in their light covered reality. the warm sun and its beauty wrapped around their bodies.
only women like them knows, the world is never something to be underestimated in the assorted cruelties it has. she feels it faintly, the warmth of legs wrapped tightly against her hips, the brush of fingertips along a toned stomach in a brief moment after. against a scar peeking out from beneath her tank top on this winter evening. frigid air passes by her when she listens, words that might've made her shiver had she been any greener from how excellent her hearing is. sensitive ears, more sensitive than usual when her considerable abilities are kept in mind. not that she's told her about those, not yet, anyway. the bike speeds away, no chance of it stopping for even a second while this neon scenery passes by at record speed.
later, she could go retrieve anything on request. angell does have a knack for getting into places where she shouldn't be, plus any trouble will be handled considerably well by her performance earlier. they can go over what she needs to find when that comes. her worries are more placed upon how many might be other fools that these people had ensnared with promises of money. she's doubtful that she's the only sinner that they'd be after, not with the number that's in discity alone and beyond it. they're not easy to find, especially with the risk of what might happen to any souls that get hit by mania weapons. angell is only an example of someone on the luckier side of this gruesome reality she might have found herself in otherwise.
she's silent. nothing unusual, her silence is because she already isn't a talker. earlier was because it had been necessary. a wrong move would have resulted in both women finding themselves in a free-for-all. blood spilt, the chance of them being unable to clear the misunderstanding being slim before their unwanted guests decided to make their presence known. the cops, too, she can't forget about eastside police being more diligent from their rich overlords demanding that they maintain the peace and keep out undesirable trash like herself. perhaps even like nami, though angell presumes she might not get anything on this woman with ease. she already had spent time attempting to research her. nothing came up, of course.
nothing she expects to learn so soon, then. her senses are focused, adrenaline aside, she's not letting go of the proverbial throttle for even a second during this precarious situation they're in. too many factors makes this too risky to not do this, which also means wearing herself out more when they arrive back in syndicate.)
They're not here yet.
(she doesn't sense them, killing intent and danger isn't exactly something that can be hidden. not from angell who carries finer senses than anyone normal. they're safe, for now, while the highway zips on by. she knows a few shortcuts to get out of there without having to worry about anything like corruptors or other nasty surprises. the rust is too risky to take a passenger through, anyway. especially when one of them is a sinner and the other isn't.
she'd rather not learn if that could fuck her up further than she is as of now, with her detached demeanor and bleak thoughts about her own future in this mess she calls her life.)
They'll likely attempt to overtake us by car, Mania weapons aren't easily obtained in the Eastside, but that doesn't make it impossible.
(though the last was said more to herself, murmurs of it underneath her breath. she did still need to explain that in due time, of course. mania weapons and the things that they do when someone is shot by them. even she had suffered the feverish haze of it. how her blood was boiling, she felt like she were dying when it entrenched itself deeply in a younger angell's own body until that pain had faded to nothing. like she couldn't feel anything, not any longer. her sense of it was gone, the same way she couldn't feel most things that touched her by this point.
and....without a sense of taste, she stopped caring much about food beyond eating what might fill her stomach up. burnt, terrible, or unusual concoctions that most would stare in horror at. sometimes angell might even be found drinking coffee to curb any hunger for a time whenever she cannot afford it.)
How much do you know about DisCity?
(obviously, she'll need to go over other things about this rather....terrible city in itself. she can't deny that her home isn't any better, not from how it does things.)
[As the motorcycle picks up speed, Nami lets the den of these Eastside monsters dissolve into a blur of neon hues, curtains of light interrupted by the vehicles that Angell weaves them through. She tightens her hold in response to the increasing velocity, fully feeling the bite of the winter chill upon her exposed skin. Her 'work' outfit really leaves little to shield her from the elements, especially after she sliced off the superfluous bits of fabric. The rush from that adrenaline-fueled skirmish has diminished some, her heart still racing but not enough to buffer her from the cold. Not that it mattersâ she tells herself that there is purpose in discomfort, no matter how trivial or how anguishing.
And she tells herself that this isn't as terrible as what she might have been subjected to, had her client showed his sickening face in the endâ but then her mind goes to the thought of making him suffer for the crimes he had committed, and the bitterness of foiled plans steals the slivers of peace and relief that she might have held from succeeding in this getaway.
For a moment, she forgets about the sharp, chilly winds whipping across her exposed skin. She forgets about everything except for how close she was to closing one more chapter of this endless nightmare, and how that chance was never going to be hers, anywayâ
Then she realizes that Angell is speaking, her murmurs at first only half-registering in Nami's mind once it's begun to race in furious loops again. There's nothing to be done about it, she repeats to herself as she makes the effort to quell her agitation. But still, it remains, sunk into her rapidly beating heart like relentless fangs.
Nami watches the lights of Eastside start to become more sparse, a brief silence before she replies.]
It's certainly a breathtaking city. Mein aufrichtiges Kompliment.
[There's an obvious bite of sarcasm in her tone, the amusement touched by the bitterness of her earlier train of thought.]
Enough corruption beneath the profits of a booming industry for opportunistic, foreign entities to easily exploit and slither their way in.
[And enough danger to keep the weak in line and the strong in powerâ or at least that's how the elites would want it to be. Nami knows about districts and the obvious disparity between them, the benefits of using both to the advantage of a company like Hill-Myna. There are probably a lot more fruitful endeavors to be had in Syndicate compared to Eastside, but like true researchers, they'd be fools not to take advantage of the unique environment of DisCity as a whole.
Nami weighs her next words before continuing.]
âŠI know that there are more resources of interest to those people than just the women that they can procure here. A certain sort of contamination that they want to exploit for their business.
[Something that makes certain citizens prime subjects for their use. Sinners, or so she's heard her clients call them. Human bodies with rather inhuman capabilitiesâ it's no surprise that Hill-Myna set their sights on this place for their research. Nami holds her tongue on this subject, for now.]
I know enough to have made this my next stop, FrĂ€ulein. Anything more than that, I graciously learned from my clients. Men love to pillow talkâ give them a good fuck, and they'll sing all sorts of tunes. Especially about the things that frighten them.
[A low laugh, as if the recollection tickles her, and she spreads her fingers across the skin of Angell's abdomen.]
How else do you think I learned of your exploits, mein Engel?
[She has her suspicions, of course, that Angell might have some sort of link to these so-called Sinnersâ but given their reputation, she withholds asking anything outright, opting to tread carefully.]
The thought of you coming for them in the dead of night scares them out of their witsâ so they come to me to remind themselves that they're still tougher than a woman. Ich sollte Ihnen wohl danken.
[It seems that the two of them were already working together, in a morbid manner of speaking.]
But it sounded earlier like you were a little aware of the business that goes on in the brothels here. Du bist dranâ tell me what you know about the 'goods' that these up-and-coming gangsters are trying to protect.
(she isn't surprised. not by the remarks, especially not about commentary about discity. they've all known it. discity is a hive of disease, corrupt men and women wander the streets while wearing their ill-gotten gains. the weak suffer, unable to uplift themselves from their struggles. some lament it, wondering if this had ever been worth it for the sake of living and surviving. others? she doesn't need to think about that. she exists, despite everything. that should say enough about those who somehow obtain the "fortunate" title of sinner in this bleak world of theirs. not all of them can do it. angell is doubtful she'd pull that off were she still a regular girl, a regular syndican girl who had been more fortunate than the rest of her peers. some might have presumed that jealousy kills.
unfortunately, it wasn't jealousy that ended a normal life she barely had in her tiny hands. it was nothing except the senseless violence that shaped syndicate. she's a resilient girl. too capable of living, too willing to push forward despite the bleaker thoughts that gnaw at her mind about what might be her fate.
she's paying attention, the gold of her eyes reflected in her helmet. the catlike appearance of them a stark contrast to the rest of that pretty face it hides now in the frigid winter air. she doesn't notice it. not the cold, she should've noticed it. the bone chilling sting and how it sinks deep into bodies around that aren't appropriately dressed for it. she surely is not, but angell had noticed she stopped being able to tell the two apart for years now. her companion, however, she's not as lucky. she doesn't envy her. not with how nami is dressed during this fine evening drive of theirs down the highway to one of her shortcuts.
syndicate awaits. it isn't any better than eastside, some would call it worse than eastside. angell personally thinks there is no worse than the other, they're both terribly miserable depending on how one looks at it. she's already avoiding the other cars, drivers, whoever else might be on this highway while mulling over what she could say.
her reputation precedes her, that's typical. light words about men and their inability to help themselves in loose lips. she's killed plenty for that. men who never shut up, men who thought themselves safe from her clutches with new toys of theirs like high-end bodyguards and defense systems. some even sought out gang protection, but oh, that was a mistake in itself from how often the gangs might participate in organ trading thanks to her experiences from the dark web. she knows this too well. she's seen comments, she's even gone through it a few times at the start of this wonderful career that she has. this career of blood and nothing except darkness.
but she's got a thoughtful expression when she feels the faint spread of fingers against toned muscle of her abdomen. the scars there too, though only one peeks out from beneath her tank top. there's too much she could've started with from time checking the forums on dismyth. some commentary had reached her neck of the woods. things about women being wanted for something specific. other comments, too, about them looking specifically at prostitutes and other girls who were down on their luck that were looking for easy money. about how children of theirs would be welcomed, some thought it was a scam again from the typical gangsters. they always did that with offering promises that they didn't intend to keep.
the idea was that they were to work their clubs, their brothels, strip clubs too since she wouldn't doubt that for a second. girls in syndicate did whatever they had to do. even angell once considered if she should take that route some did, offering up her body to some john that might've been only wanting a quick fuck. likely the wrong john, too, given her inexperience back then for things like this dark world she's entrenched deep in.
....but that part about contamination, the experimentation with it, she's frowning. she knows what it meant. it's only good that her reactions aren't something so easy to read or figure out. mania. she didn't need to be a genius to put two and two together. if they're looking at mania, they're looking at how sinners are made and work. about what they might be able to do with one as the memory comes to mind about other whispers she heard. about some individuals like herself being dragged out of syndicate overnight. about how the established names around were also dealing with a bit of trouble themselves. not all syndican sinners live good lives, not all of them are capable of holding back their temper when it comes to people attempting to push their own luck against them. there was a reason why so many of them were willing in whatever way they had to fight for their lives, for something better, when given that chance.
which is why, after this pause to consider what to say, angell has an idea of where to start first. the working girls. anything else? well, she'd want to avoid mentioning too much about sinners. she is one, after all, any other punks finding this out will only make that target on her back bigger.)
There was talk going around. Working girls on the corners were being picked up by outsiders. Some acted like doctors, picking up any sickly ones and nobody saw them again. Others were offering jobs at more "established" joints.
(she doesn't need to clarify that, angell thinks briefly, it should be obvious what she meant by established. brothels, strip clubs, anywhere that can use a nice beautiful girl with a cute ass and a fuckable body.)
But, not all of those fine places.... (she uses that loosely.) ....are considered safe, either. The gangsters around typically only provide protection if they're paid and if it's in their territory, though some would use it to also mess with the girls themselves. It also doesn't stop the cops from coming around because they wanted some poor girl to screw up and take their moods out on.
(she's seen the chatter often about carnivore members deciding to kidnap the girls for their own games, their corpses were never found. yagyu she can only assume kills them if they're less than satisfactory, given she's heard the girls they often visit are still breathing. usually, unless someone really pissed off the wrong man of that men's only club they got going. any others were unknown, thou voodoo's she presumed (rightfully) they'd sooner sacrifice whores to whatever thing they worship.
it wasn't unheard of for the top dogs to attempt to push back against this new upcoming presence, they'd often attack their businesses and even take the whores from their buildings. the cops did, too. but she can think more about it, with her hands gripping a bit tightly on the throttle while angell maintains her concentration. she feels a migraine coming, an unfortunate problem about her senses is that she's only a human still. a killer, a sinner, but still human. they're not around trouble just yet.
not while the bike carries on unimpeded during this long drive to syndicate.)
The girls allegedly get told if they work hard or something along those lines, they can move up to Eastside places. Unsurprisingly, the whores here in Syndicate get the short end of the stick in everything.
(what was she meaning by that? too much, truly. she knows it too well that the girls were never going to get out of this place. why would they offer it, except for nothing more than false hope that'd later be crushed beneath their heels once the girls lost all use?)
I never believed that. It felt more to me and others like organ trading scams waiting to happen.
[Now they're getting into the heart of the matter, the real reasons behind the unexpected intersecting of their dismal existences.
This isn't some joyride through the city on a chilly winter night, and they aren't a pair of friends or lover who indulge in the high speeds just for the thrill of it.
Noâ they're two godforsaken souls whose shadowy worlds somehow found themselves overlapping thanks to the nefarious dealings of one particular company, one who certainly didn't count on the quick thinking of these women to result in a slapdash partnership and a handful of corpses splattered against the immaculate Eastside streets.
The pause that Angell takes is expected, considering that they're both in the business of only playing the right cards at the right time. She's a careful one, Nami muses, but she'd expect nothing less from someone so infamous for her thoroughness. Neither of them are giving away everything that they know, the conclusions they've drawn respectively, nor their reasons for their interest in this cause to begin withâ that's fine. At the very least, they're aware that they don't pose an immediate threat to the other, despite that little show of skills before their escape.
Nami doesn't interrupt Angell, listening intently as she divulges what she's been made aware of through word of mouth. It's just as she figured, these outsidersâ those bastards from Hill-Myna, without a doubtâ taking advantage of down-on-their-luck women for their inhumane research. It doesn't even come as a surprise to Nami that they've been preying on those who are too weak to put up any real fight, those who'd have no one that would come looking for them if they disappeared.
