> Legacy
>  by Quillian Inkheart
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Chapter 1: Blood, Sweat, and Tears
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ophilia Melody reclined back in the small wooden chair, crossing her legs and steepling her fingers. “You know,” she began, keeping her tone bored. “I’m getting rather tired of doing this.”

The man across from her didn’t reply, but that was to be expected really. She returned his gaze, seeing the faint flicker of terror therein.

“It’s not as easy as it looks, I'll tell you,” she continued in a more conversational tone of voice. “My father just doesn’t understand anymore. For longer than I’ve been around, he’s had other people to do his dirty work for him. He doesn’t seem to remember just how stressful it can all get.” She paused, tilting her head to the side and staring off into nothing. “Am I making any sense?”

Ophilia ignored the silent, muffled response from her companion’s direction. With an air of disinterest, she nodded as if she’d heard something sagely. If nothing else, she reflected, her companions were astounding listeners. They hung on her every word as if it would be their last.

“Every Job is unique, but some things will never change.” She gave a soft sigh, her most natural expression. She began counting off on her fingers as she spoke, tapping every new digit with her opposite index finger. “When I work I always end up getting all sweaty and that does nightmares to a good suit, believe me.” She emphasized her point by plucking at her black, pin-striped suit. It was custom made, topped off with a white undershirt and a pinkish tie.

“Secondly, my coworkers are always slacking around, not carrying their weight.” She pointedly glared at the man across from her, earning a very faint, very ignored whimper. “Case in point,” she finished with another sigh. “And finally, when all’s said and done, I’ve always got such a colossal mess to clean up.”

The whimpers instantly turned into sobs, muffled and miserable, but Ophilia forcefully kept up her indifference.

“But, do you know what bothers me the most?” She asked, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward purposefully. “Repetition,” she said ominously, wagging her finger with every-other word, almost like a lecturer or a maestro. “That boring tedium; the same thing happening over and over again, ad nauseum. So, when I tell you that I’m bothered by this current state of affairs, it is because of the repetition you’ve presented to me and my father.” With a despairing sigh, she broke eye contact with the rapidly deteriorating man to study her surroundings for the umpteenth time.

The basement was well-maintained, an extension of a well-maintained home. It was obviously cared for with love in mind and had likely been the same home the man had lived in for years. And yet, the critical eye would be able to pick out signs of distress; spaces on the wall for power tools, left vacant; a pair of discolored squares on the floor where the washer and dryer had once lived; boxes, rifled through to find hidden gems among years of accumulated junk. What few things remained were either sparse or vital; a sink, a wood-burning heater – with an accompanying stack of wood – and a small emergency generator. Behind the whimpering man was a workbench, laid out with the various tools provided to Ophilia for this Job. If you studied them carefully, you could see the uppercase letter clear as day.

Trying to maintain her emotional neutrality, Ophilia studied the small fire she’d started in the heater to fight away the basement’s chill. It danced enticingly, like an exotic belly dancer at a strip club, crackling away without a care in the world. Ophilia had always held a healthy appreciation for fire. It was both a force of destruction and one of cleansing; a gateway to a new beginning, washing away the old to scorch a path for the new. It was indiscriminate, powerful, and always hungry for more. Sometimes, Ophilia wished she could be more like those flames.

Turning back to the man across from her once more, she finally took the time to study him. He was a small man with a small head, which was attached to hunched shoulders by a pencil-neck. Just below the unfortunate mess he chose to call hair was a face that greatly resembled a weasel – pinched and untrustworthy. The duct-tape over his mouth was slightly askew because of his blubbering and covered a mouth filled with misaligned teeth and a silver tongue. Unfortunately for him, words wouldn’t be of much use anymore.

Quickly, Ophilia locked away her soft, pathetic feelings once more. It wouldn’t do to let that part of herself run rampant now. It wouldn’t do to hesitate or question. Her father had been very particular about this job. The tools were symbolic, reminiscent of the old ways, the old days. But first, Ophilia added her own personal touch.

Without a word more, she drew out her trademark, the silenced 9mm pistol that was her preferred firearm. The man reacted instantly, sobbing pitifully into the tape and squirming against his restraints.

Anger blurred the line between thought and emotion – or at least, what emotion was left. Once upon a time, she’d been just like him, frightened and helpless – a scared little girl with no backbone and no hope, trapped inside a hellish limbo. Fear hadn’t saved her then and it wouldn’t save him now. Why did he have to let things get this far? Why couldn’t he have just done what he was supposed to do?

The memories of her old weakness and old life urged her to do what came next. With no change of expression and two silent shots, Ophilia blew out both of the man’s kneecaps. He’d never run again in his life, one way or another. His screams pounded against the silver tape, filling the cold stone basement with sound. However, with a little money changing hands, no one would hear a single peep from this house. That sound, a cry of primal agony and fear, drown out what little emotions Ophilia still felt.

As his screams wound down into whimpers, the man’s eyes rolled back into his head and he passed out from shock. Ophilia heaved a long-suffering sigh, putting her pistol back into the shoulder holster concealed in her suit. “Always slacking…” She leaned forward, slapping the man solidly in the face. He groaned but continued to remain oblivious.

Heaving another theatrical sigh meant for no one but her, Ophilia rose and walked around the man to her stash of tools. She stooped, picking up a bucket from where she’d placed it beside her duffel bag on the workbench, and walked over to the nearby sink to fill it with cold water. As she filled the tin bucket, she idly tried to remember her companions name.

She couldn’t seem to remember. In that same moment, she decided it didn’t matter much.

The man snapped away when the water hit. Groans still leaped through his lips and pain still blurred his eyes, but Ophilia saw a new understanding there. Good, their relationship was firmly established.

She tossed the bucket over his head, watching him flinch as it crashed to the floor, and sat down across from him again. Folding over one leg, she became every ounce the composed businesswoman; all except her eyes, which stared the man down dispassionately.

“A lot of money, you owe us… Over twenty-thousand dollars, between your loans and gambling debts.” She spoke with soft, velvety words, concealing the thorns that lay beneath. “It seems like you’ve got quite the addiction to failure.”

The man tried to talk, mumbling something into his tape, but Ophilia’s hand shot out, slapping him hard enough to make him yelp.

“Don’t interrupt me. It’s rude.” The man groaned in response but fell silent the moment Ophilia gave him a glare.

“My family tried to work with you,” Ophilia continued, “time and time again, offering you ways to pay us back. Imagine our shock when we learned that, rather than taking those routes, you’ve been pouring even more money into your worthless addiction. Why, the gall of it all was almost too much for me and my dear, sweet father to shoulder.” She ended her statement with one of her all-too-familiar sighs. “You were living in this lovely house, offering up excuse after excuse, wasting not only my father’s time and money, but insulting our generosity as well, spitting all over our kind offers. We were so… disappointed to hear of all this.”

Ophilia rose, walking around her companion and humming a tuneless song, trailing a hand over his shoulder in an almost friendly gesture. He tried to shy away from her, but the ropes kept his arms in place. “But, luckily, my father had cultivated a payment plan to correct your enormously erroneous decisions and your arbitrarily grievous mistakes.” She felt the chair shift slightly as she put a hand on his upper arm. She knelt, giving the chair an experimental tug. One of the bolts she’d used to rivet the chair to the concrete was loose. Shoddy work, that. She’d need to purchase a new tool.

As she rose, she continued smoothly. “It’s really quite simple, once you consider it.” She moved to the spot directly behind her companion, smelling the sour scent of sweat, mixed with the harsh scent of freshly spilled blood. She placed a hand on either of his shoulders, leaning closer, but keeping far enough away that he couldn’t headbutt her. “See,” she said softly, almost a whisper, “you’ve got all these lovely things.” She gave both his shoulders a pat before turning to walk away, talking normally again. “This house, the furniture, all your bits and bobs.” She swept her next tool up, turning her head to look at the man over her shoulder. “So, my father, he decided to put all these wonderful things to work for us in your place, since you’re so woefully incompetent.”

For a few seconds, while she returned to her chair, she was silent. However, rather than sitting back down once she reached the chair, she snapped her leg up, kicking it violently out of her way. Despite this sudden shift in the situation, the man’s eyes were as riveted to the object dangling from her hand as the chair was to the floor. It was a sleek wooden baseball bat – cedar, with a leather grip.

The terror returned to his pain-addled eyes, and his muffled pleas began in earnest. The message was clear. He knew what came next.

Ophilia ignored him, swinging the bat over her feet like a batter, fresh at the plate. “Here’s the plan,” she began, ignoring the way all hope drained from the man’s already pale face. The feeble twisting of his body in hopes of escape.

The tears.

“Once we’re done here, in a day or so, a modified version of your will is going to be found on your property, signed and notarized, bequeathing all your worldly possessions to an as-of-yet unknown relative – some distant cousin, or something like that.”

She swung the bat up, resting it on her shoulder casually. Continuing, she walked around her companion again, feigning disinterest as she approached her bag. The drama – the play-acting – helped make everything a little more surreal and, by extension, more bearable.

“Naturally, this mysterious relative will want nothing to do with his or her new, unexpected holdings. Everything will be sold off, piecemeal. I’m not too certain how much your material possessions will total up to, but I do believe that it will be enough to cover all your debts. And then some.”

Ophilia rested her bat on the table and, making sure the man heard her, ruffled some papers purposefully, drawing out her next set of tools.

“Oh my,” she drawled, feigning shock, as if this all wasn’t a part of the script. “I seem to have a copy of that very will right here. And a pen. How about that?” In silence, she drew on a pair of black gloves before handling the paper, pen, and clipboard. She walked back to her companion, leaving the bat behind at her work station, and stopped in front of him.

“Sign.” She clipped the word, filling it with all the meaning the man would want to hear. “Things will go much easier for you, if you do this willingly.” Fear had made the man’s mind faster, but not exactly sounder. Desperate, he nodded frantically, eager to take any escape he could possibly find.

“Excellent.” Ophilia set the clipboard and pen on the man’s lap, drawing out her pistol. The man whimpered some muffled words, but Ophilia ignored them, moving to the man’s side. She leaned in, lips brushing the man’s ear. “Make any wrong moves, and I’ll open your guts up in the most unpleasant way I can imagine. I’ve learned from past experiences that gut wounds are a particularly nasty – and lengthy – way to die.”

The man nodded more vigorously, until Ophilia reached over, tearing the tape off his face. The tape was off for less than a half-second before the man began to babble. “Oh, thank you! I promise that—” Ophilia cracked the side of the man’s head with the butt of her pistol, making him shout in pain.

“Shut up!” She wouldn’t let him talk. If he didn’t talk, she could still see him as something less than human. She could keep herself firmly in check. The man nodded meekly at her and Ophilia reached down, untying the ropes that bound his right wrist to the back of the chair.

He was all too eager to sign, but his hand was shaking from pain and anxiety. The clipboard helped keep the blood off the page, but Ophilia wondered about the value of this signature. Well, if all else failed, she could get the signature forged, she supposed. She let out a small, satisfied sigh as she watched the man write a semi-legible signature. At least now she would be able to show this man some small mercies.

“Very good,” she said, leaning forward with feigned interest. She replaced her pistol into her suit, making sure to keep the action out of sight and to make no noise. Quickly and quietly, that was the way.

When her hand snapped up and grabbed his wrist, the man flailed and screamed and pleaded, knocking the will to the ground in his frantic, last-ditch scramble. She peered over at it as she wrenched the man’s arm behind his back and tied the knot once more. Thankfully, he hadn’t gotten any blood on the paper. He was begging again, but Ophilia made sure to not listen to him; that was just sounds, she told herself, not words. Nothing with meaning, only the bleating of a sheep, soon to slaughter. As soon as his hand was firmly secure, she re-applied the tape with a relieved noise, silencing the accursed voice.

“I’m sorry, but you didn’t think it would be that easy to get out of this, did you?” She asked with false innocence, keeping her head out of bashing distance. He was angry enough to do something stupid, now. “Be that as it may, you have made this whole process much easier for me. Because of that, I’ve been given permission to make this easier for you too. I’m sorry to confess, though, that this will still be quite an ordeal, for the both of us.”

After a pat on the shoulder, she moved around him to retrieve the fallen will and pen. She carried them back to the table, drawing out a protective sheath for the paper to keep it safe, till it reached her father’s hands. Nothing would happen to her trophy.

After flicking the pen into the fire, she retrieved the bat and returned to her position behind her companion – no, her victim now. She misliked seeing the faces of her victims and avoided it whenever possible. She drew in a deep, calming breath and started speaking again.

“There is, of course, the matter of your health to be considered,” she began. “A will is only as good as the closeness of the patron’s death, you understand and you’re both rather young and healthy. This simply won’t do. But… well, we both know what’s about to happen, don’t we?”

The light faded from Ophilia’s eyes. She deadened her heart, locked away her persona, and marshaled her vast experience. This was par for the course, for what she was about to do.

“I’m going to hurt you now,” she said in a droll monotone. “Very, very badly. And only once I’ve decided that the pain has been enough – only when you’ve paid in full for your inexcusable hubris – only then will I let you sleep peacefully.”

She blinded herself to his tears. She closed her ears to his miserable, muffled cries.

She swung the bat.

The first swing sent a message. She brought the bat into the man’s wrists, bound together on the back of the chair. The carpus bones both snapped like a pair of dry twigs and the man screamed. He’d never sign another signature.

Without pause, she swung the bat up and around. With a sickening crack, the bones in the man’s shoulder shattered, accompanied by the shifting and clicking of the chair’s loose rivet. He wailed, trying more frantically to escape, trying to be free from this nightmare. But the nightmare was everything now. The nightmare was all he had.

With a swift and practiced move, Ophilia rolled the handle of the bat in her hand, re-positioning her other hand on the handle and altering the angle of the next strike. When the bones of the man’s upper arm broke, so did the man’s sanity. He became wild, flailing against the bonds, but his actions only brought more agony as the ropes twisted his shattered wrists and ground the bones inside together. His feet beat a fierce tattoo onto the concrete, but Ophilia didn’t hear a single thing.

The blow had been a fierce one; a well-aimed, two-handed strike aimed with precision at a weak point in the humerus bone. The resulting compound fracture tore violently through his skin, like a bloody white spike, shredding his fragile skin.

With a precision earned from years of combat training, Ophilia did more than beat her victims; she dismantled them, piece by agonized piece. As she promised, she occasionally allowed this man the mercy of shock – blessed moments of unconsciousness between bouts of devastating, indescribable pain. Had he not signed, she would have made certain the pain had been far worse.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Ophilia raised the bloody weapon over her head, delivering the coup-de-grâce; an overhead blow to the man’s crown.

The sound of his skull cracking reminded Ophilia of an egg being thrown at a wall. The unwanted comparison made the previous sounds – screams and all – seem tame by comparison. This, in turn, made it all so much harder to ignore. But, when the bat rebounded off the man’s skull, he still moved – still made noises.

And Ophilia couldn’t ignore it any longer. She was finally forced to stare headlong into the extent of her handiwork.

The last swing had been just slightly off its mark – a stupid, amateur mistake. The bat had struck the denser part of the skull just between the eyes, as the man had raised his head to stare at the descending death. He had thrown off her blow just slightly, but it had been enough to keep the lethality out of the strike. The damage, however, was still disturbingly extensive.

The man stared forward blankly with one eye, the other bulging grotesquely from a ruined socket. Blood oozed from his nose and ears, likely splattering the inside of the tape as well as he choked on his own lifeblood. He continued to make noises – a kind of whimpering gurgle. The damage to his frontal lobe made little else possible.

This was all too much. This was no mercy.

Suddenly sick, Ophilia passed the bat to her off-hand and drew her pistol. She put the bullet through the man’s head, wasting no time. The sound of grey matter splattering onto the floor carried a fitting finality with it.

Breathing deeply to calm her roiling stomach, Ophilia let the bat slide from her aching, now numbing fingers. She didn’t hear as it clattered to the floor. In retrospect, she was quite good at not hearing things. As she replaced her sidearm into it’s holster, she stared sightlessly and wordlessly into both nothing and into everything, her own soul especially.

For several long minutes she let her breathing level out. Her stomach still adamantly refused to settle, but that was almost blessedly normal. In time, with a comforting sigh, she set to cleaning up her mess.

First, that accursed bat. She lifted the bloody weapon gingerly, as if it were some exotic breed of snake. Quickly, and without an ounce of reverence, she carried the weapon over to the fire and fed it to the flames. At first, the moist wood wouldn’t catch, but Ophilia watched impassively until the stubborn wood gave in to the tongues of fire. She hoped her sins could be burned away so easily. Once the weapon was burning merrily, she moved on to her next task.

It was a small thing to remove the tape from the corpse’s mouth. She tore it loose with a detached sense of calm, not letting herself stare too long at the mangled head of what was once a living person. While there, she also undid the bindings on his wrists and ankles. That done, she carried all these items over to the fireplace, adding them to the pyre. Returning to the chair, she bent and recovered the three spent bullet casings, slipping them into the pocket of her pants. While she was down there, she wiped down the spot where she’d touched the side of the chair while examining the loose bolt.

Next, her clothing. She stripped off her bloody suit, her shoes and socks, even her undergarments, all of which were at least moderately stained with blood, sweat, or some combination of the two. Naked, she stood with her back to the corpse, trying her best to ignore the smell of the recently dead; urine, offal, and the coppery scent of blood.

To help distract herself, she ran a hand over her body examining the places that would need to be washed. She flexed the muscles in her arms, watching them shift under her deceptively smooth skin. Ophilia knew that many people would – and had – used words like ‘shapely’ or ‘luscious’ to describe her, though never to her face. She was thankful to them, that they would be so blinded by a pretty face and a curvaceous body that they wouldn’t see what she really was.

Her hair was long, straight, and sleek; it was the color of a starless, cloudless night and flowed down her back to end just above her backside. She was a lean woman, but not skinny, with an hourglass frame, an obviously muscled abdomen, and ample breasts that were kept perky by a layer of muscle around and behind them. Her arm and legs were muscled as well, but still held the illusion of being as smooth and soft as silk; Ophilia was no pushover but neither did she look like some hulking body-builder. She had hidden her fair share of scars with surgery, giving her the appearance of mostly unblemished skin.

Her eyes, both a bright shade of light green, could be both hypnotizing or frightening in equal intensity. Ophilia had the kind of stare that could rivet a man or woman to the floor.

With only a moment’s hesitation, she deposited her ruined outfit into the fire, watching as the fine garment was reduced to motes of ash. She could get a new outfit easily enough, that was no problem, but it always stung, seeing a nice outfit spoil.

Next, she swung by her tools, opening the duffel bag wide. Inside was a neatly folded set of fresh clothes, as well as several other odds and ends that she’d need. She grabbed one of these now – a small jug of bleach – carefully, making sure to not get any blood onto the bag or it’s precious contents. Jug in hand, naked as the day she was born, Ophilia walked to the sink with barely contained haste. Once she was there, training took over again, forcing her to slow down and be cautious. Criminals who rushed, were caught.

With a practiced calm and skill that only experience could teach, Ophilia went about methodically washing the blood from her body. Without a sound, she watched the swirl of reddish-pink, scrubbing her skin vigorously – violently even. Out damned spot…

Once all the traces of violence were erased from her, Ophilia plucked the cap off the bleach and washed away any evidence she may have left behind.

Her skin raw from scrubbing, Ophilia doubled back to her bag, drawing out her clean outfit. With almost worshipful motions, she laid the clothing out on the workbench, but it wasn’t yet time to dress. From below the clothes, she drew out a large, black garbage bag and returned to her dirty work.

She walked back to the heater, watching the alluring flames, letting its warmth and dance further distract her. She gauged the progress of the fire’s feast wondering if this was what Hell looked like.

Once she was certain the flames had done their duty, she smothered them and began to wait for the ashes to cool, all the while feeling her emotions pound on the bars of her heart.

“Not now,” she whispered to herself under her breath. She bit the inside of her cheek, drawing blood. “Not yet. Just a little bit longer.”

Once the ashes had cooled down, Ophilia scooped them out into the garbage bag, ready to be properly disposed of later. As she washed the blackened soot off her hands – washing that down with the last of the bleach – she scanned the room one more time, making sure there was nothing left to be done, no minutia left forgotten. She pointedly didn’t look at the corpse.

Confident, Ophilia wiped down the sink’s faucets and gave a small noise of relief, setting about the blissful task of dressing. She took her time, reveling in the familiarity of the motions and in the simple pleasure of being clothed once more. After applying the small touches that any good suit requires, Ophilia swept her fedora off the table and placed it on her head. She applied the finishing touches – a pair of black silk gloves to keep from leaving any fingerprints – and she was done. She turned to the corpse in the chair and tipped her hat to it. It was hard to not think about its ruined eye socket.

“It was unpleasant doing business with you,” she muttered gravely. She returned to her kit once more, digging out the burner phone from deep in its pockets. She dug through the contacts, found the one she was looking for, and pressed the ‘CALL’ button.

The phone picked up but there was no answer. This was normal. “Three-fifty-two Holly Lane. Basic sweep and clean. Remove teeth and contact the morgue; we need to make it look natural. A car crash, I’m thinking. Use a John Doe, and bring our messy friend to my father, as per the arrangement. You will be paid double, barring any errors in judgement.”

There was no reply from the other side, but the call suddenly disconnected. Ophilia nodded to herself and replaced the phone into the bag. Finally finished, she began putting everything away, sweeping up her kit as quickly as she dared. Once the bag was slung over her shoulder, she lifted the ashes and started towards the door. From there, she paused to snatch her coat from where it hung on the doorknob, opened the door, and started up the stairs into the recently deceased’s home.

Here, there were even more signs of misguided struggles; spaces where items – sold to pay for an insatiable hunger for gambling – once rested. Ophilia knew, from the sparse information her father had let slip that next to none of these sales went towards the ever-growing debt the man was accruing. This, more than anything, was the reason for the Job today.

Charles Melody was a cold, efficient man with the ruthlessness of a territorial badger. At the end of the day this personality kept the Family running like a well-oiled machine. A client who worked to pay back his debts and give back to the Family is a properly placed cog, made slick with an oil called ‘fear,’ but someone who doesn’t pay, who is a long-term loss for the Family, is a squeaking cog – noisy at first, little more than an irritation, until it rusts, damaging the function of the entire mechanism. Better to remove the piece and fit in a new, better one, before the damage becomes too debilitating. That was Ophilia’s job; she was a mechanic for her father’s great machine. It was that kind of heartless, brutal, calculating mentality that made the Family the feared and magnificent organization that it was today.

As Ophilia ghosted through the halls of this unfamiliar home, she avoided looking too closely at the walls. She knew full well what was there already; smiling faces, weddings, birthdays, holidays.

Children. Parents. Memories.

The smiling faces and innocent eyes would only haunt her if she saw them, so she forced herself to look only forward, wearing emotional blinders until she reached the door. Idly, she noticed that her black gloves were moist with sweat.

She left the house with the poise of a businesswoman – head up, with a purposeful walk – and stopped to wipe off the doorknob. She wouldn’t let herself trip at the finish line. As she left the porch, the illusion was broken by her hand, which was instinctively wiping itself dry on her jacket – never mind that the glove got in the way.

Outside was what she had expected. Night had just begun to fall over the city of Manhattan and Ophilia shivered at a faint chill in the air. Parked beside her car – a black affair that looked almost like a hearse – was a pair of trucks. An elderly man was pulling a large rug out of the back of one truck, whistling to himself merrily. Ophilia knew him plenty well; Tommy “Two-Toes” Melody, a distant Great-Uncle or something, and a Cleaner for the Family.

Two younger men flanked Tommy, neither of them having any blood-relation to the Ophilia. They were grunts, trusted with little more than eating bullets and dishing out similar meals to other individuals. Tommy was the brains here.

The old man gave her a wink as he walked past, acknowledging her and her earlier request. In a few hours, he would walk back out of the house with her victim wrapped up in that rug. Nothing would be left in that basement except the memories in Ophilia’s mind. By this time tomorrow, this poor sap would be “found” at the bottom of a gorge or wrapped around some tree. Tommy would see to it.

Ophilia nodded her head back at Tommy but hurried along. The old man made her nervous, though she wouldn’t ever admit it openly. She made her way to her car, drawing out her keys. This vehicle was another symbol, just a tool used to send a message. When all was said and done, it wasn’t much different from her. Or the bat.

With that cheery thought, Ophilia tugged her coat on, drawing it tightly to her with her free hand as she hurried to her car. She pulled the door open, flinging everything over the driver’s seat, into the passenger side, before taking her place at the wheel. With a turn of the key, the car roared to life. While it might look old, the car was more than modern inside, hiding a strong motor under its ancient hood.

The headlights flicked on, revealing a quaint suburban home. Flowers of every color bloomed in the driveway and the porch sat empty, except for the ghosts of those sitting in the chairs and the regret – both of her and her victim – staring at her accusingly from the windows. Even a place like this wasn’t safe from the Family. In this city, they were the hand of God.

It was ten minutes later, far down the road and far from the house, that she was forced to pull over and vomit violently out of the open car door. Once her stomach finally relented and refused to offer up any more, Ophilia spat several times, slammed the door shut, and dug for the burner phone once more, eager to be done with this night’s grisly work. She pressed the second speed dial, listening to the electronic ring.

On the third ring, the call connected.

“Black Box News Network,” a bored female voice on the other end of the line recited mechanically. There was a soft popping sound. The woman was chewing bubblegum during a phone call; Ophilia immediately hated her. “Reporting the truth for over fifty years. So, tell me, what riveting story have you got for us?”

Ophilia didn’t let the sarcasm bother her. Too much. “Oh, my apologies,” she began, a sneer creeping her tone. “Here we were, thinking you’d be interested in some real news. I suppose I’ll contact someone else about the dead bodies.” She hoped the immense disdain made it through the voice masking hardware on the phone. There were times when she wished she could damn her father’s paranoia and just be reckless.

There was a crash on the other end of the line, followed by muffled curses as the woman dropped the phone. To her credit, she recovered quicker than Ophilia had expected her to.

“Wait, what’d you say?” The reporter asked, suddenly shaken.

“They’re killing people, you know? The Family. Making them vanish; poof. You really should say something about that. The cops, I’m sure they’ll deny it, cover it up, but your job is the truth, right? Spread it.”

“Hold on, just who is this?” The woman sounded frightened now. She should be. Calls like these were just another of Ophilia’s calling cards.

Now the news would know that ‘The Silencer’ had killed someone for the mob, but not who. Black Box was a tabloid, so the cops probably wouldn’t take it seriously, but people read those things – even believed them sometimes. It was a small thing, but small things piled up, when done properly. Ophilia was an expert on the micromanagement of mass hysteria.

“Riveting enough for you, bitch?” Ophilia snarled into the receiver before mashing the ‘END’ key. She stared at the phone, feeling a faint burn behind her eyes. Without wasting another moment, she hit the third and final speed-dial, calling the number presented.

