Post by Siobhan Arden on Apr 16, 2016 10:40:06 GMT -5
[attr="class","notafraid"]
[attr="class","naimg"]
[attr="class","naimgborder"]
[attr="class","nalyrics"]Pretending to be strong
saying I'm not afraid of anything
saying I'm not afraid of anything
[attr="class","nabody"]"Again."
The word is gruff, impatient with the slow progress of the heiress. Siobhan breathes hard, tired from the endless punches from her opponent. She cannot disappoint, already she has fallen from favor with her father, this must be a reunion point. When her opponent steps forward again, Siobhan blocks the right hook, but misses the left jab to her ribs. The pound stings and slides her right foot back. She doesn't fall, but the pain threatens to double her over. The more Siobhan breathes in heavy pants, the more prominent the pain becomes. Lowering her sore forearms, she stares her dead-panned opponent in the face. Trying to get the advantage, Siobhan tosses her right leg up in a roundhouse kick, turning her hips with it. Before her momentum can lift her up for the second attack, her opponent wraps his hands about her ankle, hauling her back down to her side. Down on the hard floor, Siobhan spits grass from her mouth, wiping it off with the back of her hand. Her entire side is growling in frustrated pain, and the heiress considers breaking it off.
Distantly, Siobhan hears the angry mutters of her father's accent, the Russian syllables lisping around his teeth. She cannot look at him. He is displeased, and slowly she descends farther and farther out of his favor. The thought of being shut out by him drags her back to her feet, Siobhan struggling to right her stance once more. One fist flies, and she dodges it out of reflex. The instinct to move doesn't prepare her for the blind shot that crashes into her liver. That one doubles her over, but Siobhan's opponent cracks his elbow atop of her neck, dropping her to the ground again. Sliding a hand to grip the pulsing pain, Siobhan grits her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut against the blinding pain, a fuzzy sensation lining the edge of her mind.
"Enough."
Siobhan feels the hopelessness crush her more than any physical blow, but it is only desperation that fuels her body to scramble upwards.
"Father I can go again, I can-"
"I said enough."
Siobhan closed her mouth abruptly, watching her father retreat inside the manor silently. Her opponent leaves the patio's garden, only the sole girl left to stand with shame and self-loathing.
"Looks like the heiress took quite a beating."
Siobhan doesn't look, but her entire body goes alert, standing stiffly no matter how it hurts her sore sides and cramped back. Without casting a look around, her voice echoes, clearly and chilly.
"Did my father invite you back, Sloane?"
He laughed, the feral grin pinching a cigarette between his teeth, the look in his eyes sharp enough to terrify Siobhan.
"Wanting to see my betrothed isn't a good enough reason?"
Siobhan felt the blood in her veins run cold, the scuffs from earlier increasing in their persistant aching. Being in his presence was like watching a shark circle around you in open water, knowing that the wound bleeding from your side was all the more enticing. She chooses to stride into the Manor through the door beside him, appearing too disgusted to even respond. But that's not the truth and they both know it. She is terrified of the man who delights in forcing the girl through torment.
"You're a filthy liar."
Casting the words over, her hand nearly brushes the handle before the door is ripped from her sight, the rough edges of the brick wall grinding into her back. His eyes glow with a dark anger, but the smile is still there, the brilliant edge of a knife tipping the sharp edges.
"Don't play hard to get."
He croons, but Siobhan knows, that Sloane's only objective is to watch her crumble, suffer, and burn. It was always his objective, even in death.
She stares at him now, the dark circles under her eyes betraying the fatigue she's fought so hard to conquer. Sleep is nonessential. There's work to do, groundwork to lay, and sleep takes too long. Inefficiency cannot be afforded. For the first time in her life, Siobhan begins to sympathize with her father's alcohol addiction. Sloane rests against the bathroom wall, the shit-eating grin still plastered on his face. Ghosts aren't real. Phantoms don't exist. Demons crawl from the depths of hell to retrieve what has been rightfully sold to them. Siobhan's soul is at stake.
"It's a good thing I've always had a thing for black-haired beauties."