'Working girls,' Angell says. Girls with no prospects and nothing left to lose, reduced to using their pretty bodies to earn a bit of cash. Well, it was either be 'put to work' and subject themselves to all manner of dangers on the job, or die pitifully on the streets. She doesn't blame them one bit for taking what sounded to be such generous opportunities. Hill-Myna knew better than to target more well-to-do women, too much risk and not enough consistent reward. What a despicable system, and when Nami thinks of the man who pitched it to the company to save his own skin, her stomach turns and she's filled with a nauseating mix of disgust, anger, and pity.
Once upon a time, TrĂ€ne was innocent, with a modest future that might have given her the kind of happiness that every girl dreamt of. There was a time when she might have even wanted such a happiness with that manâ but that dream died a hundred times, shattered repeatedly in that small room where she was kept like a guinea pig to be taken and used, a hundred more times than she could count.
And now she finds herself in the same boat as these working girls, using her best assetâ imperfections and allâ to claw her way towards the dream that has sustained her for thirteen long years. But unlike those girls who were promised a 'better life' in Eastside, Nami is finding herself embarking in the opposite direction towards the violence misery in Syndicate.
She gives a short laugh, sharp and bitter, and marvels that she, too, seems to be getting the short stick in everything. Well, almost everythingâ Nami has DisCity's best killer right here in her arms. That might very well be her guarantee for survival in this next adventure of hers.]
Well, it looks like I'll soon be joining those lucky whores in Syndicate, mein Engelâ I can't exactly show my face in Eastside anymore after tonight, can I?
[A shameâ it was nice while it lasted, even the nights working at that high-class fetish club. Her work is about to get a whole lot grittier, it seems. Nami can handle it. She has no other choice.
From her position, she can see Angell's grip tightening upon the throttle, and wonders if the nature of this conversation is troubling her more than she lets on. It would make any normal person ill, sobering them to the sick realities of a world that they had believed to be just. But her Angel of Death is no normal personâ though what she is isn't exactly clear just yet.]
âŠOrgans aren't the only thing they're trading.
[Her remark is muttered vaguely, Nami's mind going to one 'product' in particular. She refrains from elaborating further.]
But you seem to be well-informedâ Das freut mich. I'm sure those poor girls would be thrilled to know that the Angel of West District is keeping an eye on them and their suffering.
[They couldn't ask for anyone better, right? Let these unfortunate souls matter to someone in this world that's all too happy to crush them and leave them to rot.]
I wonder if that means our paths will cross again after tonight. After all, you'll be watching over me, now, too.
[Syndicate awaits, indeed. What will she be subjected to? What will she unearth and how much closer will she get to her goal? A dozen thoughts buzz around in Nami's head, but one thing is certainâ the gods have sent her an angel for a reason. She just has to survive long enough to understand that reason, and forge it into an advantage against her greatest adversaries.]
(going from eastside to syndicate is a considerable downgrade, as the eastian's would put it. their syndican counterparts felt similar for those who go from syndicate to eastside. there wasn't much love between them, not from how they're often treated by both ends. even the rich and "proper" eastside residents would believe that the trash deserves this against their will. that none of them are fit to be on their streets, not even to share in the same air as them for their efforts of reaching an unobtainable dream among their fellow humans.
it's only worse than that, she thinks to herself, she is among something special. something hated and misunderstood by both eastside and syndicate itself. sinners don't get the benefit of acceptance. none live similarly to one another, there's likely many who might even look at their youth with melancholy. syndican born youths or the eastians torn apart by neon lights and a constant demand for opulence, hedonism, and what remains of those poor souls to be torn apart. they know not peace, they've all lost any sense of that from what angell had gathered personally from her fewer visits to somewhere like eastside.
it didn't matter what sort of existence they all led before meeting her, the end came as soon as she showed her face. this unnatural beauty who cannot feel anything except the faint brush of hands against her exposed skin. warmth is something else she notes coming from them vaguely, but it was by no means capable of warming her as she is now without the ability to feel this. to know it. any normal woman might've wanted a night like this with or without it being at the hands of a whore. a beautiful girl pressing her body for something as trivial as riding her motorcycle against her back. but she isn't normal, not whenever she reminds herself to relax a bit. the music plays again in her headphones, filling this void between the sounds of cars and other passersby on the highway, where she says nothing.
if listened to, the lyrics could be heard muffled vaguely beneath her helmet:
(There is no hope, there is no soar I know somewhere there must be more....)
it's quiet. she wants to think that's fine, that nothing is happening, and she can listen to the other woman speak candidly. but she also knows that's rarely if ever something she can afford to have. quiet, silence, the ability to sleep and stop thinking again. that rest she might have ever gotten can be ended swiftly, death comes for everyone. some simply have it come faster from her own knowledge of the subject, while the phantom thrum of pain from a migraine gnaws numbly at her skull. she can feel it. not the pain, but the pain that would've been there had she still felt something during the evening beyond faint brushes of fingertips against her abdomen and what warmth protrudes from the other woman.
does she truly watch over people, or do they not think her a reaper? ending lives as easy as she breathes, ignoring cries for mercy, knowing truly it is them or her on the line despite the lamentations she buried down. how she despises it. this filthy business she can only do, angell could never be normal again from knowing what happened the last time she tried. her life is not fit for the sun, the sinner can only crave to feel it again on her skin when she might pass. she cannot have this beautiful light any longer. the silence as she listens is nothing more than simply angell taking time to articulate what she may say next.
the question about if she were truly their guardian hangs, she never felt worthy of that. she'd refer to herself as many things, the biggest that comes to mind is a rather harsh view of everything and almost depressing in what seems like a low view of an otherwise good-hearted woman.
monster.
she's fit to be one, good intentions or not. a simple word, a word she gives power by believing it true during something as simple as this compliment she finds herself given. except, something else caught her attention. organ trading is one thing, but what else are they offering aside from some poor bastards entrails? there are the girls, obviously. some rumors about more offerings for women willing to get pregnant, which was a surprise even to her, the assassin. don't most establishments like this prefer their women to not be pregnant or carry a baby to term? that's another thing to consider.
she doesn't like this grim thought she has on the matter. about children being involved, how many might become just like her? never allowed a normal life, not even the decency of having one's family. only an emptiness.)
Depends. There is always staying with me until you think you found your own place.
(something else that's a surprise, she muses, she doesn't do this. to a stranger, no less? that's a death sentence in her career. risky. then again, that gun helped her during their escape. who's to say that won't change when it suits her? another part of her wants to believe it won't change if she bets on the other woman, trust that she doesn't typically give freely.
however, it would make this easier. she wouldn't have to track nami down personally during the evenings that she spends like those syndican girls that she'll be meeting on corners and in their own seedier clubs. the rougher side of the scene. eastside has all the comforts, the glitz, and hedonism. syndicate? it's nothing except miserable people that might find themselves dead sooner rather than later.)
It comes with considerable risks if you do, though. Not from these people you're after.
(a rep like hers has its upsides and downsides.
the upside is the perks of the forums, the things only she has access to and knows about at her fingertips from all manner of fucked up people. some more than others, of course. to regular criminals, dismyth would simply look like the average paradise for them and theirs. to angell and others like her? there's more to it, nothing that a normal person should know about or even access the way that they do.)
You can take care of yourself, but with my reputation, there's not always a chance at peace for long. It's almost common for me to have to move on short notice.
[By virtue of being a mere passenger hereâ and without any thugs giving chase to keep her on high alertâ Nami has the freedom to look about the changing cityscape flanking the highway. The gaudy beauty of Eastside slowly shifts, giving way to an area that has a grittier air about it. Air thick with desperation, too, and the more violent type of desperation that keeps its people in a constant cycle of suffering.
It almost feels like coming home. After all, she's made her nest in similarly desperate places, where currency trades hands for things that money shouldn't be able to buy. The monsters who made her could only ever exist on such desecrated land, and because of this, Nami will always find herself cycling back to this hell of theirs. If a life that is sweet and peaceful awaits herâ well, it's not as though she even allows herself to get caught up in fantasizing about such things, in the first place. Indulging in such tenderness will make her weak, and that's something she cannot afford. The road ahead is arduous, Nami can see it clearly. Death is waiting around every corner.
But when she thinks on it, Death is in her very own arms, with a beating heart and muscles that tense whenever Angell drives them along the more dangerous curves. Pressing so firmly against such an infamous killerâ hell, Nami has the one and only Grim Reaper between her legsâ definitely sparks a wary yet curious feeling from the woman. She had gone from target to accomplice, but what next?
Wryly, she wonders if Death has a blind spot, and she's somehow found herself in its safety despite their proximity. Perhaps the same can be said about herself. She's well-acquainted with blind spots and the pitfalls they conceal.
When the Reaper makes the offer to hide out in her lair, Nami can't help but raise a brow. She doesn't expect such an invitation, but then again, nothing has really gone according to plan this evening. Is that why she gives Angell's suggestion genuine consideration? Blind spots really are a tricky thing⊠]
It shouldn't come as a surprise to you that I've gotten used to finding my own stays temporary.
[Considering what the hitwoman admitted about her own lifestyle, this is yet another similarity that they can toast to.]
I've stopped putting stock in the notion of a peaceful life. So, don't worry about me getting too comfortable. AuĂerdem, now we're both shouldering some risk. You might have been better off killing me tonight, instead.
[Nami's tone is amused, in a way that suggests that it isn't lost on her how true this statement might end up becoming. The people who were meant to die tonight still draw breath, and each of them wears a bloody target carved on their backs.
The only sounds of their escape are the icy winter winds, and the engine purring smoothly beneath their bodies. But if Nami strains a bit, she can catch a tune creeping in between them, melancholic in the way it seeps into the cracks left behind by the chaos.
'Yes, so please let's call her real name And maybe she'll hear out our cryâŠ'
Who does an Angel of Death pray to? Surely the gods can't have forsaken this city, too.]
Why the change of heart?
[To think that Angell stands leagues above the greedy spiders of DisCity, who cast their webs about to snag any wayward preyâ and yet, Nami finds herself being spun up in a fine silk that conceals the deadliness of a garroting wire.
Everything tells her that this is the most foolhardy decision, that she's lost her mind for fleeing what would have been the scene of her murder with the murderess herself. And yet something tells her that Angell doesn't exactly make it a habit of bringing work home with her, especially a failed gig. Does she trust her, a stranger, so readily? Or does she consider Nami's life inconsequential, dancing in the palm of her hand?
She feels the weight of her rifle upon her shoulder, and her thigh brushes against the sword still slung at Angell's hip.
(she doesn't respond. not to the remarks about what she should've done, much less about how she must have with this act costed herself more than anything. a small part of her wants to admit that she felt for the longest time like her life was something meaningless. fickle, something to throw away when it comes to what might be her last moments. she doesn't say it, she doesn't answer nami. not about what angell truly thinks about herself, as far as anyone knows, she'd only seem as though she might be depressed. the typical experience for those in this bleak side of town. depression is common, lamenting their lot in life and anguished cries piercing the night was normal. all attributed to loss of loved ones and dreams being crushed by reality's cruelty in this world they found themselves born within.
but she doesn't answer it with her true thoughts, her wish to sleep is only a symptom of this "illness" of hers. unique, but not unique. no sinner is the same in their circumstances and how this suffering of theirs manifests. some had it easier than others. the children of syndicate are fortunate if their parents still breathe, but she was one among those unfortunate. not for any reason in particular, simply gangs being gangs. gunshots and the scent of gunpowder is something she remembers distinctly. there was no warning. only a hail of bullets, the corpses on the ground as a child looked on and lost what innocence she had that fateful day. she cried, obviously. no child should have to watch their own mother and father pass away in front of them.
but she wasn't lucky. she watched it with her tiny eyes filled with tears, she cried even as little offerings came of shelter for her. family meant nothing to some people, it was only another part of her unlucky streak. without anyone to protect her, it was on angell to do this herself. to fend for herself, survive, she didn't care for avenging her loss. it's a funny thought, she found revenge to be a waste of time and effort for herself, while allowing others to use her for their own.
that didn't mean she had this sit well with her, that essentially this woman was a ghost no matter how much angell had grown curious from the job. she doesn't normally go too far with her research, just enough to give a general idea about what she's dealing with. if they're worth this endless cycle she's part of in violence and death. not a single soul before this meeting walked away from meeting her, that should say something on how unworthy they were of true mercy. she didn't wish to grant them mercy.
it isn't as easy as an innocent and naive soul getting involved. gangs didn't need her to kill civilians, they can do that themselves. same goes for the fucked up crooks in seats of power. she wasn't necessary for something as simple as ending regular people who get too involved in a world they never should've crossed the line into. it's nothing like that, she's only used to kill their equally fucked up rivals and anyone foolish enough to attempt to fuck them over. the highway drifts into the familiar sight of old buildings, the bike carrying on an easy speed through the city streets as they start to pass by what is syndicate's very own.
rough hoodlums and gangsters gathering in their own spaces as they pass by on sidewalks. loud, laughing, and even talking about something or other. working girls could be seen, as she had mentioned. turning their tricks, trying to make money to not starve or to have a warm bed for the evening chill. unsurprisingly, some were young. she didn't glance their way, angell knows she'd once considered that if she had to go that far just to get a meal. fill her belly, have a bed to sleep in, money to burn through whilst trying to survive this hell she found herself within. the sinner refrained from it, deciding that if she were to go that far she'd never forgive herself....along with thoughts of it being another hell waiting for her if she did try turning tricks on some poor john's.
she would have been a terrible whore, is something angell thought to herself at the time. a virgin prostitute. right, some poor bastard would have taken pity on her and simply paid her to leave. it didn't matter, anyway. she chose this life after discovering her unique talents were something more suited to violence. dirty jobs, sometimes she'd even get into scraps with gangs daily when paid. that day she was afflicted with mania, included. mania weapons were something most gangs favored. it made them feel powerful, bigger than the average bastard in syndicate.
it also tore apart homes, destroyed people who once were alive themselves. not everyone comes out of something like mania weapons being used on them the same. the same way not everyone becomes a sinner like she did.)