“Ophilia. Finished already?” Her father’s voice was crisp, like the first bite into a fresh apple. Ophilia shuddered despite herself.

“Yes father. It’s done.” She paused, taking a short, calming breath. “I won’t be using a bat again in a job such as this. It’s far too inaccurate, I’m afraid.”

There was a pause, then a drawn-out sigh. She could tell he was smoking; it made her teeth itch. “Fair enough,” he replied. “There are other ways to make an example of someone. You made the calls, I presume?”

Ophilia dug through her glove box with her free hand. “Naturally. Two-Toes should have his fake corpse planted by tonight, and I’ve got the will in the bag. I whacked B.B.N.N. like the wasp’s nest that it is; the reporter was more stuck-up than usual and will probably act hastily; I imagine we’ll be getting a big media frenzy hitting real soon. The right news will reach the right ears.” Ophilia felt a surge of relief as her questing fingers finally found the pack of cigarettes. Just looking at them made the pressure behind her eyes dim to a dull ache. “I’ll be headed home now.”

“No, not yet,” her father replied curtly. “I’ve got something else for you to do, another job before you turn in for the night.”

Ophilia pulled a cigarette from the box with her lips, tossing the pack aside and drawing her lighter from its place between her seats. “I don’t know, father. I’m not really up for it.” She flicked her thumb over the lighter’s wheel, watching the sparks impatiently.

“It wasn’t a request. It shouldn’t be too strenuous: a new gang has started dealing drugs in the upper north-east side. You’re just delivering the usual warning and letting them know who runs this city.” A pause. A sigh. “They call themselves the Mixer Misfits. They’re a bunch of hormone-filled teenagers, from what I’ve gathered. Apparently, they’re boss is some eccentric disk jockey named VeeVee. I don’t want them peddling their filth in my city, Ophilia. I want you to make that abundantly clear.”

Ophilia cursed the lighter as it continued to spark, refusing to offer up a flame. She flicked it more forcefully, making her thumb sting, and yet the damn thing just kept sparking. “Fine. Give me the address.”

He did.

Ophilia groaned, throwing the lighter out of her window with a fierce snarl. Naturally, the damned thing was out of fuel. She looked into her phone, ready to tell him what he could do with his little mission for her, only to notice that he’d already hung up. She knew this job would be far worse than he’d implied. The address was enough to make that abundantly clear.

She felt the tears then; twin lines streaking down her face, dripping off her chin and cheeks. She squeezed her eyes closed, finally letting the dam break, letting all the dirty, filthy feelings – all the pent up pain, misery, and rage – loose. She cursed under her breath, over and over, as she leaned forward, curling up in her seat. She let all the volatile emotions have their way with her mind and body. It was a small weakness, but one she allowed herself – felt she needed, even. In her eyes, she would have gone crazy a long time ago without it.

Then again, perhaps she already had…
> Chapter 2: Into the Vortex
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a nightclub. Of course it was a goddamn nightclub.

Ophilia had known from the second her father had given her the address, but knowing that fact hadn’t made this situation any less aggravating. She despised these sorts of establishments; they dug up all kinds of memories that she’d worked extremely hard to bury. Her father knew this well enough.

The club took up the bottom two stories of a four-story building – dressed in neon lights and looming over the street like some kind of earthbound sun. Even from here, all the way across the street, Ophilia could feel the thrum of the bass, setting her teeth on edge.

To distract herself, Ophilia locked her eyes onto the glowing neon sign, which brightly proclaimed the club’s name as “Vortex.” The night was still young – in its infancy even – and the club was just now starting to thump itself to life.

Without letting herself think of anything in particular, Ophilia started across the street with a determined stride. Cars skidded to a stop and horns honked at her, but she ignored them all; she owned these streets. She strolled defiantly past the growing line of partygoers, ravers, and fiends as if she owned this club too. She didn’t listen to the muttered complaints, knowing no one had the guts to step up and say anything straight to her face. One look told them that anyone dumb enough to step up to her would discover new definitions of pain. Ophilia was in a foul mood; she was looking for a scrap.

The bouncer at the door took one look at her and knew. Ophilia guessed that either he’d been warned she was coming – her father had doubtless sent word ahead – or he was a long-time local who had heard the rumors about her. Much more than likely, though, was that he just wasn’t blind.

Ophilia’s bad mood had reached her eyes by now and had set them ablaze.  She saw the thoughts in his eyes and the expressions on his face, guarded though they were: curiosity, glossed over with a layer of defensiveness, and lightly seasoned with a dusting of fear.

From several feet away, the muted thump of the music made her blood boil. It was a sensation that she’d rather not feel, and it only served to make her surlier.

Once she reached the bouncer, she stopped – her hands in her pockets – and waited. The man continued to stare at her, and she continued to wait until he spoke, caved, or got out of her way. Evidently, he caved, looking away from her stare, aiming his eyes somewhere over her shoulder. Oh yes, she thought with a mental grin, certainly more than a dusting.

“Is your boss here?” Ophilia asked, beginning to grow tired of this cat-and-mouse game. She noted a tightening of the man’s jaw before he stepped aside for her. It was a silent ‘yes.’

Ophilia tipped her hat to him as she strode into the Vortex.

The music struck her like a jackhammer to the skull. The fast rhythm of E.D.M. and the bass-drops of dubstep gave Ophilia an instant headache. The strobe lights didn’t exactly improve matters.

Despite the relative freshness of the night, the dance floor was already teeming with bodies that broiled and churned like the ocean’s waves. The air smelled of the sweat, smoke, and the lingering scent of alcohol.

At least, Ophilia considered ruefully. I smell the part. Minus the alcohol, of course.

The alluring scent of smoke, coupled with her own lack of cigarettes, only served to amplify her headache. She had decided, against her better judgement, to not stop and buy a lighter on the way here. She’d reasoned that the quicker she finished this stupid job, the quicker she could get home, get a shower, and find a lighter there. Now, she was regretting that decision immensely.

She waded into the crush of dancers, soaking in her surroundings. After only a moment, she turned and slunk off towards the bar. Most of the stools were empty, as the people here this early were either already roaring drunk or were more concerned flailing their arms around to the music. In some rare cases, it was both; those ones were the most entertaining to watch.

The bartender was several stools away, industriously scrubbing a glass – already clean, of course – with the kind of unthinking devotion of every bartender, ever. Ophilia didn’t bother closing the distance, sliding into a stool where she was, far away from the few other patrons sharing the bar. The lot of them were either flirting shamelessly, laughably drunk, flirting shamelessly while laughably drunk, or were currently poisoning their livers with this club’s swill in an attempt to reach one of these other higher states of mind.

The bartender’s eyes caught her as she hailed him over. He set down the glass, looking bored but friendly, as he walked over to her. He was an older man, somewhere between forty and fifty, Ophilia guessed, with small streaks of grey in his otherwise short, black hair. He had a kind of rugged handsomeness that people often looked for in male bartenders.

“Do you have any scotch?” Ophilia asked, giving her best fake smile.

“Of course. Several kinds,” the bartender replied. He paused, studying her intently, especially her suit, and raised an eyebrow. “Weird outfit, for a raver.”

“Maybe I just enjoy confusing people,” Ophilia rebutted, shrugging her shoulder and leaning more onto the bar. “Hey, you got a light?” She asked on a whim, filled with hope.

“I am the light,” the man replied with a stupid grin. “What you seek is fire, my daughter.” Ophilia responded with a level, no-nonsense stare, complete with angry scowl. He cleared his throat loudly. “Nope, sorry. I don’t smoke. It’ll kill you, sure as shit.”

Ophilia wanted to laugh and cry. Instead, she just sighed. “Surprise me on the scotch.” She closed her eyes for a second and propped her head up with her arm. When she opened them again, the man was pouring the scotch carefully into a glass. She passively noted the brand of the scotch, but had no clue what the quality was.

Again, Ophilia was struck with how tired of this song-and-dance she was; all the tip-toing and careful words. Caution and guile had their place, but so did a straight-forward confrontation, and right now, Ophilia was itching for a confrontation, even if it involved guns and knives. It was only a matter of time before some poor sap got unlucky.

“Are you a Misfit?” She asked, cutting through all the crap that coated this entire situation. Her headache was making her eyes throb in time with the music.

The bartender let out a phony laugh, obviously forced. “Well now, my mother always said I was special,” he quipped, sliding the glass of scotch over to her. “But that’s a new one.”

Ophilia laughed right along as she caught the glass, purposefully making her laugh sound fake and forced, like his. She lifted the glass, swirling it a few times, struggling to not wrinkle her nose at the foul scent of alcohol. “Stop playing these stupid games. You know exactly what I’m saying. I’m in a very bad mood, and you’re in my way, feeding me bullshit. I’m not in the mood for bullshit.”

Ophilia had been trained to read the cadence of a conversation and to follow the emotional and physical cues that went along with any common social interactions. She had been taught to learn when a situation was going sour or when someone was on the brink of cracking. She could turn a conversation to whatever she desired, could read people like a book, and had a knack with wordplay. She’d been a natural.

She saw very clearly as the man’s cheery demeanor crumbled for half-a-second, revealing a guarded, cautious stare. It was the stare of a man who knew he was traipsing across a mine-field, where one misstep could spell disaster. Swiftly, he threw the mask back up and the false camaraderie returned.

“Well, that depends on who’s asking, doesn’t it?” He leaned forward across the bar, his kind tone blending away to an intimidating one. “So tell me, sweetheart, who’s asking?”

Ophilia set the glass down slowly, struggling to not slam it into this man’s face. She plastered a fake smile on her face, but felt the corner of her mouth twitch slightly. “The Melody Family, that’s who.” Normally, she never would’ve let this situation go on like this – she would have laughed it off, played stupid, or outright disengaged from the conversation – but she was at her wits end with this fucking job in this fucking club with this fucking bartender. It was all making her physically ill. “And if you call me sweetheart again, your teeth will end up in the peanut bowl, capichê?”

The threat, however, was unnecessary. The bartender was nodding before she had even finished, leaning back behind his bar again. All at once, he relaxed, as if the world suddenly made sense. His smile looked far more genuine, now. “Yeah, I had a feeling you were the one we were looking for. You’ve got the right kind of fire. And outfit.” When Ophilia raised her eyebrow, the man continued. “The boss, she’s been expecting you.” He pointed over her shoulder. “She’s up there.”

Ophilia carefully slid back from the bar – she wasn’t dumb enough to keep within arm’s reach of the man – and looked in the direction he’d motioned to. She spotted it easily; a large tinted window set into the wall, overlooking the entire club. Without looking back, she slid the scotch back towards the bartender, her eyes darting this way and that. She saw no threats, no welcoming committee. After a moment, she spotted a door that looked promising and nodded, mostly to herself, relaxing visibly.

She pulled a fifty from her pocket, placing it on the bar beside her untouched glass. She finally looked back to the bartender, giving him a more genuine smile. “Enjoy the drink. Keep the change.” Ophilia was just glad that things were moving again. Never let it be said that she didn’t reward people who didn’t waste her time.

The man kicked back the scotch with one hand, palming the bill with the other. However, as Ophilia turned to leave the bar, he stepped from behind the counter, walking with her across the club. She gave him a small glance, but withheld any attention. Her eyes were busy scanning the dance floor for possible ambushes.

She gave a jaded smirk as the bartender opened the door for her, like some old-school gentleman, all warmth and politeness now.

“Thank you,” she said casually, tipping her hat to him. The bartender grunted inarticulately in reply, motioning her into the doorway with a hand. “Oh no, please, after you,” Ophilia said, waving him in exactly like he had her. She still wasn’t taking any chances.

The bartender rolled his eyes and slipped into the space beyond. It was about what Ophilia had expected; a long, decorated hallway – for a nightclub – going in both directions. It was lit in radioactive green and black-light purple; a color combination that Ophilia felt shouldn’t exist in a sane world. She had even predicted the guards, naturally – one on each side of the door, standing against the opposite wall of the hallway. What she hadn’t expected was the level of sophistication they had in firearms.

The two were no different from the ravers on the dance floor – wild, revealing clothes with neon accents, overlaid with the faint smell of smoke and, occasionally, teenage angst – until one noticed the assault rifles cradled in their arms.

It wasn’t too unusual for a small-time gang like this one to have an abundance of side-arms, a scattering of submachine guns – usually Uzis, – and at least a few AK-47s thrown into the mix. But these rifles were in an entirely different category. The metal was sleek, the design ultra-modern and sported a small red-dot sight, a triple-burst setting, and large, easy to handle clips. There was no way these weren’t military grade.

Ophilia’s hand twitched towards her pistol, but she stopped herself before she started an incident. The two guards showed no blatant signs of hostility, so this probably wasn’t a trap.

“To see Vee,” the bartender said, thumbing at her over his shoulder. “From the Family,” he added as almost an afterthought. “She’s got teeth.”

Ophilia decided to show them right where her teeth were, flashing the two guards a rare, toothy grin. She wondered, with a small inward chuckle, if the bartender’s statement had been a comment about her offer to rearrange his dental structure, or if he’d somehow spotted her 9mm.

One of the guards nodded and the bartender left, slipping out past Ophilia without a word. The door shut softly behind him. Ophilia was pleasantly surprised to notice that, with the door closed, the pounding of the music was severely muted. She almost wept in relief.

“We’ll need to search you.”

Ophilia turned her full attention to the speaker, the guard standing to her right. He was wearing a pair of black-out sunglasses, despite the poor lighting in the hallway. She regarded him with instant dislike, treating him to her best sneer. “I keep my gun.”

The other guard shuffled in place, his uncertain expression lit up by the sickly green glow-stick hanging from his neck. “We can’t just let you in without patting you down. We gotta protect our boss, yanno?”

Glow-Stick was young – nineteen at most – and was obviously new blood. He was holding his rifle with the kind of nervous tightness that signifies someone who is either new to firearms, fears them, or both. His safety was even on.

Dark-Glasses reached for her shirt, but Ophilia stepped away from him, still sneering. He snarled and made another, more spirited grab for her.

In a blink, Ophilia’s body was pressed tightly to his, pinning his rifle uselessly between them. Her pistol, deftly drawn from concealment, was held to his side, out of Glow-Stick’s line of sight, while her free hand gripped the man’s arm, keeping him from retreating. His face was inches from hers and he was trying to stand very, very still. She could smell the nicotine on his breath and her headache came back tenfold.

“We’re all friends here, right?” She purred in a silky voice, entirely for Glow-Stick’s benefit. Then, more quietly, she spoke again. “Don’t speak, or else. First, two shots in your kidney, quieted by your body’s close range. I get behind your agonized body before your friend even considers turning his safety off. I’ll put a shot between his eyes. Then you. If I wanted you dead right now, you would be.”

She released him all at once, the pistol vanishing before they’d even fully separated. She stepped back, glaring at the man, channeling all her anger through that gaze. “I’m the Silencer of the Melody Family,” she said in a normal voice, letting them both hear her. “I’m my father’s right hand and the last thing more than one has seen before they died. I’m keeping my pistol.” She paused, letting the silence speak for a moment. “Besides, if I had wanted to kill your boss, she’d be a corpse, and there isn’t anything either of you novices could do to stop me, even with those fancy rifles.”

She sighed, seeing Dark-Glasses simmer with rage. He didn’t, however, make any more moves to search her. With the danger behind her for the moment, Ophilia finally turned to get a better look at the expression of wide-eyed terror on Glow-Stick’s face. He was just now grasping how close to catastrophe he’d come.

“If I’d wanted to, our introduction would have been vastly different, I assure you.” Ophilia smirked at the young gangster, raising a hand towards him and miming shooting a pistol. “Likely, neither of you would have even known we’d gotten acquainted.”

With one part satisfaction, two parts regret, Ophilia noticed Glow-Stick’s hands start to tremble. He still hadn’t turned off that damn safety.

“But,” she said briskly, punctuating the word with a clap. She completely shifted her tone, sounding infinitely friendlier. “That’s not how things went, is it? So, which way to your boss?”

Dark-Glasses recovered first – quickly too, Ophilia had to admit. This one, she decided, was no stranger to violence.

“Luke, bring her up,” he said, motioning to the younger man – Luke, apparently.

Luke, for his part, shook his head furiously, his glow-stick wagging on its rope. “Fuck that! You do it, Bam!”

Ophilia felt herself smile, despite her best attempts to not. She liked this kid.

Bam growled a bit, muttering under his breath. Ophilia chose to ignore him. “Come on,” he said finally, motioning her down the left hall and glaring at Luke as he passed.

Ophilia patted the kid on the shoulder as she started past. “Next time, remember to turn the safety off.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “Hey, you got a light?”

Luke blinked, as if surprised. “N-no. I, uh, I vape.”

Ophilia groaned internally. Damn vaping straight to hell.

“Hurry up!” Bam shouted from up ahead.

Ophilia gave an exaggerated, long-suffering sigh and winked at Luke before she started following Bam. She purposely walked slow, forcing him to slow his hurried pace so he didn’t leave her behind.

As she walked, Ophilia tugged a cigarette from the box in her pocket. She smirked, remembering that smell on Bam’s breath. “You got a light?” She asked. He ignored her. “Well, fuck you too, then,” she muttered under her breath, placing the cigarette between her lips.

It was only a minute or two later, passing by several guards – all of whom, after a glare from Bam, magically didn’t have lighters – and walking up some stairs, before Bam stopped, motioning towards a door.

“The boss is in there,” he grunted. Without another word, he pushed past her, undoubtedly returning to his post. Poor Luke.

Ophilia bit her lip until he was gone, also biting back all of the numerous things she wanted to say to him. Once he was gone, she took a deep breath and wrapped herself in professionalism. The two new guards at the door looked at her curiously, but made no moves to stop or search her. With a courteous nod to them, she opened the door and went inside.

The music was back, and Ophilia wasn’t glad for its return. This new room was far more chaotic than the hall, having more in common with the ever-filling ground floor of the club proper. There was a pall of smoke in the air, flowing lazily from cigarettes, blunts, and a few rare cigars. The room had at least fifteen people in it, all of them either lounging, drinking, kissing, or dancing. They were all dressed in the manner Ophilia was beginning to relate to the Misfits – like ravers with violence in their eyes and guns on their hips.

Across the room was a large table, laden with a tempting spread of food. Ophilia hadn’t eaten since before her Job, and her stomach had so politely left that small meal on the side of the road anyway.

Behind the table was the tinted window Ophilia had seen from below, now open to the club’s main floor. The music thumped to the beat of Ophilia’s heart, throbbing against her chest like a crazed animal, trapped inside her rib-cage. The crowd outside had more than doubled; now it was a living, breathing, mass of humanity.

And, in front of the open window, stood an impossibility.

“Ey-yo, everybody~!” The woman the Misfits called ‘Vee’ and ‘Boss,’ the one her father had called ‘VeeVee,’ held a microphone to her lips, shouting into it with gusto, her voice blaring over the speakers. “Your host, DJ-VeeVee is in the house! Who here’s ready to party till the sun comes up!?”

The club roared its agreement. Vee threw her arms up, earning another roaring cheer. She reached off to the side and pressed something on the wall beside her. The song changed and the window closed.

Vivian Scratch turned around and Ophilia stared headlong into the past. On that moment, hung eternity. Time stood still. Space contracted to a pinpoint.

“Ophilia. Long time.” Her voice was just like Ophilia had tried to forget. A part of her sighed in relief that, despite her best efforts, over ten years’ time hadn’t dulled the memory.

Vivian’s hair, once worn in a small, severe cut, was now long, tied back into a thin ponytail, with a wild top and bangs hanging down on either side of her face. It was still dyed that ridiculous shade of blue that Vivian had loved so much, shot through with an icy variant of the color. It swished behind her with even the slightest motion of her head, trailing her like a comet’s tail. Her bangs, blue as a clear sky, framed a face as pale as milk.

This woman, once so self-conscious, now stood with her fists on her hips, draped in a long, white trench coat, open at the front to expose milky skin, a few tattoos, and a shock of color in the shape of a deep-purple tube top, covering her small, perky breasts. Her pants were black and baggy, teasingly showing off the strings of her underwear. It was held up by a white utility belt that would make Batman fans swoon with envy and drool all over themselves.

The entire ensemble was topped off with a gaudy pair of sunglasses – with purple lenses no less – and a pair of radio headphones, sporting a pair of metal antennae from each ear, like some robot’s receiver. As Ophilia watched, stunned, Vivian pulled a blunt from her pocket, placing it between her lips.

Twelve years had changed her. The time rushed in, closing the distance between them.

“Quite…” Ophilia replied in a daze. She took a few tentative steps forward, ignoring everyone else in the room. Even her headache had vanished. Right now, her vision had narrowed down to a single person, and only that person mattered at all.

The Misfit boss must have felt similarly; her next choice of action wasn’t one Ophilia expected of a gang leader; at least, not one without a death wish.

“Take a walk, everyone. I got this.” Vivian gave a small wave, imperiously dismissing everyone in the room like a queen at court.

The room broke in lethargic motion, people moving to depart with no great haste. A few, more occupied couples, needed to be prodded for the message to filter through their brains. Soon, the room was empty, all except for one man who stood beside Vivian, on her side of the table. He turned to examine Vivian, who gave another passive wave.

“You too, Ne-Yo. She won’t hurt me.”

Ne-Yo shifted his gaze and studied Ophilia with a critical stare; the stare of a guardian who wouldn’t hesitate to kill to protect his charge. This guy had “bodyguard” written all over him with a neon marker. Ophilia hadn’t seen eyes like that since the day she first met Salvatore. This was a man of action, not some common banger. Ophilia met his stare as best she could, but Vivian’s sudden appearance had left her shaken.

After a moment, he broke the stare, apparently seeing something in her eyes that satisfied him. He said something to Vivian that Ophilia couldn’t hear, and the other woman waved him off, smirking. He walked from behind the table and, as he passed Ophilia, he gave her a small, respectful nod.

“I’ll be right outside if you need me, Vee.”

Vivian gave another dismissive wave. “Yes, mother. I promise to be careful without you, mother.” Ophilia heard a chuckle behind her and the door closing with a soft click.

As she slipped around the table, approaching the still stunned Ophilia, Vivian pulled a lighter from one of the numerous pockets on her belt. She flipped the zippo open and struck it with one smooth, skillful motion. The light of the fire danced, reflecting off the lenses of her gaudy glasses. She took a long drag, sighing out the smoke with a wistful expression. She offered the lighter to Ophilia as she drew within arm’s reach and smiled a warm, goofy smile, making Ophilia’s heart melt a little. “Need some fire, caveman?”

Ophilia had completely forgotten the cigarette she’d had between her lips. By some miracle, it hadn’t fallen out while she gaped. She started leaning forward towards the lighter with caution, as one would approach a wild animal. Her eyes flashed with the birth of the flame and she took a drag, letting the cherry catch. She breathed in the smoke, feeling her entire system loosen again.

“You’re a lifesaver, Viv.”

“It’s Vee now.”

The pair of women let out a breath in unison, the enticing scent of nicotine blending with the cloying scent of weed. Ophilia felt that might be symbolic of something.

“Come on, have a seat. Don’t be so rigid.” Vivian suddenly kicked into action, sauntering around to a small couch with a familiar swish to her hips that reminded Ophilia of a few choice moments of their shared history.

Vivian flopped carelessly onto the seat with, what Ophilia decided, was a very ‘Vivian-like’ gesture. She smiled around her cigarette, happy to see a shadow of better, happier time.

Ophilia joined her, sitting more sedately, smoking in silence. All the stress, all the suffering, all the chaos of the last decade-and-some years began to melt away. She felt like she was nineteen again, sitting in the club beside this awkward, wonderful, lovable young woman.

Without a thought more, Ophilia snubbed out her cigarette in a nearby ashtray, bracing herself to talk business. They could reminisce later. She couldn’t let herself be distracted by this overload of emotions. With a moment of concentration, she pulled the mask of the Silencer back on and turned to face the gang boss beside her.

She was taken completely off guard.

Vivian’s lips were just as warm as she remembered, flavored slightly with mint and heavily with pot. Her hands, holding either side of Ophilia’s face, were firm, demanding, but not forceful – never that. In the past, Vivian had been the shy, meek one, with the occasional burst of passion, but Ophilia found this change of personality to be a refreshing one. It was nice to have someone else take charge for once.

Despite any attempts at restraint, Ophilia melted against the kiss, her perfect mask cracking and shattering like cheap pottery. Her hands crept up Vivian’s back, clutching the thick material of her trench coat almost desperately. Her lips parted, deepening their contact, as Ophilia finally caved in and showed Vivian her true, hidden self. When she felt Vivian shiver, she couldn’t help but shiver in kind.

It had been so very, very long…

Memories poured back, like water filling a glass, threatening to overwhelm her – to overtake her – but Ophilia resisted the lure. Why bask in the past when the present was so much closer? If she hadn’t cried recently, she probably would have soaked Vivian’s shoulder straight through.

Vivian’s hands slid down off her face, trailing over her sides – testing, teasing, and remembering. Ophilia’s body might have a few new scars, but it was still a familiar landscape to the other woman. The hands stopped at Ophilia’s hips, never once venturing anywhere dangerous, and Ophilia nearly growled at the restraint. The initiative, it seemed, was hers.

She tugged harshly on the trench coat between her fingers, pulling the collar down and back. With vampiric desire, she broke off the kiss and dove for Vivian’s neck, finding soft skin to kiss and nibble.

Vivian made a sound of pleased approval, moving one hand up to knot in Ophilia’s hair.

For the first time in years, Ophilia felt a surge rush through her body. It was more than a lustful surge; those she felt often, and had learned to ignore. No, this was what she was taught to feel when she killed, yet could never connect meaningfully with the brutal work of ending a life. These were the feelings she’d wanted to feel so feverishly, had viewed so reverently, had pursued so fruitlessly.

Giving Vivian’s neck a bite, Ophilia moved her hands to the other woman’s stomach, feeling the smooth, creamy skin shudder under her touch.  Wordlessly, she slid her hands back around Vivian’s body, pushing the heavy fabric of the coat off Vivian’s shoulders.

All at once, the mood changed and the dream ended. Vivian tensed up, pushing Ophilia away forcefully.

Ophilia, shocked, leaned back and studied the other woman in silence. Despite her glasses, Ophilia could still read the emotions on her face clearly – fear and shame – as she held her trench coat closed apprehensively.

Passion fled Ophilia, leaving nothing but the shell. The mask’s shattered pieces jumped up and reformed. She cleared her throat, ashamed she had shown such weakness. She had broken a promise to herself and had let someone – even if that someone was Vivian – see her emotions. Never let them see you bleed, her father always said. Someone had seen that the Silencer was still human after all.

“My apologies,” Ophilia said, all business now.