Siobhan doesn't recognize herself. Doesn't recognize who she is becoming. The smell of hair dye swirls into the vent above, but does very little to preserve her crisping lungs from the chemicals. The empty bottle, store-bought dye box, and long strands of hair are all crammed in the plastic trash bin. It's hard to breathe past the lump in her throat, hands shaking from lack of nutrition and incessant overdoses of caffeine. The very last memento of her mother, thrown in the trash just like the ungrateful daughter she is. Siobhan wonders when she'll stop hoping that woman will return.
Her eyes flick up in the mirror, first to Sloane, then to herself, again. Those are the eyes of a killer staring back at her, and Siobhan doesn't know what to do any longer. Before she can even whisper the words to the stranger that is her reflection, the demon speaks from behind her, voicing the thoughts buried in her mind. He always does, as Siobhan is the only reason he is alive now.
"Don't forget what you promised. To them. On that day. We have to start now, or you'll never get ahead."
Siobhan flicks off the bathroom light without a second thought, heading for the exit to her rented motel room. She wonders when she lost that girl from boarding school. She wonders why she never said goodbye.
Cool air blows against her damp neck, but the edge of her hair is plastered down, something unusual and unexpected. Siobhan's never had short hair, and without the usual length she feels naked. Stripped of the identity she clung to for so long, the only thing she's able to do at this point is exercise the very instinct that has served to dig her this far into hell. Run.
Four laps on the Olympic track is a mile, but since early dawn her legs have pumped, nothing but determination and desperation for air to keep her going. Siobhan knows every word of encouragement is a lie, so she settles for the truth instead. Each step allows her to escape the reality of that hot day, when the execution took place. She doesn't have to think if she can't breathe, so she pushes herself harder. Sloane stands in various places along the track, whispering vile words in her ear when she begins to spot the light at the end of the tunnel.
At the end of the eleventh lap, Siobhan tells herself to just close her eyes, and never find the light again.
The bass thrums in the club, flashing lights illuminating dark bodies mingling with others around the dance floor and tables. Siobhan keeps her head buried deep in her hood, trying to maneuver without being touched by anyone. Sticking to the wall, she tries to keep down the waves of anxious nausea that flare anytime another living being comes within close proximity. She is disgusted and agitated by the atmosphere, her instinct to flee on high alert. Her target is a sloppy man who is a notorious idiot in San Francisco, but Siobhan has to start somewhere to get somewhere.
Taking a left in front of the bar and walking up the old wooden stairs that creak, heading to the business office, Siobhan feels wracking shivers throughout her body, the memory of her father's murder coming afresh in her mind. Leaning against the wall, she clutches her chest, trying to remember how to breathe. She cannot do this. Freefalling into despair and utter misery, Siobhan flings her arms about, trying to clutch onto something that will save her. Another hand grabs her own, but it is clawed, digging into the back of her hand. The voice of a savior does not whisper to her, but the ferocious demons that have come for her redemption, demanding a just payment.
"Finish what you came here for."
Siobhan opens the door without knocking, startling the woman straddling the owner's lap. The woman snatches her clothes and flees at a pace that can only be exercised if you've had practice, but the owner turns to Siobhan, shirtless, and she's grateful the desk blocks anything else.
"Uh, can I help you? You're interrupting something ya know."
Siobhan reaches up, pulling down her hood. Transactions and negotiations are best done face-to-face, no matter the risk it may run.
"I heard you have a guy you need taken care of."
Her voice is soft, and she knows that the owner will not respond to her gentle tone. Immediately his irritated body relaxes, as if he was dealing with a child.
"Okay kid, I'm not looking to hire any aspiring heroes or vigilantes."
Siobhan rolls her shoulders, twisting her neck a bit before replying.
"Naturally, I'd assume you were hiring a mercenary. Unless you were requesting a child from the street that can't tell apart the pistol hiding in your top drawer from the handgun I've got in my jacket."
Her voice travels, authority smacking its hands down on his desk. Siobhan gets a moment of satisfaction when the ash from his cigarette drop onto his desk, untouched, before he seems to shake back into himself. Scowling, a hand runs through his sandy blonde hair before he pins her with an annoyed look.
"Alright, I get it. Obviously, since you were loaned to me, I shouldn't look a gifted horse in the mouth."