....everything has a cost, eventually.
(that's all she can say, she's known that. her life is something that will be ended at any time and place. she'd lose her life in whatever way god decided was fitting in this miserable excuse of a pit all syndican's are living within. she doesn't address the rest of her words, not right now. even angell cannot say what drives her to go this far with allowing nami in her space. not from pity, not from any reason such as considering killing her in her own home.
she only felt that she couldn't kill this woman. this isn't an excuse, angell by no means is a slouch. rifle or not, she knows her way around a fight and has dealt with worse. the scars along her back are a stark reminder, scars that are pressed into along any corner she turned earlier and covered by that nice leather jacket she's wearing.)
I decided not to. Nothing more, nothing less....just a feeling that despite the impression you gave to me, that you have reasons.
(if listened to closely among the hustle and bustle of these streets, her voice carries a note of tiredness. her senses are working themselves into being overwhelmed again. she's never liked loud places for a reason ever since that day she lost what sense of normalcy she once held as a normal person. she's so easily overloaded now. but someone has to maintain keeping an eye out for danger. so far, nothing. not even as they pass by the youth of this miserable city. teens wandering and children sleeping on the sidewalks with little else to go to.
....she doesn't comment on that, either. she's been in their shoes, and she feels for them more than most in that position. the adults are terrible, the police that should be protecting them don't care, either. it's close to home. better not to remind herself more about what could have been her life again.)
Whatever happens is my choice. Not one that involves your death.
[Born lucky or born unlucky, if one ended up here in Syndicate, they were no better than the other miserable bastards thrown into this hellish pit alongside them. A parent's attempt at love or a childhood endured on the streets, dealing in illegal weapons or selling sex cheaply on the cornerâ it didn't matter, when the suffering is the same.
It's a kind of suffering that clings to the air, a taste that sits heavily on the tongue long after you think you've finished sipping. There's no hedonistic escapism that camouflages the dread and wariness of what might be lurking around in the shadows. There's nothing but the grim acceptance in these citizens that this is the hand they've been dealt. If one was strong and clever, maybe they'd be tapped to move illegal goods or pimp out the desperate girls on the streets. If all one had was their looks and enough sense to know when to keep quiet, the professions were still quite few.
Nami's eyes take in the sight of those poor things selling their flesh, and a pang of empathy pierces sharply. A fair portion of them are too young to be seeing the world in the same way she does, and yet, when did any of themâ Nami includedâ have a choice in how the world had bared its true face? They pass by too quickly for her to get a closer look, to see if she can recognize something in them that the world hasn't broken, yet. She's long-since forgotten what such a thing might look like within her own self, though a better conclusion to draw would be that there isn't a thing left unbroken in her.
And yet, Nami thinks, there is something undeniably human in sympathy. That simple fact gives her reassurance. When she lightly rests her chin on Angell's shoulder, catching her features beneath the cover of the helmet, that reassurance seems to grow two-fold.
An unlikely duo, bound by the slivers of humanity left in them yet.]
There will be more like them.
[She speaks up, referring to the homeless children they drive past. A maternal ache burrows deeply in her chest and refuses to dissipate.]
They want to save lives, the people who hired you. Every time they set up base in a new country, it's under that noble declaration. But I've never met a life saved by their work.
[A glance, quick and fleetingâ one girl on the corner is grabbed roughly by some man, for her attention or for something elseâ and then, in the blink of an eye, they're lost to the night as the motorcycle continues on. When Nami speaks up again, her voice is resigned, quiet.]
Nicht ein einziger.
[All they leave is suffering in their wake, and DisCity will be no different. Children ripped away from mothers, children given away freely by their mothers, men who pay for a night without knowing just what horrors they're creating, and the men at the very top who revel in the blood money earned through the tears and anguish of those they ensnare.
Nami has her reasons, trueâ clearly delineated, her only reason to live. And in some twist of fate, those same reasons have earned her another chance at life.]
Then you're prepared to run from death with me, mein Engel?
[Her laugh is cold, as cold at the night air biting her skin, as cold as how that man should have been if she'd only had the chance to meet that shameful face.
And yet, her arms wrap more securely around Angell's waist, and her body drinks in the scant warmth shared between the two of them.]
Our price is guaranteed to be quite high.
[But Angell is already well-aware of that, isn't she? She who reigns over death, she who is aware of just how much human lives and human suffering will cost the right client, jeopardizing it all for a woman with 'reasons'? How curious, this Angel of Death wearing such a hauntingly beautiful face.]
(there's something surprisingly human within her, that'd never change. what she longs for is the sun, the sun and its warm touch. the love of a life that no longer would welcome her, destroyed by the world itself deciding that the sins she bares on her shoulders is too great. she's lost plenty, she's known loss. lives ended, cries for mercy, innocent souls at the start begging for her to let them leave only for her to carry out her orders. what a miserable excuse of a life she lives in this shithole that is called a city.
the west district, syndicate, it only is a place where dreams go to die. the same way that the eastsiders would lie and spread out their typical bullshit as others might say from these streets on the west. eastside doesn't give a damn, they'd use up anyone then throw them away for the trouble of trying to obtain something better for themselves. what good did rising to the top do for them? it only destroyed their lives, their homes, and what is left of them as people. their souls taken, their blood no longer their own. sympathy isn't something that one might expect from a killer, especially one ranked as highly as her, but she felt it. because the truth is something they didn't know about themselves, angell has always hated this position she's been in.
the loss of everything in her fingertips, family, a chance at living normally, everything that someone tired of it would've asked for. she never stood a chance against the world as her miserable luck often grabbed her by the throat and dragged her down to the bottomless pit that it intends to drown her in. because of it, she doesn't look at the poor young things that were desperately trying to earn money for a chance to have a warm bed during this evening. the girls who were starved, perhaps even those who long since were broken to pieces and desired another night spent hiding their misery behind the worst vice of them all in hard drugs and liquor if a rich man took them. or even another junkie, they weren't particularly picky in a depressing way. willing to take any punishment as long as they're fucked and fed their addiction.
but they themselves are broken and miserable excuses of human beings, if not angell being worse. broken repeatedly, surrendering to it and knowing no longer will she ever have that opportunity. she's never to feel human again, she isn't human. not to everyone around her, not even to herself despite the way her heart stings knowing this truth. that just because she kills her heart, her humanity, does not mean it has faded away to nothing entirely. she doesn't react to nami's chin against her shoulder, how she hugs her body closer.
from what glimpse of that beautiful face nami gets, it's obvious. she feels something for them, too. she always would. this is how life is, how it goes. this is how she would've found herself had her choices not been made for her. all it took was those illegally crafted weapons and their bullets piercing into her skin. the sound of her agonized screaming and choking from anger, depression, and an intense sorrow.
but it's what she says, that angell is given pause at.)
I know.
(about the homeless children, she was one once. ah, family, it only means something if someone was useful to them. she wasn't, of course, angell was only a little brat in their eyes that felt cursed after mother and father dearest were killed by those same gangsters on the streets.)
Nobody cares for Syndicate. Not even the people who attempt to fake smile and charm their way in.
(why would they? she almost wants to pause her drive away to strike that man they catch fleetingly, to free a pretty young thing that doesn't deserve the fate that's waiting for her. but she didn't, she doesn't. angell only goes forward in silence knowing that there was nothing she can do about it without making it worse.
she catches it, the resigned tone and what nami utters. outland language again? her brows raise subtly beneath the visor, they say that outland speaks like this nami does. it isn't as though angell understands her, but she can guess it is similar to them in tone and voice. whatever the case, she's refraining from asking about it. it's already obvious one of them is foreign, even if nami does blend well into this side of the city.
like she's always been here, but not at the same time during this quiet drive of theirs.)
I'm used to it.
(how soft that lovely voice is, quiet but loud enough to be heard over the engine. a pretty voice for a beautifully striking woman. she's used to this, running from death is something she's known for a while now. it's made her more tired, but she has yet to resist the drive to live which pushes her forward against that desire to sleep. mania is truly another terrible thing.
the way it messes with her head, causes her to think and feel things she shouldn't be as a normal person. but she doesn't think about it, not with a warm pair of arms she can faintly feel around her waist. the bare skin of her abdomen somehow not pricked with goose bumps from the cold. odd, isn't it? one would think that she'd feel cold herself, but she isn't.
or maybe she doesn't feel anything.)
....high price or not, I don't intend on paying it so soon.
(or so she says, who knows how this may go. in her heart, she knows she might die, and she wouldn't even argue against that. she's felt deserving of death for quite some time as the familiar building that she calls "home" starts to come into view. it's time for this woman to see just how depressing her new "accomplice" is.)
in which angell is still angell with texting after cleaning
(it hadn't been long since she had adjusted to her new "guest" being a rather....unique presence in her safehouse. the way she gawked had been noted from learning that this woman despite her professional air and demeanor lived like she was deeply depressed had been shrugged off, naturally. but what came after had been the difference.
expectations were placed firmly upon her, to clean up with colorful commentary about the other woman not being her mother. it took her a moment to bite down the urge to say plainly that her mother was dead in response. but that doesn't stop the images that were sent.
one: the fridge was completely clean without so much as a word. two: she also cleaned the floors of her discarded clothing. three: ....unfortunately three was her seen sighing in that one over what looked to be a freshly killed "guest". she almost seemed disappointed this is how her morning is going, from how her lips were curled into a frown. if looked at closely, this man she killed had a metal arm. modified, too. four: the last one thankfully was a now spotless living room, door fixed and corpse nowhere to be found. why she doesn't say anything is a mystery, but there was a fair bit of empty bottles of cleaning products strewn about that she intended to toss out. likely to join that dead body.)
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sinsparadox2025-12-19 02:58 am
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poor girls, even in this neon covered hell called the eastside that she's found herself within for this job. not that she's had it better, herself, despite being a killer for hire and one of the best money can buy. this job has had something off with it since the start. typically when gangsters have things they need her to, she'd recognize them by their affiliations. carnivores, yagyu, thou voodoos, it didn't matter....except, these people were new. didn't look like yagyu, didn't have the trademark brutality of the carnivores, and thou voodoos were crazy bastards of the main three she can think about. not that she's discounting the gonzales family or red falcon, but they didn't have their look, either. this job she were offered was something "simple", they said. money up front and on the table, more if she kills one woman in particular.
she can take a guess or two on why, from how they spoke like women were toys. angell for her part silently took the money and left quickly. she wasn't about to risk being alone with them for too much longer. half of this was following around her targets, learning their schedules, she's a thorough girl whenever it comes to these smaller details. the only issue is that she can't always go around stalking targets. her name is something that gets passed around syndicate and beyond, spoken like a boogeyman from the fear found in their eyes. "grim reaper", they say. a legend on the forums, one singular woman who has the ire of many.
obviously, that's what makes it unsurprising that her job was interrupted even on the eastside. her motorcycle had been parked nearby, this woman still in her bike helmet with music playing muffled underneath from her headphones once again found herself attacked. the corpses of those who did it were strewn about, she didn't seem fazed. most she did was wipe the blood off her sword and contemplate giving up for the day, this time, anyway. didn't seem like her target was up to anything, she hadn't seen that woman they set her after, nami, at all today, on top of it. all of this felt off, odd, wrong. she's already had alarm bells going off in her head, the thought that she might be walking into a trap is there while she moves corpses away from sight in this back alley. the blood isn't her concern from them that's left on concrete, drying up as time ticks by.
better to take care of this before some bougie men and women learned there had been a murder....or three, she muses darkly, to herself. from what she's turning over in her mind, she isn't positive if she should carry this out. never mind this off feeling, she's got enough problems with being considered, by societies standards, dangerous. the thoughts, however, pause. that off feeling she's had, magnified, malice. killing intent. she's lived as long as she has in this life thanks to this ability of hers, to drop fast the corpse she was dragging out of sight and slicing in half the bullet meant for her. who? where? she despises eastside buildings for a reason, they're all so flashy under neon lights for someone like her who sees and hears too well by normal standards. capable of hiding even practiced snipers before angell pauses, the malice had faded. but she notices, a figure in a window.
feminine. beneath her helmet, she frowns, but she moves fast to climb up the nearby fire exit. someone wants a meeting from the shot intentionally missing her head. perhaps even get some answers while she's at it. her steps are careful, climbing up fire escapes is easy, and she's doubtful this is one of her enemies. they'd have gone for taking the shot, not "testing" her reflexes from how intentional it seemed to be. one gloved hand sticks near her hip, along her sword's hilt, with glass shards being crushed further beneath her boots. golden eyes glow under her helmet almost, the cat slits of her pupils prominent in what glimpse of her face one might get when a pair of gloved fingers tap the top floors window. how polite, she muses to herself, that she went for knocking first instead of simply lifting the window open. that's more a bout of healthy paranoia on her end, she doesn't know what she's getting into, but she'll wait quietly.)
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No, none of it matteredâ because whether they wear gaudy rings and smoke the priciest cigars, or whether they hunch over her with their scarred bodies and breath that reeks of cheap booze, the men are all the same. Ready to pay for a body to use for the night, a fake name and a quick thrill, before they continue on their way. Another day acting as if their lousy existence is guaranteed, and another night where another girl will do anything they want for a small sum that never fully makes it into her hands.
Does she hate it? Does that even matter? She has long since stopped complaining of the pain and the brutality and the misery of it all, having drowned in them and still finding herself alive to see another day. The sun rising and setting on a hunger for blood that seems to be her soul's only fuel, a decade-long pursuit of the bastards who stole what was precious to her.