“Please, don’t be sorry,” Vivian quickly replied, rubbing the spot on her neck that Ophilia had bitten and shuffling in her seat. She let out a small chuckle, letting both hands drop to her sides. Ophilia tried to not stare at the red mark on the other woman’s neck. “I really enjoyed that,” she said, then paused for a second. “A lot, actually,” she added, with a bark of laughter.

“So,” Vivian said brusquely, pushing off the couch to stand up. Ophilia caught a telltale glint of metal as Vivian stood – a firearm secreted away inside the long, large coat. Yes, her friend had most certainly changed. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon. I had thought your father would send someone else, given our… history.”

“Clearly,” Ophilia said dryly, “you don’t understand Charles Melody at all.” Ophilia gave her head a small shake. She wished her father had at least warned her of who was running the Misfits, but that, she supposed, also wasn’t like him.

Vivian was silent for several heartbeats, then nodded. “Suppose I don’t. But I know plenty about you.”

“Do you, now?” Ophilia asked, trying really hard to not sneer.

“A-yup. Ten years or two years, we both know there are some things that’ll never change. Admit it.” Vivian motioned between them as she spoke. “You’ve still got loads of style. I’m still a nerd at heart. You still like biting. I still like fun toys.” She finished with a flourish, opening her coat wide. Not only did this give Ophilia a good look at Vivian’s body, it also showed off the set of huge, chrome Desert Eagles strapped weightily to the inside of the coat.

Ophilia felt her hand twitch for the second time that day, moving to draw before her enemy. She stopped that train of thought quickly, scolding herself. Vivian was not her enemy. It was as improbable as it was impossible.

After a second, Vivian let the coat close, hiding the firearms again. “Look, I knew how to get your Family’s attention. I made just enough waves so that your daddy-dearest would get interested, but not enough that he’d want me decorating the floor of some basement somewhere.”

Ophilia flinched and gave Vivian a meaningful, curious look.

Vivian tapped her headphones in reply. “Shit, it’s 2014 Ophilia; get with the times. You’d be amazed what a little technical work can accomplish. I get all sorts of fun radio frequencies on these bad boys, including the pig’s radio frequency, certain phone conversations, and a bitchin’ electronica channel. I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere, especially on you and your Family. I hear everything everyone doesn’t want me to hear – best of all, they have no clue I’m doing it. Your Family made a real mess of that guy.”

Ophilia felt the blood drain from her face, growing nauseous all over again. She closed her eyes, but couldn’t hide. A corpse with a bulging eye stared at her, making broken, gurgling noises…

Vivian caught on immediately. “Oh. Your work?” She paused, studying Ophilia’s face and frowning just slightly. “Suppose some things are bound to change, right?”

Ophilia dropped her eyes, ashamed. Being her father’s personal attack dog was one thing, but having Vivian know all the gritty details was something entirely different.

There was a long silence, until Ophilia heard Vivian closing the distance between them. “Hey. Don’t be so down on yourself, Mel,” Vivian said, her voice soothing. She moved in front of Ophilia, leaning down when the other woman didn’t look up. “Hey. Listen,” she said, her voice accompanied by a soft click. A second later, Vivian set her glasses down on the couch beside Ophilia. As Ophilia stared at her hands – anything to not look at her face – she noticed that Vivian had tattoos over her knuckles; Viva Voce, with a letter on each digit.

“Look at me. Don’t be ashamed. We’ve both done things we aren’t proud of, okay?”

Both curious and unable to refuse Vivian’s simple request, Ophilia looked up and met her ex-lover’s eyes. What she saw chilled her to the core.

Vivian’s eyes had the glassy sheen and large pupils of someone using, at the very least, one or two narcotics.  Ophilia saw that look more clearly now, the fear and shame she’d shown so briefly. Shock and worry burned through her veins. She started to stand, but Vivian put a hand on her shoulder, keeping her down.

“Relax. I haven’t touched dope in years,” Vivian said simply, as if that somehow made everything better. “We’ve both changed. We both do and did things we wish we could take back; things we wish we didn’t have to do; things we wish we could change.” In the silence following that statement, Vivian pulled down the shoulder of her trench coat, showing off her arm. Suddenly, Ophilia understood why Vivian had reacted so poorly to her coat coming off.

Vivian’s skin, from the shoulder down to her wrist, was riddled with blackened veins and track marks; a silent testament to her poisonous habits. Ignoring Ophilia’s horrified expression, Vivian continued, pulling her pant leg up to reveal more of the same running up her leg.

After a significant pause, Vivian pulled her clothes back into place, hiding her shame with layers of cloth and denim. “I don’t judge, Mel. I don’t have the right to judge anyone. I used to use so much that I doubt I could even find a vein anymore.”

Ophilia caught Vivian’s hand as she reached for her glasses. “What are you on now?” She tried to keep the tremor of concern out of her voice, and almost succeeded. Her fear was bubbling in her chest, threatening to drown her. Vivian tried to look away, but Ophilia gave her hand a squeeze. “What… are… you… on… now?” Ophilia repeated, her eyes intense, despite her stress.

“Just a few pick-me-ups,” Vivian replied evasively. “It helps keep the edge off.”

Ophilia drew her hand back, letting Vivian replace those gaudy glasses on her face and lean upright again. “Father told me you were dealing, but…”

“We are, I can’t deny that, but I avoid selling anything too addictive, like heroin or crack. Our clients are looking for a good time, hoping to blur the edges off a bad day or to make a night particularly crazy, not to get hooked on something nasty. I refuse to make slaves of people through chemicals.” In a gesture she probably didn’t even notice, Vivian scratched at her arm idly. “Shrooms, acid, and the ole’ standby, weed; those are my big sellers. Naturally, e-pills and molly sell like hot-cakes, but I’m real careful with the distribution of those.”

Ophilia listened in silence, nodding faintly. “I believe father will be pleased to hear that. He doesn’t much care for large-scale drug operations in his city.”

“His city…” Vivian mimed, but shrugged, not refuting the claim. “Well, I’m glad to not upset his delicate sensibilities,” Vivian said, her tone snarky, as she walked across the room. Ophilia watched her, just not starting to recover, as the other woman scooped a slice of pizza off the table. As she took the first bite she walked to a chair, flopping into it gracelessly and lounging back as she ate. It was as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

“I wanted to make a deal with your Family; a 70-30 split on all illegal profits, in the Family’s favor, of course. I’ll also toss my contacts from the tech and weapons department. In return, you’ll protect me and mine; ensure no one messes with my businesses and make sure none of my boys get killed needlessly.”

Ophilia raised an eyebrow. “Generous. But what makes you think we need those contacts?”

Vivian chuckled, finishing the pizza and licking her fingers clean. “Let’s face it, Mel; I know you saw what my crew carries around. I know you well enough to know you’ve been thinking the same thing; your Family might be huge and powerful, but they’re woefully under-equipped. Your guns are archaic, back from a time when people were better off throwing rocks at one-another rather than shooting at one-another. You need better weapons to keep up with modern times. I can help with that.”

Ophilia leaned forward, entwining her fingers as she thought. While Vivian was exaggerating, she had indeed considered this very matter before. Her father had a strange obsession with the old days, the old ways, and symbols. He clung to the past like a mother clings to her dying child. He supplied his people with nothing but classical firearms, purchased cheaply and in bulk, putting his common gunmen at a distinct disadvantage. If it wasn’t for Charles’s management skills and the smothering size of the Family, they would have collapsed under the weight of heavily armed gangs like Vivian’s. She needed these contacts. She needed to convince her father to embrace the future.

She leaned back, liking this deal the more she considered it. If she was forced to inherit the Family one day, she’d like to have Vivian’s firearms on her side. “All right, Viv. But what’s the catch?”

Vivian spread her hands innocently, giving a wry smile. “No catch. To be honest, most of our income comes from completely legit methods; nightclubs, record deals, investments, things like that. I can even play the stocks, if the urge takes me,” she said, dusting some crumbs from the pizza’s crust off her lap, onto the floor. “I do have a special request though, if it’s not too much to ask.”

Ophilia raised an eyebrow again as she considered this. She was allowed to make deals in her father’s absence and he had sent her to deal with this matter personally. He couldn’t complain if she actually made a deal, could he? “What is it, Viv?”

Tension faded from Vivian’s body. She settled into a soft, warm smile, letting out a long, familiar sigh. “You, Mel. I want you back in my life.”
> Chapter 3: Our Painful Nostalgia
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Being a sophomore at West Connard High School, Ophilia considered it her sworn duty to look after those who were just entering the school. It was a new year, after all; the grand year of 1999, the last year in the turn of the century – the last year, ever, if you believed some doomsayers.

Leaning on a railing in the school’s open lobby, Ophilia watched the wide-eyed freshman take their first tentative steps into the first day of their new lives. She remembered that feeling – nervousness, but excitement too – when you take those first steps beyond the threshold. High School began as an awesome experience; not good, precisely, but awe-inspiring, certainly. Some would revise that opinion while others, like Ophilia, wouldn’t.

She was an oddity; not smart enough to be a nerd; not nimble enough to be a cheerleader; too happy to be a goth; too free with her acquaintances to be one of the popular girls. Personally, she hated the idea of social cliques. She was willing to be friends with just about anyone, assuming they weren’t terrible.

As she watched, a girl in the back of the crowd tripped, dropping her books and papers as she fell with a shout. The crowd simply parted around her; some were laughing, while others ignored her. Everyone else was obviously nervous about being the lone person to go in and help. Crowd mentality was bullshit.

Ophilia heaved a sigh – an expression she’d grown rather proficient at over the past year – and leaned off the railing. She moved against the current, towards the fallen girl, showing politeness when needed but mostly ignoring the crowd.

The fallen freshman was flat on her rear, one hand on her nose while the other was in the process of recovering a pair of glasses. She was wearing a white turtleneck and her hair – which was dyed completely cyan and blue, strangely – was cut short and was obviously tidied up for her first day of school. When she noticed Ophilia she offered a small, easy, thankful smile.

“Hi,” she said simply. “I’m a total mess, aren’t I?” She added, not giving Ophilia a chance to respond. She was practically overflowing with nervous energy. “Can you give me a hand? I haven’t lost my shoe, have I? Am I bleeding?” She moved her hand from her nose after she finished bombarding Ophilia with questions.

Ophilia blinked at the swarm of words but recovered quickly. “Not that I can see,” she replied, deciding to only answer the last question. She already found herself liking this girl’s boundless energy. Standing beside her was like standing next to a thunderstorm that was also, somehow, on fire. She knelt down, helping to gather up the random splash of books, folders, and papers. Curious, she flipped one of the larger books – obviously not a school textbook – over at random.

“The Weapons and Technology of Star Wars?” Ophilia read the title softly to herself, raising an eyebrow.

“Hm? What’s that?” The girl asked, just then getting her glasses into place. She blinked a few times, saw the book, flushed beet red, and snatched it away – all in the span of a few breaths. “That’s n-nothing! Just something I, uh, I got for a friend.”

Ophilia took in the other girl’s nervous stutter, the way her eyes had become wary and defensive, and instantly grasped what was happening. This girl positively screamed "nerdy" at the top of her lungs. Now Ophilia understood why no one else had stopped to help her. The girl’s defensive, knee-jerk reaction made it obvious; she probably had a reputation of some kind that had followed her here. She may have even been tripped on purpose, for all Ophilia knew.

Of course, Ophilia thought with a smile, I know nothing about her past. She simply smiled and shrugged to the girl, then continued to pick up more books, as if nothing had happened.

After another second of picking things up, the girl laughed. It was a strangely pure sound, like silver strings on a harp. “Man, this was a terrible first impression, wasn’t it?”

Ophilia looked over to the other girl from her spot on the floor, meeting her eyes. She was returning Ophilia’s stare with just a hint of trepidation, tucking a strand of sky-blue hair behind one of her ears. She had an earnest, innocent face that Ophilia instantly appreciated.

Scooping up the last book, Ophilia stood. “Not at all. I’d call it endearing.” She handed the collected books over, once the other girl had gotten up herself. “May I ask your name?”

The girl clutched her belongings to her chest and adjusted her glasses with her free hand, eyes dancing behind the lenses. “I think you just did.” She chuckled, eyes sparkling. “Vivian. I’m Vivian Scratch.” Her small face split into a grin, showing off pearly teeth sparkling with braces. Ophilia couldn’t help herself – she smiled right along with her. That smile was monumentally infectious.

“Vivian,” Ophilia repeated the name, tilting her head in mock consideration. “Can I call you Viv?” She was shown another big smile, followed by a pleased nod. “Good. My name is Ophilia Melody. It’s very nice to meet you.”

Vivian giggled; childish and playful. “Oph, huh?” She’d pronounced it like oaf, unaware that she’d repeated the nickname that had haunted Ophilia’s younger years. She did, however, recognize the look on Ophilia’s face very quickly. The giggles vanished, replaced by an apologetic look. “Sorry. How about Mel? I think it’s a much cuter nickname anyway.”

Ophilia took a breath and nodded, hauling her bag up onto her shoulder. “Sure, I don’t mind.” She pointed to Vivian’s books. “You might want to buy a backpack. What could have convinced you to go without one?”

Vivian blushed a bit, turning her pale skin red. She tugged the neck of her turtleneck up with her free hand in an embarrassed gesture. “Well, I do have a bag, but…” She trailed off, paused, then laughed. “Well, it’s Star Wars. They’re making a new movie this year, and I was all… hyped up when I was buying supplies, so…”

Ophilia smiled a bit as she started down the hall. “Well, I look forward to seeing it.”

Side-by-side, the two walked to homeroom. As they closed the gap between them with words, feelings followed; a true and beautiful friendship was born.

As the year passed – both with grueling slowness and astounding swiftness – boundaries were set, roles were filled, and other friends came and went. But the two girls were inseparable. Their bond only grew with each passing day and before they knew it, the next year had begun.





The punch wasn’t too bad, but it made Vivian bite her tongue. One the ground, tasting her blood, Vivian tried to not look back at her attacker. That would only make things worse.

“Give it up, claptrap. Between the specs and those railroad tracks on your face, I know your family must be loaded.”

Alec, Vivian concluded, was a very confused young man. He was right, interestingly enough, but still; very, very confused.

He stood over Vivian, working his hands into fists, letting his knuckles crack over and over again. “Your ugly ass can give me the cash and iPod, or I can knock the steel off your teeth. Your choice.”

Some choice, Vivian thought to herself, struggling to not snort at the unfairness of it all.

“Alec!” The snarl in that sudden shout was unmistakable – like a lioness that’d just found some idiot toying with her cub.

Ophilia found the two in the north-east stairwell, in the niche behind the stairs. No doubt Alec had cornered Vivian when she was coming down the stairs after third period. When Vivian hadn’t stopped by her locker to chat, Ophilia had gotten nervous. Vivian never broke her schedule and she never missed a chance to talk.

Now, Ophilia was far too enraged to be nervous. She hurried in, putting herself in the small space between her friend and the bully. Vivian scampered back against the wall behind her, giving Ophilia more room to move, if the need arose.

Ophilia studied her friend quickly, her eyes turning into twin chips of winter, swirling with a blizzard of cold rage. She turned the full force of those frozen green eyes back onto Alec, who was either too thick-headed or too pig-headed to flinch.

Vivian would very aptly describe Alec as six-feet of testosterone, addled by a brain the size of a walnut and a temper like a T-Rex. Once, he’d been a prominent member of the school’s football team – a Quarterback, in fact – with everything in the world going for him. But after an incident in which he hospitalized a classmate, he was expelled. Almost immediately after, the coach of the team came to find out that Alec, his shining star, was pumped full of enough steroids to let him bench-press twice his own weight. Needless to say, things went poorly for Alec.

Now a senior, Alec had fallen onto even harder times. There were few people Ophilia hated more and if popular opinion was to be believed, she wasn’t the only one who felt that way about the ex-QB. Many of the school’s more spirited students felt he had betrayed the school’s spirit by cheating at the game; others thought he should’ve cheated better while others still just thought he was a raging prick. Either way, Alec was the bottom of this school’s barrel, in every sense of the phrase.

“Keep it pushin’, Oph,” Alec spat, speaking in a scornful tone. “Me and Vivi here were just talking business.” That old insult hadn’t actually bothered Ophilia since Middle School, but Alec was of the mind that believed that insults were like fine wines; letting them age only improved their quality.

“Business my butt…” Vivian muttered quietly from behind Ophilia.

She’s okay enough to joke around, Ophilia noted with an inward sigh of relief and exasperation.

"Well," Ophilia began, squaring her shoulders and breaking out her 'pompous' attitude. "As Vivian's dear friend, it would be remiss of me to not aid her in her business dealings. Can't allow her to get cheated, now can I?" She got a small amount of satisfaction at the fact that Alec was still obviously struggling to try and figure out what remiss meant. "So, tell me Alec: what are your views on extortion?"

"Huh?" Alec asked, not convincing anyone with his feigned ignorance. "I wasn't extorting anybody."

Ophilia looked back at Vivian, as if shocked to still see her there. "Oh no, I believe you've misunderstood me," she said with a regretful tone, turning back to face Alec. "This has nothing to do with her." Alec gave her a confused look, not fully grasping the direction this conversation was going. "Just you and me, Alec. Just us," Ophilia slowly explained with a sickly sweet smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Tell me, do you remember what I told you when you tried to borrow my money two years ago?"

Alec tensed and Ophilia's smile became more like a malicious smirk. "Ah, good. I'm happy to see you've retained your family's hereditary elephant genes when it comes to memory. Shame about the ears, though." She heard Vivian giggle softly behind her and had to struggle to not smile a more genuine smile.

Apparently the insult went right over Alec's head, because he just stood there, glaring daggers at her. Ophilia would need to be more blunt with him. "Well, as you certainly know, Vivian is my dear friend, and as such, under the same deal I offered you way back when. So, either you leave her alone or I'll make sure that certain information reaches certain ears, if you catch my meaning."

Alec maintained his stance, but Ophilia noticed a faint tremor in his clenched fists. "You're bluffing."

Ophilia gave her head an imperious toss. "Really? You seem so confident." She sighed and shook her head. "So willing to take a risk like this over something so small. How depressingly simple-minded of you. But again, that's to be expected, given your parentage."

The look of anger finally flipped into Alec's eyes and Ophilia knew that insult didn't sail over his head. "You trying to make fun of me?" Alec growled, cracking his knuckles.

Ophilia barked out a sharp laugh. "No; when you say trying, it makes it sound like I'm not succeeding. But, you seem to be having some trouble understanding my meanings, so let me use small words from now on. You're a moron, Alec, and you know that you can't touch me or mine. I've got plenty of dirt on you. Don't make me spread it around."

Alec's little pig eyes darted from Ophilia, to Vivian, then back again. Ophilia could practically hear the rusty gears slowly churning to life in that tortured monstrosity Alec called a brain. She had him.

"Get out of my sight, Alec," Ophilia commanded, her smirk turning into a sneer. "Go find smaller fish to try and bait. This one's protected by a shark."

The bully cursed, complained, and raged, but it was all prideful bluster. He obeyed moments later, scurrying onto his next victim. He swore retaliation, but that was nothing new; he was a coward at the end of the day. Ophilia took a deep, calming breath. She did so love winning.

Turning back to Vivian, she offered the other girl a hand up. She hadn't stood up during the entire conflict, obviously trying to present a more pathetic and minuscule target. "You're not too hurt, are you?" Ophilia asked.

Vivian shook her head, looking a little amazed as Ophilia helped her to her feet. "What could you possibly know about Alec that would scare him that bad?"

Ophilia gave a small shrug with one shoulder and let out a nervous chuckle. "Absolutely nothing; I was bluffing. A few years ago, I threatened to expose his drug use to his coach, but I never had to actually go through with it. All I had to do was remind him of my threat and let his imagination fill in all the blanks for me." Ophilia paused, then sighed, remembering something her father had written to her, when she was smaller. "The demons people hide inside are far worse than anything we can invent. Better to let them see what they don't want to see, rather that try to invent something for them to see." Just one of her deadbeat dad's little grains of wisdom.

Nervous energy began to zap through Ophilia's veins as the adrenaline faded and she started to really look at what'd just happened. What would she have done if Alec hadn't fallen for her ploy? Would she have been able to fight him? She imagined those cracking knuckles and nearly laughed out loud. Yeah, right.

Vivian tugged the neckline of her ever-present turtleneck up to her nose, her eyes downcast. She shuffled a bit, not making eye contact with her friend.

Ophilia frowned, leaning in to get a better look at her friend's face. "You're sure you aren't hurt, Viv? I'll get someone to beat him senseless if he really did hurt you..."

Vivian shook her head, silent for a second before speaking through her turtleneck in a muffled voice. "He said I was ugly," she said morosely, trying to hide her face. The hurt was plain in her eyes; she heard that particular insult often.

A wan smile found its way onto Ophilia's lips, but she felt a crackling stab of pain in her chest. In the past year-and-a-half, the once excitable, talkative Vivian had been beaten down by the cruelty that only high school kids could seem to replicate. Ophilia had tried to protect her from the barbs, but she was one girl against many. As far as she knew, Vivian hadn't been able to keep any lingering friendships going, apart from her. Ophilia had become her retreat; her shield from the thorns and arrows of others. That, in turn, only made her more withdrawn.

It all made Ophilia want to find the jerks like Alec and punch them all really hard. In the balls.

"Hey," Ophilia said softly, placing a hand on her friend's arm. She looked straight into her eyes, using her free hand to keep Vivian from looking away. As always, once Vivian saw how serious Ophilia was being, she met her stare without prompting. "Why would you listen to an ape like him? Like I said before, his mother probably weighs several tons, has a scratchy grey hide, and broke out from the local zoo. His opinion is less than worthless." Ophilia brought her hand from Vivian's chin, waving it in the air dismissively. 

"Besides," she continued, "your spunk alone makes you cute. You're not ugly at all, Viv. And that's me saying so, not some idiot like Alec." Ophilia gave a bright smile and planted a small, friendly kiss on the other girl's forehead, hoping to cheer her up. "Ignore him. He's an idiot, remember?"

Vivian shuffled her feet some more, looking away and down once Ophilia was done. For a moment, Ophilia was worried she'd done something wrong. However, after a second, she cracked a wide smile, noticing a blush creeping up from under the rim of Vivian's turtleneck.

She slid the arm on Vivian's shoulder to the other side, holding her to her side protectively. She bumped her head lightly against the other girl's, laughing. "Come on, cutie. Lets get you to class."





The rest of the year slipped by without incident. After the fun and friendship of summer break, Ophilia returned for her senior year. The new year was, she recognized, a huge improvement.

Not only was she driven to improve her own studies, she saw a vast improvement in Vivian's social life. While making friends was still a trial, bullies seemed to back off now that Ophilia was in her fourth year. She'd become a rather powerful force within the school's administration – her willingness to work with the teachers and staff leading her to being called in to settle small disputes between other students. To some, she became a kind of mentor figure.

And all the while, Vivian – her most faithful friend and companion – stuck by her side, always ready with a friendly smile or a kind word.





Ophilia leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs demurely. She sipped bubbling water from a champagne glass, feeling like a queen in her dress.

Her date, however, was a slob.

Ophilia withheld the hundredth sigh of the night, looking across the table at her prom date. Despite the similarities in their names, Oliver had hardly anything else in common with her, save for his good looks. If she hadn't needed a favor from him, she certainly wouldn't have been wasting her afternoon – of her senior prom, no less – with him. He hadn't once asked her to dance, didn't pay her any major compliments, hadn't pulled her chair out for her, or even held a door for her. Even now, he was far too concerned with eating to bother paying her even an ounce of his gluttonous attention.

She couldn't lie about his looks; he was handsome. He had bright blue eyes, silky brown hair, clear skin, and a very, very nice athletic figure. Despite his position as Quarterback on the football team – a position that had been heavily corrupted by Alec's influence – and his reputation as a Jock, he was a rather nice man. However, this was slightly marred by the fact that he had no manners whatsoever and was unknowingly selfish.

She took another sip from her drink as he rose, saying he was going to refill his plate. She gave him a smile – she was determined to be polite to him, even if he wasn't being gentlemanly – but let out a pent-up sigh once he'd vanished into the crowd.

"Man troubles?"

Ophilia turned, smiling more genuinely at Vivian. Her friend was wearing a dress. which was something Ophilia hadn't seen one single time in well over two years.

The outfit was in a Chinese style: Ophilia was fairly certain the style was called a cheongsam. It was snow white and sleeveless, with a high neckline and a pair of slits running up both sides of her slightly-below-knee-length skirt, displaying plenty of leg. She wore a pair of silver bracelets inset with sapphires – real sapphires! – and a pair of matching earrings. Her hair, brought to life by the shimmering stones on her ears, was held back in a bun with a pair of white chopsticks.

When Ophilia had first seen her, she'd been dumbfounded, a feeling that was amplified when she realized that Vivian's glasses were missing, replaced by contact lenses. As usual, her friend wasn't even aware of how stunning she really was. When Ophilia had asked where she'd rented her dress, Vivian had shrugged, saying it was custom made. That fact, perhaps more than anything, made Ophilia wonder. Vivian never talked about her family – or their social standing – very much, but Ophilia had her suspicions.

"Not so much man troubles as a troubled man, I suppose. Oliver is a dud," Ophilia replied softly, setting down her glass onto the table.

Vivian took Oliver's seat across from her with no real grace, sipping a soda straight from the can. Ophilia couldn't help but chuckle. No matter how stunningly wonderful she looked, Vivian was utterly clueless on how to act in that dress. Defying all sense of logic and propriety, this somehow made her even cuter.

"You look really nice," Vivian commented, not for the first time that night. It was a perfectly timed compliment, as always.

While her dress wasn't as extravagant as Vivian's, Ophilia felt it suited her down to her toes. It was black silk, shot through with a filigree of grey and augmented with golden jewelry and purple amethysts. It had cost her two months of pay to perfect it, but Ophilia was satisfied with the results. She well and truly felt like a Goddess in her dress, strolling among the mortals, basking in their worshipful stares. Her low neckline displayed her natural assets and a slice up the left side of the dress ran from hem to hip, exposing the skin of her leg with every step she took.

At Vivian's words, she sat up a little more properly, feeling an ounce of the disagreeable day brighten and crumble to dust. "Thank you very much, Vivian. You do too."

Her friend laughed, showing off a metal gleam. It wouldn't be long now before those braces went the same route as her glasses. Vivian had blossomed into a beauty that no one – save Ophilia herself – had expected.

"Don't lie, Mel. Dresses fit me like they fit a chimp. I look ridiculous in this clown suit." Despite her smile and jovial demeanor, Ophilia saw the underlying message. Ophilia had learned to read every nuance of her friend's expressions, and could see the pain masked under the happy-go-lucky tone.

She gave Vivian a level stare and, when her friend looked away, she followed her gaze. It was then she caught sight of Neil – Vivian's date – flirting shamelessly with another girl across the large room, where he thought he was out of sight. While Ophilia watched, the swine even kissed the other girl and copped a feel.