Siobhan's lips thin, her demeanor turning cold.
"Actually, that was a lie. A believable one from the looks of it as well. You have a "loaned mercenary" coming in, and yet there are no sort of safety precautions, or any kind of aversion from you. Awfully trusting. No wonder you need a hitman. With that kind of stupidity, you'll be dead soon."
Once more, her pride gloats at his spluttering, his own ego being diminished under her heel.
"Lie? I spoke with him on the phone! You're- you're supposed to be from Index Core, and I wired money to it!"
Siobhan licked her lips, smirking at the man.
"A down payment actually."
Anger colored his cheeks, indignation stamping out his cigarette in the ash tray. Speaking with controlled anger in his tone, Siobhan felt victory just out of her reach.
"So? What do you want then, Ms. Index Core?"
"I want a contract with you, to kill the intended man, Mirangelo Truitt Kovalki."
The owner's face slumped with confusion, stupidity written in his eyebrow line.
"The Russian mafia guy? He just runs business in and out of my club. No harm no foul."
Siobhan smoothed the features of her face, flipping through the next page of her mental portfolio.
"Mhm, and what about three months ago, the heroin overdose by Angelina Schoffart? I heard that caused a bit of some official snooping in your club. And the recent bust of your rival club, the Cherry's Locket? Lately there have been some strict rules about clubbing in the strip. Oh, and the trafficking that filters through the vacant rooms-"
"I get it!"
Siobhan stared, bemusedly, at his stressed expression and tense body posture. From his ruffled hair and hand continuously digging at his roots, apparently the legal issues had been more taxing than they first so appeared.
"So if you kill this man, the law enforcement will get their heads out of my ass?"
Siobhan smiled the grin of a fox.
"Most certainly sir."
The owner waved his hand with a frown, sitting upwards to light another cigarette.
"Enough of the sir bullshit. My hands are tied on this matter. Don't know where the fuck kids like you come in from."
The owner muttered to himself, taking a long drag of the cigarette, failing to notice Siobhan's drastic change in attitude once more.
New York, she wanted to say. Kids like her were fostered in New York.
"How much are you charging for this transaction huh? Five hundred? Five thousand?"
Siobhan took a sharp breath inward before speaking smoothly.
"Fifty-thousand actually."
The owner choked on his inhale, nearly swallowing his cigarette before hacking like a chronic smoker.
"Fifty? Thousand! Hell no, get out of my office."
"We could settle for the five hundred. Gets the job done, oh but not the maintenance fees."
The owner scowled at her nonchalance, curiosity betraying him.
"Maintenance fees?"
Siobhan shrugged, acting coy to draw him in.
"Shoot him in the face, problem solved. Man's dead. But the clean-up, body disposal, wiping down tracks, taking care of the paper trail and credit lines, where does that fall? I could leave it behind and watch you either be mauled by the mafia, sued for everything you're worth, or be put behind bars for a very, very long time."
The owner looked like he had wished he'd swallowed his cigarette this time around, hands shaking as they fished for a bottle of liquor on his desk.
"Fifty thousand. Alright. What's the job description."
Siobhan straightened up, reading off the details in a monotonous voice.
"Mirangelo likes to spend at least two hours before sleeping in his study. After a tussle in there to appear as if a mafia member broke in, I'd do the job there. Afterwards, his files are burned, body cleaned up, and any traces connecting him to you gone. Your business is fine, law enforcement is distracted, I get paid."
The owner stared at the girl for a long time before speaking.
"You're one scary bitch."
Siobhan chose to discard the compliment, moving towards payment options.
"Payment options: you-"
"I want you to bring back a document."
"What?"
Siobhan stared at him, a bit caught off guard. The owner's face was serious, unnerving, and deadly calm. For the first time in entering the room, she felt a warning chill ghost over her skin, a forewarning that she might be going in over her head.
"What... document?"
"Mirangelo has a birth certificate in his office somewhere. Bring that back as the receipt for the deed. I'll pay you then."
Siobhan stared at the owner with a hard gaze for a long time before finally sighing and accepting the terms.
"Very well. I'll see you three weeks from now, same time. Actually... forget you ever saw my face, and I'll drop the price to forty."