So close. Tonight, TrĂ€neâ or Nami now, for she'll only let her real name be a curse for those menâ would have been so close to making one of the biggest leaps towards her goal. This blood-soaked warpath would finally bear fruit, and she'd at last come face to face with one of those wretched Hill-Myna executives who had destroyed both her hometown and her life. A man who was lining his pockets using that same hellish scheme, perfected in Kiebitzenberg, in a new country, preying on new women who had no idea what they were signing innocent lives away to.
Rumor had it that he was living lavishly in Eastside, possibly with a wife and familyâ not that his business in some of the top-ranked brothels would paint him in such a domestic light. Nami had done whatever she needed to in order to glean any scrap of information she could on this man. This body of hers was but an instrument of revenge, numb to whatever dirty deed she was tasked with fulfilling for the 'right' people. Nothing mattered, nothing except what she had to do to sneak her way into working at these fancier establishments. Fancier, given the location, but from what Nami understood, the man she was after had more extreme tastes, and so she found herself situated in some ritzy whorehouse that catered to harder fetishes.
It didn't matter. She was numb to everything but her unending rage, and the taste of blood upon her tongue.
Neon lights, the sound of nightlife, heady cologne and the smell of sex. Pretending. Waiting. Inching closer to being his for the night. Imagining how she'd kill him, until sleep took her for a scant few hours. Waiting. Ensuring that there was nary a screw loose in the metal of her fake right arm, hidden cleverly beneath imitation 'skin.' Imagining what her daughter might be doing, what she might look like, if she were still alive. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
Tonight should have been the night where she'd spill tainted blood, but there was a sneaking suspicion that only grew more intense, that things were not to go her way. When had she first noticed this unsettling feeling? This kind of life had forced her to hone her senses, to not proceed in ignorance nor with a prideful ego. Her own life was forever on the line, so long as her target was Hill-Myna. Those monsters had every paid-off protection in their back pocket, so was it any wonder that she felt like something or someone was creeping after her in the shadows?
At first, Nami thought it to be her own paranoia, until tonight. When, from her hiding spot in some empty suite near her 'work,' she catches sight of that skirmish that ends up with three dead bodies and a single woman standing over them as though this was all child's play.
Of course they'd send a woman.
It wasn't the first time, and Nami doubts it'd be the last. Her assassin is a capable one, too, and this rather bothersome fact is only further confirmed when she aims and fires her rifle mere inches away from the woman's heart, only for the bullet to be swiftly sliced in two in a split-second.
Nami could have killed her, she should haveâ why did she spare her? But when she thinks on it, those questions could very well have been turned against the woman tailing her. From this little show, why hadn't she killed Nami yet? Perhaps this was connected to why her client had reneged on their 'session' today. It likely was.
As she watches the woman disappear to scale the stairs of the fire escapeâ undoubtedly to meet with herâ Nami chews her lip in resentment, wondering bitterly why the gods of vengeance continue to refuse answering her nightly prayer. Another test. More waiting. But she was so closeâ
A knock on the window comes, a helmeted figure on the other side of the glass. There's no point in running, but it's not like she has any desire to. Perhaps she can make it out of this alive. Perhaps she can still get closer to her target. Perhaps the Rachegötter have heard her prayers, at last.
Her right hand still gripping the rifle, Nami uses her free hand to open the window, feeling the night air cooling the faint film of sweat she hadn't noticed collecting upon her skin.]
[She smiles at her 'guest,' her blue eyes cold despite the charm in her tone. Her dark hair falls over her shoulders, and she certainly doesn't look like someone who would have any skill at being a sniper. The black leather of her tight-fitting dress catches the neon lights pulsing outside of the window, no doubt worn for her work. Nami takes a few steps back, her legs peeking from the deep slits of the dress as she does, and she appraises the woman before her, eyes falling obviously on the sword at her hip. A mirthless laugh fills the silence, and her own gloved hand clenches around the grip of her rifle.]
A shame. We could have met under different circumstancesâ but something tells me you didn't exactly come here to tie me up and fuck me. At least, not in a way that would be enjoyable for either of us.
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the window opens, the golden eyes beneath that helmet is met with the face of her target. this woman that she's after. one might wonder, why isn't she moving? she has the fastest draw if earlier suggests something, but she also doesn't doubt this woman knows her way around someone taking a sword to a gun fight. her posture suggests distrust, while also not betraying that she has doubts on why she was put up to this. the fact she hasn't moved to finish this job says it plainly for angell.
the one and only top hitman, the boogeyman of syndicate and a living legend thanks to that reputation she's earned in her work. her hand doesn't leave her blade's hilt, fingers grip it without bothering to unsheathe it. hadn't she just shot at her? she can do it again, angell knows. but she isn't yet. from that tight-fitting dress under these neon lights, was she one of the whores that had gone as far as to take up those offers around? her gaze, what can be seen of her eyes, is thoughtful while the questions plays about her mind.)
....you're not an ordinary whore. (that isn't an insult, that's said as being truth. she isn't ordinary. an ordinary hooker doesn't attempt to kill someone that might be about to end them instead. most have a fight in them starting out, but it eventually wears them down. this miserable life. she's seen hard drugs passed around by working girls to ease the pain, sometimes even dream up something else that was better than how it's going. seen more things than most would imagine despite her prestigious rank.) I was right.
(what was she even right about? she's not saying that. those gangsters weren't from syndicate. not even from discity, is what her gut tells her. they smelled like trouble, like something that shouldn't be here, and almost seemed a little too excited at contacting her. like they uncovered things about her that angell knew nothing about. figures. she walked into this, took their money and decided to maintain silence with a decision to see what happens first.
which leaves this as part of her having more questions than answers. she has two ideas about how they expected this night to go, one was nami dying and angell being weakened for whatever the hell they seemed interested in given the leers of those men. she knows when someone is undressing her with their eyes. it always caused her instincts to flare up worse than expected, not to run, but to kill them before they make their move. the other isn't as obvious.
if they accounted on her being as smart as they say, that means they're on a time limit.)
No. I'm not here for that, also been thinking this is a setup....you know that those types account for that, right?
(she doesn't need to say it anymore bluntly than this. they both should have an inkling. it hasn't been an hour yet, angell knows that. her client hasn't bothered to contact her to see about any updates, either. if there's one thing about her, it's her intuition isn't wrong. not about this, not about how she glances down at the alley entrance and even the fire escapes own. she's expecting it, expecting trouble. she's waiting for it as that faint sound of cars passing by fills the air, the scent of sex from certain rooms and the muffled sounds of pleasure she catches faintly despite the sound of music from her headphones.
syndicate, eastside, it doesn't matter, does it?)
Nobody hires someone that will be suspicious of their offerings without it.
(what a headache, but she does believe they both have this understanding of how things can go. one dies, the other gets dragged away. they both even could, it isn't like her clients seemed to care. as soft as her voice is, it's clear and firm. she isn't used to talking, it's something notable in how she raised her voice to make sure she wasn't speaking too quietly. for someone there to kill this foreign woman, she seemed too calm about what is sounding like her job is deviating quickly. like she also expected that to happen, given she couldn't find anything on this woman.
nami. the name itself has to not be her real one, but she muses that makes two of them. her own name isn't exactly her true name, either. that's been long since abandoned underneath the blue rain covered streets of syndicate.)
Thirty minutes.
(thirty minutes of questions, despite the cryptic phrase and nothing more. she doesn't bother to remove her helmet, that's not important. no need. she'll need that whenever she makes her escape, with or without this woman. that and it's easier to avoid attention with one, the eastsiders never did take kindly to syndican trash like her. she already has the look of someone that doesn't belong in eastside. pale skin, the scars that stick out along her collar and stomach. her demeanor, too, they'd all be enraged their perfect world is breached by rough garbage like her. it's agitating to think about, or would be, if she were any younger.)
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Alas, the only witnesses to such a tantalizing sight are the glaring lights that dance outside of the large windows, watching the two of them clutch their respective weapons while eyeing the other warily. Talk is cheap, after all, especially when the payment for a life has already changed hands. Nami doesn't expect a proper conversation with her would-be killer, but the first thing out of the other woman's mouth catches her off-guard.
That rather frank observation causes her to erupt in genuine laughter, the amusement finally touching her eyes this time. Or, eye in the singular sense. A particularly bright flash from one of the billboards outside casts an eerie light upon a faint scarring around her left eye, a prosthetic fitted in the socket that looks real enough to fool anyone less discerning. Tonight, she had decided on utilizing the one discretely embedded with the cameraâ she had intended on making that executive cough up the names and location of his cronies before giving him a different sort of death than what his money had paid for.
Wellâ in the end, someone is to die tonight, no? A grim thought, to be sure, though not grim enough to wipe the smile from Nami's face.]
You're not the kind of hitman that they would hire to snuff out some ordinary whore, FrÀulein. Most men would be happy enough to do it, themselves.
[If not the customers themselves, there were always the pimps or drug dealers who never seemed to shy away from some violence to keep their filthy little businesses running smoothly. Nami has seen enough to know that spending any more money to silence some run-of-the-mill hooker makes little sense, when there are so many out there who'd do it for free.]
I saw that bit of fun you had, down there in the alley.
[Her voice takes on a knowing edge, insinuating that someone like Angell doesn't come cheap. Not with those skills.
Nami doesn't ask what the woman is right aboutâ she doesn't really need to. She has a strong hunch about who might've hired her, and who exactly it is that they hired.]
You made quick work of them. Ein wahrer Todesengel.
[Who would have thought that she'd ever come face-to-face with the famous Grim Reaper herself? She had only thought the tales to be pointless pillow talk after her clients had their fill of her, happily talking her ear off of stories about a certain boogeyman who can kill without leaving a trace. Some of them would half-joke about hiring this Angell to take out political opponents, business rivals, and the like. Others were acquainted with people who had used her services, and who could only sing the hitwoman's praises at how cleanly she carried out the job.
An ally Nami wished she could have in her own back pocket, but without names, faces, or the vast sums necessary to commission such a legend for a hitâ well, it was cheaper to do the job herself. And besides, the satisfaction of their deaths needs to be hers alone. She has to see their final expression before she crushes them.
She can't die tonight. Not before she renders those bloodied fantasies into reality.
A setup, sounds about right. She can imagine that those bastards would want to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Taking out their old ghost from Kiebitzenberg for good, while forcing the infamous assassin to become one of their broodmares. What a mess they've found themselves in, these two womenâ that is, if they can't manage to both escape this unscathed.
Nami watches Angell carefully, catching how the woman casually mentions that she was suspicious of her own client's money. A killer with morals? Maybe she can twist this to her advantage, yet.]
Oh, I know quite a bit about those types. I wonderâ if you knew what I did, FrĂ€ulein, if you would still accept this job.
[She's not throwing her entire faith behind appealing to some sliver of morality that this assassin might have, but there must be a reason why she's still standing and not in some pile of corpses under the shadows of an alleyway.]
But you look like someone who will do almost anything, if the price is right. Wir sind gleich.
[Blood, sex, death, vengeanceâ are they really so different, when they're being puppeted by the same monsters who intend to carry on once these two have ceased to be useful?]
DreiĂig Minuten? That's fine. There are two things I want to know firstâ are you the 'Angel of West District', and is your client the Hill-Myna Corporation?
[She had her doubts about the second question being confirmedâ it's just as likely that it's some local gang affiliated with their protection, much like the yakuza had been in Japan. But answers are answers, and the more she knows, the fewer missteps she'll make next time.
Next timeâ there has to be a next time. Maybe the gods of vengeance have sent her an angel to watch over her.
Nami tightens her grip around her rifle.
Maybe.]
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it's the words, the matter of her identity at the end, that causes her to be given pause. she's frowning, unseen, and the air feels nearly frigid at first. what is angell thinking about? on the job and at home while alone, she's two different people. she doesn't react to these words. the things said, the attempt at tugging at her sense of morality. this isn't a detail she lets anyone have in their hands freely. that she holds nothing against her targets. this was only a matter of living, surviving. nobody else had to die if they weren't her target. they didn't need to lose their lives in the grand scheme of things.
but she knew of her rep. eastside has no shortage of people wanting her services, the same way syndicate doesn't. both ends are rotten to the core. one more open than the other in the violence behind it, instead of sex and murder behind glamorous lights of neon color.
she wasn't wrong. she isn't at all, not when angell reaches eventually to grab her motorcycle helmet. originally, she intended to keep it on. pretend that nothing happened if things went that way, while considering this contract not worth her time if given opportunity to find her employer alone. but from how they spoke with her? she doubts it'd also be that easy, too. she was meat to them, something to fuck pretty and play ignorant to her pleas for it to stop as they carried on against her will.
they didn't care, she's simply a toy. the helmet lifts, revealing now the face beneath it. intimidating, cold, and imposing. gold eyes like a cat's own, sharp and piercing. lengthy strands of black and white falling along her shoulders as the ponytail it's been tied into slips out freely. attractive. beautiful, even, otherworldly in how she has a handsome face with sharp features themselves. from her jawline to her lips, not just those beautifully dangerous eyes that look so calm and indifferent to what's going to be happening tonight.
because she was right. the grim reaper, an angel of death. called upon by the masses when they wanted someone murdered. they held no reason not to call her. she is their tool, she even earns a pretty penny from it. six months worth of bills, food, anything else that she might have found herself needing from requests to end a life or two.)
....I don't recognize that as the name of the client, the request itself came from a new gang that's been rising fast in Syndicate.