Ophilia felt anger swell her veins. She had gone out with Oliver on the condition that he'd convince Neil to ask Vivian out. She'd told him to keep it between them, to not let Vivian know, and as far as she knew he'd done just that. Her friend had been so excited; this was her first real date. She had planned on boosting her friend's self-confidence and maybe convince the more ignorant individuals that Vivian was more amazing than their limited understandings of human decency could grasp.

Now, Ophilia just wanted to wring Neil's slimy little neck. She'd become a trophy date for some egotistical man-child so her friend could have a good time during Ophilia's last year at school. This disgusting situation just confirmed one of Ophilia's long-standing beliefs about this miserable school: it didn't matter how beautiful you were, if you weren't popular too. After all, a jock like Neil couldn't be caught dating a 'nerd' like Vivian, right?

Ophilia snarled, moving to rise – entirely ready to give Neil a piece of her mind and the barbed side of her tongue – but a pale white hand rested on her wrist, stopping her.

Vivian stared at her with barely repressed pain and gave her head a small shake. Ophilia felt the rage drain away, replaced instead by a profound sadness and matching regret. This had all been her grand plan to make Vivian more comfortable – to make her life easier – without her. And now look how it all turned out. She sank back into her seat, feeling a vice grip on her heart.

"Oh, Vivian..." Ophilia rolled her wrist, covering her friend's hand with her own. She shuffled through her brain for something to say, to find some way to salvage this enormous failure.

"Would you... like to dance with me?" Ophilia asked, mildly surprised at the question that'd slipped past her lips. Despite her best efforts, her voice had sounded a little strange – a little fearful, a little hopeful, a little hesitant. She tried to cover it up by taking a sip of her drink, unknowingly making herself look guiltier.

Vivian caught the odd hitch, raising her eyebrow in curiosity. When no explanation was given, she shrugged and set her soda down, offering her friend a small, warm smile. "Well, it's about damn time someone asked."

Ophilia rose, offering her hand to her best friend. Linked together, the two walked out onto the dance floor, two long-time friends enjoying one-another's company. They weren't the only pair of girls dancing together – some other friends had taken this chance to practice their dance moves or to have some fun – but for the two of them, this felt oddly different.

The music was a thumping techno; modern, but just slow enough that someone could dance to it in a dress  or tuxedo without getting too sweaty.

Ophilia immediately felt as uncomfortable as if she'd never danced before. Her feet were uncertain and her steps were languid. Her arms felt like worms, nailed haphazardly to her torso. She hated trying to dance to music like this – it always made her feel so graceless.

Meanwhile, Vivian had come alive. Her dress was free enough that she could be more liberal with her movements, showing flashes of skin with every snap of her hips. She danced like Ophilia had rarely seen, wild and free, exploding with energy. She knew Vivian frequented nightclubs – she'd gone along once or twice, but hadn't appreciated it like her friend – but she'd never seen her dance before, nor considered the implications.

Now she saw that passion full-throttle, fueling her every little motion and step. Arms in the air, hips swaying and snapping to the beat, Vivian's eyes were closed over a face that was a mask of limitless joy. Now, Ophilia found herself regretting that she'd never bothered to join her friend on the dance floor of those clubs. For the first time in her life, she felt small and passionless, dwarfed by this living sun beside her.

After several minutes – and several similar tracks – the song changed to something slower, making Ophilia immediately more confident in her ability to shine. But, despite her high hopes and the familiarity with this style of dancing, she still felt clumsy. Her hands felt clammy and her legs felt stiff. She was on the brink of panic when a voice pierced through her distress.

"Mel? Chill out. You're super tense," Vivian said simply, giving a small, amused smile.

Her voice was like a balm on a burn, soothing the wound and bringing focus where there had only been discomfort. Ophilia shifted her arms into the proper female position, wrapping them confidently around Vivian's neck.

"Sorry, I just..." Ophilia trailed off, uncertain. She couldn't really explain what had just happened. Had she been intimidated by Vivian's dancing? That unfamiliar feeling – like a sudden tightness in her gut – was still there, hiding just beneath the surface.

Vivian shifted into the male position, her hands resting on Ophilia's hips. "It's really not like you to be so shaky," Vivian whispered to her. "You okay?" The two began swaying to the alluring song, not really moving from their solitary place on the dance floor.

Ophilia didn't reply. She was focused, still trying to place the feeling that was waltzing it's way through her limbs. It was familiar, yet evasive. Whenever she tried to pin it down, it would escape from her. She knew she'd felt it before, but she couldn't really place when and was certain it'd never felt quite like this. She leaned her head forward, bringing it close to Vivian, letting her eyes close as her old dancing lessons put her body into auto-pilot. She swayed and moved and her mind cleared, but the warm, tingling emotion dodged her like a bird in flight.

She was taken completely off guard. Little did she know that this would become a staple between her and Vivian from that moment on. 

Ophilia noticed it just an instant too late; a brushing sensation on the side of her nose. She opened her eyes, confused, just in time for Vivian's lips to meet hers. 

Her first reaction was shock and embarrassment – they were standing in the middle of a crowded dance floor! However, that elusive emotion stoked itself in her chest, burning through everything else like a lightning bolt. She barely even heard the startled gasps from the people around them. She tasted Vivian's kiss and realized it tasted like nothing like what she would have imagined: she expected the metal of the braces, but there was also a faint hint of peppermint.

In that perfect moment, the fact that Vivian was also a woman fled her mind. She found herself leaning into those soft lips and welcoming arms. She pulled the other woman closer, wanting to make this moment last – to freeze it forever in history, so she could see it behind her closed eyelids. She melted into Vivian's arms, eyes closing again as she soaked in this bliss. Let them gasp. She was content.

When the kiss finally ended, Ophilia let her eyes open very slowly. Vivian was staring at her in silence, biting her lip and squirming in place, a blush crawling up to her ears. Behind her, Ophilia could see the faces of their classmates; some shocked, some confused, other nodding and sagely, as if they'd expected this all along.

But just then, the world had narrowed down for Ophilia. Everyone else was just an extension to Vivian and herself – mere decorations for the scene. Nothing else mattered. The world was a void and only Vivian existed.

In the endless silence of that second, Ophilia finally began to put a name to that tingling emotion, and it made her heart pound ten times harder. She tried to think more clearly, to solidify the thought in her mind, but it slipped through her fingers like mist. She couldn't focus. She could barely think.

But through the cloud of emotions and through the shock and awe, Ophilia felt the sudden urge for privacy and a good long talk about what had just happened. They couldn't possibly leave it unspoken.

Without a word, Ophilia reached out and took Vivian's hand, starting towards the double doors out of the room. While the music still played – slow and sweet to Ophilia's ears – the dancers around them were mostly still and quiet. People moved aside for them, opening a path and letting them by unimpeded. Ophilia caught a brief glimpse of Neil and Oliver, standing side-by-side, staring at her and Vivian with slacked jaws. In the years to come, that image would become the second greatest highlight of Ophilia's school life. At the time however, she was far too overwhelmed to offer them more than a passing glance and not a single thought.

The sound of the music vanished as the double doors closed behind them.

The people out here in the hall hadn't seen the two of them – didn't know about the maelstrom walking in their midst. Ophilia guided Vivian around the blissfully ignorant, not saying a word, until the two of them reached another part of the parlor, closed off from the prom. Ophilia opened another pair of doors, stepping into a mirror copy of the room they'd left behind, minus all the trimmings and people. A sign near the door stated that this room was reserved for a party tomorrow afternoon. She closed the doors behind Vivian and, with only a second of hesitation, turned the lock with a click.

Vivian, who had been fidgeting and utterly silent since leaving the parlor broke the oppressive quiet. "Ophilia, I–" She cut herself off suddenly, shaking her head and taking a deep, steadying breath. "Oh my God, I can't believe I just... I'm so sorry! I wasn't thinking! I didn't mean–" She cut off with a yelp as Ophilia closed the distance between them with two long strides, snapping her hands around the other woman's waist.

All at once, everything she'd wanted to say fled Ophilia's mind. She tried to dig it loose but it was gone, replaced by only one sentence.

"Shut up and kiss me again," Ophilia said bluntly.

The second kiss was less clumsy than the first. Vivian's hand wrapped around Ophilia's back, holding her almost desperately, as if someone or something might try to snatch her away.

Ophilia responded in kind, adding her tongue into the kiss, holding the other woman close enough that their bodies pressed together. Emotions burst to life inside her chest – emotions she'd believed she understood, but now realized she'd never truly felt; she'd only ever been haunted by their fleeting shadows.

This time their lips parted slowly, with the regret of someone trying to defy their destiny. Vivian's eyes opened only a half-second after Ophilia's and their eyes locked together, both sharing a kind of obscure regret – regret that it had taken this long for them to reach this point.

For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Vivian regained her wits faster than her more composed counterpart. "Hey," she said in a tone meant only for Ophilia's ears. "Let's blow this joint." She grinned a sparkling grin, showing a blatant disregard for Ophilia's lingering shock. She nudges her head towards the doors, giving a dry chuckle. "I don't really feel like dealing with all the whispers and stares tonight. But... well, I wouldn't mind going on a more personal date with–" she stopped herself suddenly, eyes going a little wide in confusion. It was such an odd expressions on Vivian's face that Ophilia forced herself to memorize it. After only a breath, a worried look crept onto Vivian's face, but her eyes simply smoldered.

Ophilia felt her blush spread from her cheeks, crawling over her nose and making her whole face go red. Something in that expression made her want to squirm in place.

"A personal date with... my girlfriend?" Vivian finished the sentence with a question, somehow jauntily raising an eyebrow while also looking seductive and nervous at the same time. She was a mishmash of emotions that in any other situation would be hilarious. Her smile had taken on a new quality, making it far more than her usual smile; it was sparkling, yes, and still addictive of course, but it had simply grown to encompass everything Ophilia had grown to enjoy about this woman –her ferocity, her energy, her kindness.

Ophilia had known the word was coming, but it still subtly staggered her. Girlfriend. Vivian's girlfriend. She recovered quickly, feeling her own face split into a rare, passionate grin. She felt her blush shrink back to her cheeks as she laced her fingers through Vivian's in a loving gesture. Yes, that was it; that evasive emotion; that distant shadow that had finally shrouded her properly. Love.

Speechless, she nodded to Vivian and accepted this new, wonderful part of her life.





Ophilia yawned, sitting up and stretching her arms towards the ceiling. A little under a year had passed since her senior prom, when she and Vivian had changed one-another's lives so drastically. She glanced over, smiling at the woman who was still snoring lightly by her side. She was even drooling a little on her pillow. Ophilia hadn't even known she'd drooled until later. It was adorable.

Vivian's promised metamorphosis was complete. The glasses were almost entirely gone now, replaced full-time with contact lenses. Her braces, taken off earlier this year, had left the spunky woman with a truly magical straight-toothed smile. Ophilia had never questioned the smoothness of her skin or the silkiness of her hair before, but in her arms, Vivian felt frail and in need of a protector, but when her personality flared, Ophilia knew she was neither.

Their relationship felt natural, like breathing or blinking. It was second nature to them to compliment the other with just their presence. The hardest part of their relationship, however, had been telling their families. Ophilia had been lucky; her adoptive mother, Belle, had accepted the situation right away. She'd known Vivian very well, and considered her like a second daughter by this point.

On the contrary, Vivian's case was far more complicated. Ophilia had never met Vivian's parents before; Vivian always insisted upon hanging out in public or at Ophilia's home. Upon meeting them for the first time, however, Vivian learned why. Both parents were archaeologists, respected in their field and responsible for several large discoveries in the area. They weren't really famous, but they possessed a vast fortune to which Vivian was the sole heiress. This did, however, mean that her parents were oftentimes gone for long periods of time, causing a large rift between the child and parents to grow.

The fact that her friend was a scion to a wealthy family had surprised Ophilia, but the more she thought back, the more the facts lined up. Vivian always had a slew of new clothes, access to the latest and best technology, and always seemed to have whatever she needed. Then there was the matter of her prom dress... However, her love for simple, practical clothes and her love for the simple things masked her parent's lifestyle behind her own. To hear Vivian tell it, her family's wealth made her uncomfortable.

They'd been hesitant when Vivian had told them she was moving in with Ophilia. They had, after all, only ever heard stories about her. When questioned, Vivian reacted in her usual style and made no effort to disguise her feelings for the other woman, and had effectively shocked both her parents into a speechless silence. The beginning had been a trial – they weren't hostile, but very confused and distant – but Ophilia finally believed she was starting to win them over to her side.

Now here she was, sitting at Vivian's side and wanting for nothing. With an idle hand, she slid a piece of hair off Vivian's face, earning a faint grumble and a swat. She smiled, just watching for a second.

Vivian was garbed in only her skin – she hated sleeping in clothes – and was covered haphazardly with sheets and blankets wrapped all the way around her. She tended to roll around in her sleep and keeping a blanket from her was a constant uphill struggle. 

Ophilia had been amazed to learn that Vivian was also a natural blonde. According to her, she dyed her hair so people wouldn't call her stupid. It was still that familiar shade of blue and cyan and had grown slightly longer, pooling around her head like a series of short, winding rivers. Her chest rose and fell with her slow, steady breaths, ending with that very faint snore that Ophilia had grown to adore.

Smiling, Ophilia slid from the bed, feeling the heat of the sun on her naked body. Her own hair, one of Vivian's favorite parts of her, was tended meticulously. It was long enough to cover her backside now, reaching to the middle of her thighs like a black waterfall. She stretched more thoroughly, gasping as she felt a satisfying pop in her spine. With a deep breath, she slipped into the bathroom for a shower before work.

As the water danced over her and cleansed her for a new day, she hummed to herself; a tuneless song she'd come up with just then. Half-an-hour later, she walked back into the bedroom, pulling on her clothes and applying her makeup. Once that was done, she walked over to Vivian's side of the bed and gave her lover's shoulder a small shake.

"Wake up, lazy bum. Time for school."

Vivian groaned but opened one of her eyes. "Five more minutes, mom." After a second, she chuckled and sat up, purposefully letting the sheets fall off her body and giving Ophilia a sly, teasing look.

"Nope," Ophilia replied with a coy smirk, ducking down to kiss the other woman fondly. As that brief euphoria ended, Ophilia wondered how she'd ever lived without loving this woman. In retrospect, maybe she hadn't, really. "Get your sexy ass up." She stepped back from the bed, crossing her arms. "I can't be late for work, remember?"

Vivian faked another groan and slipped from the bed. She started dressing, having showered the previous night, but did so with exaggerated slowness. "You are right though; my ass is sexy."

Ophilia rolled her eyes and sighed, but despite her previous hurry, she made no moves to speed Vivian up. She simply leaned on the wall and watched. "We need to get breakfast on the way too, don't forget," she said idly, as if she actually wanted her to hurry up.

Vivian chuckled, knowing this routine and speeding up after a few more seconds. "Yes, my lady. Your wish is my command."

In another thirty minutes, the two were on the road, munching on breakfast sandwiches and sipping coffee. The high school came into view suddenly, a memorable sight for Ophilia. She'd stopped outside the school almost every day this year, but hadn't stepped inside in just as long. A part of her missed the simplicity of school life, while another part of her felt more secure in her maturity, having a job and paying her own way.

Vivian hopped from the car, taking big bites of her sandwich, swallowing fast. "Later, Mel," she said, half-gulping down her meal and waving with her coffee-holding hand.

Ophilia gave a small wave back and Vivian shut the car door, closing them off from one-another's passions. Ophilia was just herself now, alone.

With a soft, happy sigh she drove to work.

Ophilia took her job very seriously, even if it was only a placeholder. As of now, she was a secretary for a local law firm, a simple job that left her feeling like she'd accomplished something at the end of the day.

With a twirl of the wheel, she turned into the parking garage, again humming that tuneless song from the shower. She'd never really hummed that much, before she'd found Vivian. Now, she was finding it more and more enjoyable.

Right away, things struck her as strange. There were far more people in the garage than normal and most of them were entirely unfamiliar. There was a general air of tension and nervousness that was actually visible – people who would normally linger and talk were hustling along to their destinations with uneasy haste. The faces she didn't recognize seemed distant, borderline hostile, as they scanned the garage.

Ophilia briefly wondered if the police were here, but that couldn't be right; these men weren't wearing uniforms. They were dressed expensively, each wearing suits in varying colors, but all of them with stark-white ties. Every one of them had their eyes hidden behind black shades, which only added to the air of menace. The way they moved reminded Ophilia of the bullies she'd so recently left behind, trying to intimidate with presence alone. Despite the simple similarity, these guys were older, more dangerous. They made those petty thugs at her school look woefully inadequate.

With a small shrug, Ophilia dismissed the men. She decided they were free to act however they wanted; they had nothing to do with her, after all, so why should she judge them? But as she parked her nerves began to fray. Were those hidden eyes following her car? Did those ones over there have their hands hidden inside their suits? Were those ones over there, idle just a moment ago, making their way towards her car?

She chuckled nervously, chiding herself as she parked and turned off the engine. "Come on, Ophilia," she said out loud, trying to calm her nerves. "You've been watching way too many of those stupid spy movies..."

Bottling her nerves, Ophilia opened her door and stepped out. There was only a brief moment of stillness before it all happened.

"It's her!" One of the suited men shouted, making them all move at once with a kind of professional, calculated efficiency. Their hands flashed to life and fear tore through Ophilia's restraints as she saw guns appear in their hands. If she hadn't already been edgy, she likely would've frozen up, but her previous fear made her respond quickly. instead of seizing up, she screamed and jumped right back into her car, slamming the door shut.

Gunshots rang out in the garage, like the barks of hell-hounds, smelling the scent of fleeing souls. Bullets slammed into the car, shattering windows and thumping through the metal. Luckily, other cars shielded Ophilia as she cowered in the driver's seat.

Ophilia cursed over and over, trying frantically to get the key back into the ignition, but her trembling hands made it next to impossible. Glass shards rained on her head as more bullets struck the windows and, without realizing it, she screamed again, her primal instincts overriding her fear-addled mind.

Finally, the engine roared to life. Without pause, Ophilia snapped the car into reverse, screeching out of her parking space. She made it most of the way out of the parking spot before she collided with something, giving off a loud crunching noise. She snapped her head around, still huddling in her seat, trying to see just what she'd hit.

Behind her was a car that hadn't been there mere seconds ago. It had pulled out from a nearby parking space to block her inside. She couldn't back up any further, but she could turn. Frantically, she kicked the car back out of reverse, spun the wheel, and slammed the gas, trying to knock into the car beside her and move it out of the way.

A large screech from her right brought her head snapping around just in time to see a white van slam into the passenger side of her car.

The world blurred and twisted. Sound was replaced by the wail of tortured metal, like the wails of the damned. She heard a loud, long ringing sound that felt like it was drilling it's way directly into her brain.

She couldn't seem to remember where she was or what she was doing there or even what was happening right at that moment. She felt warmth on her face and when she touched it, her hand came away slicked with blood. Even then, she still didn't understand.

The door to her car was torn open on protesting hinges and unfamiliar hands dragged her from her seat. Before she could process anything further, the world was wrapped in black. Ophilia felt something over her head and was so dazed that she was thankful that it blocked the stinging lights. Someone was pulling her along by her arms, dragging her across the ground. Oddly, she found herself thinking that was very rude; they could just ask her to walk. Her hands were forced behind her back and tied there tightly. She smelt sweat in the covering over her head and tasted blood in her mouth and slowly – very slowly  – realization crawled from it's cave. Without any ceremony, she was flung bodily onto a hard surface with a dull crash of pain. The sound of a closing door. Motion.

As unconsciousness blessedly crept closer, Ophilia finally felt a single clear thought filter through her pain-addled mind.

Why?





Vivian stood on the sidewalk outside the school, looking down the same road Ophilia would arrive from. In one hand, she clutched her cell-phone in a white-knuckled grip, faintly grinding her teeth.

Ophilia was three hours late and dusk was closing in. She wasn't answering her phone. Dread had settled into Vivian's chest like a block of lead. 

She silently walked back to the apartment, looking over her shoulder for Ophilia's car or trying her phone every few minutes. She told herself that it was probably nothing; that something had probably just kept Ophilia at the office for some reason. Her phone must have died or she'd muted it. Maybe she left it in the car. Something. Anything. Her head and heart hadn't accepted what her instincts were trying to tell her.

The apartment was, as expected, empty. Vivian tossed her bag onto the couch, taking the seat beside it. To try and distract herself, she turned on the television.

She flipped the channels, but nothing seemed to interest her. She was nervous and worried and the stupid shows on the TV just seemed to irritate her more. She was just about to go get some sleep when she passed over a news channel. Something caught her eye.

She jumped from the couch, flipping back a channel, stopping on the local news network. The dread grew stronger – digging into her chest like a hot knife. She dropped the remote, staring blankly at the screen, only barely comprehending what she was seeing.

The headline was plastered in a bold white script along the bottom of the screen: "Breaking News! Twelve suspects at large for parking garage shootout!"

Vivian half-listened to reports from shaken, frightened witnesses – Ophilia's own coworkers – giving panicked testimonies to what they'd seen. They speculated, cried, and trembled. Vivian waited for Ophilia to show up on the screen, knowing she'd be calm and collected, despite the chaos, but she was never interviewed. For Vivian, it all felt like some strange, surreal dream.

But suddenly, the terror became all too real when a picture of Ophilia's car – the same car Vivian had rode in just that morning – was shown on screen, pocked with bullet holes and caved in on one side. Though the vehicle was a shell of what it once was – barely recognizable and with the licence plate obscured – Vivian knew it was Ophilia's car, as sure as she knew anything.

Quickly, the picture was replaced by a young reporter, clutching a microphone in his hand. After a half-second pause, he spoke and Vivian started to listen again.

"While the police have yet to release any information on the identity of the victim or victims of this terrible attack, they assure us that it will not be long before a name is put to the victim of this obviously organized assault. The victim of the incident is still missing, but presumed alive, I have been informed. If anyone has any information regarding these events, please contact the number below. Any help you could provide the police would be appreciated. This is Kyle Southland, reporting. Back to you, Janice."

Vivian saw rather than felt herself fall to her knees. She was numb all over, barely able to think. Tears burned her eyes, sliding down her face like wandering flies. This had to be a nightmare or some cruel, sick joke. It was impossible. This kind of thing couldn't happen in real life, right?

But she was smarter than all that. She tried to cling to her delusions, but reality had a sick way of pushing its way in, latching onto her rational mind like a set of jagged claws.

She didn't know how long she sat there, on her knees in front of the TV. She didn't hear the news anymore. She didn't hear her phone ringing. She didn't hear the knocking on her door or the lock eventually opening. When her parents and the police finally found her, she was still there, hours and hours later, staring at the TV with a blank, unresponsive stare. She was still there and, even surrounded by all those people, she was alone.
> Chapter 4: Father
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ophilia shut the door to her car and breathed out a cloud of smoke. Slipping the fresh lighter into her pocket, she stared at her family's manor-house in silence. After a moment, she started towards the building, humming softly under her breath. One of the guards at the door opened the way for her as she approached. She tipped her hat to the two of them, her mood jovial, and walked inside at a regal pace.

The sight of the entry hall was commonplace for her now. The walls were pristine white, soaring up to the second-story ceiling. As she walked along the intricate black and gold carpet, Ophilia could only barely recall the hectic day when she'd first seen the beautiful paintings, the elegant marble pillars, the vases filled with exotic flowers. Despite that blurry recollection, she'd never forget how amazed she'd been when she first saw the servants.

Even all these years later they bustled here and there, as unchangeable as the tides or seasons. At this late hour, though, most of them were asleep.

Both she and her father knew all these men and women by name, though certainly for different reasons. To Charles, part of being a good leader meant knowing the names of every tool you might need to use and exactly what job it's most fit for. To Ophilia, it mostly meant even-handedness – if not outright kindness – to those who serve you well. Earn their respect and loyalty would follow. Fear could only get you so far.

She gave greetings to the few who were awake, smiling a soft smile and inquiring about relatives, children, and lovers. But no matter who she looked at or spoke to, all she heard was an addictive laugh and all she saw was a perfect smile, silly glasses, and memories.

Not really moving with any particular haste, Ophilia made her way to her father's study. He spent most nights there, checking their profits and taking reports, before finally going to sleep. Undoubtedly, he'd be there, waiting to hear her account of the night's events.

With an inevitability as daunting as winter's approach, Ophilia finally reached the door. As she knocked, the vision of Vivian wavered, fading away with the thoughts of encountering her father. The vision shattered and vanished at the sound of the voice from within the room.

"Come in, Ophilia."

Ophilia felt a shiver run up her spine, then drop back down. She wasn't quite afraid of her father – not quite that – but it was something else; something even more primal than fear. If she needed to try and put it to words, perhaps it was something like the wary respect a tiger might have for a lion.

She opened the door and stepped inside. "Good evening, father," Ophilia said, shutting the door behind her.

At the end of the day, a lion and Charles Melody had much in common: both were strong leaders, kings in their domain. Both were predators, taking down the small and the weak to feed their pride. And both carried the cold eyes and predatory poise of violent, wild animals.

He was a tall man – taller than Ophilia, certainly – and used his height like a bludgeon. When Charles Melody stared you down with his dollar-green eyes, he really stared you down. You'd crumble – end of story.

His hair was black and slicked back, only a peppering of grey marking his advancing age. His face looked young and expressive, able to display a shockingly wide array of emotions very vividly. Both mirth and malice had left lines on his face. He wore crisp, custom-styled suits and smoked only the finest cigars.

As Ophilia took her seat, he smiled a crocodile smile at her, leaning back in his seat. "So, what good news do you have for me, my daughter?"

Ophilia shifted in her chair, crossing her legs and generally getting more comfortable. Once she'd taken enough time to collect her thoughts, she clasped her hands in her lap and sat properly upright.

"I met with the Mixer boss VeeVee with no incident and accepted a very lucrative offer," she said carefully, keeping her expression neutral. She studied her father's face, watching his expressions with great care. While he was far more outwardly expressive than his daughter, he was a master at concealing his true thoughts and Ophilia needed to struggle to even have an inkling of what he was thinking.

Charles' expression lingered on mildly curious, with a sprinkling of surprise in his eyebrows. Ophilia had agreed to only ever accept an agreement without Charles' input in the most extreme of circumstances. She'd never once needed to do it before. She decided quickly that the emotions she'd seen were more than likely forced; he'd sent her into a populated club to deal with this situation, so he was probably expecting an outcome like this.

"Really?" He asked, leaning forward over his desk, eyes intent. "Tell me the details of this agreement, if you would."