With those as her parting words, Siobhan turned abruptly, closing the door behind her, hearing the last few words squeeze through before it clicked shut.
"Deal. Happy hunting kid."
The word is gruff, impatient with the slow progress of the heiress. Siobhan breathes hard, tired from the endless punches from her opponent. She cannot disappoint, already she has fallen from favor with her father, this must be a reunion point. When her opponent steps forward again, Siobhan blocks the right hook, but misses the left jab to her ribs. The pound stings and slides her right foot back. She doesn't fall, but the pain threatens to double her over. The more Siobhan breathes in heavy pants, the more prominent the pain becomes. Lowering her sore forearms, she stares her dead-panned opponent in the face. Trying to get the advantage, Siobhan tosses her right leg up in a roundhouse kick, turning her hips with it. Before her momentum can lift her up for the second attack, her opponent wraps his hands about her ankle, hauling her back down to her side. Down on the hard floor, Siobhan spits grass from her mouth, wiping it off with the back of her hand. Her entire side is growling in frustrated pain, and the heiress considers breaking it off.
Distantly, Siobhan hears the angry mutters of her father's accent, the Russian syllables lisping around his teeth. She cannot look at him. He is displeased, and slowly she descends farther and farther out of his favor. The thought of being shut out by him drags her back to her feet, Siobhan struggling to right her stance once more. One fist flies, and she dodges it out of reflex. The instinct to move doesn't prepare her for the blind shot that crashes into her liver. That one doubles her over, but Siobhan's opponent cracks his elbow atop of her neck, dropping her to the ground again. Sliding a hand to grip the pulsing pain, Siobhan grits her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut against the blinding pain, a fuzzy sensation lining the edge of her mind.
"Enough."
Siobhan feels the hopelessness crush her more than any physical blow, but it is only desperation that fuels her body to scramble upwards.
"Father I can go again, I can-"
"I said enough."
Siobhan closed her mouth abruptly, watching her father retreat inside the manor silently. Her opponent leaves the patio's garden, only the sole girl left to stand with shame and self-loathing.
"Looks like the heiress took quite a beating."
Siobhan doesn't look, but her entire body goes alert, standing stiffly no matter how it hurts her sore sides and cramped back. Without casting a look around, her voice echoes, clearly and chilly.
"Did my father invite you back, Sloane?"
He laughed, the feral grin pinching a cigarette between his teeth, the look in his eyes sharp enough to terrify Siobhan.
"Wanting to see my betrothed isn't a good enough reason?"
Siobhan felt the blood in her veins run cold, the scuffs from earlier increasing in their persistant aching. Being in his presence was like watching a shark circle around you in open water, knowing that the wound bleeding from your side was all the more enticing. She chooses to stride into the Manor through the door beside him, appearing too disgusted to even respond. But that's not the truth and they both know it. She is terrified of the man who delights in forcing the girl through torment.
"You're a filthy liar."
Casting the words over, her hand nearly brushes the handle before the door is ripped from her sight, the rough edges of the brick wall grinding into her back. His eyes glow with a dark anger, but the smile is still there, the brilliant edge of a knife tipping the sharp edges.
"Don't play hard to get."
He croons, but Siobhan knows, that Sloane's only objective is to watch her crumble, suffer, and burn. It was always his objective, even in death.
She stares at him now, the dark circles under her eyes betraying the fatigue she's fought so hard to conquer. Sleep is nonessential. There's work to do, groundwork to lay, and sleep takes too long. Inefficiency cannot be afforded. For the first time in her life, Siobhan begins to sympathize with her father's alcohol addiction. Sloane rests against the bathroom wall, the shit-eating grin still plastered on his face. Ghosts aren't real. Phantoms don't exist. Demons crawl from the depths of hell to retrieve what has been rightfully sold to them. Siobhan's soul is at stake.
"It's a good thing I've always had a thing for black-haired beauties."
Siobhan doesn't recognize herself. Doesn't recognize who she is becoming. The smell of hair dye swirls into the vent above, but does very little to preserve her crisping lungs from the chemicals. The empty bottle, store-bought dye box, and long strands of hair are all crammed in the plastic trash bin. It's hard to breathe past the lump in her throat, hands shaking from lack of nutrition and incessant overdoses of caffeine. The very last memento of her mother, thrown in the trash just like the ungrateful daughter she is. Siobhan wonders when she'll stop hoping that woman will return.