(as calm as her expression is in its indifference and apathetic looks to it, one can notice that she's thinking. her posture is guarded, but that's a constant in her life while she glances again out the window. they're not there yet. the thirty minutes was how long she's assuming they'd have before trouble makes itself known on their temporarily door step.
there's no way they're leaving this without it. angell already has broken the contract by having this conversation and refusing to kill her as expected. or perhaps they did expect that. killing this nami meant she was gone, they might do as they please with angell after. forcibly partaking in a body that doesn't belong to them, to anyone, for that matter, while expecting her to have her own uses dried up when they're done with her.
that's what she believes she noticed, the intent of treating women like whores and abusing them for wanting something like money or a better life for their children.)
You know something, I only have suspicions.
(she can hear it, unlike nami. the faintest sounds of sex, the cries. not all were pleasure filled. if she were any younger, she might have found herself sickened by it. hearing women be fucked in such disgusting ways, vibrators and chains. comments she catches about how tight they are. more than that, though she can't tip her hand. not about how good her senses are, nami only has seen her reflexes are beyond normal for what would be a killer.
headache aside, she's taking a considerate approach in how much she might let out without spilling everything too quickly. they needed to get out of here, after all.)
However, you're right. I don't do anything without reason behind it, money might be on the table, but at the end of the day I don't kill without reason. There's nothing personal in it, it's only business. Me or them.
(someone has to die, is what she means. it won't be her that dies, not even with allowing herself to be captured by those bastards and their ideas for her.)
....that is me, also. Angell.
(if there is a god, he surely did send nami quite the angel. the one and only angel of west district. she isn't just the best that money can buy, but she has something of a heart within her. angell's surprisingly easy. easy to read when she wants to be, to figure out from simple remarks and idle moments of watching her catlike demeanor.)
I don't usually come to Eastside. They know how to make girls like us feel less than welcome.
(they always did that. making that clear how they felt about trash like them. syndican girls, girls who didn't fit their vibe and image. they're always the same. focusing on beauty, on things that shouldn't matter while any poor souls got lost in their attempts at following trends. angell's always been the sort to focus more on other things while denying the simplest of pleasures for herself. some might wonder how she's even alive were they to learn her habits.)
Not that you stick out, they just have a way of noticing when someone doesn't "fit" their image.
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Nami isn't surprised to learn what she had already suspected, that this despicable corporation had known well enough to cover their tracks and hand off all of their dirty workâ ha! as if their own hands weren't already irrevocably sulliedâ to whatever thugs who would gladly cash in their humanity for a significant sum. But the disappointment stings, either way, and the rage she feels wants to claw her bloody from the inside out.
She tempers it, though, having learned the hard lesson of giving in to that blind anger when she is still missing the necessary pieces to claim her ultimate victory.
Besides, the night may not be entirely a disappointmentâ after all, Death has come to pay her a visit. Nami is a bit surprised when the helmet is removed, revealing an icy attractiveness befitting a phantom killer from its otherworldly nature. Disarming, truly, but that's always been the most dangerous kind of beauty, no? How many get to behold such a sight and live to tell the tale? When Death comes calling, there tends to only be one path ahead.
Still, Nami thinks, if Death should have a face, it should be as beautiful as this one.
She'll appreciate that handsome woman in her own way, reaffirming to herself that it was indeed a pity that they had to meet this way. The time ticks on by, and Nami is quick to consider that whatever gangsters that Hill-Myna definitely had waiting in the wings aren't going to be like the petty thugs Angell had taken care of in the alley. There's a reason why Angell was called upon for this job, instead of pawning it off on to one of the gang members.
The hitwoman looks like she's contemplating something, and Nami decides that she'll take advantage of this reluctance over turning little rendezvous into proper carnage.]
The pleasure should be mine, shouldn't it, Angell? But, the two of us already know each other, nicht wahr?
[Introductions are a formality that seems laughably out of place in a world where only bodies and their uses are of paramount importance. That includes whores and killers. Still, Nami maintains a pleasant tone, though never letting her own guard down.]
Your suspicions are likely correct. Surely you didn't think that your payment was just for my head. You're more clever than that, if the stories I've heard are true.
[And she's heard plenty, enough that might have given her younger self nightmares, were Nami's entire life these past fifteen years not a nightmare in and of itself. She watches the bright colors of the city play across the impassive face of this Grim Reaper, and decides that she can sacrifice one of the cards that she has been holding close. She can afford itâ a better way of thinking, rather than accepting that she has no other choice.]
The client who hired you to kill me is a mere lackey for a company who's set up shop here in your lovely city, FrÀulein. Whatever they paid you is pittance compared to every dirty dollar filling their fat coffers. If you think you'll be free of them after you've delivered on your end of the bargain, you're sorely mistaken.
[A bitter look crosses her own expression, almost rueful, almost pitying this pretty woman who carries herself like she doesn't trust a single soul she walks amongst. They truly are the sameâ another reason why Nami feels like those bastards shouldn't get the satisfaction of ruining them both, tonight.
Chances are good that they'll send someone who can overpower Angell, locking her up for the company's own perverse use once the thorn in their side has been yanked out for good. What they'll to to Angell is likely to be on par with whatever sick acts are being carried out in the adjacent rooms of this brothel. Given the nature of this fetish establishment, the walls are thick and mostly soundproof, unless one's senses are unnaturally sharp.
But Nami doesn't need to hear the sounds to know what evil lurks in the hearts of these clients. She's lived it, over and over and overâ in Kiebitzenberg, in Huamei and Ishikunagi-jima, and now here in DisCity. This world, the world of purchased flesh and crumbling souls, is a world that will always continue to spin, no matter Nami's personal thoughts and experiences.
All she wants is to eradicate the men who had opened her eyes to the hell they've created on earth.
And they, too, have every reason to want to kill her, yet it seems as though this Angel of Death gets the final say in whose reasoning triumphs in the endâ contracts be damned.
All this does is instill a greater sense of confidence in Nami that she won't be dying tonight. Furthermore, that she and her would-be killer might have a chance at escaping a rather nastier fate together, should they combine their efforts.]
Then, let's go someplace where we won't stand out too much, ja? After all, a living corpse and a killer who failed her task certainly don't "fit in" around here, do they?
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She's a ghost.
Frightening, beautiful. Her hands another instrument while she thinks again that they wouldn't have much time to speak in this glamorous den of debauchery. Fetish clubs, brothels, dens of depraved pleasures that the rich often indulge in without complaint. They know she's here, the same way they know she's suspicious of them for their games they decided to play using her. It almost was too fitting she found herself once more dragged into another situation like at the start of her work as a killer.
Killers don't need introduction, the same way a whore doesn't with expectations they'll do the job right and well. Nothing more than people meant to be thrown away like tools once they've worn out their uses to the masses that use them. But she will admit, Nami is beautiful. The thought hangs and stays within her mind before being brushed aside for more important matters, they did need to get moving.
Soon. She gave the thirty as an estimate depending on how they play it, but they can arrive quicker than that or later. That also depends on if they were in a hurry to catch a cat and a woman who should be a corpse getting ready to make their move. Angell knows these streets, even if she doesn't always come to Eastside for a job. They might have people around, waiting, she doesn't wish to be seen as the one caught off guard by people intending to use her for other things that are not in her job description as a killer.
For that, she glances at the alley entrance again while her mind goes over everything. They have to do this with some caution, as well as recklessness girls like them can afford to have.)
....they've been gathering the prostitutes in Syndicate, too. However, they're not as fortunate as the girls here. Syndicate isn't a friendly place.
(It never was, maybe at the start, but now? Nobody lives easy in Syndicate without risk of the violence coming for them quickly. Good people don't last on those streets, she surely isn't doing anything more than surviving herself. They didn't need to know. Nobody else had to about what she deals with, Syndican women are a different breed and Angell is surely not going to stop showing that now.
It's better not to lie about it. She isn't sure what they've been looking for, but they were positively pleased that she responded. Like she was a prize for their machinations without ever realizing the bleaker reality behind that.)
As for anything else, I can't answer that for you right noâ....
(She pauses, the words hang and a mere second later she tosses the motorcycle helmet to Nami. It was fast, the slice of bullets and a shift in her demeanor. They're here. Fifteen minutes, that wasn't too early, but she muses that she ought to get started with their now soon to be partnership whenever Angell knows she won't have to hold back. No need for that, not even to feel guilty for their impeding demise as they're all horrible and rotten souls that don't deserve the notion of mercy.
For that reason, she's going to act first. The women and their cries had paused, her music shifts into something different at the press of a button on her part. Slow won't suit the mood, even if that's her preference by the sound of heavy instrumentals and lyrics beginning.)
Times up. My safehouse, then. Bikes nearby, I'll clear the path.
(Malice. She feels it thickly between the confused voices of men and women fading whilst she charges out onwards. This fire escape is their best chance, the elevator would be a trap and she isn't going to risk a bit of parkour to get around. Mania weapons are a threat even in Eastside, Nami didn't need to discover that so soon as a foreigner from what Angell has realized.
They were waiting, but they also were surprised. She soared out, coming over the top floor railings to the floor beneath with ease. A cat like grace that has her moving quick, blood flies and corpses fall. Some even were met with boot planting into their faces. The force kicking them into a nasty fall and end by the sick crack that fills the air. She's got the sword, it only fits she takes them on dead ahead.
Might as well trust those bullets will shoot them and not her.)
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This is shaping up to be quite the surprising partnership, isn't it?
'The enemy of my enemy is my friend'â or perhaps a better take on that saying would be 'the killer hired by my enemy is now my savior.' Nami will have a good laugh about that later, once they've made it safely to whatever lair that the Dark Web's top killer holes herself up in.
Indeed, Nami is aware of the same manner of operations being carried out in that godforsaken district known as Syndicate. Life was worth less than garbage there, or so she's heard, and she can only imagine the depraved conditions those other women 'gathered' by Hill-Myna and their gangs exist within. It's almost certain that they have little choice, those women, and see these paltry crumbs fed to them by those intruding monsters as their way out of that dismal life. But no one ever escapes, especially not when one's life is so pitifully cheapâ they'll be robbed of everything they can give and wrung dry beyond that before they're dumped in some unmarked pit, waiting in decay for the next batch of girls to join them.
There's no reply to Angell's remark that the whores here in Eastside have it better, merely a wry smile curling Nami's lips as she recalls all of the nights she had spent 'employed' here in the ritzier district of DisCity. If that was fortunate, being so used and abusedâ though she makes herself endure, of course, this rage of hers mostly numbing her mind and body to whatever her customers put her throughâ then she shudders to think what horrors her counterparts in Syndicate have the misfortune of experiencing.
It seems as if she is to find out soon enough, though. Nami has overstayed her tenure here in the wealthy eastern district, now that a price has been put on her life. But this is merely a deviation in her warpathâ perhaps she can get farther, working in the shadows of Syndicate. Perhaps she can get closer, closer to those devils, with an Angel of Death watching over the corpse-strewn road she'll carve in the pursuit of revenge.
Rightâ there may not be any more time for getting further answers from Angell's lips, but the hitwoman sounds like she's extending an invitation to Nami, once the first hail of bullets are swiftly dealt with by the blade's edge. She catches the helmet with a bit of surprise, the weight of it unsteady at first in one hand while the other remains firmly around the rifle. Nami doesn't have time to consider if this might be a trap, if Death's sickle will end up against her own throat later tonightâ no, for now, she'll throw all of her trust behind this Grim Reaper, because the only other option she has is an abrupt end to her only reason for living.]
I'll be right behind you. Alles Gute, mein Engel.
[It's truly a sight to behold, watching the woman leap from the top of the fire escape to where the gangsters were lying in wait. Much like that display near the alleyway, Angell's blade makes quick work of these men, slashing at arteries and limbs, while others meet a more gruesome end splattered upon the pavement several stories below. No wonder she's the best that money can buyâ those skills aren't human, rather, cat-like in every way from the graceful way she moves her body to the swiftness and precision of her attacks.
The Rachegötter will be receiving prayers of gratitude that Angell is on her side, tonight, as Nami slices through the thick leather of her dress using the blades hidden in her right thumb and forefinger, cutting the garment off well above her knees. Unfortunately, the blades shred through the fabric of her evening gloves, too, slightly ruining their hiding spot. Still, she doesn't have the luxury of time to be worrying about showing a bit of her hand, this time quite literally.
Though she's not as quick as her new partner, Nami can still move easily enough now that her legs are freed from the bothersome skirts. She follows after Angell, her arm looped through the visor of the helmet, while both hands steady the rifle before firing at some of the men approaching the other woman from the side. The shots will no doubt attract further attention from patrons, workers, and authorities alike, but hopefully by then, the two of them will be long gone and zooming down the road to this safehouse of Angell's
Nami laughs darkly as she watches her bullets lodge squarely in the skulls of the thugs who thought they'd be feasting upon some pretty flesh this evening.]
...Mein Herz wĂŒrde heute Abend so oder so rasen.
no subject
They all have struggles, some have mouths to feed and others are desperate to claw themselves out of impoverished conditions for a chance at a better life. One day, she might have been the same as any other in Syndicate. Desiring more, wishing for it with a desire to not carry on this blood covered road she's entrenched in deeply. But that isn't so simple, not that she knows it as any different in what life has taught her heavily in lessons meant to serve as a reminder for her transgressions. She was not meant for the light. A woman like her who remains impassive and cold at men dying by their hand. At screams and murmurs about what's happening, violence isn't an Eastside occurrence, is something she bets they'd think. That only Syndican mongrels are willing or capable.
Anyone is capable of it, it was foolish to believe otherwise for even a second. They're all capable of violence, some more than others. They didn't need to be a sinner or even Syndican for that much whilst her descent becomes much quicker with this aid she receives. The cops are more proactive here than Syndicate, after all, best they don't linger now that one of them is making use of her rifle. Loud isn't her style, but they did think that this hitwoman is someone that can be ambushed with relative ease. Unfortunately for them, they were wrong.