Ophilia took a deep breath, bracing herself for the fall. Letting it out slowly, she dove into the breach. "The Mixer boss is giving us a 70-30 split on all illegal profits in our favor, as well as a 80-20 split on legal profits in their favor, to become a partner crew. This will entail working with us, receiving protection from us, and working within our territory. Their activities include, but aren't limited to: loan schemes, illegal gambling, racketeering, and other forms of extortion, drug sales, and small-scale prostitution." Ophilia noticed her father's darkening expression and rushed to clarify. "I checked very carefully, father. The Mixers deal in small drugs – psychedelic substances and things like that – but avoid dangerous, addictive substances. They know your bias and have taken precautions ahead of time."

Charles let out a long sigh that was tinged with agitation and leaned back into his chair again. Ophilia knew his cold anger to be his absolute worst. She'd need to be very, very careful from here on. He waited several seconds before replying. "I assume you have a good reason for accepting such an offer without my consent?"

Ophilia was sure to tread lightly, picking her words with the utmost caution. Daughter or not, she was walking on dangerous ground now.

"With all due respect, father, you sent me to the Vortex to handle the situation, and I did so to the best of my abilities. I feel that the drug trade – at least the softer sides of it – are a lucrative asset that we would be foolish to not take advantage of. You weren't there, father. That club was overflowing with casual users; not junkies or fiends, but people looking to escape for the night or take the edge off a bad day. There's a real market for that kind of escapism in this latest generation. VeeVee and her Mixers are our best way into this market, without having to expose ourselves to the more dangerous materials that you and I both hate – and don't get it confused, father, I hate those drugs just as much as you do. 

"If I am ever to take over the Family one day, I must learn to make decisions such as this one, without letting my personal biases cloud my judgement." She paused only for a second before continuing. "Were you aware that I knew VeeVee in high school?" She asked cautiously. Her father's expression remained the same – not a twitch. "Her name is Vivian Scratch. I'm sure you can recall the name; I asked you about her enough times."

Charles gave a small nod and motioned for her to continue.

"Back then, she was my better half. She was my everything." The last word instantly dried her mouth and she gave her lips a brief swipe of her tongue before continuing. "She wants to be with me again, father. After all this time, after all these years, she never forgot about me." In that moment, Ophilia realized she wasn't just talking to her father, but also to herself. She was still having trouble believing it all.

Her father had heard of her high school life, she was certain. He had to understand what all this meant to her.

Slowly, Charles drew in a breath, like some great bellows. "Do you know why I forbid you from contacting Vivian upon your return to me?" He didn't really expect an answer, Ophilia knew. Such a question was rhetorical and merely used to prepare for the next statement.

Ophilia had a pretty good idea why he'd prohibited it, especially after meeting Vivian tonight, but he'd never given her a reason. After her return from overseas, he'd simply commanded her that she not contact Vivian and, like a good minion, she'd reluctantly obeyed.

"Firstly, on a smaller scale, there is the matter of gender," Charles began. "While I don't care who you love, I do care about succession." He paused to lean forward again, his stare boring through Ophilia's skull. "As you said so aptly, you are next in line to inherit this Family, as I inherited it from my mother and her from her father. I will not see a three-hundred year legacy ruined, all because you decided to not have a child."

Ophilia felt rage in her blood, but silenced it swiftly. A child wasn't an obstacle. There were ways. She let him continue unimpeded.

"Second," he went on, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Vivian is a fiend; a dangerous junkie who was in prison upon your return. I did some research while you were away with Salvatore – kept an eye on the woman who moved my daughter to such lengths – and what I saw disgusted me. Your friend is a volatile person, a danger to both herself and those around her. Especially to a significant other."

Ophilia masked her surprise well. She'd known some of that, of course, but she hadn't been aware that Vivian had been arrested on top of her addiction. She made a mental note to do some research of her own; it was long overdue.

After a moment to collect herself and her thoughts, Ophilia retaliated. "Father, I am more than aware of Vivian's less-than-pleasant history with heroin. She told me about her past addiction herself." She matched her father's pose, leaning forward over her knees and staring straight into his eyes. "I trust her, father. Really, truly, I do. She told me that her time with dope is done and over with and I believe her. She isn't using anything hard anymore and I aim to break her of those small habits too." Boldness swelled in her chest, melting away the well-honed caution and restraint she normally held when talking to her father. "We'll see about a child. There are means, of course, for me to still provide that for you, but on this I won't budge. I love her, father."

Charles blinked once, like a lazy cat staring at an owner it thought was particularly humorous. Obviously deep in thought, he leaned back into his chair again – giving ground, as it were. "You know," he began, speaking into his laced fingers, "that love will eventually kill you, correct?"

"It didn't kill you," Ophilia countered without a moments pause. She didn't know much about her father's past, but she knew that he had loved his wife immensely. 

"In a way, it did," Charles said with a sigh, suddenly looking exhausted. "Your mother was an amazing woman, Ophilia. She was my life. She saved my life. But she was also a target." He reached over his desk, retrieving a cigar from a box to the side. He offered a second to Ophilia, which she accepted in a haze.

Never once had her father spoken so freely about her mother, even when prompted. Often, any mention of her would result in violent fits of rage or, more commonly, complete dismissal and silence for days on end. He told her time and time again to put her out of her mind – to not let the past impede her future. She'd seen pictures of her of course, but she had no clue about who her mother was as a person or how she'd actually died.

As he prepped the cigar, Charles continued.

"I'm sure you remember the Bianchi Family," he said simply. Ophilia nodded, recalling her kidnapping with a slight shudder. "And I'm also sure that, given your new perspective, you can recognize the desperation when they took you. They went into an entirely different city, only to commit a hasty kidnapping in broad daylight in the middle of a public parking garage full of witnesses. All to get their hands on my only child." He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he clipped the head off his cigar. "At the time, I wasn't even considering pulling you into the Family. Your mother had wanted none of that for you, but they forced my hand."

He lit the cigar with a lighter from his breast pocket, puffing out smoke as he stoked the cherry. He leaned back again as if getting comfortable, but Ophilia couldn't miss the look of quiet rage in his eyes. "They'd killed your mother about a year prior. They pulled her off the street, got her hooked on those filthy poisons, and just left her to smoke, shoot, and snort herself into oblivion. Nothing I did could stop it. By the time I found her again, she'd rotted away from the inside, her mind melting and body dying. I was completely powerless."

Ophilia did her best to control her facial expression, but almost unconsciously, she was wringing the uncut cigar between her hands with a vicious ferocity.

"Rather than break me as they hoped her death would, it simply honed my anger into a fine point. I made their extermination my primary goal. The culmination of that hunt was when, in primal fear, they took you hostage in the middle of the day. They had hoped to use you as a bargaining chip to make me spare their lives. Instead, they only pushed me to kill the last of them that much faster." Charles took another, more relaxed, drag from his cigar as he let his emotions drift back into neutrality. He let the message settle in, giving the silence it's space.

"I'll protect her, father," Ophilia replied after a long pause, a slight tremor in her voice.

"What makes you so sure you can?" Charles asked, staring at her with a carefully emotionless expression. "And how won't that ultimately kill you?" Slowly, life bled back into his dead eyes, but he didn't look at all curious. Instead, he seemed to be prying into her devotion, looking for an answer he couldn't refute. Or perhaps an argument that he could rip apart. The cherry of his cigar burned and more smoke puffed into the air, adding to the faint bluish haze that was beginning to enshroud everything.

Ophilia took a deep breath, making sure her emotions were in check, before she replied. She'd need to think this through carefully.

"Vivian is far from defenseless. Her gang has access to near-military grade arms, even without our backing – a fact you certainly knew about before all this began. Naturally, sharing these contacts with us was another thing we've received from our agreement."

Charles nodded in acknowledgement, surely adding this new information to his agenda and letting her continue.

"And with our Family behind her, other gangs will be hesitant to attack her. We've become much larger since the days of the Bianchi Family, and their extermination surely made a terrifying example of what we can do. The other Families and gangs bow to us. We hold this city in our fist, father." She closed her fist tightly, noticing passively that the cigar appeared to be gone. She didn't remember dropping it, but she must've at some point or another. "And finally, I'll be moving in with her. I will personally see to it that nobody even gets close enough to her to do her any harm."

Silence and smoke lingered in the room. The pair of money-green eyes studied Ophilia through the pall just long enough to rattle her nerves. Then, her father smiled, giving a long sigh and adding to the pollution in the air. 

"Fine. What kind of father would I be if I said no to a declaration like that? Times are changing and we must change with them." His laughter, as always, never sounded forced. But when Ophilia met his gaze, there was steel in his eyes. "But, if I think for even an instant that her involvement in our affairs will damage the Family or it's name – or harm you – she goes. Am I understood?"

Ophilia nodded, so relieved and excited that she missed the unspoken threat. For the first time in over a decade, she rose and crossed the unspoken threshold around her father. He looked at her – cautious – but she simply leaned down and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you, father. I promise, you won't regret this."

"I never regret a decision, Ophilia. I simply correct the situation and move on," Charles replied coolly, giving her a raptor smile. "But I understand what you are trying to say." He set his cigar in an ashtray as Ophilia returned to her seat. "Don't let me down."

As she sat down, Ophilia replied that she wouldn't, overflowing with happiness. And yet as she looked to her feet, she saw the two halves of the cigar she'd been holding, torn apart by her bare hands. 

"When will I meet her?"

The question snapped Ophilia's eyes back up to her father. She hadn't considered that, eventually, he would want to meet her lover. She narrowed her eyes, trying to imagine Charles and Vivian in the same room; the very idea nearly threw her into hysterics. 

"Soon, I hope," she said with a sardonic smirk. "It should be quite the experience. One I doubt that any of us will ever forget."

Charles laughed, looking human again. "I suppose I'd be disappointed if your lover was anything but colorful, Ophilia. A fitting match for you. I'll remember to go into that meeting with some caution." He paused, snubbing out his cigar. "This will all come with one other condition – one you already stated, but that I wish to reinforce." His stare pierced through Ophilia's cheery mood and suddenly the imposing mob boss was back. "You will purge her veins of that filth. Do I make myself clear to you, Ophilia?"

Even with her head clear, she nearly missed the threat hidden in her father's tone, expression, and even in the action of snuffing out his cigar. Like a lion, indeed.

"Of course, father," Ophilia replied dutifully, offering a submissive nod.

"Very good," he replied, narrowing his eyes in thought. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to plan for these new assets you've acquired."

Taking her cue, Ophilia rose and started to the door without another word. As he finger brushed the handle, her father spoke again.

"Oh, and Ophilia?" She stopped, looking over her shoulder. This is the part, she thought, where he'll make a more direct threat to scare me. To frighten me into submission. It was in his nature, after all.

Her father was sitting completely upright, with his elbows on the desk and his fingers steepled. His eyes were unreadable, but years of conditioning made it feel like they were digging into her all the same. "You've done well today. I'm proud of you."

The words shook Ophilia more than anything else in that conversation. Compliments were rare, but admissions of pride were unheard of. Charles had never attempted to hide the fact that he'd always wished that she'd been born a man. Still, she forced a smile and nodded to him, trying to not let him see her sweat.

"All blood for the Family," she recited dutifully, the Melody Family's motto coming to her lips as easily as breath. Quickly, before her father could unbalance her more, Ophilia ducked into the hall and closed the doorway behind her.





Back in her room, Ophilia allowed herself to finally relax. She threw her fedora onto a chair and pulled the neck of her tie down. The damn things always felt like nooses after a conversation with her father.

With a small sigh, she allowed herself to flop onto the couch with a faint grunt. She was rattled, tired, and more than a little anxious. Normally, she would have scolded herself – ladies do not flop, Ophilia, and they most certainly do not grunt – but she felt like she was standing on a precipice, looking over a whole new world; one filled with the potential to become either paradise or purgatory.

Possibly something inexpiable.

With another small sigh, Ophilia passed a hand over her face. She considered all she'd learned over the past day and settled on a firm – if nerve-wracking – decision. With silent resolve, she slipped her laptop over the small table in front of her, booted up the program she was looking for, and typed Vivian's name into the engine. Silently, well into the dying night, Ophilia learned about her lover's other, darker life.
> Chapter 5: Flowing Through Your Veins
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

What do you do when you have everything taken from you? This was the question Vivian was forced to ask herself as she continued to survive. Her days had become nothing more than taking from others and being taken from – a listless repetition that served no other purpose than to fill her time.

Ever since Ophilia was pulled from her life, Vivian moved, ate, slept, and breathed, but she hadn't really lived. A vital part of her had been wrenched from her chest cruelly and suddenly and she had no idea what to do.

School had lost its luster. After recovering from her initial shock, Vivian began ignoring her studies and missing school days, all in the name of trying to find her lost love. Of course, with her limited resources and little to no understanding about what had happened, she got no results. Like everything else, her efforts just turned to ash and dust in her mouth.

Two weeks after Ophilia's kidnapping, an anonymous tip came into the local police station. Two days later, Vivian was contacted with details by an officer she'd bribed to bring her any news. Twenty men, members of the Bianchi crime family, were all found dead in an auto-garage on the north side of the city limits. Several of these murdered mobsters had been key suspects in Ophilia's kidnapping, previously missing and at large. And they'd found blood.

Ophilia's blood...

And still, Vivian refused to believe it. She ignored all the words of consolation. She laughed off conversations about what she'd lost. She made herself not feel, because she couldn't bear living with the alternative. But it wasn't like flipping a switch in her head. She had been forced to sever a part of herself, compelled to further mutilate her already crippled mind.

Ophilia had to be alive. Any other possibility would spell the end for her happy world. Vivian was certain that if Ophilia was gone, she'd know somehow.

So, she existed; a ghost inside her own body. She floated through her sham of a life, wishing for time to both stand still and speed up. She spent every day waiting for the phone to ring – for Ophilia to be found; for her to finally come home.

But now, she stared at the floor, lost. It had been a year – down to the very day – since the incident. Life was looking no better. If anything, it was gradually getting worse.

She was alone now, with no one she could really trust. Ophilia had been the first and only person she'd ever been truly comfortable around. She'd clung to her like a safety blanket. Other people – other humans – they made her sick. They were little more than selfish, despicable, apathetic masses. They hated for the sake of hating, judged on stupid, arbitrary things, and couldn't be trusted with anything more than their own ability to breathe. 

Sometimes, even that proves challenging.

She laughed at the joke in her mind, trying to dispel the harsh reality, but it was always there, waiting for her to notice it. Only Ophilia had proven to be consistently different from the howling many. And now she was gone.

Head in her hands, Vivian stared down at the object on the rug at her feet, imagining it was a coiled snake, whispering lies into her ears. She shut her eyes tightly, wishing it hadn't come to this.

An old acquaintance – a bubbly party-animal everyone referred to as 'Vanilla' – had been by earlier that day, hoping to keep Vivian's neck out of a noose. She wasn't the bad sort, but she was an unabashed follower, the kind of individual who would wave the flag of anarchy just because it was something everyone else was doing; just because it was 'cool'. She had no real convictions and that irked Vivian to no end sometimes.

For what felt like the hundredth time, Vivian replayed their meeting behind her closed eyes, wondering if she'd done the right thing.

"Look," Vanilla had said, eyes registering something akin to concern. "It's been a whole year, Vivian. Ya gotta move on."

Vivian hadn't wanted to hear it. Overflowing with fresh misery, she had cried, raged, thrown a few things, and worn herself ragged, all while Vanilla bore it all with an emotionless stoicism, as if she had no idea how to comfort a suffering friend. Once Vivian had burned out her emotions, Vanilla offered her a blunt and the two sat back together and smoked, trying to get their minds off their troubles.

Vivian had first taken to bud like a dehydrated man takes to a river; first she sipped, then gulped, drinking herself sick. At first, it had been helpful, covering her in a pall of good feelings. It seemed to make the whole world a little more bearable. However, now its effects weren't nearly enough. She felt the cloud of euphoria being torn away by the slavering beast of reality.

She played the happy card, promising Vanilla that she was okay, even as the smoke and ashes filled her lungs. Vanilla, thinking herself a dutiful friend, smiled back and said all kinds of flowery platitudes about acceptance and recovery. But Vivian knew for a fact that Vanilla hadn't ever lost anyone as close to her as Vivian had been to Ophilia.

Still, Vivian nodded back to her words, if only to make her go away.

It wasn't that she wasn't thankful – on the contrary, Vanilla was the closest thing to a friend she had these days – but she was just so tired of listening to the endless reassurances; people telling her to 'get over it,' as if this was nothing more than influenza or a hole in the ground. How could someone get over something that was already inside their head? How could anyone just wait out something that's crawling through their veins, like some terminal disease?

And so, Vivian convinced Vanilla to leave, but not before she left Vivian a small wad of cash. She had her promise to use it to buy more bud; she was going away for a while and wanted to make sure Vivian was well stocked.

Vivian had nodded to her, ignoring the money. After all, while Vanilla knew nothing about her family life, Vivian's parents were still sending her regular stipends of money; she'd been able to keep the apartment because of them, as well as the understanding of her landlord.

However, once she was alone, Vivian began to roll the cash back and fourth between her hands, imagining spending another day like this, smoking weed in a futile attempt to dull her pain, only to have it grow stronger and bolder in her chest.

She wasn't really alive anymore. But she was still living, right?

She shook her head and closed her eyes, sighing in perfect imitation of Ophilia. She found that doing that made her feel a little better, if only for a moment or two. She couldn't do this any longer. She was too weak.

She spent all the cash in one sitting. She didn't buy weed. Instead, she bought true release.

Now it sat there, mocking her weakness. She had bought it, but was she too afraid to take the next step? What if Ophilia really was gone? Would she accept that? Could she? Could she accept that Ophilia was really...

She felt vomit and misery race to breach her throat, but the two blocked her windpipe and Vivian just choked with a kind of half-sob instead. Was she seriously about to do this? Was this the only road open to her now? No, there were others, of course. She often thought of death sometimes, staring at her wrists with the full knowledge of how easy it would be to end everything. But what if Ophilia did come back? Then she'd be all alone, and it would be Vivian's fault. She couldn't die, not yet. But this?

Yes, she told herself. This.

She would do this. She was sick and tired of all this pain. Her breathing grew labored as she reached down and closed her hand around the small cylinder. She leaned back into the couch, not staring directly at the tool of her freedom. Her heart raced and, strangely enough, she felt alive for the first time in ages.

She reached over to her side blindly, patting the couch until she found the rubber strap from its place by her side. She tied it to her upper arm, using her teeth to tug it tight. She flicked her forearm to raise her veins, like she'd seen people do in so many movies. Weakness became resolve. Fear became motivation. She drew in a long, deep breath and sighed it out.

The vein seemed to welcome the point of the syringe and the plunger was so very easy to press. Slide it back out. Draw up her arm to close the hole. Remember to breathe. Then before she had time to reconsider or call someone for help, she pulled the tie off her arm and threw it to the floor, letting the dope flood into her body.

The effect was almost completely instantaneous. A strange sensation seemed to spread out from her arm as the opioid rushed through her system. Within a minute, Vivian's breathing had grown shallow as her heart rate dropped. She felt a wave of pleasure shoot through her and she gasped, eyes going wide before half-closing. Her pupils widened as a lethargic drowsiness washed over her, coupled with sparks of random pleasure. Negativity fled her body and for the first time since she'd stood on that curb, waiting for a car that would never come, Vivian felt very nearly at peace. It was almost as if all the past year's misery had fallen away into nothingness.

Her thoughts were slow, as if a great blanket had been drawn over her mind, convincing it that it was time to rest. She smiled and laughed and moaned and hardly knew why. Her eyes roamed lazily to the clock and, after several brief eternities, Vivian realized that she'd been sitting in that same position for over two hours.

She started to move, but only then realized her position. At some point she'd shifted, her left hand vanishing down the front of her pants. She felt stickiness on her fingers, but also noticed that her right hand had rested itself on her arm and had scratched it raw. She laughed at this, not really comprehending what was happening, and moved to rise with a small grunt. 

The nausea hit her like a sledgehammer to the gut. She lurched forward, vomiting violently onto the carpet. She coughed, went to spit, and vomited again. Once she was done, Vivian chuckled dryly and moved to clean up the mess. It was time to finally get something done.

With the single-mindedness of someone fried out of their skull, Vivian began cleaning the entire apartment from top to bottom, sparing not an inch of space. The euphoria didn't last forever, of course. In fact, the dose Vivian had bought lasted about another two hours. The descent from her cloud was gradual, but debilitating none the less. Bleak depression crawled it's way back into it's den in her chest, more powerful than before, sinking it's crooked teeth deep into her heart. While her motor skills regained their delicate touch, her desire to put them to use fled.

Vivian only considered the situation for a few minutes before she dialed Vanilla. As the phone rang, she chewed on her lip, suddenly very anxious. It was taking everything she had to not burst into tears, for some reason.

"Y'ello?" Vanilla answered, sounding faintly stoned, as always.

"I need more," Vivian said hastily, not thinking to explain further.

"Wha— Vivian? What are you talking about?" Vanilla paused to re-position her phone, then continued. "I gave you enough green to keep you baked all week. What'd you spend it all on?"

"Don't worry about it." Vivian's voice cracked at her own rudeness, but she was barely thinking before she spoke. She really didn't care if she was being rude right now. She needed more. "I just need more cash. I won't get me 'allowance' for another three days. You know I'm good for a loan." She chewed her lip some more, her nervousness getting the better of her. "I need more, Vanilla. Please."

There was a long, shocked pause. "You... Shit, Vivian, you picked up something harder, didn't you? Dammit, I didn't give you that cash so you could—"

Vivian mashed the 'END' key so hard her thumb hurt and quickly swept through her phone's contacts. Vanilla tried calling her back twice; Vivian ignored the calls and the voicemails entirely.

She let out a shuddering sigh when she found the number she was looking for. His name was William and he sold Vivian her weed. He was friendly, but not really a friend, if that made any sense. Vivian had always thought he was too shifty, but she also knew that he was good for a loan. She'd pay him back in three days, no problems.

Within an hour, she was on the bus to meet him, her mind racing. Vanilla had stopped calling after seven more tries. Vivian would need to apologize to her later; after all, she owed Vanilla so much.

William was in the meeting spot before Vivian, standing comfortably in his leather jacket. She'd never seen him without the stupid thing. His cap was pulled low to keep the sun out of his eyes and a hand-rolled cigarette burned on his lips. Just to be sure, Vivian sniffed. It was just a cigarette, and the harsh scent of nicotine made her cough. She hated that damn stuff.

"Ey, Vivian. What's all this about a loan?" He met her halfway, trying on a small, disarming smile. His eyes roamed over her briefly, before lingering on hers. Vivian had some suspicions about his flirtatious ways, but she hadn't really considered it much. Ophilia was the only one who could fill that void in her heart.

She gave a small, brainless chuckle, acting like the blonde that her blue dye concealed. "Well, I'm a little behind on my rent. Don't worry, I'll pay you back in a few days, I promise."

William shrugged and reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet, and counting off several hundreds. "Here, that enough?"

Vivian stared at the money, doing a few mental calculations. "Yeah, it's plenty." She stepped up, hugging him tightly. "Thanks Will. You're a life-saver."

Under an hour later she was on her way home again, carrying something very different from money in her bag. Giving her lip another anxious nibble, she peered into the bag for her salvation, wondering if she could even manage to wait till she got home.





Vivian snapped awake, feeling the jolting pain in her palm. She'd dug through the skin with her nails. Again. She looked at the barely-dried blood on her sheets with some distaste. She didn't have enough money to waste on something as frivolous as sheets these days. Ruefully, she looked at the other splotches and stains, only most of them a dried red. It'd been a long time since she'd been able to remedy this situation.

She rolled from the bed, scratching her arm and head as she crossed into the living room. This new apartment was much smaller than the one she'd shared with Ophilia two years ago, but she'd needed to scale down to keep up on the rent, as well as keep everything else well stocked. She tossed herself onto the couch, still naked, and dug her morning fix from its hiding place between the couch's cushions.

Vivian had learned tons of very interesting and sometimes agitating facts within the past year. Primarily though, she'd learned that pure, uncut heroin was expensive as all high hell. She'd been forced to do countless small odd-jobs to feed her habit, but no formal employer cared much for a high-school dropout like her. And that wasn't even considering the drug tests... Besides, those small, little jobs were already becoming more and more agitating to do; how was she supposed to hold down a real job on top of those? 

To top it all off, her parents had learned that she'd dropped out and were sending increasingly scanty envelopes, packed with less and less cash and more letter urging her to go back to school, come home, or both. Pretty soon, she wouldn't even be able to afford what little dope she needed to keep herself sane. So, with extreme reluctance, Vivian had settled last night on a new plan for getting her fix.

As it turned out, she'd been right about William's attraction to her, even if it was purely physical, and it'd been three years since Ophilia had vanished. She would understand, wouldn't she?

The needle in her vein felt like an old friend, the faint pain almost euphoric now as anticipation pooled up inside her. Vanilla had stopped talking to her entirely, saying she felt guilty for what had happened. Vivian really couldn't understand why; she'd never felt more alive than when dope pumped through her heart.

With a long, casual sigh, Vivian pressed the plunger and braced herself to meet the day. Only after the familiar rush did she feel ready enough to get up and get dressed.





Vivian was numb, both mentally and physically, as her body rocked back and fourth. It was a trick she'd learned two years ago, when Will had peeled her clothes off for the first time. He was gone now – Vivian didn't know where to – but she still needed her fix. Not long after, she'd needed a place to stay, too. Her parent's checks had stopped coming entirely. So every now and then, she found a new place, a new source.

His hand grabbed her hair – bright blonde; she hadn't been able to afford dye for months – but she hardly felt the painful tug. She took no pleasure in the act, even if she pretended that she did. This was all merely a means to an end. She had learned that pretending – making these men and women think that they mattered to her – was essential. She just simply went through the motions until they were spent.

The man trembled on top of her as he reached his end and Vivian felt him leave her. She shuddered and gasped, but didn't let him know that it was disgust that brought on those noises. Disgust in him and what he was doing. Disgust in herself.

Holding the needle, her reward, was as relaxing as always. She still paid sometimes, whenever she could, but this was necessary. As she searched for an un-blackened vein, she at least felt a small surge of pride – she wasn't so desperate that she'd let the men go unprotected. It was a small victory, but one she cherished.

The tears surprised her. She felt them on her cheeks, warm streaks over cold skin. Her breathing hitched and she rushed to find a vein. She couldn't let herself think. She couldn't let herself feel. How could she, after all she'd done?

With a tangible sense of relief, she plunged into a vein. She felt a sharp, intense pain – she'd pushed in too hard – but pushed the plunger anyway, eager to get the drug into her system. As she laid back on the couch, where her most recent of experiences had left her, the dope filled her body and mind with passiveness and relief.

As she closed her eyes, for just a moment, she saw Ophilia; smiling, laughing, alive.

What, she wondered, would she saw if she saw me now? That thought was almost too much, even for the drugs. She forced it away, pushing the smiling face and sparkling eyes off into the clouded mass of her mind. She sighed and sank into the couch, letting the dope carry her away from her troubles.