Her eyes flick up in the mirror, first to Sloane, then to herself, again. Those are the eyes of a killer staring back at her, and Siobhan doesn't know what to do any longer. Before she can even whisper the words to the stranger that is her reflection, the demon speaks from behind her, voicing the thoughts buried in her mind. He always does, as Siobhan is the only reason he is alive now.
"Don't forget what you promised. To them. On that day. We have to start now, or you'll never get ahead."
Siobhan flicks off the bathroom light without a second thought, heading for the exit to her rented motel room. She wonders when she lost that girl from boarding school. She wonders why she never said goodbye.
Cool air blows against her damp neck, but the edge of her hair is plastered down, something unusual and unexpected. Siobhan's never had short hair, and without the usual length she feels naked. Stripped of the identity she clung to for so long, the only thing she's able to do at this point is exercise the very instinct that has served to dig her this far into hell. Run.
Four laps on the Olympic track is a mile, but since early dawn her legs have pumped, nothing but determination and desperation for air to keep her going. Siobhan knows every word of encouragement is a lie, so she settles for the truth instead. Each step allows her to escape the reality of that hot day, when the execution took place. She doesn't have to think if she can't breathe, so she pushes herself harder. Sloane stands in various places along the track, whispering vile words in her ear when she begins to spot the light at the end of the tunnel.
At the end of the eleventh lap, Siobhan tells herself to just close her eyes, and never find the light again.
The bass thrums in the club, flashing lights illuminating dark bodies mingling with others around the dance floor and tables. Siobhan keeps her head buried deep in her hood, trying to maneuver without being touched by anyone. Sticking to the wall, she tries to keep down the waves of anxious nausea that flare anytime another living being comes within close proximity. She is disgusted and agitated by the atmosphere, her instinct to flee on high alert. Her target is a sloppy man who is a notorious idiot in San Francisco, but Siobhan has to start somewhere to get somewhere.
Taking a left in front of the bar and walking up the old wooden stairs that creak, heading to the business office, Siobhan feels wracking shivers throughout her body, the memory of her father's murder coming afresh in her mind. Leaning against the wall, she clutches her chest, trying to remember how to breathe. She cannot do this. Freefalling into despair and utter misery, Siobhan flings her arms about, trying to clutch onto something that will save her. Another hand grabs her own, but it is clawed, digging into the back of her hand. The voice of a savior does not whisper to her, but the ferocious demons that have come for her redemption, demanding a just payment.
"Finish what you came here for."
Siobhan opens the door without knocking, startling the woman straddling the owner's lap. The woman snatches her clothes and flees at a pace that can only be exercised if you've had practice, but the owner turns to Siobhan, shirtless, and she's grateful the desk blocks anything else.
"Uh, can I help you? You're interrupting something ya know."
Siobhan reaches up, pulling down her hood. Transactions and negotiations are best done face-to-face, no matter the risk it may run.
"I heard you have a guy you need taken care of."
Her voice is soft, and she knows that the owner will not respond to her gentle tone. Immediately his irritated body relaxes, as if he was dealing with a child.
"Okay kid, I'm not looking to hire any aspiring heroes or vigilantes."
Siobhan rolls her shoulders, twisting her neck a bit before replying.
"Naturally, I'd assume you were hiring a mercenary. Unless you were requesting a child from the street that can't tell apart the pistol hiding in your top drawer from the handgun I've got in my jacket."
Her voice travels, authority smacking its hands down on his desk. Siobhan gets a moment of satisfaction when the ash from his cigarette drop onto his desk, untouched, before he seems to shake back into himself. Scowling, a hand runs through his sandy blonde hair before he pins her with an annoyed look.
"Alright, I get it. Obviously, since you were loaned to me, I shouldn't look a gifted horse in the mouth."
Siobhan's lips thin, her demeanor turning cold.