With that pretty face and pale skin, even Angell is more capable than they know of. Her steps a dance, well rehearsed and like a machine. One woman who knows the grace of death like its music in how efficient she is at this. Clearing away rotten souls who move to strike her, killing without pausing to ever consider if peace is an option for this beautiful demise she brings out in the neon night covered sky. This is a punishment befitting those who cross her path with horrific intentions.
She didn't need to feel guilt or sorrow for that, no matter her own hatred for killing and lamenting often to herself about how it was her or them. At the very least, these men were not worth the reflection of how violence is the only thing she may ever be good at among these innocent and corrupt souls on the road before them. Her steps pause finally after the last falls, just in time. She can faintly hear the sirens and Angell would prefer the MBCC to not catch her so soon. They have work to do, being locked away as a Sinner isn't on the table whenever she can presume they wouldn't let her go naturally with ease.
Her bike isn't far away from here, no need to be shy about it or pretend that Nami won't be sharing a ride with her. Part of her wonders if she might even get some thrills at watching her work without considering she's drawing too much attention in what will be an interesting escape for a change. They didn't have to avoid admitting that, either, truly. Though later, she might ask if Nami is from the Outland. Some hold similar accents from there to her recollection. Similar manner of speech, but not all do.
Then again, it's better not to assume things knowing she couldn't uncover anything on this woman they expected her to kill. She's the first to reach her bike after carving their path, the first there and revving up the engine naturally once her keys are in the ignition. A second helmet is placed upon her head, they're not going to have time to chat while on the run. Angell has to focus.
She didn't get this far as a killer without that, or without her own ability as a Sinner.)
Cops are coming.
(If asked how she knows, she would answer that another time. The sound of sirens isn't close enough for someone normal to catch, but she is far from it in how Angell seems relatively unfazed by the development. Naturally, she also will assume this Hill-Myna may have sneaked people into the police force. Eastside does have it's own problems with corruption, just nowhere near Syndicate's own in her experiences between both.
Another thing that she notes to explain later, the gangs laugh if anyone does try threatening them with police action in Syndicate. A funny joke. None of those cops should be called cops, but she also won't say a word on that, either.
Better left for another time as well, not when she's about to zoom off across the highway with her new client.)
no subject
Upon the stage of this neon-drenched skyline, with its impossibly tall buildings built on unimaginable wealth, Nami is merely an accompanist to the real star of this performance. The sharp boom from each shot of her rifle certainly draws attention from those out of sight, concerned Eastside citizens who hurriedly contact the authorities about these frightening soundsâ but the truly lucky audience are the hapless fools who find themselves on the other side of an artfully-wielded blade, cut down in seconds with each beautiful movement.
In the end, the real mongrels are the ones who dine upon the misfortune of others, who subjugate whomever will net them the tidiest profit, while claiming that what they do is for a vague "greater good." Is there anything so wrong about putting down a few rabid beasts who think in such twisted ways? After all, Nami doesn't believe that there is any "good" greater than that.
They deserve this, she thinks as she watches the life drain from the eyes of a thug who Angell runs through with her sword. They deserve this, each severed limb and shattered skull, each spray of blood that paints the pretty pavement of the Eastside streets. Let them scrub away the signs of tonight's violence, let them all foolishly believe that peace has indeed been restored. But Nami knows that the ripples of fear and unease will make their way to the people she wants them to the most.
Let them know that Nami Savrasovaâ that TrĂ€ne Leuchtermachâ still walks amongst the living, and that she shall not die until revenge is hers.
Once the last gangster's corpse joins his buddies in the bloodied heap, an eerie silence befalls the scene, only disrupted by the sound of Nami's heels upon the last flight of stairs on the fire escape. No, she can't hear the too-distant wail of sirens, but Nami does catch the increasing hum of concerned murmurs and agitated questions being called out from the pedestrians and patrons from nearby establishments. Won't they be in for a surprise when they see what these two women have wrought upon their pursuersâ but neither she nor Angell are willing to stick around to bask in the glory of their shock.
She locks eyes with the hitwoman, her own alight with the intensity of this little bout of excitement. An enigmatic smile plays upon her lips before Nami hides her face away beneath the helmet she carries, as if to convey that she did feel a thrill at bearing witness to how the Grim Reaper slices the threads of life from the mortals who cross her. And nothing beats the thrill of living to tell the taleâ she knows her 'client' must be feeling a similar way, having escaped her wrath, but his luck won't last. Not if she has anything to do about it.
Slinging her rifle strap over her shoulder, Nami situates herself behind Angell upon the bike, her thighs locking tightly around the driver's hips, and her arms encircling just as securely around her waist. She presses her body against Angell's back, unfazed by the close contact while finding it mildly enjoyable all the same.
Nami leans in, then, and speaks just loudly enough to be heard over the engine, her voice carrying more than just a bit of playful insinuation.]
Dann fahr schnell. Go fast, mein Engel, and don't stop.
[While she's left a few important things here in Eastsideâ her various prosthetic eyes, a book of contacts, a repair kit for her arm, and a bit of cashâ they don't have time to waste driving around the district and increasing their chances of getting captured. She doesn't have a single doubt that there are cops here who are on Hill-Myna's payroll, happy to sweep a few things under the rug, turning this bloodbath into some non-issue for the public after they secretly deliver the two women to the company's doorstep.
Fortunately, Nami's belongings aren't somewhere easily found, kept secure in some unmarked location unrelated to her work or lodging during her stay here. If she can't find a safe opportunity to make the trip back to collect them, she muses that she can probably strike up a deal with her new partner to do the retrieving. There are plenty of ways she can repay the effort, surely.
For now, she'll let their chatting come to a close as they escape the scene of the crime, the city lights bathing them in their sickeningly bright colors as they ride through, the chill of the night whipping across their skin as they pick up speed.
Well, tonight didn't go as plannedâ but better to be disappointed than dead.]
no subject
not that she was interested in that. as long as she has money for food, bills, it didn't matter. she didn't need anything so fanciful and lovely. all angell needed is that blade she holds tightly on to like her life depends on it that she does. if she lets go, it'd only mean she broke to pieces under the stress of it all. they're on a fast track to getting away from this mess. the people's murmurs, remarks about uncivilized behavior and unwanted trash gracing their fine streets whenever they had just moments ago indulged in sins of the flesh. carnal desires that only the rich could afford by expending their riches as they see fit for their wanton delights.
she despises it, she always will. killing, the violence, but it is the only thing she's good at. the things that no other sane soul would do without question. killing doesn't hold any honor. she's ended lives for less than some might have expected, she's even tortured slowly with the expectation to record it for clients and other gruesome misdeeds that can be afforded from a killer like her. her services are spoken of so highly for a reason. but angell cannot help herself, in the rarer times she dreams about what life would've been like had things not turned out this way. a pity, she's realized that those dreams were never meant for her. they're only sweet thoughts, things she brushes aside for more current matters that are before her golden gaze.
she's already certain they'll be ahead of the police by the time that they start to arrive. the only problem is going to be the mooks that they got on payroll among the population of various thugs and other unsightly blemishes that society despises as a whole on the side of those who stay in their light covered reality. the warm sun and its beauty wrapped around their bodies.
only women like them knows, the world is never something to be underestimated in the assorted cruelties it has. she feels it faintly, the warmth of legs wrapped tightly against her hips, the brush of fingertips along a toned stomach in a brief moment after. against a scar peeking out from beneath her tank top on this winter evening. frigid air passes by her when she listens, words that might've made her shiver had she been any greener from how excellent her hearing is. sensitive ears, more sensitive than usual when her considerable abilities are kept in mind. not that she's told her about those, not yet, anyway. the bike speeds away, no chance of it stopping for even a second while this neon scenery passes by at record speed.
later, she could go retrieve anything on request. angell does have a knack for getting into places where she shouldn't be, plus any trouble will be handled considerably well by her performance earlier. they can go over what she needs to find when that comes. her worries are more placed upon how many might be other fools that these people had ensnared with promises of money. she's doubtful that she's the only sinner that they'd be after, not with the number that's in discity alone and beyond it. they're not easy to find, especially with the risk of what might happen to any souls that get hit by mania weapons. angell is only an example of someone on the luckier side of this gruesome reality she might have found herself in otherwise.
she's silent. nothing unusual, her silence is because she already isn't a talker. earlier was because it had been necessary. a wrong move would have resulted in both women finding themselves in a free-for-all. blood spilt, the chance of them being unable to clear the misunderstanding being slim before their unwanted guests decided to make their presence known. the cops, too, she can't forget about eastside police being more diligent from their rich overlords demanding that they maintain the peace and keep out undesirable trash like herself. perhaps even like nami, though angell presumes she might not get anything on this woman with ease. she already had spent time attempting to research her. nothing came up, of course.
nothing she expects to learn so soon, then. her senses are focused, adrenaline aside, she's not letting go of the proverbial throttle for even a second during this precarious situation they're in. too many factors makes this too risky to not do this, which also means wearing herself out more when they arrive back in syndicate.)
They're not here yet.
(she doesn't sense them, killing intent and danger isn't exactly something that can be hidden. not from angell who carries finer senses than anyone normal. they're safe, for now, while the highway zips on by. she knows a few shortcuts to get out of there without having to worry about anything like corruptors or other nasty surprises. the rust is too risky to take a passenger through, anyway. especially when one of them is a sinner and the other isn't.
she'd rather not learn if that could fuck her up further than she is as of now, with her detached demeanor and bleak thoughts about her own future in this mess she calls her life.)
They'll likely attempt to overtake us by car, Mania weapons aren't easily obtained in the Eastside, but that doesn't make it impossible.
(though the last was said more to herself, murmurs of it underneath her breath. she did still need to explain that in due time, of course. mania weapons and the things that they do when someone is shot by them. even she had suffered the feverish haze of it. how her blood was boiling, she felt like she were dying when it entrenched itself deeply in a younger angell's own body until that pain had faded to nothing. like she couldn't feel anything, not any longer. her sense of it was gone, the same way she couldn't feel most things that touched her by this point.
and....without a sense of taste, she stopped caring much about food beyond eating what might fill her stomach up. burnt, terrible, or unusual concoctions that most would stare in horror at. sometimes angell might even be found drinking coffee to curb any hunger for a time whenever she cannot afford it.)
How much do you know about DisCity?
(obviously, she'll need to go over other things about this rather....terrible city in itself. she can't deny that her home isn't any better, not from how it does things.)
no subject
And she tells herself that this isn't as terrible as what she might have been subjected to, had her client showed his sickening face in the endâ but then her mind goes to the thought of making him suffer for the crimes he had committed, and the bitterness of foiled plans steals the slivers of peace and relief that she might have held from succeeding in this getaway.
For a moment, she forgets about the sharp, chilly winds whipping across her exposed skin. She forgets about everything except for how close she was to closing one more chapter of this endless nightmare, and how that chance was never going to be hers, anywayâ
Then she realizes that Angell is speaking, her murmurs at first only half-registering in Nami's mind once it's begun to race in furious loops again. There's nothing to be done about it, she repeats to herself as she makes the effort to quell her agitation. But still, it remains, sunk into her rapidly beating heart like relentless fangs.
Nami watches the lights of Eastside start to become more sparse, a brief silence before she replies.]
It's certainly a breathtaking city. Mein aufrichtiges Kompliment.
[There's an obvious bite of sarcasm in her tone, the amusement touched by the bitterness of her earlier train of thought.]
Enough corruption beneath the profits of a booming industry for opportunistic, foreign entities to easily exploit and slither their way in.
[And enough danger to keep the weak in line and the strong in powerâ or at least that's how the elites would want it to be. Nami knows about districts and the obvious disparity between them, the benefits of using both to the advantage of a company like Hill-Myna. There are probably a lot more fruitful endeavors to be had in Syndicate compared to Eastside, but like true researchers, they'd be fools not to take advantage of the unique environment of DisCity as a whole.
Nami weighs her next words before continuing.]
âŠI know that there are more resources of interest to those people than just the women that they can procure here. A certain sort of contamination that they want to exploit for their business.
[Something that makes certain citizens prime subjects for their use. Sinners, or so she's heard her clients call them. Human bodies with rather inhuman capabilitiesâ it's no surprise that Hill-Myna set their sights on this place for their research. Nami holds her tongue on this subject, for now.]
I know enough to have made this my next stop, FrĂ€ulein. Anything more than that, I graciously learned from my clients. Men love to pillow talkâ give them a good fuck, and they'll sing all sorts of tunes. Especially about the things that frighten them.
[A low laugh, as if the recollection tickles her, and she spreads her fingers across the skin of Angell's abdomen.]
How else do you think I learned of your exploits, mein Engel?
[She has her suspicions, of course, that Angell might have some sort of link to these so-called Sinnersâ but given their reputation, she withholds asking anything outright, opting to tread carefully.]
The thought of you coming for them in the dead of night scares them out of their witsâ so they come to me to remind themselves that they're still tougher than a woman. Ich sollte Ihnen wohl danken.
[It seems that the two of them were already working together, in a morbid manner of speaking.]