Her latest Roomie kicked her out the next morning.





As that same year drove to a close, Vivian found herself at a new, more dangerous crossroads. She needed another fix, but had no cash. There was no one else to go to. Her latest source was tired of her, and she'd exhausted all her other resources. Finding someone new would take time – too much time. She had an idea of what she had to do, but the thought of it frightened her.

She needed to take someone else's money. She'd need to rob someone. She didn't consider a mugging – she was fairly certain that she didn't have the heart for that – but breaking into someone's house was easy enough.

Already her wretched melancholia was returning.

Without much preparation, Vivian set off into the night, more desperate than she'd ever been. She'd walked these streets over and over all of her life, but never like this before. Now she saw every house as an opportunity and scanned them with a critical eye, trying to see from the outside how easily she could break in and if there was anything of value inside. Finally, after about two hours of skulking in the dark, Vivian spotted her window of opportunity and smashed it with a rock.

It wasn't the quietest of methods, but Vivian was growing more and more desperate as time passed. Her self-loathing and depression was crawling back like a starving beast, ready to eat her alive. If it caught hold of her, she was certain that it'd kill her.

She reached through the shattered glass, unlocked the frame, and pulled it open. In the silence of the sleeping home, Vivian began to pillage. The objects she found, however, were either too large, such as a very nice television, or were mostly worthless. She'd misjudged this house from the outside. She needed something light, but valuable; gold, jewelry, that kind of thing. Quietly, she began to search for the bedroom, where such things were most likely kept. She didn't quite make it.

The man had probably purchased the pistol with the expectation that he's never need to use it. He probably told himself it was little more than a precaution and would never leave it's drawer. His hands were trembling with uncertainty and fear as he raised the gun towards Vivian from down the hall.

"Don't move!" The man said loudly, his voice quivering. Vivian saw a curious little face behind him; a boy, no older than six, watching from a doorway with big eyes. "O-Or I'll shoot," the man finished lamely, after a few tense moments.

Slowly, very slowly, Vivian raised her hands up, palms open. She didn't speak; she doubted it would matter. She had a knife in her pocket, but drawing it was never even an idea in her mind. She'd bought it for self defense against the men and women who took her in, not to kill some poor man who was just trying to protect his home.

Minutes ticked away. In her scrambled state, Vivian wondered why the man was just standing there. Her arms were getting tired and he hadn't spoken again, after his questionable threat. Just when she was about to speak up – to ask him what came next – she got her answer.

Sirens. The police.

Vivian's heart jumped into her throat. Animal instincts took over; she was prey, and like a hunted animal, she turned and ran.

A gunshot split the night and Vivian felt – rather than heard – the bullet pass by her head, hitting the wall in front of her. Her ears rang as she darted into the first doorway she saw and found exactly what she'd been looking for: a window.

She didn't stop – she didn't even slow down – as she dove through the glass. She landed with a pained grunt, but thanked whatever stars shone down on her that she hadn't gotten stuck in the frame or impaled herself on a large piece of glass. Her body was lacerated from the glass shards, but she was well enough to keep running.

Sirens, all around her. She could even see the lights; red, blue, then red again.

And Vivian ran. She ran, knowing it was probably an exercise in futility. The man had gotten a good, long look at her face. Even if she got away, she'd probably need to leave town. She tossed her knife away, wanting to be rid of any weapons before she was caught. The ringing had faded, but now she could hear the blood pounding in her ears as she scanned for someplace to hide.

Finally, she settled on a spot. She pushed herself under a car that was parked on the side of the street, squeezed her eyes shut, pressed her face into the cold, wet asphalt, and prayed softly under her breath.

The sirens grew louder, the patrol car drawing closer, but with a loud whine of the siren, the car passed her by, followed quickly by one other. Eyes still tightly closed, Vivian waited. In time, the sirens grew more and more distant, until they vanished entirely.

It was over twenty minutes after that when Vivian crawled – dirty, miserable, crying, and free – out from underneath the car. She had no idea how long she'd hidden under there, but she knew she needed to move quickly. She was certain the police would be looking for her. Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance that she could get out of the city, run, hide, vanish.

However, an almost painful lethargy had flowed over her. Her damned melancholy had come back in full, spitting in her eye and telling her that she'd be better off dead. She spat back, fueled by adrenaline, and went in search of her discarded knife.

It was well past midnight by now and blacker than the inside of her eyelids. Vivian had to resort to crawling around on her hands and knees, struggling to find the last real possession she owned, aside from the clothes she was wearing and an immense tower of regrets.

She was certain she'd recognized the area she'd thrown the knife – a smattering of trees and brush that some moron probably considered a park. At first, her head snapped up whenever a car approached, but this was a part of the city that never really slept. Soon, all of her attention was focused on finding her last line of defense.

Somewhere to her left, a light wavered over the grass. Another car, she decided, and ignored it. Only when it was too late did she realize that the road was to her right, not her left.

"Freeze! Police!" It was a male voice, loud and commanding. His flashlight suddenly dug into Vivian's eyes, blinding her for a second. She couldn't see if he had his gun drawn or not, but she found that she really didn't care. Maybe if he did, he'd shoot her and put her out of this misery. She turned, rubbing the spots from her eyes as she dashed for the scant safety the trees offered.

"Over here!" Vivian heard the officer shout behind her. She cursed, wondering if these men had been left to search the area for her, or if she'd just had the miserable luck to run into some random patrol. But it was too late for it to matter now.

She ran, but she wasn't very fast. Her prior burst of adrenaline had fled, leaving her with a bone-deep weariness. The wounds over her arms and legs, still bleeding from her hasty exit through the window, were finally starting to burn with a feverish intensity.

The flashlight pursued her, finding her whenever she started to slow. Time and time again, the telltale flash of light sent her running until she was completely out of breath. Overcome with desperation, she began to climb the nearest tree, hoping she would be out of sight and her pursuers would ignorantly pass her by.

She screamed as a hand suddenly clamped onto her ankle, pulling her violently from the tree's branch. Her breath slammed from her lungs as she collided with the ground, leaving her lips in a sudden woosh of air. Before she had a chance to recover, a knee slammed down on her spine and hands grabbed onto both her arms, wrenching them behind her back. With a series of clicks, the handcuffs snapped into place.

Panic made her beg, but the cops ignored her. The officer on her back shouted for her to be quit, lifting his knee and dropping it onto her spine a second time, making it crack. A nearby officer began reading her Miranda Rights as the one on her back leaned off her, then hauled her to her feet. This all seemed impossible. It had to be a nightmare. She chuckled to herself and looked over to the officer as he pulled her towards the road.

"C-can you pinch me? I t-think I'm dreaming." The officer gave her a harsh look, but she just gave back a silly smile. This wasn't how her life was supposed to go. It wasn't until the door to the squad car closed and she stared at the grate between her and the driver that reality began to assert itself. She felt all the pain flowing through her body, all the despair creeping into her mind – she felt every ounce of it as the last three years settled into her brain in perfect clarity. 

The beast of her melancholy laughed from it's perch on her heart, telling her that she should've just cut her wrists when she had the chance. All at once, the fight drained from Vivian and she simply collapsed onto the seat of the car and wept.
> Chapter 6: Ready to Raid
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ophilia pushed the laptop across the table, heaving a long, pained sigh. Knowing and seeing, she decided, were even more different than she'd ever imagined they would be.

She had read over the records of Vivian's criminal life, both in and out of prison. 'Sloppy' was the first word that came to mind. Very sloppy. She hated that of all the words she could think of, that was the first one.

Silently, she closed the laptop and replaced it onto her desk. Vivian might have been intelligent, but she hadn't been a very criminally-minded girl, and her actions had colored her ignorance as incompetence. But from what Ophilia had seen, her time in prison had changed Vivian; it had taken her and molded her into VeeVee, the crime lord. During her time incarcerated, her crimes gradually became more organized, more sophisticated, until she wasn't being caught at all anymore. And when she was caught, even early on, she had managed to weasel out with minimal punishment. 

By the time she walked back out those doors, she'd more than likely had officers in her pocket, inmates bowing to her every whim, and the buddings of her gang already blossoming.

As always, Ophilia shunted away all of her judgement, not letting the past color her opinions of her poor friend and lover. Vivian had done what she needed to do to survive. Ophilia couldn't fault her for that.

However, she had hoped, against all odds, that Vivian had recovered from her kidnapping and had lived well in her absence. She'd prayed constantly that her bubbly, silly, chaotic lover would find someone else and live a happy, normal life. The tragedy implicit in Vivian's records made Ophilia feel a particularly fierce sense of guilt.

While Vivian had suffered, Ophilia had been learning how to kill.





Vivian Scratch was in a bad mood today.

It was no-one's fault but her own, really. Something small had bubbled up into something major and now she was forced to deal with the fallout. She ran a hand through her hair, playing with a strand of her bangs as she stared thoughtfully at the Mixer in front of her. "Well..." she began, then sighed. "Shit."

The kid wasn't to blame – he was a newbie, canonized only a few days ago – and he was absolutely, piss-his-pants level terrified. The other Mixers had given him the unpleasant task of breaking the bad news to Vivian. In all the movies, people shot the messenger, regardless of what that old saying was. This kid was probably expecting a slug between his eyes any minute.

But that kind of Hollywood bullshit was stupid.

This kid was one of hers, and she'd sooner hurt herself than him. She twirled her hair, then chewed on it a bit, trying to marshal her thoughts. She thought it made her look stoic, but it probably just made her look hungry. "Who took it?" She finally asked, staring off into space.

"The Black Dogs, boss. They jumped us on the corner of Leth and Second. Killed three of us and took the goods..." The kid's voice trembled as he expounded.

Vivian nodded, still chewing. Her hair tasted like this morning's shampoo. It was disgusting, but she wanted to look composed right about now, not sick. "Three. The Black Dogs, eh? Where do they operate out of?" Vivian looked over her shoulder at Neo for the second question. Her right-hand man was leaning against a nearby wall, trying to not be obtrusive.

"They're the biggest of the 'small fry' gangs in this city. They outnumber us about two to one, but have almost no firepower at all. That's basically kept them in the role of petty bullies who work the docks on the west side of the river. My advice? Lets go get our stuff from 'em."

Vivian looked back down to her desk, where she'd made a small inventory of the weapon cache that the Dogs had taken. "We had lots of firepower in that shipment, Ne-Yo. It's not too much to realize that's why they hit it," she said, calling him by his handle. "We can't just barge in there. They'll be expecting that, and we'd lose tons of lives."

Neo gave her a pleased nod. "I wasn't suggesting that anyway. Their numbers make a frontal assault a terrible idea. But... well, we have those new allies to bring into play."

Vivian felt a little surge of joy. Ophilia was moving in tonight. Or rather, that'd been the plan, before all this mess started. It'd been two weeks since they were reunited, but Vivian still couldn't believe it. All that planning, all that effort, and it'd actually paid off in the end. Sometimes, she wondered if she'd died in prison – beaten to death by some disgruntled officer or stabbed to death by some rival banger – and all this was some strange afterlife. But no, she was fairly certain that if there was an afterlife, hers wouldn't be so pleasant.

"You're suggesting we ask the Melody Family for help so soon?" She shook her head, not letting her feelings show on her face. "No; you're smart enough to understand that Charles'll see that as a sign of weakness... Something smaller, more personal..." Vivian smirked. "You're talking about Ophilia."

Neo shrugged. "The Silencer has a reputation. In gangs like the Dogs, she's almost like a boogyman. Boogywoman. Whatever," he said with a chuckle, pushing off the wall. He strode over, stopping just to Vivian's left. "Send her in and they'll shit themselves. Have her make a few of those pointed examples she's so good at making, and they'll be begging for our forgiveness. I can't imagine the Black Dogs have caught word that we're working with the Family now, so this is the perfect opportunity to let them – and the rest of the city – learn about our new connections. And, if we can get the Black Dogs to heel and roll-over like good hounds, then even better. We could use a boost in reputation."

Vivian nodded to him, suddenly very glad he was among her lieutenants, and not some other rival gang. Neo was never very far from her side, a faithful friend and a force to be reckoned with. His connections with the underbelly of the military was just icing on the already delicious cake.

"If I'm going to ask Ophilia to go in, then I'm going with her," Vivian said matter-of-factly, motioning the messenger kid away. No need for him to see mommy and daddy fighting. He hurried off, looking thankful to be alive.

"That's a stupid idea," Neo responded as soon as the door closed. "Why risk it?"

"Because, it's what she'd do." Vivian drew her babies from her coat, setting them on her desk. The chrome shimmered prettily in the light. "Besides, I want to show these filthy mutts just who they're fucking with. Three Mixers, Neo. We lost three to them."

Neo opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it. He walked over to the now-empty chair across from her, sitting with an annoyed look, like a big brother who just lost an argument to his little sister. "She's moving in with you today, right?" He asked, not needing to clarify who he was talking about.

Vivian snorted as she ejected the magazines from the two Eagles and pulled back the slides with practiced ease, looking to make sure the guns were clear. "She was supposed to. Now we'll need to put it off till tomorrow or the day after." Just one more reason to be mad at the Dogs. She snapped both slides closed on her guns, letting out a frustrated breath.

"Assuming you aren't dead," Neo quipped.

"There is that, I guess." Vivian shot him a wide grin and started taking one of the two Desert Eagles apart for a simple cleaning. She stripped the barrel off the slide, setting it aside, before pulling the slide off the gun's frame. She hummed to herself as she worked, removing the springs and pistons, before getting out the bore.

"Security used to her?" Neo asked, reclining. Vivian's place wasn't opulent, like that mansion Ophilia lived in, but it was very well guarded. She'd decided early on that the best defense was not, in fact, a good offense; it was a fuck-load of guards, cameras, reinforced walls, and stacks on stacks on stacks of guns, in case things got choppy. Her gang had jumped to take the role of guards, with a few professional hired guns mixed in there to swell their ranks and do a little teaching. Hard work and planning had done the rest – as well as a hefty chunk of her inheritance.

"Yeah, they all know her face by now. Besides, like you said, they're all shit-stain levels of terrified around her, so it's not like they'd be very effective against her, would they?" She joked back, soaking a rag in some cleaning agent and pushing it through the barrel several times. Once that was done, she checked to make sure it was clear before moving on to the next gun.

Neo gave a small laugh, nodding. "That's the truth." He trailed his laugh off, giving her a more serious look. "You using your pick-me-ups today?"

Vivian flinched, as she always did when someone she really cared about asked her that. "Yeah." She caught herself reaching to scratch her arm and snapped her arm back to it's work on the gun, scolding herself. "Not as much as yesterday, though."

"You know what her father said. No more, at all. Wean yourself off that stuff, Vivi. Even the pills."

"I'm trying!" she snapped, slamming the barrel of her gun back down onto her desk. She was suddenly unable to bottle it up anymore. "Bit it's so damn hard, Neo! I need it. I just... when I'm not high, I feel like... like..." She fished for a word, then settled on a sentence. "Like everything I've done is all so terrible that I can't live with it anymore. The weight of it will literally kill me."

Neo sighed and stared at her with sympathetic eyes. "Ophilia is giving you a chance at a new life, Vivian. Take it. Leave the Mixers to me and go be with her."

Vivian was shaking her head before he even finished. "Never," she answered simply as she returned to the first gun, cleaning the other parts. "The Misfits are family now. You've all been there when nothing else was going right. You especially," she added with a smirk, reassembling her gun with several quick, practiced motions. "I'll die before I leave the Mixers. Hell, I doubt being killed will make me stop being one." She snapped the chamber of the gun back and let it crack forward, though the gun didn't have a magazine to chamber a cartridge from. "Live large and leave a pretty corpse, right Neo?"

Neo only shook his head in reply, frowning. He'd never wanted any of this for her. More than once, he'd asked her to leave the game, but he just didn't seem to understand that this was her life now. Ophilia was a part of the darker side of the human race, and if Vivian wanted to be a part of her life, she'd better be damn willing to dive into head-first. Even if she knew it would kill her someday.

Vivian finished cleaning her other firearm, pushing herself up from the chair once she was done reassembling it. "I'm going over the defenses once more. You coming with?" She slipped the two guns into her coat, holstering them. "I doubt the Dog would be dumb enough to attack us here, but paranoia—"

"—Is the key to survival," Neo finished for her, shaking his head. "Nah, sorry. My boy's got this parent-day thing at his school and I need to be there in an hour."

Vivian looked at him with a distant and longing look in her eyes, putting her glasses on to shield them from sight. She wouldn't think about the past today; it was decided on and she couldn't change it now. "All right. Give the little squirt a high-five for me. And give his little sister my best."

Neo said he would and Vivian stepped out into the hallway. Neo watched her silently from his seat until the door closed. "How long will you run from your decisions, Vivian?" He asked the air, but nobody answered.

Vivian dug a blunt from her pocket, lighting it as she walked. While Ophilia's Family operated out of  a huge mansion, Vivian had found that, despite her fetish for defense, a more subtle approach suited her. She ran her gang from the upper floors of a club that doubled as a front for her hideout.

The club, Cataclysm, was her crowning achievement. It was all of six stories high, three of witch were dedicated entirely to the club. The outer walls looked like completely ordinary construction work, but underneath their concrete shells, these walls were reinforced with thick metal sheets, making them incredibly difficult to breach. If someone wanted in, they'd need to use the door, like a good little intruder.

Cameras watched from everywhere, both from obvious locations and from more secret, secluded spots. A small squadron of drones prowled around the nightclub proper, serving as mobile strobe-lights during a rave and aerial firepower for when things got choppy. Finally, to top of her ever-growing counter-paranoia, she had commissioned an underground panic room, just in case. Vivian was a firm believer that there is, was, and will never be any kill like overkill.

As she finished checking up on the last of the security measures, she worked her way towards the front of the building. Ophilia should be arriving soon, and Vivian wanted to tell her about Neo's plan and the Black Dogs before it got too late.

Her car was already outside – a royal-purple convertible with a black roof – and Ophilia was there, chatting with one of the Mixers – Jack, a newbie she had apparently taken a shine to. She had even requested he be moved to Cataclysm, to keep him out of danger. Vivian felt a stab of jealousy as she watched the two of them talk and laugh. She walked over quickly, picking up what Jack was saying.

"... a good spot. VeeVee is awesome, and—"

"Mel, I'm so glad to see you," Vivian interrupted, sliding her arms around one of Ophilia's and nestling herself up at her side. She gave Jack a wolf's stare, but the effect was rather spoiled through her glasses. Still. "I need to talk to you in private about something that's come up."

Ophilia, either not noticing Vivian's body language or choosing to ignore it, chuckled. "Well, duty calls. Keep safe, Jack."

The kid cleared his throat, staring at Vivian with a worried look. "Yeah. You too, Ophilia."

The two walked off arm in arm. Ophilia was unusually quiet until they were back inside. "That was uncalled for, Vivian," she scolded the DJ softly once they were alone.

Vivian snorted. "He wants in your pants. I can tell," Vivian shot back, pulling Ophilia's arm closer.

Ophilia laughed, her eyes dancing with the sound. "I highly doubt that. He's too afraid of me, I believe. Besides, even if he was interested, someone else has claim to my pants and the contents therein." She gave her hips a shift, bumping Vivian lightly and planting a kiss on her cheek.

Vivian's jealousy drained away, replaced by embarrassment, shame, and sheepishness. Around others, VeeVee was a force – a power – but Ophilia always managed to find little Vivian: the shy, nerdy, insecure girl hiding just underneath.

"Yeah, well..." She shook her head slightly, struggling to keep the embarrassment from her voice. "I suppose I was being just a little—"

"Ridiculous?" Ophilia supplied before Vivian could finish her sentence. "Yes," she finished with a smirk. "You were. But the Vivian I love is always ridiculous, so that's nothing abnormal. It's actually quite refreshing, if I'm being honest."

Vivian smiled, fighting to keep back a blush. Gang bosses didn't blush. Flighty schoolgirls blushed. She cleared her throat, dispelling the pleasant mood with one sentence. "We've got a job." By now, the two of them had walked into the night club proper.

This early in the day, the club was basically dead. Mixers lazed about in various states of undress, wakefulness, or inebriation as soft dance music thumped over the speakers. The lights were on, giving the club a very laid, back feel. No-one felt obligated to get up and dance.

"By we," Ophilia began as she scanned the room. "I assume you mean me?" She turned to Vivian, raising and eyebrow and giving her most intimidating face. "Right?"

"No. The both of us," Vivian shot back with smirk, completely un-phased by Ophilia's tough-girl act. "What, you think I'd let you go and have all the fun without me?"

Ophilia stopped, pulling Vivian to a halt at the center of the dance floor. "I assume this job is dangerous."

"Incredibly," Vivian replied quickly.

"So why would you come with me? The whole point of this arrangement is for me to keep you safe, Viv... I can handle things like this alone. It's an unnecessary risk."

Vivian untangled herself from Ophilia's arms, dancing away with a coy laugh. "Because, I want you to see that I'm more than you remember. You might be skilled, but I've learned from experience. I'm not some wallflower, here to take up space in your life. Someone is fucking with my gang, Ophilia. Someone killed three of my crew and stole my stuff. We're going to teach those stupid mother fuckers a very pointed lesson in why their decisions up til now have been so very regrettable."

Ophilia frowned, tilting her head just slightly. "You're completely serious, aren't you?"

"Dead," Vivian replied without a moment's hesitation.

Ophilia let out a long-suffering sigh. "Please don't throw that word around so casually in regards to yourself." She ran a hand over her forehead, but gave a small nod. "Fine. It's your gang, I suppose." She dropped her hand down to her side and shrugged. A smirk danced it's way over her lips and she rested her hands on her hips. "But since you're preparing the festivities, I get to decide how we go about this whole situation. And what we do for the after-party."

Vivian grinned, feeling that blush finally creep in. "I think I can live with that..."
> Chapter 7: She's a Misfit
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The warehouse was just one among hundreds of look-alikes. No one would suspect that this one common warehouse was a stronghold for the Black Dogs. It was a solid cover, hiding in plain sight like that – Vivian did the same with Cataclysm. This was only one of many warehouses owned and run by the Black Dogs of course, but Neo's contacts had traced the shipment of guns to this particular place.

Vivian cradled a M16 rifle in her hands, gently caressing the lock, stock, and barrel. A fine gun was a work of bloody art, capable of killing either a bum or a ruler with equal impunity. With the advent of firearms, mankind had altered it's very nature.

Ophilia looked less comfortable with her own rifle, being more used to the older, flimsier weapons her father so often supplied. Up until now, Vivian corrected mentally. The other woman eyed the weapon with some scrutiny, seeming uneasy with the glamour and sleek beauty of something so modern. Apparently, she didn't see the similarities between herself and these beautiful weapons of death. Both were sleek, beautiful, and – most importantly of all – deadly. She was as much as masterpiece as the weapon she held.

Vivian slung the rifle over her shoulder, letting it hand down her back, patting both her Eagles in their concealed holders. "I assume we won't be doing this my usual way?"

Ophilia simply shook her head and drew a silencer from a small pouch she'd brought with her. She flicked a second one to Vivian before screwing hers onto the barrel of her rifle. Vivian attached hers with some reluctance; she liked it when guns blazed.

But this was Ophilia's rodeo – she was only along for the ride. It was a strangely sobering fact that her counterpart was an even more adept killer than herself and an even more sobering was that this all somehow reminded her of more than a few early dates the two of them had gone on. Ophilia had always led the way; she'd had so much more experience in the world of love. A wild grin crept onto her face and she suddenly found herself not minding the silent approach as much.

"Back doors?" Ophilia asked with a professional edge, letting her rifle hang off her shoulder and drawing out the small, silenced pistol that was her namesake.

Vivian giggled without thinking, then cleared her throat when Ophilia raised an eyebrow at her. She shook her head – pushing childish thoughts of butts from her mind – and motioned to the fire escape that hung off one side of the building's roof. The warehouses along this dock had been designed so that, in case of fire, the workers could escape to the roof with ease. The Black Dogs had left this as it was, perhaps to maintain appearances or perhaps because they thought it was a good idea. Either way, the only way in was up.

Ophilia wasted no time moving to the suspended ladder that lead up to the roof. It was raised up, locked together to keep the base of the ladder well above arm's length. She stared at it for a moment, as if thinking of the best way to bring it down, then shrugged and drew something from a different pouch on her belt. The item unfolded, revealing itself as a small, four pronged hook. With a quick hand, Ophilia began unwinding a thin, concealed rope from around her waist, attaching it to the end of the hook.

"A grappling hook? Sometimes the oldies never die," Vivian whispered, giving a sharp grin. Ophilia returned a small smile, then tossed the hook up, latching onto the lowest rung of the ladder. She gave it one experimental tug, making sure the claw was secure, before hauling herself up arm over arm. Vivian waited patiently down below, admiring the view.

"Viv? What are you waiting for?" Ophilia said in a hushed tone once she'd gotten past the ladder's first rung. She shifted her bottom half slightly to get a better position, entirely missing the muted wolf-whistle Vivian made below.

"Oh, nothing unpleasant," Vivian responded, barely resisting the urge to laugh. She pulled herself up – it was harder than Ophilia made it look – and recovered the hook from below herself. She tossed it up to Ophilia, who caught it deftly and rolled it up over her arm. She didn't return it to her pack, however.

This portion of the fire escape was just one long ladder scaling up the side of the building, where it ended in a small level outcropping before turning into slanting stairs. The opening to reach the outcropping, however, was sealed off from above. Again, Ophilia had a solution that was straight out of some spy movie.

"Wait here," she muttered down to Vivian, uncoiling the rope once more. Like Vivian had much choice – would she climb back down again? 

Ophilia spun the grappling hook around a few times before lobbing it off to one side of the ladder. It hooked onto the lip of the warehouse's roof and suddenly Vivian understood why some ladders like this had a half-circular cage around them. The Black Dogs, however, hadn't deemed it as a worthy addition.

After a few more experimental tugs, Ophilia let go of the ladder and swung off into open air. She planted her feet against the wall and began climbing the last several feet to the roof, pulling herself up the lip of the wall without even a grunt of effort. Silent as a misty night, Ophilia crept over to the hangover, kneeling down to examine the blockage.

She started humming to herself and pulled a lock-picking kit from a third and final pouch. In under a minute, she was pulling the latch open, offering Vivian a helping hand.

"Such a gentleman," Vivian said jokingly, playfully fanning herself as she let Ophilia pull her up the last few rungs onto the roof.

Ophilia smirked and winked, but maintained her stoic, silent demeanor. She turned, reaching into her overcoat and pulled out that silly little pea-shooter again. Vivian wanted to chew her Eagles in frustration – she had a silenced rifle, so why rely on those things? They used tiny little 9mm rounds that were like shooting balls of cotton next to the 5.56 rounds her M16 would pump out. They wouldn't even pierce basic body armor!