"Actually, that was a lie. A believable one from the looks of it as well. You have a "loaned mercenary" coming in, and yet there are no sort of safety precautions, or any kind of aversion from you. Awfully trusting. No wonder you need a hitman. With that kind of stupidity, you'll be dead soon."
Once more, her pride gloats at his spluttering, his own ego being diminished under her heel.
"Lie? I spoke with him on the phone! You're- you're supposed to be from Index Core, and I wired money to it!"
Siobhan licked her lips, smirking at the man.
"A down payment actually."
Anger colored his cheeks, indignation stamping out his cigarette in the ash tray. Speaking with controlled anger in his tone, Siobhan felt victory just out of her reach.
"So? What do you want then, Ms. Index Core?"
"I want a contract with you, to kill the intended man, Mirangelo Truitt Kovalki."
The owner's face slumped with confusion, stupidity written in his eyebrow line.
"The Russian mafia guy? He just runs business in and out of my club. No harm no foul."
Siobhan smoothed the features of her face, flipping through the next page of her mental portfolio.
"Mhm, and what about three months ago, the heroin overdose by Angelina Schoffart? I heard that caused a bit of some official snooping in your club. And the recent bust of your rival club, the Cherry's Locket? Lately there have been some strict rules about clubbing in the strip. Oh, and the trafficking that filters through the vacant rooms-"
"I get it!"
Siobhan stared, bemusedly, at his stressed expression and tense body posture. From his ruffled hair and hand continuously digging at his roots, apparently the legal issues had been more taxing than they first so appeared.
"So if you kill this man, the law enforcement will get their heads out of my ass?"
Siobhan smiled the grin of a fox.
"Most certainly sir."
The owner waved his hand with a frown, sitting upwards to light another cigarette.
"Enough of the sir bullshit. My hands are tied on this matter. Don't know where the fuck kids like you come in from."
The owner muttered to himself, taking a long drag of the cigarette, failing to notice Siobhan's drastic change in attitude once more.
New York, she wanted to say. Kids like her were fostered in New York.
"How much are you charging for this transaction huh? Five hundred? Five thousand?"
Siobhan took a sharp breath inward before speaking smoothly.
"Fifty-thousand actually."
The owner choked on his inhale, nearly swallowing his cigarette before hacking like a chronic smoker.
"Fifty? Thousand! Hell no, get out of my office."
"We could settle for the five hundred. Gets the job done, oh but not the maintenance fees."
The owner scowled at her nonchalance, curiosity betraying him.
"Maintenance fees?"
Siobhan shrugged, acting coy to draw him in.
"Shoot him in the face, problem solved. Man's dead. But the clean-up, body disposal, wiping down tracks, taking care of the paper trail and credit lines, where does that fall? I could leave it behind and watch you either be mauled by the mafia, sued for everything you're worth, or be put behind bars for a very, very long time."
The owner looked like he had wished he'd swallowed his cigarette this time around, hands shaking as they fished for a bottle of liquor on his desk.
"Fifty thousand. Alright. What's the job description."
Siobhan straightened up, reading off the details in a monotonous voice.
"Mirangelo likes to spend at least two hours before sleeping in his study. After a tussle in there to appear as if a mafia member broke in, I'd do the job there. Afterwards, his files are burned, body cleaned up, and any traces connecting him to you gone. Your business is fine, law enforcement is distracted, I get paid."
The owner stared at the girl for a long time before speaking.
"You're one scary bitch."
Siobhan chose to discard the compliment, moving towards payment options.
"Payment options: you-"
"I want you to bring back a document."
"What?"
Siobhan stared at him, a bit caught off guard. The owner's face was serious, unnerving, and deadly calm. For the first time in entering the room, she felt a warning chill ghost over her skin, a forewarning that she might be going in over her head.
"What... document?"
"Mirangelo has a birth certificate in his office somewhere. Bring that back as the receipt for the deed. I'll pay you then."
Siobhan stared at the owner with a hard gaze for a long time before finally sighing and accepting the terms.
"Very well. I'll see you three weeks from now, same time. Actually... forget you ever saw my face, and I'll drop the price to forty."
With those as her parting words, Siobhan turned abruptly, closing the door behind her, hearing the last few words squeeze through before it clicked shut.
"Deal. Happy hunting kid."
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