But it sounded earlier like you were a little aware of the business that goes on in the brothels here. Du bist dranâ tell me what you know about the 'goods' that these up-and-coming gangsters are trying to protect.
no subject
unfortunately, it wasn't jealousy that ended a normal life she barely had in her tiny hands. it was nothing except the senseless violence that shaped syndicate. she's a resilient girl. too capable of living, too willing to push forward despite the bleaker thoughts that gnaw at her mind about what might be her fate.
she's paying attention, the gold of her eyes reflected in her helmet. the catlike appearance of them a stark contrast to the rest of that pretty face it hides now in the frigid winter air. she doesn't notice it. not the cold, she should've noticed it. the bone chilling sting and how it sinks deep into bodies around that aren't appropriately dressed for it. she surely is not, but angell had noticed she stopped being able to tell the two apart for years now. her companion, however, she's not as lucky. she doesn't envy her. not with how nami is dressed during this fine evening drive of theirs down the highway to one of her shortcuts.
syndicate awaits. it isn't any better than eastside, some would call it worse than eastside. angell personally thinks there is no worse than the other, they're both terribly miserable depending on how one looks at it. she's already avoiding the other cars, drivers, whoever else might be on this highway while mulling over what she could say.
her reputation precedes her, that's typical. light words about men and their inability to help themselves in loose lips. she's killed plenty for that. men who never shut up, men who thought themselves safe from her clutches with new toys of theirs like high-end bodyguards and defense systems. some even sought out gang protection, but oh, that was a mistake in itself from how often the gangs might participate in organ trading thanks to her experiences from the dark web. she knows this too well. she's seen comments, she's even gone through it a few times at the start of this wonderful career that she has. this career of blood and nothing except darkness.
but she's got a thoughtful expression when she feels the faint spread of fingers against toned muscle of her abdomen. the scars there too, though only one peeks out from beneath her tank top. there's too much she could've started with from time checking the forums on dismyth. some commentary had reached her neck of the woods. things about women being wanted for something specific. other comments, too, about them looking specifically at prostitutes and other girls who were down on their luck that were looking for easy money. about how children of theirs would be welcomed, some thought it was a scam again from the typical gangsters. they always did that with offering promises that they didn't intend to keep.
the idea was that they were to work their clubs, their brothels, strip clubs too since she wouldn't doubt that for a second. girls in syndicate did whatever they had to do. even angell once considered if she should take that route some did, offering up her body to some john that might've been only wanting a quick fuck. likely the wrong john, too, given her inexperience back then for things like this dark world she's entrenched deep in.
....but that part about contamination, the experimentation with it, she's frowning. she knows what it meant. it's only good that her reactions aren't something so easy to read or figure out. mania. she didn't need to be a genius to put two and two together. if they're looking at mania, they're looking at how sinners are made and work. about what they might be able to do with one as the memory comes to mind about other whispers she heard. about some individuals like herself being dragged out of syndicate overnight. about how the established names around were also dealing with a bit of trouble themselves. not all syndican sinners live good lives, not all of them are capable of holding back their temper when it comes to people attempting to push their own luck against them. there was a reason why so many of them were willing in whatever way they had to fight for their lives, for something better, when given that chance.
which is why, after this pause to consider what to say, angell has an idea of where to start first. the working girls. anything else? well, she'd want to avoid mentioning too much about sinners. she is one, after all, any other punks finding this out will only make that target on her back bigger.)
There was talk going around. Working girls on the corners were being picked up by outsiders. Some acted like doctors, picking up any sickly ones and nobody saw them again. Others were offering jobs at more "established" joints.
(she doesn't need to clarify that, angell thinks briefly, it should be obvious what she meant by established. brothels, strip clubs, anywhere that can use a nice beautiful girl with a cute ass and a fuckable body.)
But, not all of those fine places.... (she uses that loosely.) ....are considered safe, either. The gangsters around typically only provide protection if they're paid and if it's in their territory, though some would use it to also mess with the girls themselves. It also doesn't stop the cops from coming around because they wanted some poor girl to screw up and take their moods out on.
(she's seen the chatter often about carnivore members deciding to kidnap the girls for their own games, their corpses were never found. yagyu she can only assume kills them if they're less than satisfactory, given she's heard the girls they often visit are still breathing. usually, unless someone really pissed off the wrong man of that men's only club they got going. any others were unknown, thou voodoo's she presumed (rightfully) they'd sooner sacrifice whores to whatever thing they worship.
it wasn't unheard of for the top dogs to attempt to push back against this new upcoming presence, they'd often attack their businesses and even take the whores from their buildings. the cops did, too. but she can think more about it, with her hands gripping a bit tightly on the throttle while angell maintains her concentration. she feels a migraine coming, an unfortunate problem about her senses is that she's only a human still. a killer, a sinner, but still human. they're not around trouble just yet.
not while the bike carries on unimpeded during this long drive to syndicate.)
The girls allegedly get told if they work hard or something along those lines, they can move up to Eastside places. Unsurprisingly, the whores here in Syndicate get the short end of the stick in everything.
(what was she meaning by that? too much, truly. she knows it too well that the girls were never going to get out of this place. why would they offer it, except for nothing more than false hope that'd later be crushed beneath their heels once the girls lost all use?)
I never believed that. It felt more to me and others like organ trading scams waiting to happen.
no subject
This isn't some joyride through the city on a chilly winter night, and they aren't a pair of friends or lover who indulge in the high speeds just for the thrill of it.
Noâ they're two godforsaken souls whose shadowy worlds somehow found themselves overlapping thanks to the nefarious dealings of one particular company, one who certainly didn't count on the quick thinking of these women to result in a slapdash partnership and a handful of corpses splattered against the immaculate Eastside streets.
The pause that Angell takes is expected, considering that they're both in the business of only playing the right cards at the right time. She's a careful one, Nami muses, but she'd expect nothing less from someone so infamous for her thoroughness. Neither of them are giving away everything that they know, the conclusions they've drawn respectively, nor their reasons for their interest in this cause to begin withâ that's fine. At the very least, they're aware that they don't pose an immediate threat to the other, despite that little show of skills before their escape.
Nami doesn't interrupt Angell, listening intently as she divulges what she's been made aware of through word of mouth. It's just as she figured, these outsidersâ those bastards from Hill-Myna, without a doubtâ taking advantage of down-on-their-luck women for their inhumane research. It doesn't even come as a surprise to Nami that they've been preying on those who are too weak to put up any real fight, those who'd have no one that would come looking for them if they disappeared.
'Working girls,' Angell says. Girls with no prospects and nothing left to lose, reduced to using their pretty bodies to earn a bit of cash. Well, it was either be 'put to work' and subject themselves to all manner of dangers on the job, or die pitifully on the streets. She doesn't blame them one bit for taking what sounded to be such generous opportunities. Hill-Myna knew better than to target more well-to-do women, too much risk and not enough consistent reward. What a despicable system, and when Nami thinks of the man who pitched it to the company to save his own skin, her stomach turns and she's filled with a nauseating mix of disgust, anger, and pity.
Once upon a time, TrĂ€ne was innocent, with a modest future that might have given her the kind of happiness that every girl dreamt of. There was a time when she might have even wanted such a happiness with that manâ but that dream died a hundred times, shattered repeatedly in that small room where she was kept like a guinea pig to be taken and used, a hundred more times than she could count.
And now she finds herself in the same boat as these working girls, using her best assetâ imperfections and allâ to claw her way towards the dream that has sustained her for thirteen long years. But unlike those girls who were promised a 'better life' in Eastside, Nami is finding herself embarking in the opposite direction towards the violence misery in Syndicate.
She gives a short laugh, sharp and bitter, and marvels that she, too, seems to be getting the short stick in everything. Well, almost everythingâ Nami has DisCity's best killer right here in her arms. That might very well be her guarantee for survival in this next adventure of hers.]
Well, it looks like I'll soon be joining those lucky whores in Syndicate, mein Engelâ I can't exactly show my face in Eastside anymore after tonight, can I?
[A shameâ it was nice while it lasted, even the nights working at that high-class fetish club. Her work is about to get a whole lot grittier, it seems. Nami can handle it. She has no other choice.
From her position, she can see Angell's grip tightening upon the throttle, and wonders if the nature of this conversation is troubling her more than she lets on. It would make any normal person ill, sobering them to the sick realities of a world that they had believed to be just. But her Angel of Death is no normal personâ though what she is isn't exactly clear just yet.]
âŠOrgans aren't the only thing they're trading.
[Her remark is muttered vaguely, Nami's mind going to one 'product' in particular. She refrains from elaborating further.]
But you seem to be well-informedâ Das freut mich. I'm sure those poor girls would be thrilled to know that the Angel of West District is keeping an eye on them and their suffering.
[They couldn't ask for anyone better, right? Let these unfortunate souls matter to someone in this world that's all too happy to crush them and leave them to rot.]
I wonder if that means our paths will cross again after tonight. After all, you'll be watching over me, now, too.
[Syndicate awaits, indeed. What will she be subjected to? What will she unearth and how much closer will she get to her goal? A dozen thoughts buzz around in Nami's head, but one thing is certainâ the gods have sent her an angel for a reason. She just has to survive long enough to understand that reason, and forge it into an advantage against her greatest adversaries.]
no subject
it's only worse than that, she thinks to herself, she is among something special. something hated and misunderstood by both eastside and syndicate itself. sinners don't get the benefit of acceptance. none live similarly to one another, there's likely many who might even look at their youth with melancholy. syndican born youths or the eastians torn apart by neon lights and a constant demand for opulence, hedonism, and what remains of those poor souls to be torn apart. they know not peace, they've all lost any sense of that from what angell had gathered personally from her fewer visits to somewhere like eastside.
it didn't matter what sort of existence they all led before meeting her, the end came as soon as she showed her face. this unnatural beauty who cannot feel anything except the faint brush of hands against her exposed skin. warmth is something else she notes coming from them vaguely, but it was by no means capable of warming her as she is now without the ability to feel this. to know it. any normal woman might've wanted a night like this with or without it being at the hands of a whore. a beautiful girl pressing her body for something as trivial as riding her motorcycle against her back. but she isn't normal, not whenever she reminds herself to relax a bit. the music plays again in her headphones, filling this void between the sounds of cars and other passersby on the highway, where she says nothing.
if listened to, the lyrics could be heard muffled vaguely beneath her helmet:
(There is no hope, there is no soar
I know somewhere there must be more....)
it's quiet. she wants to think that's fine, that nothing is happening, and she can listen to the other woman speak candidly. but she also knows that's rarely if ever something she can afford to have. quiet, silence, the ability to sleep and stop thinking again. that rest she might have ever gotten can be ended swiftly, death comes for everyone. some simply have it come faster from her own knowledge of the subject, while the phantom thrum of pain from a migraine gnaws numbly at her skull. she can feel it. not the pain, but the pain that would've been there had she still felt something during the evening beyond faint brushes of fingertips against her abdomen and what warmth protrudes from the other woman.
does she truly watch over people, or do they not think her a reaper? ending lives as easy as she breathes, ignoring cries for mercy, knowing truly it is them or her on the line despite the lamentations she buried down. how she despises it. this filthy business she can only do, angell could never be normal again from knowing what happened the last time she tried. her life is not fit for the sun, the sinner can only crave to feel it again on her skin when she might pass. she cannot have this beautiful light any longer. the silence as she listens is nothing more than simply angell taking time to articulate what she may say next.
the question about if she were truly their guardian hangs, she never felt worthy of that. she'd refer to herself as many things, the biggest that comes to mind is a rather harsh view of everything and almost depressing in what seems like a low view of an otherwise good-hearted woman.
monster.
she's fit to be one, good intentions or not. a simple word, a word she gives power by believing it true during something as simple as this compliment she finds herself given. except, something else caught her attention. organ trading is one thing, but what else are they offering aside from some poor bastards entrails? there are the girls, obviously. some rumors about more offerings for women willing to get pregnant, which was a surprise even to her, the assassin. don't most establishments like this prefer their women to not be pregnant or carry a baby to term? that's another thing to consider.
she doesn't like this grim thought she has on the matter. about children being involved, how many might become just like her? never allowed a normal life, not even the decency of having one's family. only an emptiness.)
Depends. There is always staying with me until you think you found your own place.
(something else that's a surprise, she muses, she doesn't do this. to a stranger, no less? that's a death sentence in her career. risky. then again, that gun helped her during their escape. who's to say that won't change when it suits her? another part of her wants to believe it won't change if she bets on the other woman, trust that she doesn't typically give freely.
however, it would make this easier. she wouldn't have to track nami down personally during the evenings that she spends like those syndican girls that she'll be meeting on corners and in their own seedier clubs. the rougher side of the scene. eastside has all the comforts, the glitz, and hedonism. syndicate? it's nothing except miserable people that might find themselves dead sooner rather than later.)
It comes with considerable risks if you do, though. Not from these people you're after.
(a rep like hers has its upsides and downsides.
the upside is the perks of the forums, the things only she has access to and knows about at her fingertips from all manner of fucked up people. some more than others, of course. to regular criminals, dismyth would simply look like the average paradise for them and theirs. to angell and others like her? there's more to it, nothing that a normal person should know about or even access the way that they do.)
You can take care of yourself, but with my reputation, there's not always a chance at peace for long. It's almost common for me to have to move on short notice.
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It almost feels like coming home. After all, she's made her nest in similarly desperate places, where currency trades hands for things that money shouldn't be able to buy. The monsters who made her could only ever exist on such desecrated land, and because of this, Nami will always find herself cycling back to this hell of theirs. If a life that is sweet and peaceful awaits herâ well, it's not as though she even allows herself to get caught up in fantasizing about such things, in the first place. Indulging in such tenderness will make her weak, and that's something she cannot afford. The road ahead is arduous, Nami can see it clearly. Death is waiting around every corner.
But when she thinks on it, Death is in her very own arms, with a beating heart and muscles that tense whenever Angell drives them along the more dangerous curves. Pressing so firmly against such an infamous killerâ hell, Nami has the one and only Grim Reaper between her legsâ definitely sparks a wary yet curious feeling from the woman. She had gone from target to accomplice, but what next?
Wryly, she wonders if Death has a blind spot, and she's somehow found herself in its safety despite their proximity. Perhaps the same can be said about herself. She's well-acquainted with blind spots and the pitfalls they conceal.