But Ophilia continued on, ignorant to Vivian's plight. The gang boss simply contained herself and crept up the stairs. The door into the warehouse was at the very peak of the structure, connected to a small raised section, almost like a miniature watchtower at the center of the building. Ophilia stopped by the door, waiting for Vivian to catch up, before shouldering the door open and sweeping the room with military precision. After making certain the room was clear, she lowered her weapon, sneering in what Vivian assumed was disgust.

"No guards," she said bluntly, barely remembering to keep quiet. "Sloppy. Sloppy and stupid."

Vivian moved to her side, looking around the room curiously. She held her rifle more seriously now, ready to snap it up and fire at a moment's notice. "Why wouldn't they have any guards? That's just... silly."

Ophilia raised her eyes, scanning the room more thoroughly. She clicked her tongue as if she'd noticed something Vivian hadn't and stepped behind some crates stacked in the corner of the room. Several seconds later she returned, shaking her head. "Let me guess," she whispered in an annoyed tone. "There were a few security cameras mixed in with your stolen gear?"

Vivian thought back to her list, nodding slightly. "Yeah, a few. Basic shit, nothing too phenomenal."

Ophilia jabbed her thumbs back over her shoulder at the crates. "They're in the middle of setting them up. There's a cup of coffee over there; still warm." She moved beside the trapdoor leading down into the warehouse. "Idiots."

Vivian felt her muscles tense in excitement as she stared at the trap door expectantly. A firefight would be a fine way to start this evening. But no one showed up to play.

Ophilia crouched down, putting her ear to the trapdoor and closing her eyes. After a second, she pulled the door open, snapping her pistol into the open space, right where a person's head would be if they were climbing out. No one was there to eat her bullet. Carefully, she swung herself down, climbing the small ladder onto the catwalk below.

Vivian followed, disappointed. She had really wanted to show off for Ophilia.

The catwalk they stood on overlooked the warehouse's main chamber, which was separated into a maze-like pattern by a large number of roofless partitions, probably built of some flimsy plaster. Vivian considered them with a glance – a bullet would go clean through those. They weren't any cover at all.

Ophilia scanned the lower chamber with a critical eye, probably seeing more than Vivian could ever hope to notice. Then, without any noise, she turned to Vivian and pointed further down the catwalk to a observation deck that was attached to the roof of the structure. While there was a door between the two intruders and the rooms beyond, Vivian could clearly see the corners of a window facing out to the side, as well as some light bleeding from the glass.

The two began to creep closer – Ophilia moving with the slow, sinuous grace of a prowling cat. Vivian, meanwhile, felt like a lead brick with metal pipes for legs. She hated this sneaking posture; it made her knees ache. However, Vivian managed to both keep quiet and also keep her rifle firmly trained on the door, just in case bad luck should frown on some unsuspecting idiot and had him decide to go for a stroll just then.

As it turned out, they reached the door without incident. Vivian was getting seriously surly about this; she wanted someone or something to shoot.

Ophilia tried the handle – it was  unlocked – and ducked in with that same shoulder-rush motion she'd used on the last door.

It was an empty hallway with several doors. Vivian huffed under her breath. She was getting really tired of all these suspenseful moments, with no action. It was like foreplay without the sex.

While Vivian lamented the lack of violence, Ophilia slipped further into the room, her pistol snapping from one door to the next as she got close to them, just in case she had to say hello, but with bullets. When no one decided to greet them, the mobster stopped at one of the doors and listened.

Almost right away, Ophilia turned and motioned Vivian into a nearby door with a frantic wave.

Vivian hesitated for only a half-second – if she pretended to be shocked or confused, maybe they could actually shoot someone – but her desire to seem competent to Ophilia won out and she rushed to a door as quietly as she could, opened it, and slipped inside.

It was a closet. There were mop buckets and everything. She almost laughed out loud – of any room they could've ducked into, of course they'd wind up in the fuckin' closet!

Ophilia darted in behind her, shutting the door quietly behind her. In the brief second of light before the darkness closed in, Vivian could see Ophilia putting a finger to her lips for silence, as if she needed any reminding. She went to grumble, but nearly swallowed her tongue at the sound of movement on the other side of the door. Perhaps these sneaky moments were exciting, in their own way.

The door across the hall had been opened, and Vivian could hear footsteps, as well as a slightly muffled conversation. "... told you, we had all the tools we needed up there." The first voice sounded older, slightly gravelly. "I swear, if my fucking coffee's gone cold..."

"Quit bitchin'," said a second, younger voice. "So I was wrong. Fuck off."

The footsteps retreated down the hall, towards the door Vivian and Ophilia had just entered. With the sound of the door closing, silence reigned again. Ophilia still waited several more seconds before opening the closet door, peering out cautiously. She ducked out, leaving Vivian to laugh silently into her hand. Now they were coming out of the closet!

Vivian caught up with Ophilia as she pressed her ear to the door for the second time. Rather than motion for her to run away, this time Ophilia responded with a series of complicated hand signs. Vivian raised her eyebrow and made her own sign – a corkscrew gesture towards her temple.

Ophilia rolled her eyes dramatically, but gave a small smile. She followed up with a simpler gesture: she drew her thumb across her throat. Now this was more like it! Slowly, Ophilia pushed open the door.

The room was a makeshift security center. One man had been left behind, watching several screens with his back to the pair of women. His bad luck. Vivian raised her rifle to fire, but much to her chagrin, Ophilia pushed it back down, putting that same damn finger to her lips. She was lucky they were so luscious.

Vivian watched her creep forward slowly like the shadow of death, holstering her pistol and drawing something else from inside her suit. She gripped a pair of short wooden sticks in each hand and, at first, Vivian was genuinely confused. However, it only took a second for her to recognize the garrote wire for what it was when Ophilia snapped it taught moments before looping it over the man's head and around his neck. She'd never seen one of those used before, so the excitement was doubled.

The guard tried to fight it, but it was impossible. He flailed back, trying to reach Ophilia, but the angle was too awkward. Vivian felt a rush of adrenaline as she watched the man die. It was a normal feeling for her; a reminder that she was better at surviving than the people around her. After all, she wasn't the one being strangled to death, was she now?

Ophilia stayed where she was, holding the wire tightly around the man's throat, even after he fell unconscious. Suffocation was a very slow death, even if you weren't awake for most of it. "Now we wait," she whispered into the silence, sounding utterly passionless. Vivian didn't understand how she could seem so empty when she killed someone, but so full of emotion every other moment throughout the day.

Not bothering to pursue that line of thinking, Vivian flopped into a chair beside the dying man, eyeing him speculatively. Spotting what she'd been searching for, she reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a cigarette box. When she opened it, she found exactly what she'd hoped for: several hand-rolled joints. "Score," she whispered, smelling the rollies to make sure they weren't tobacco.

Ophilia raised an eyebrow at her from behind the man, making Vivian giggle and shrug. "What? He's not gonna be smoking 'em, is he?" She slipped a joint out from the rest, sliding the others into her own carrying case, putting that back inside her jacket with a sense of triumph. She placed the extra blunt on her lips drawing out her lighter.

Just as Vivian was about to sit back and kick her feet up, one of the screens changed. What was previously static flickered, changing to a shot of two men, putting the finishing touches on the completed security camera, one of them angrily sipping his lukewarm coffee. Vivian noticed right away that the quality of camera she purchased was leagues above what the Dogs were previously working with; you just needed to compare the screens.

The two men walked off-screen just as Vivian lit her blunt. With a wild grin, she spun around in her chair so she faced towards the door and shouldered her rifle, using the back of the chair as a rest and aiming at the entrance the two men would surely take. Ophilia, being far more practical, unwrapped her garrote from the unconscious guard's neck and moved beside the door. This meant that when someone walked through, she would have a clear shot at them – probably without them even knowing she was there. She drew her pistol, looked over to Vivian, then put some distance between herself and the door, probably to avoid any stray bullets.

It felt like forever to Vivian, but not a minute later, she heard the outer door close and the voices approaching. "... just sayin', you need to lighten up, man." It was that second voice – the younger one. As the door opened and they spotted her, Vivian almost felt sorry for them. Almost.

Ophilia snapped her pistol up the second a shot was clear, shooting the older man cleanly in the side of the head. His grey matter splattered all over the younger guy, who was all Vivian's. And she did this her way, rattling off a triple-burst shot, controlling the rifle's kickback with moderate skill. With the almost gentle retort of the silencer, the bullets all hit home: stomach, chest, eye. He didn't even have time to realize what was happening.

Ophilia moved quickly the moment the shots were fired, catching the man she'd shot and pushing his corpse inside the room. She dragged Vivian's victim in with a sharp tug, kicking the door closed behind her. With a calm, collected air, she walked back to the unconscious man and unceremoniously blew his brains out. She began digging over the bodies while Vivian took a long drag from her blunt, trembling from head to toe. While she recovered herself, Ophilia placed a second shot into the heads of the two other bodies, just to be certain, then looked over to Vivian.

"Now what?" Vivian asked, spinning her whole chair around so she was facing the security screens. She blew out a long drag of smoke and Ophilia waved her hand in front of her face, trying to dispel it.

Cameras were everywhere in the warehouse, both outside and inside. Vivian would have respected their caution, if they hadn't tripped so spectacularly at the finish line. Vivian even noticed that Ophilia had found a dark spot in their security to mask their approach. It was a real shame they were all so grossly incompetent, or this might have actually been a challenge. As it was, Vivian was enjoying herself to the fullest.

Then again... Vivian thought to herself, looking over her shoulder at Ophilia, who was checking the bodies for ammunition and side arms. Without her, would Vivian have really gotten in so easily? She would've kicked in the front door and ran face-first into this security. It would've been an absolute catastrophe.

As that fact settled into place, Ophilia made her way across the room, passing Vivian a small pistol and a spare clip. She leaned over the screens, then almost instantly pointed to one of them with her own spare pistol, taken from one of the corpses. "Here," she whispered, "room two-fourty-eight. That's where they have your guns."

"How can you tell?" Vivian sat up a little straighter, rolling the blunt on her lips. Ophilia smirked, tapping the bottom of the screen with the barrel of the pistol. It had the words Room 248: Armory written across the bottom. "Oh, that's just fuckin' lazy, right there!" Vivian emoted, nearly tossing her arms up. "I mean, come on!"

"Makes it easier for us though," Ophilia responded before stepping back, drawing and pointing her silenced pistol at the screens. One by one, she shot them out, until there was nothing but sparks, broken glass, and smoke. "Give me a stupid enemy any day."

"But it's not nearly as fun," Vivian quipped, hopping back out of the chair and laughing. She checked the safety on the pistol and stashed it in the back of her pants, under her coat.

"None of this is fun, Vivian." Ophilia turned to look at her with an utterly blank stare. "This is business." Vivian nearly made a rather harsh comment about that, but bit her tongue. She didn't want to spend the rest of this raid arguing with Ophilia about the finer points of murder. She did, however, decide to call that expression Ophilia's professional face from then on.

With just a little exploration, they found that the rest of the observation deck was empty. This late at night, not many bangers would willingly waste their time at this dump of a warehouse, and those that were forced to be here were being very, very lazy. These weren't mercenaries, or even trained guards; these were common gangsters; men and women who would rather be spending their night getting high on their drug of choice or partying the moonlight away. But to Vivian's eye, there was no party like the party she was about to bring down on this place. The anticipation was killing her.

Back out on the catwalk, Vivian and Ophilia were once again in the dark, high above the rest of the warehouse. Ophilia motioned for silence again, and Vivian rolled her eyes behind her glasses. The two continued to creep down the catwalk, heading for a staircase at the far side, built flush against the wall, that lead down to the ground floor.

Just before the staircase however, there was another guard. She was leaning on the railing, overlooking the whole warehouse with a cigarette burning in her lip. Vivian almost chuckled at how the smell of nicotine made Ophilia twitch. A sub-machine gun was hanging off her arm on a strap and the cherry burning on her lips was illuminating her face in the dim lighting of the catwalk.

She started to turn – maybe because she heard a noise or maybe because she was patrolling – and Ophilia shot her square in the face. There was no hesitation or ceremony; her hand snapped up with precision and planted a bullet in the guard, right next to the bridge of her nose, just under her left eye. Blood, bits of bone, and what Vivian assumed was spinal fluid splattered onto the stairs behind her as she fell backwards, her cigarette landing on her stomach when the dust finally settled.

Ophilia walked over and scooped the smoke up, taking a good, long drag before blowing out the smoke and flicking it back onto the dead body. "Menthol. Ew."

Vivian stared at her, then the corpse. She'd killed people plenty of times before – old and young; bangers and not; men and woman and everything in between. She'd used shanks, guns, knives – even a sword that one time. But Ophilia was something different. Vivian had assumed that she'd had some training, but this was more than the teachings of some random mobster or mercenary.

Very little was known about Ophilia – or rather, the Silencer – because, she supposed, anyone who got a good look at her abilities would come down with a very serious case of the dead shortly after. It's damn inconvenient, trying to confirm or deny rumors when you're a corpse. So people speculated, guessing she was a trained spy or made some deal with the devil or something, when reality was probably much simpler.

Vivian scooped up the sub-machine gun from where it'd clattered to the walkway, hanging it over her chest as they walked towards the stairs. "Where did you learn all this, Mel?" She found herself asking in a soft whisper. She was fascinated by the walking mystery that was her lover.

"Turkey," Ophilia replied quickly, but offered nothing else. She pointed silently, ignoring the meat of the question.

Down on the ground floor, a few 'corridors' away, four Black Dogs were playing a game of cards amid an intersection. They must have been so focused on their game that they'd missed Ophilia's heartless extermination of their friend. Vivian could just barely make out what looked like a large pile of cash in the center of the table they were playing on. Each of them were staring intently at their hands, occasionally lowering them to take a swig of beer or soda, whichever they were drinking.

Vivian grinned, feeling her blood pound in her ears, calling for more bloodshed. "A challenge," she whispered to Ophilia, shouldering the machine gun, but the other woman shook her head.

"An obstacle. We won't be drawing their attention, if we do this right."

Vivian pouted, but gave a small nod. Ophilia was probably right. This place wasn't very defensible, and if there were any Dogs down there they couldn't see, they'd be Swiss cheese in no time. On home ground, it was doable, but here in the belly of the beast, it was suicide.

The two reached the bottom of the stairs, taking a longer route around to give the gamblers a wide berth. Vivian was forced to admit defeat as they moved deeper and deeper into the warehouse; she heard voices here and there, behind walls and down corridors. More than once, Ophilia stopped her from walking out in front of a patrol, letting them walk past without an ounce of harm. Clearly, the mobster had seen far more then Vivian had imagined in that brief glimpse off the catwalk.

Room two-fourty-eight was relatively easy to find, since all the rooms were laid out in a pattern. Decode the pattern, follow the trail, and win the prize. Vivian was very good at things like that.

Ophilia took up a position beside the door, listening through the flimsy wall. She looked back to Vivian after a moment and made the throat-slicing gesture again. Vivian raised an eyebrow at her, wondering just how absolute the sign was this time.

However, Ophilia gave her a nod, as if reading her thoughts. Vivian was confident that, if someone was in there, they were shooting them full of holes right away. The room had been empty before, when they'd looked it over with the cameras, but if Ophilia was giving the sign to shoot then there was obviously someone inside now.

Ophilia reached and tried to turn the handle, but uttered a whispered curse – it was locked from the inside. They could shimmy over the divider, but there would be a major risk of being spotted. From the immobile view of the camera, they had no real idea of what the layout of the room really was. No, they'd need to go in the old-fashioned way.

Ophilia made sure Vivian understood and drew a two pairs of earplugs from her pocket. After putting hers in and letting Vivian do the same, she began counting down on her fingers. As the last finger fell, she shot the doorknob, kicking out with her foot not even a moment later.

Three Black Dogs were visible in the room, standing around a large crate – the bulk of Vivian's shipment. They were caught by surprise; a particular kind of emotion that seemed to follow Vivian around like a lost puppy.

Seeing three juicy targets, Vivian shouldered her rifle, flicking the fire setting from triple-burst to full-auto during the fluid motion. She sprayed the area the men were standing in with hushed rounds, not entirely sure if she was hitting her mark. Ophilia crouched under Vivian's rifle and slipped into the room, drawing her pistol again. Just as Vivian was about to wonder why she even bothered getting Ophilia a rifle, the mobster fired a shot at a fourth gangster Vivian hadn't seen, dropping him cleanly. He'd been aiming for her, while she'd been focusing on shooting the three in the center of the room.

One of the men beside the crate fell, but the other two scattered. As she took aim at one of the men, she noticed the weapon in his hands; a sleek, new KSG Bullpup Shotgun, fresh from her stash. "Oh shit," she muttered, diving behind a nearby crate. The walls behind her would be about as helpful as tissue paper against that shotgun. Just as she made it to cover, the banger she'd spied with her shotgun turned from his shelter and fired in her direction, sending fragments of wood everywhere. Ophilia was similarly pinned by the other man. Gunshots tore through the previously quiet warehouse; stealth had rightly failed.

Vivian took a long, deep breath, letting it out in a shuddering heave. "Oh... yeah..." She let the rifle fall and dangle at her side, drawing out her babies.

Vivian's Eagles were custom-modded to fit her needs, bearing all the bells and whistles any woman like Vivian could ever want. The extended clips meant more bullets for more man meat, while the glowing sights made it all the easier for Vivian to pinpoint her targets. She'd even had her gang's sign etched into the barrel of both, marking them as hers and hers alone.

She spun from cover, keeping low and peering down the sights of one Eagle. She'd caught the gangster that was firing at her off guard; he'd been aiming high and hadn't expected her to break cover down low. As always, her baby packed a punch, kicking back her hand violently. She had barely enough time to see blood splatter behind the man before she snapped her head, looking towards the other gangster who was harassing Ophilia. This one, having a second of warning, had taken cover behind a crate at the far wall. Certainly, he'd hoped Vivian would hesitate, in case the crate was full of guns and ammo.

Vivian snorted and shot the crate twice with her off-hand gun. Seriously, who did he think she was? Nothing inside exploded, but Vivian heard a grunt of pain right before the man slumped over, dead. Triumphant, Vivian snapped her head back to the first man who was on the ground screaming, holding his gut in agony; Vivian's shot had veered low, but entered just above his belly button and shredded it's way out the back, taking the man's lower spine with it. His legs were utterly useless now. Vivian mercifully shot him in the head with a manic grin.

"Vivian!" Ophilia's shout made Vivian snap around, assuming there were more attackers. She didn't really expect to get slapped. The flash of pain on the side of her face staggered her more than it should have and Vivian brought her head back up to stare at her lover in amazement. "That was stupid, reckless, and dangerous!" Ophilia shouted to be heard over the earplugs. "You could've died! You shouldn't have—" She cut off with a curse, hearing cries of alarm from all around the warehouse. "Grab the goods. We're leaving."

Vivian put away her pistols and rubbed her cheek, grinning. Even Ophilia's admonishing tone hadn't killed her adrenaline high. "Of course, oh fearless leader." She slid her weapons off one by one as she went to the crate in the center of the room, putting the rifle, spare pistol, and sub-machine gun in with her other goodies. She barely contained her joy, drawing out a new rifle with various attachments and hefting it experimentally. She stocked up on ammunition, loaded the grenade launcher, slapped a fresh clip into the bottom, and chambered a bullet. She spun with that same wild look, taking her glasses off and pocketing them. "Lets give these stupid fucks a show, hm?"

She reached into her jacket, drawing out a frag grenade. Ophilia stopped mid-reload, giving her a shocked and curious look. Vivian shrugged, raising her voice just enough to be heard. "I've got five of 'em, but they aren't very quiet, ya know." She pulled the pin with her teeth and lobbed the grenade over the partition while Ophilia hurried to the crate to see what they were dealing with.

Vivian dug out two more grenades as the first one exploded, pulling the pins in a similar fashion before tossing them into the warehouse at random.

Sow chaos; that was Vivian's game. Chaos that you controlled made your enemies stupid and gullible. Fear could have a fine touch, or it could be a wild explosion. Vivian, obviously, preferred the latter.

Knowing she had a near-endless supply of ammunition at her disposal, Vivian finished off the current round of fireworks by firing the rifle's grenade launcher into the hall just outside the room, earning several screams of surprise and pain. She moved back to the box, grabbing another grenade and looking to her lover's confused expression.

"There's no way we can carry all this out, Viv," Ophilia said with a kind of bewildered certainty, pulling out her earplugs. Her eyes were a little wild as she stared at the man-sized crate of firearms and ammunition.

"Nope," Vivian responded, snapping the grenade launcher closed over it's fresh ammo.

"You knew!" Ophilia accused.

"Eeyup," Vivian shot back cheerily. "I'm here to deliver a message. You've done your part in getting me here; now let me do mine." She tossed the fully-equipped rifle to Ophilia giving her a wink. "You know how to kill like a stalking panther, Mel. Lemme show you how a rhino does it." Vivian finished the statement with a flash of white teeth. "Hold 'em off for me, would you?"

Ophilia , wide-eyed a moment earlier, snapped on her professional face the moment she heard Vivian's request. She set up by the door, putting her earplugs back in and started firing at any targets that presented themselves. The Black Dogs, however, were a little hesitant to get too close – there had been no real warning between the silence of the night and the explosions of Vivian's chaotic mess and their nerves were probably a little frayed.

The crate was packed with guns and Vivian needed to dig to try and find her goal. She was certain she'd seen a part of it when she'd been fishing out that first grenade. It was a singular weapon that she'd purchased, not precisely for use, but rather as a piece for her personal collection. It would look splendid beside her AMR.

A long, thick barrel found her fingers. Vivian traced around it, trailing her slowly hand up and down to make sure her guess was right. She almost squealed in joy when her fingers confirmed what she'd been thinking. She began digging frantically, ignoring the sounds of approaching feet and shouting, all in an effort to pull her newest baby from it's metallic and wooden womb.

She only had enough rounds to fire it for three minutes. She'd make due.

Vivian had always adored the redundancy of the name Minigun. It brought to mind an adorable little thing; something smaller than your average pistol firing dainty little bullets. And yet, everyone knew the reality; the M134 Minigun was a gun that was so big and heavy that it was virtually impossible to create a light, mobile version of the weapon. And yet this beautiful machine could fire over two-thousand bullets a minute, on it's lowest speed setting.

Vivian toted the beauty from the crate, noticing that the Black Dogs had already done her job and assembled her little killing machine, as well as it's ammo dump, energy source, and tripod in inside the box. They probably had plans to mount it somewhere in the warehouse to shore up their defenses. She kissed the sleek metal shaft of the gun's barrel, trailing her hand almost sensually over it, and sighed as she held it close to her body. "I love you."

"Viv, quit making love to the damn gun and kill someone already!" Ophilia shouted without even turning around. She was firing rounds at a few Black Dogs who'd grown brave enough to take cover by the door and fire in. They'd learned pretty fast that the walls they were hiding behind weren't all that helpful against someone with good judgement, but they were persistent.

Vivian let out a playful giggle, drawing the ammunition stream from the crate. "Of course, darling." She lugged up the main gun, putting the strap around her shoulder, and climbed onto a nearby table for some height, connecting the gun to it's ammunition and power sources. She heard a bullet whiz past her head, followed by more gunshots and angry shouts from Ophilia. "You might want to get down though!" She shouted loudly, making sure Ophilia could hear her amid all the madness.

At this curious statement, Ophilia finally found a moment to look back at what Vivian was doing. When the mobster's eyes finally fell on Vivian's compensation cannon, she mouthed a foul word and dove flat onto her stomach.

The barrel spun, humming in Vivian's blocked hearing like a continual heartbeat. Her own heart pounded against her rib-cage, eager as she was for the climax. She'd dreamed of firing one of these her whole life, even if she hadn't known it yet. If this past month was to be believed, dreams came true in succession. Pretty soon, she'd likely meet aliens and finally find a copy of Polybius!

With a rattle, the ammunition fed into the chamber. As soon as that first bullet slipped past that rotating barrel, the minigun opened fire.

It was like holding onto a bucking stream of death. It was next to impossible to keep the stream straight, so Vivian simply leaned towards the spray and pray method of firing. Bullets tore through the flimsy walls like they were made of moist toilet paper, filling the air with flying plaster dust, fragments of cheap wood, and gallons of splattered blood. Screams were buried under the roar of her baby and Vivian found that she was laughing. She turned, dragging the line of murder along the wall, killing anyone who was dumb enough to be hiding outside. And three rooms over. Hell, anyone on this entire floor was about to have a very bad time.

She laughed louder – perhaps a little hysterically – and felt the familiar rush of pleasure that so often accompanied her latest fix. This felt even better than sex!

She let up on the trigger, but kept the barrel spinning. She realized then that she'd only been firing for about half a minute, despite it feeling like a small eternity. She hopped off the table, landing with a grunt and her legs almost buckling under the weight. Through adrenaline and sheer grit she managed to keep from collapsing, but her arms were trembling uncontrollably already. "Fuck, this thing is heavy," she complained. She'd need to set up the brace and tripod properly before she fired again. As she went to step, she realized just how aroused she'd actually become from firing the gun. "Fun though," she added with a manic grin, trying to keep from blushing.

Ophilia pushed herself up, fedora askew, and stared at Vivian wish huge, shocked eyes. There was a distant sound of a wall collapsing.

"We should keep moving," Vivian said, motioning with the barrel of her gun. "We've got some punks to clear out."

Her heart was still thudding in her chest, her breathing was still ragged, and her legs were shaking – that last one could've been the weight, though. In spire of all these things, Vivian was ready and waiting for more action. 

Ophilia was silent, staring at her as if trying to decide what to do next about this whole situation. Vivian was confident that she'd get the next step put into place. She was the Silencer after all, a legend in her own right. With a quick swipe of her tongue, Vivian wet her dried lips and awaited Ophilia's decision amid the pleasant melodies of screams as well as the sweet and coppery scent of fresh blood.
> Chapter 8: She's a Silencer
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ophilia's world blurred for a moment as Vivian stared at her. She heard the screams from all around them and smelled the cloying scent of blood in the air. She felt like she was covered in mud and gore as she crawled through the tarnished remains of a shelled city of stone huts. She saw the eyes – hundreds of them – staring at her from their places on the ground – always open, never blinking – asking her so many questions that would never be answered. She swallowed against the growing knot of horror in her throat, but the saliva tasted like piss and dry rations.

There was a reason Ophilia killed her victims before they had time to scream and left no witnesses to see her after a firefight. Tasks like torture and extortion gave her time to prepare. But she hadn't been prepared for this. She felt her skin grow cold and clammy, her throat tighten as if she was being strangled. She was locked in place, staring at Vivian, trying to look cool and composed.

"Ophilia?" Vivian's voice sounded distant, even through the earplugs. "Ophilia, y'alright?"