When the Reaper makes the offer to hide out in her lair, Nami can't help but raise a brow. She doesn't expect such an invitation, but then again, nothing has really gone according to plan this evening. Is that why she gives Angell's suggestion genuine consideration? Blind spots really are a tricky thing⊠]
It shouldn't come as a surprise to you that I've gotten used to finding my own stays temporary.
[Considering what the hitwoman admitted about her own lifestyle, this is yet another similarity that they can toast to.]
I've stopped putting stock in the notion of a peaceful life. So, don't worry about me getting too comfortable. AuĂerdem, now we're both shouldering some risk. You might have been better off killing me tonight, instead.
[Nami's tone is amused, in a way that suggests that it isn't lost on her how true this statement might end up becoming. The people who were meant to die tonight still draw breath, and each of them wears a bloody target carved on their backs.
The only sounds of their escape are the icy winter winds, and the engine purring smoothly beneath their bodies. But if Nami strains a bit, she can catch a tune creeping in between them, melancholic in the way it seeps into the cracks left behind by the chaos.
'Yes, so please let's call her real name
And maybe she'll hear out our cryâŠ'
Who does an Angel of Death pray to? Surely the gods can't have forsaken this city, too.]
Why the change of heart?
[To think that Angell stands leagues above the greedy spiders of DisCity, who cast their webs about to snag any wayward preyâ and yet, Nami finds herself being spun up in a fine silk that conceals the deadliness of a garroting wire.
Everything tells her that this is the most foolhardy decision, that she's lost her mind for fleeing what would have been the scene of her murder with the murderess herself. And yet something tells her that Angell doesn't exactly make it a habit of bringing work home with her, especially a failed gig. Does she trust her, a stranger, so readily? Or does she consider Nami's life inconsequential, dancing in the palm of her hand?
She feels the weight of her rifle upon her shoulder, and her thigh brushes against the sword still slung at Angell's hip.
...Hoffen wir, dass es Ersteres ist.]
I'm sure it's going to cost you, FrÀulein.
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but she doesn't answer it with her true thoughts, her wish to sleep is only a symptom of this "illness" of hers. unique, but not unique. no sinner is the same in their circumstances and how this suffering of theirs manifests. some had it easier than others. the children of syndicate are fortunate if their parents still breathe, but she was one among those unfortunate. not for any reason in particular, simply gangs being gangs. gunshots and the scent of gunpowder is something she remembers distinctly. there was no warning. only a hail of bullets, the corpses on the ground as a child looked on and lost what innocence she had that fateful day. she cried, obviously. no child should have to watch their own mother and father pass away in front of them.
but she wasn't lucky. she watched it with her tiny eyes filled with tears, she cried even as little offerings came of shelter for her. family meant nothing to some people, it was only another part of her unlucky streak. without anyone to protect her, it was on angell to do this herself. to fend for herself, survive, she didn't care for avenging her loss. it's a funny thought, she found revenge to be a waste of time and effort for herself, while allowing others to use her for their own.
that didn't mean she had this sit well with her, that essentially this woman was a ghost no matter how much angell had grown curious from the job. she doesn't normally go too far with her research, just enough to give a general idea about what she's dealing with. if they're worth this endless cycle she's part of in violence and death. not a single soul before this meeting walked away from meeting her, that should say something on how unworthy they were of true mercy. she didn't wish to grant them mercy.
it isn't as easy as an innocent and naive soul getting involved. gangs didn't need her to kill civilians, they can do that themselves. same goes for the fucked up crooks in seats of power. she wasn't necessary for something as simple as ending regular people who get too involved in a world they never should've crossed the line into. it's nothing like that, she's only used to kill their equally fucked up rivals and anyone foolish enough to attempt to fuck them over. the highway drifts into the familiar sight of old buildings, the bike carrying on an easy speed through the city streets as they start to pass by what is syndicate's very own.
rough hoodlums and gangsters gathering in their own spaces as they pass by on sidewalks. loud, laughing, and even talking about something or other. working girls could be seen, as she had mentioned. turning their tricks, trying to make money to not starve or to have a warm bed for the evening chill. unsurprisingly, some were young. she didn't glance their way, angell knows she'd once considered that if she had to go that far just to get a meal. fill her belly, have a bed to sleep in, money to burn through whilst trying to survive this hell she found herself within. the sinner refrained from it, deciding that if she were to go that far she'd never forgive herself....along with thoughts of it being another hell waiting for her if she did try turning tricks on some poor john's.
she would have been a terrible whore, is something angell thought to herself at the time. a virgin prostitute. right, some poor bastard would have taken pity on her and simply paid her to leave. it didn't matter, anyway. she chose this life after discovering her unique talents were something more suited to violence. dirty jobs, sometimes she'd even get into scraps with gangs daily when paid. that day she was afflicted with mania, included. mania weapons were something most gangs favored. it made them feel powerful, bigger than the average bastard in syndicate.
it also tore apart homes, destroyed people who once were alive themselves. not everyone comes out of something like mania weapons being used on them the same. the same way not everyone becomes a sinner like she did.)
....everything has a cost, eventually.
(that's all she can say, she's known that. her life is something that will be ended at any time and place. she'd lose her life in whatever way god decided was fitting in this miserable excuse of a pit all syndican's are living within. she doesn't address the rest of her words, not right now. even angell cannot say what drives her to go this far with allowing nami in her space. not from pity, not from any reason such as considering killing her in her own home.
she only felt that she couldn't kill this woman. this isn't an excuse, angell by no means is a slouch. rifle or not, she knows her way around a fight and has dealt with worse. the scars along her back are a stark reminder, scars that are pressed into along any corner she turned earlier and covered by that nice leather jacket she's wearing.)
I decided not to. Nothing more, nothing less....just a feeling that despite the impression you gave to me, that you have reasons.
(if listened to closely among the hustle and bustle of these streets, her voice carries a note of tiredness. her senses are working themselves into being overwhelmed again. she's never liked loud places for a reason ever since that day she lost what sense of normalcy she once held as a normal person. she's so easily overloaded now. but someone has to maintain keeping an eye out for danger. so far, nothing. not even as they pass by the youth of this miserable city. teens wandering and children sleeping on the sidewalks with little else to go to.
....she doesn't comment on that, either. she's been in their shoes, and she feels for them more than most in that position. the adults are terrible, the police that should be protecting them don't care, either. it's close to home. better not to remind herself more about what could have been her life again.)
Whatever happens is my choice. Not one that involves your death.
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It's a kind of suffering that clings to the air, a taste that sits heavily on the tongue long after you think you've finished sipping. There's no hedonistic escapism that camouflages the dread and wariness of what might be lurking around in the shadows. There's nothing but the grim acceptance in these citizens that this is the hand they've been dealt. If one was strong and clever, maybe they'd be tapped to move illegal goods or pimp out the desperate girls on the streets. If all one had was their looks and enough sense to know when to keep quiet, the professions were still quite few.
Nami's eyes take in the sight of those poor things selling their flesh, and a pang of empathy pierces sharply. A fair portion of them are too young to be seeing the world in the same way she does, and yet, when did any of themâ Nami includedâ have a choice in how the world had bared its true face? They pass by too quickly for her to get a closer look, to see if she can recognize something in them that the world hasn't broken, yet. She's long-since forgotten what such a thing might look like within her own self, though a better conclusion to draw would be that there isn't a thing left unbroken in her.
And yet, Nami thinks, there is something undeniably human in sympathy. That simple fact gives her reassurance. When she lightly rests her chin on Angell's shoulder, catching her features beneath the cover of the helmet, that reassurance seems to grow two-fold.
An unlikely duo, bound by the slivers of humanity left in them yet.]
There will be more like them.
[She speaks up, referring to the homeless children they drive past. A maternal ache burrows deeply in her chest and refuses to dissipate.]
They want to save lives, the people who hired you. Every time they set up base in a new country, it's under that noble declaration. But I've never met a life saved by their work.
[A glance, quick and fleetingâ one girl on the corner is grabbed roughly by some man, for her attention or for something elseâ and then, in the blink of an eye, they're lost to the night as the motorcycle continues on. When Nami speaks up again, her voice is resigned, quiet.]
Nicht ein einziger.
[All they leave is suffering in their wake, and DisCity will be no different. Children ripped away from mothers, children given away freely by their mothers, men who pay for a night without knowing just what horrors they're creating, and the men at the very top who revel in the blood money earned through the tears and anguish of those they ensnare.
Nami has her reasons, trueâ clearly delineated, her only reason to live. And in some twist of fate, those same reasons have earned her another chance at life.]
Then you're prepared to run from death with me, mein Engel?
[Her laugh is cold, as cold at the night air biting her skin, as cold as how that man should have been if she'd only had the chance to meet that shameful face.
And yet, her arms wrap more securely around Angell's waist, and her body drinks in the scant warmth shared between the two of them.]
Our price is guaranteed to be quite high.
[But Angell is already well-aware of that, isn't she? She who reigns over death, she who is aware of just how much human lives and human suffering will cost the right client, jeopardizing it all for a woman with 'reasons'? How curious, this Angel of Death wearing such a hauntingly beautiful face.]
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the west district, syndicate, it only is a place where dreams go to die. the same way that the eastsiders would lie and spread out their typical bullshit as others might say from these streets on the west. eastside doesn't give a damn, they'd use up anyone then throw them away for the trouble of trying to obtain something better for themselves. what good did rising to the top do for them? it only destroyed their lives, their homes, and what is left of them as people. their souls taken, their blood no longer their own. sympathy isn't something that one might expect from a killer, especially one ranked as highly as her, but she felt it. because the truth is something they didn't know about themselves, angell has always hated this position she's been in.
the loss of everything in her fingertips, family, a chance at living normally, everything that someone tired of it would've asked for. she never stood a chance against the world as her miserable luck often grabbed her by the throat and dragged her down to the bottomless pit that it intends to drown her in. because of it, she doesn't look at the poor young things that were desperately trying to earn money for a chance to have a warm bed during this evening. the girls who were starved, perhaps even those who long since were broken to pieces and desired another night spent hiding their misery behind the worst vice of them all in hard drugs and liquor if a rich man took them. or even another junkie, they weren't particularly picky in a depressing way. willing to take any punishment as long as they're fucked and fed their addiction.
but they themselves are broken and miserable excuses of human beings, if not angell being worse. broken repeatedly, surrendering to it and knowing no longer will she ever have that opportunity. she's never to feel human again, she isn't human. not to everyone around her, not even to herself despite the way her heart stings knowing this truth. that just because she kills her heart, her humanity, does not mean it has faded away to nothing entirely. she doesn't react to nami's chin against her shoulder, how she hugs her body closer.
from what glimpse of that beautiful face nami gets, it's obvious. she feels something for them, too. she always would. this is how life is, how it goes. this is how she would've found herself had her choices not been made for her. all it took was those illegally crafted weapons and their bullets piercing into her skin. the sound of her agonized screaming and choking from anger, depression, and an intense sorrow.
but it's what she says, that angell is given pause at.)
I know.
(about the homeless children, she was one once. ah, family, it only means something if someone was useful to them. she wasn't, of course, angell was only a little brat in their eyes that felt cursed after mother and father dearest were killed by those same gangsters on the streets.)
Nobody cares for Syndicate. Not even the people who attempt to fake smile and charm their way in.
(why would they? she almost wants to pause her drive away to strike that man they catch fleetingly, to free a pretty young thing that doesn't deserve the fate that's waiting for her. but she didn't, she doesn't. angell only goes forward in silence knowing that there was nothing she can do about it without making it worse.
she catches it, the resigned tone and what nami utters. outland language again? her brows raise subtly beneath the visor, they say that outland speaks like this nami does. it isn't as though angell understands her, but she can guess it is similar to them in tone and voice. whatever the case, she's refraining from asking about it. it's already obvious one of them is foreign, even if nami does blend well into this side of the city.
like she's always been here, but not at the same time during this quiet drive of theirs.)
I'm used to it.
(how soft that lovely voice is, quiet but loud enough to be heard over the engine. a pretty voice for a beautifully striking woman. she's used to this, running from death is something she's known for a while now. it's made her more tired, but she has yet to resist the drive to live which pushes her forward against that desire to sleep. mania is truly another terrible thing.
the way it messes with her head, causes her to think and feel things she shouldn't be as a normal person. but she doesn't think about it, not with a warm pair of arms she can faintly feel around her waist. the bare skin of her abdomen somehow not pricked with goose bumps from the cold. odd, isn't it? one would think that she'd feel cold herself, but she isn't.
or maybe she doesn't feel anything.)
....high price or not, I don't intend on paying it so soon.
(or so she says, who knows how this may go. in her heart, she knows she might die, and she wouldn't even argue against that. she's felt deserving of death for quite some time as the familiar building that she calls "home" starts to come into view. it's time for this woman to see just how depressing her new "accomplice" is.)
in which angell is still angell with texting after cleaning
expectations were placed firmly upon her, to clean up with colorful commentary about the other woman not being her mother. it took her a moment to bite down the urge to say plainly that her mother was dead in response. but that doesn't stop the images that were sent.
one: the fridge was completely clean without so much as a word.
two: she also cleaned the floors of her discarded clothing.
three: ....unfortunately three was her seen sighing in that one over what looked to be a freshly killed "guest". she almost seemed disappointed this is how her morning is going, from how her lips were curled into a frown. if looked at closely, this man she killed had a metal arm. modified, too.
four: the last one thankfully was a now spotless living room, door fixed and corpse nowhere to be found. why she doesn't say anything is a mystery, but there was a fair bit of empty bottles of cleaning products strewn about that she intended to toss out. likely to join that dead body.)