Ophilia pitched to the side and vomited. She managed to keep it off herself, but clutched her stomach as a second wave hit her, dumping what little contents her stomach had left onto the ground. Vivian was supporting her in seconds, holding her hair back, but Ophilia pushed her away, panicked. This was all wrong. She groped for her rifle, finding it's comforting presence at her side. She felt her breath come back to her as fear abated.

She was protected. She was safe. She wasn't some little girl who needed to be afraid of the skeletons in her closet or the monsters under her bed. She'd drag them into the open. She'd put a bullet between their eyes. And then they'd join the others on the ground, atop the ever-growing pile of the dead.

Ophilia coughed and spat, feeling some warmth return to her body. She heard distant shouts and reality settled back into place. The Black Dogs were probably starting some kind of recovery effort. She dug a rag from her pocket that was normally used for wiping up fingerprints and wiped her mouth clean.

"I'm fine," Ophilia said, pulling out her earplugs. She leaned into Vivian, so the other woman could hear her clearly. "I'm fine, Vivian." She kissed the woman's cheek, vaguely unsure why she'd done it. It certainly wasn't the time for it. "We... Let me get another look in that box. I thought I saw a sniper rifle I'm familiar with."

Vivian tilted her head slightly, then nodded. "I got most of that. I'll keep their attention off you."

Despite everything that had just happened, Vivian seemed almost eager to dive into the thick. Ophilia couldn't understand it; this wasn't like her Vivian at all. She was more than changed – she'd been reborn – and Ophilia wasn't certain she liked the differences. But Vivian was still Vivian, deep down. Ophilia had seen that much clearly. She would worry about the messy details later.

She moved quickly to the weapon crate while Vivian lobbed her last two grenades over the wall, cackling. As if anyone would be alive close enough to this area to be harmed by them. As the frags exploded, Vivian rushed to mount her Minigun, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.

Ophilia, meanwhile, dug in the box, looking for the coveted scope she'd seen earlier. For a moment, she thought that perhaps she'd been seeing things – that the gun she was certain she saw had been just another part of her delusions and flashbacks.

But there it was. Ophilia's eyes fell on the rifle – a Tabuk Sniper Rifle – sitting among the other weapons. She lifted the weapon with slightly shaking hands, remembering the last time she'd fired one of these.

"Why did you buy this model?" Ophilia asked, not looking up from the smooth wood stock of the gun.

"Hm?" Vivian asked, looking over to her. "Oh that," she added, likely seeing what Ophilia was holding. She pulled out an earplug; there was still shouting, but the Dogs weren't coming closer yet. "It's a Tabuk; they were made in Iraq ages ago, but held on to their value. I just saw that one on the market and decided to grab it. Why not, right?" She paused. "You, uh... alright, Ophilia?"

Ophilia gripped the gun tighter, taking a deep, calming breath. She felt a part of her soul harden, preparing her for the terrors she was about to face. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's nothing." She shouldered the gun, then looked over to Vivian. "I'm keeping this gun."

Vivian blinked and tiled her head. "Why?"

"No reason. I just like it," Ophilia lied, scooping up some ammunition and drawing her pistol. "I'll need five minutes to get to the catwalk. After that, I can shoot down over their cover. Can you keep them occupied?"

Vivian nodded and gave a rakish smile that, in just about any other situation, would've made Ophilia smile right back. But she found no joy in this dirty business, even if Vivian did. She turned and scaled one of the shelves of boxes and firearms with quick, simple movements. She wasted no energy – it'd certainly be needed later. As she jumped over the top of the divider, she had a very quick glimpse of Vivian as she attached her Minigun to the stand.

Several seconds later, the roar of the gun filled the air, mixed with Vivian's hysterical laughter.

Ophilia shuddered as she pressed her back to the wall. That was the laugh of someone thoroughly, frantically, maybe fanatically enjoying something they were doing. And, in this case, that something was the wholesale slaughter of one's fellow man. But then again, had Ophilia really been any different? Did it matter if you enjoyed the slaughter or not? These questions, mixed with Vivian's hysteria, made Ophilia's blood run cold. To keep from thinking any further, she darted forward through the winding corridors of the warehouse, eyes snapping to the large outer wall and the stairs that lead to her perch.

All at once, the Minigun's roar stopped. "Aw, come on!" Ophilia heard Vivian shout, before the chaos resumed. As she ran, visions swam over what she saw. All around her, buildings rose up and crumbled to dust. She heard the roar of jets as they came in to carpet an area. She gripped the Tabuk tightly in a white-knuckled grip, seeing blossom-shaped splotches of red wherever she looked. But she'd been prepared for it this time; the thoughts, the flashbacks, the terrible memories. She shook her head, muttering her mantra to herself as she ran.

"Don't look back; look forward. Don't look back; look forward..." She stopped at a corner, face blank and emotionless. Better to not feel at all, she always said. Vivian's path of destruction grew larger and Ophilia took a moment to consider her lover's style. Vivian's brand of warfare was simple: she reveled in the madness brought on by fear and confusion. She was like a musician, plucking at the chords of her enemy's mind, driving them to acts of stupidity. Do it right, and they'd practically shoot themselves.

She looked around the corner, eyes settling on her goal. She noticed with some disdain that three of these incompetent gangster had only just now got the same idea as her. If she'd been on their side of this firefight, the catwalks would've been her first objective.

Holstering her pistol for now, she drew the Tabuk up to her shoulder and adjusted the scope. These men, she realized, were entirely unequipped for dealing with a sniper. They carried rifles with no attachments; nothing to give them an edge at a far distance. If she caught them by surprise from afar, they'd be fish in a barrel.

Ophilia crouched down, minimizing the presented target as best as she could, and began firing the semi-automatic rifle. The first bullet struck a gangster in the forehead, snapping his whole body back in one harsh motion. Later shots were less precise, but they all found flesh regardless. She'd learned that many enemies will black out from shock when their kneecaps burst or their stomachs opened up. Pain like that was something the mind liked to distance itself from.

This wasn't as bad as her last Job. There was a personal touch to torture that required a strong bond between torturer and victim. This kind of killing was impartial, impersonal, and easy by comparison. Still, deep inside her hollow chest, Ophilia hated how good she was at putting her enemies into the ground.

Once the staircase was clear and the moans of the dying let others know that it was off limits, Ophilia hurried up the stairs to the catwalk and trained her sights onto the warehouse below, looking for her violent lover.

Admittedly, she was pretty easy to find; just follow the explosions.

Vivian had most definitely gone back to the crate to restock at some point or another – her weapon of choice now was a semi-automatic shotgun that the gangsters they'd killed earlier had been using.

Vivian, Ophilia considered, was most at home with guns such as her minigun or shotguns. She preferred brute force and lacked precision; those weapons were perfect for those kinds of situations. However, in the right hands, any weapon could become a master's tool.

Vivian was facing off against three of the Black Dogs in a room no larger than the average bedroom. One of the three was making a point to try and restore some order to Vivian's chaos, and the gang boss with the wild hair and wild eyes was making a special point to let them know exactly how she felt about that choice of action. She was outnumbered, though, and the man was pointing at her hiding spot, shouting some orders to his fellow bangers.

Ophilia drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, honing her focus to a needle point. She aimed carefully and gently pulled the trigger. The leader of Vivian's little group of enemies didn't know what hit him. Ophilia could hear the sudden outcries as the man's head snapped to his shoulder, a rose of blood suddenly blooming on the wall beside him as his head emptied itself of it's contents. His body crumpled off his perch and nearly landed on another gangster, who quickly broke cover and tried to retreat. 

Ophilia's second shot took him in the leg. He collapsed to the ground, screaming loudly until Vivian peeked from her cover and replaced his head with a mess of crimson chunks. The third and final gangster was huddled behind her cover, eyes wild and afraid, frantically scanning for Ophilia. Pity was shunted from Ophilia's heart and she pulled the trigger a third time, removing the woman's need to search.

Vivian rose and saluted her, raising her gun in a sign of thanks, before stalking off down another hall in search of more violence.

Ophilia wasn't entirely sure there were many Black Dogs left. With the constant movement in and out of the warehouse, getting an accurate assessment of the warehouse's population had been next to impossible prior to entry. And despite the numbers she'd seen while they'd crept through the warehouse, many of those people likely fled into the night. Ophilia couldn't blame them; Vivian was frightening.

So, not knowing what numbers they faced, Ophilia settled in and watched over Vivian like a guardian angel. She took shot after shot, missing very rarely, and killing effortlessly. As she claimed life after life, Ophilia forced a wall between her thoughts and actions. She let her mind drift – dangerous, she knew, but necessary to keep her sanity. The scene her mind chose, however, was not a pleasant one.

Gunfire, all around her. Innocent people – women, children, elderly – screamed as they died. The schoolhouse was aflame; a pyre for the bodies of the 'heathen' children. It was just another day in her life by that point, but the horror of those scenes still woke her up at night. She'd clutched a rifle very much like the one she held now, firing shots into the 'warriors' who were killing indiscriminately in the name of their God. Quickly, her mind shuffled to something new.

A fanatic, Salvatore had taught her, was a predictable creature only in it's unpredictability. They didn't think like normal people, were willing to throw their lives away for their cause, and could kill without remorse, so long as they believe it's for the greater good. They could exist anywhere and fear meant little to them.

Vivian was, in many ways, a fanatic; what she followed in her fanaticism, however, was up for debate. Ophilia had to wonder what the two of them could even believe in, after all they'd gone through in life.

The man seemed to come from nowhere, as distracted as Ophilia was. He had hidden while his friends died and, once the moment was ripe, he'd stepped out and pinpointed Ophilia after her attention was elsewhere. Up till now, with Vivian's distractions, nobody had bothered to try and mark Ophilia's location. This man had. He fired and red splashed onto the catwalk behind her. Ophilia knew she'd been hit; the sensation was familiar to her after the other times she'd felt it. Like an old friend.

The initial contact felt like a pebble hitting her. She felt no pain for a second, then a harsh burning that radiated out from where the bullet had traveled. She snapped her rifle towards her attacker, snarling as the pain forced her senses into overdrive. Just as she was about to pull the trigger and end his life, the side of his head exploded into red mist. Vivian was standing nearby, aiming her Desert Eagle where the man had just been standing.

Without another moment, Ophilia found her wound. The bullet had struck her left thigh, a minor wound, but she was loosing blood. Ophilia found the exit wound and noticed with some relief that the bullet had passed completely through the leg without damaging the bone. That'd be a much faster recovery time.

Her breath left her in an explosive burst and she realize that she hadn't known she was holding it. She was sweating and her head was filled with an annoying ring, like tinnitus, but not from loud noises. She dug in her bag for a gauze wrap, her eyes not leaving Vivian as she looted the dead man's body.

The other woman saluted again, a little wearily this time, but Ophilia could see those pearly-white teeth even without her scope. She found herself smiling back as she wrapped her wound tightly, immensely grateful that, while she was watching over Vivian, her lover had been watching out for her as well.

In that moment, she decided that, no matter how much she'd changed – no matter what she enjoyed or did – Vivian was hers. She was precious, and Ophilia would love her, no matter what came their way.

Wound tied off and gritting against the pain, Ophilia reloaded her rifle, dropping the magazine off the catwalk. Luckily, she'd watched her magazine fall – there were guards below her. Ophilia cursed as the spent magazine landed among them and their heads snapped up. As one, they all raised their rifles, prepared to fire.

Ophilia scrambled, slightly slowed by her injured leg, rushing along the catwalk as sparks flew around her. The grates were both a blessing and a curse; they deflected bullets, but left no way for her to hide. She couldn't do anything but retreat.

The sound of Vivian's Eagle was like the bark of a fierce hound, breaking the monotony of machine-gun fire from below. Ophilia heard shouts as attention was diverted from her long enough for her to twist herself around and draw her pistol. She soaked in the entire situation in only a matter of seconds.

Vivian was standing down the hall, her forearm wrapped with something that had probably once resembled a shirt. Her Eagles roared in defiance at the gunmen. The Black Dogs – all four of them – were looking at Vivian and training their weapons on her haphazardly. They'd forgotten the panther for fear of the rhino.

This proved to be an error in judgement. Ophilia leaned over the side of the railing and fired a shot down into the head of one of the men, just as Vivian's bullets took two more simultaneously. The last man looked at his fallen friends and tried to run. Ophilia gunned him down without an ounce of emotion or a moment of hesitation.

As the last shot echoed away, there was silence at last. No fresh targets rose up. No bullets peppered the space around her. Ophilia felt the adrenaline fade from her body as the seconds marched by into a minute and her mind marked the end of the fight. She kept her pistol out, but leaned onto the railing with her arms, taking a moment to catch her breath and relax. She watched as Vivian leaned against a wall, hunched over and breathing heavily. She had probably been riding that adrenaline high for so long, she'd be asleep for days. The pain in her thigh was keen; she'd probably have another scar.

Movement caught her eye and Ophilia tensed. She'd underestimated the Black Dogs. Most of them had been reckless, helpless, or just plain moronic, but apparently, a small group of them had brains in their heads. They'd waited, bided their time, and slipped into the armory when Vivian and Ophilia were far enough away.

The one man Ophilia spotted was shouldering an RPG, the deadly launcher aimed directly at her. She noted three more, two men carrying combat shotguns and a woman with a sniper rifle, trained in Vivian's direction. Ophilia couldn't see the face of the one aiming at her, but she imagined it was triumphant. She shouted something to Vivian as she snapped her rifle up, but she knew she'd barely have time to kill even one of them before tragedy struck. 

The cross-hairs hovered over the head of the rocket-holder for a fraction of a second, before darting over to the sniper quickly. Ophilia planted the bullet into her eye, hearing the rocket as it ignited. She was turning to run only a second after she'd fired her shot, hearing the sound of it's approaching hiss.

The world behind her exploded and Ophilia was thrown into the air. She felt something smash into her chest – knocking all the wind out of her – and saw the railing of the catwalk just briefly as she rolled over it and flew into the air. Time seemed to slow and she saw that the entire catwalk was a destroyed mess. She'd avoided the brunt of the rocket, only to have the blast launch her over the railing. She'd have laughed, if she'd had the time. She had a single moment to worry about herself and Vivian before time resumed it's inevitable course, the ground rushed up to meet her with a loud crack and darkness consumed her vision.





Reality, as it's wont to do, reasserted itself regardless of whether Ophilia wanted it to or not. She coughed, feeling liquid agony pour through every vein in her entire body. Everything burned – from hair to heel – and she didn't dare move for fear of the nightmarish pain it'd probably bring. It seemed she was being dragged across the ground outside the warehouse on a kind of sled or stretcher, made from a broken piece of the warehouse's divider walls. Once she'd coughed, however, a familiar face came into view.

"Oh, you're alright! I was so worried!" Vivian gripped Ophilia's hand tightly as she spoke. She brought it up to her lips and kissed it, closing her eyes for a second. Her other hand was raised, holding her Eagle towards the direction in which Ophilia was being pulled.

Ophilia took a breath to speak, regretted it, and started coughing again, which only made everything worse. She could feel a stabbing pain in her midsection and knew she had at least one broken rib.

"Careful," Vivian said softly. This close, Ophilia got a very good look into Vivian's eyes. Yes, there was the signs that she was high – it hadn't been that long ago that Vivian had smoked a joint off the corpse in the security room – but Ophilia also noted obvious signs that Vivian had been sobbing. A lump swelled up in Ophilia's throat. 

"You've got some damage in your ribs; don't know how many, but I know two are broken," Vivian confirmed, making Ophilia wince. That wasn't great news. "I don't know about your leg... It got twisted pretty bad, so I know it's at least sprained... Your arm is broken for sure..." She peered off towards the direction of her gun as she spoke. "I think you hit your— Don't you fucking dare!" She snapped her whole head in the direction she'd been looking, her expression going from relieved to murderous in the span of a heartbeat. "I will force-feed you your own dick through a bendy-straw if you move one iota out of line, you fucking waste of of a fertilized egg!"

Ophilia heard no reply, but her makeshift sled suddenly began to move with more urgency. Vivian turned back to her, giving her head a small shake. "I think you hit your head pretty bad..." She resumed, as if she hadn't said anything at all about dicks or bendy-straws or eggs. "You were mumbling about someone named Salvatore." Vivian's voice trailed down into a whisper and she gave Ophilia's hand another hard squeeze. "I thought I'd lost you again..."

Ophilia felt herself smile, her pain seeming more tolerable after seeing Vivian's concern. She took a small, careful breath ignored the pain that flared through her body, and spoke. "What happened?" She asked, her voice a soft whisper. She had been growing more and more cognizant of her surroundings as Vivian had been talking, and she'd noticed that Vivian was walking with a noticeable limp. She had a makeshift bandage wrapped around her midsection, with blood staining the cloth over her hip. She also had a similar wrap around her shoulder, also showing some red. She was noticeably paler than normal, but she wasn't the ashen color of someone in danger from blood loss.

"You... fell. I was so certain you were dead. When I got to you, you were hardly breathing, and..." She trailed off, gritting her teeth. "I found 'em. Caught this one," she continued, waggling her Eagle at the person Ophilia presumed was there. "It's the fucker who shot the rocket. His friends booked it. Left him to die. I let him know that if you died, he'd follow you. Only way, way slower." She looked over to the man pulling Ophilia, biting her lip. "I might still, depending on how many bumps he hits, getting you to the car."

Ophilia felt the sled slow down again, becoming more cautious. "How long have I been out?"

Vivian sighed. "About thirty minutes. Longer than I'd have liked. You're... a mess, Ophilia..." Vivian pulled out a cloth she'd had tucked in her belt and wiped Ophilia's face down with it, soaking up the sweat. It probably helped, but to Ophilia, all it did was made her realize just how badly her head was killing her. The cloth already smelt like sweat, so Vivian had likely been using it this whole time. Either that, or the person who's clothes she'd ripped it off of hadn't been very hygienic. Or had been very frightened. Probably the latter.

"I fucked up," Vivian finally said, eyes moistening, as if she was about to cry. "I should've watched out for shit like this. I should've shown you what guns I'd gotten. I should've... Dammit..." She growled and clenched her fist on the rag, and the guy pulling the stretcher made a noise that Ophilia had heard only during her most vicious jobs.

"We're going to let him go," Ophilia said softly. Vivian's eyes hardened and she raised an eyebrow at her. "There's been enough killing today. He'll go back to his boss and tell him everything. Who I am. What you did. Why they shouldn't mess with your gang again. How I got hit with a rocket and fell off the catwalk and was barely injured." Ophilia laid the emphasis thick on the last two words, turning her head to look at the one pulling her along. "Right?"

Ophilia remembered the man from the brief time he'd been in her scope. She hadn't gotten a good look at him, but any sense of triumph she'd gotten from him was long gone now. His face was bloodied and he'd obviously been beaten badly. His face had several bruises that were obviously from being whipped by Vivian's Eagles. He probably had several fractures in his facial bones. "O-of course! I'll tell 'em whatever you want!"

Vivian bit her lip, obviously considering killing him regardless, when Ophilia rolled her hand and twined her fingers with Vivian's. "What was the point of all this? Not to get your guns back, but to send a message." She gave her lover's hand a squeeze. "The best messages hold both the living and the dead up as examples." It was one of her father's favorite sayings.

Vivian sighed – a familiar gesture that made Ophilia want to chuckle – and nodded. "Fine. As long as he doesn't fuck up and hurt you more, he'll go free."

"Thank you!" The man blubbered, and Vivian snapped her head back towards him.

"Shut the fuck up, or I'll slam your fucking skull into the pavement till it breaks, you disgusting little abortion of a man!" She screamed so loud, Ophilia got slightly worried about witnesses. Then again, it was unlikely there weren't witnesses to the firefight they'd just had. "Ophilia's a mess because of you and you used my fucking rocket launcher to do it! I should make you pay for that gun!"

Ophilia closed her eyes as Vivian tore into her captive. Yes, deep down, Vivian was still her same old self. She was vulgar, broken, and more vicious than anyone she'd even known, but underneath all that, she was still the loving, protective woman that cared more about Ophilia than anything else in the world. And Ophilia felt the same way.

The two held hands for two or three more minutes, before the man managed to finally reach the car. They'd driven over in one of Vivian's vehicles – a snow-white Jaguar XJ – and parked a good distance away to ensure a silent approach. He set her down, heaving loudly and doubling over.

"Did I say you could stop?" Vivian asked, pressing the Eagle into the side of his head. "Help her into the back seat. Now!" It was both agonizing and amusing, having the Black Dog help her into the car. While she was in an immense amount of pain, the constant string of threats and insults Vivian kept throwing at her prisoner was just too entertaining. Once she was safely in the car, laying across the seats, she heard Vivian open the door.

"Viv... Get his name," Ophilia said to the ceiling, not wanting to turn her head and cause herself any more pain right now. Vivian looked back to her, then rolled down the window and shouted more obscenities at the man. After a lengthy bout of her waving her gun at him again, Vivian passed back the man's ID. "Richard Drake, huh...?"

"I heard the others calling him Rover. A Black Dog named Rover. Fucking stupid, the lot of 'em," Vivian interjected, grumbling.

They left the lone man behind; the only one willingly spared in the entirety of their attack. He'd have quite the story to tell. Ophilia had to respect him somewhat; he'd taken control of a bad situation and had proven his resourcefulness. Ophilia was seriously considering passing his name to her father as a possible hire.

Ophilia rode in silence for a minute or two, thinking, while Vivian called Ne-Yo and her other Misfits. She told them to retrieve the guns, but to do so with caution. She doubted the Black Dogs would get in their way anymore, but paranoia was one of Vivian's favorite words. Finally beating down her nerves, Ophilia called her father.

"Ophilia. How did the job with Vivian go?" Charles' voice had a slightly bored tone; Ophilia knew he wasn't actually curious, meaning he already knew. Ophilia resisted the urge to swallow a knot in her throat. He wouldn't be pleased that she was injured.

"It was successful," Ophilia dodged giving the full answer for the moment, instead sticking to the task at hand. "I wanted to give you a name. I encountered a banger among the crowd that stood out. We let him live, but not before I got his name. I've decided; he would be an asset to the Family as a Bruiser."

Bruisers were the people not of "the blood"; random people who were given little power within the Family. They were the muscle, the meat, the fodder. But Ophilia liked shoring their ranks with the skilled and talented; better to have competent minions.

Charles made a thoughtful noise. "Very well." He took her recommendations very seriously, she knew. "Give me his name." Ophilia did and, after some questions about the man's abilities, Charles dismissed her and hung up the phone. After she pocketed it, silence ruled the car for several minutes. Vivian seemed oddly withdrawn and Ophilia was just about to say something about it, when Vivian finally spoke.

"You hungry?" She asked, and Ophilia nearly hurt herself laughing.

"Yeah, I actually am. Surprise me," She responded, shifting to prop herself up against the door. "Do you have a decent doctor in your pocket?"

Vivian nodded. "Yeah, don't worry. I got you covered, Mel." More silence.

"It wasn't just Turkey."

Vivian blinked, looking at Ophilia in the rear-view mirror. Ophilia closed her eyes, letting the memories wash over her. "My training. It wasn't just Turkey. I went all over the Middle East: Israel, Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Egypt... You name it; I've shot someone there. I was a mercenary, hired out to fight in this war or that. My mentor was an ex-MI6 agent named Salvatore. I was already learning how to snipe a target at two-hundred meters about a year after I was kidnapped. From that point on, my life was made up entirely of killing and dying in equal measure. I became what I am now: a killer, plain and simple. Worse, a chained animal, set lose on those who my master sics me on. I hardly have any free will anymore." She clenched her fist on her lap, letting her eyes open and looking over to Vivian. "I've never told anyone about any of this. There wasn't anyone I trusted enough to tell, until now." She could see the pain in Vivian's eyes as she stared at the road. "But it was nothing compared to what you'd gone through, Vivian. I read your file. I'm so sorry."

Vivian gave a small, defeated laugh. "Before I got back out onto the streets, I had maybe... five bodies on my hands? How many had you killed by then, Mel? And I did it because I needed to, to survive." She shook her head. "There's no comparison. Fuck, Ophilia, I..." She sighed and slammed the heel of her hand onto the wheel, wincing at the pain it clearly caused her. "I spent most of that time getting high... While you..."

Ophilia closed here eyes again and sat in the silence, until Vivian's voice reached her once more.

"Tell me about it," she said simply. Ophilia looked at her lover once more. "Share your burdens with me, Mel. I'll share mine with you. If we're really gonna be two parts of one whole, then lets make a pact now; lets support one-another through everything. Even our pasts."

Ophilia felt her chest swell with love for this woman. She smiled and giggled, just like the old days. Vivian was still such a sappy romantic. And a total nerd. "I love you, Vivian," She said with a laugh and wince. "Ow..." She settled on smiling instead, getting comfortable in the seat. "Alright. I'll tell you all about it. But lets start at the beginning..."
> Chapter 9: Bloodhound – Part 1
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The bag was pulled roughly off Ophilia's head after much jostling. Someone had tied her to a chair. With a dull horror, Ophilia realized that she couldn't open one of her eyes. The light of the room burned into her one good eye and she squinted to see, until the world came back into focus. She was in a large, open room with cabinets and boxes packed against all the walls. All around the room stood some of the men in the white suits, talking among themselves. If she strained Ophilia found she could pick snippets out of the conversations.

"... have her. Now what?"

"... is gonna be pissed..."

"... sure this is gonna work?"

"... all dead. We're all fuckin'..."

Ophilia shook her head, trying to shake away the dull throb in her skull, but that only worsened things, making her dizzy and nauseous. It felt like someone had smacked her upside the skull with a hammer. She could even taste blood. In a simple, blind rage she spat at the nearest man, staining his white suit red. "Who the hell are you people? I'll have you know, I'm—"

The man she'd spat on punched her, lifting her chair off the ground and throwing her with it. When she landed, pain bloomed in her face and Ophilia saw a fresh splash of red on the hard, unyielding concrete floor.

"Shut up and be a good little girl, or we'll have to tape your mouth shut. Or cut out your tongue." the man said nastily, before kicking her hard in the stomach. "Capisce?"

Ophilia coughed, doubling over in pain. She started shaking as reality settled itself in. She'd dealt with bullies her whole life, but these men weren't schoolhouse punks. They were far, far worse. She couldn't get out of this with bluster and tricky wordplay. As she lay there, her head cleared just enough for her to think and, more importantly, to remember. She clearly remembered the events that head led here: the bullets hitting her car, the violent clash between the two vehicles, and being bodily thrown into a van. With absolute horror, she realized that these men had kidnapped her.

"W-what do you want with me? Please, I promise, I don't owe you guys anything. Hell, I don't even smoke cigarettes, let alone use drugs. I—"

"I said shut up, you dumb bitch!" The man shouted at her, but he didn't hit her again. She clammed up and he hauled her chair back upright. Once she was sitting properly, he grabbed the front of her shirt in a fist, staring at her with frightening, hunted eyes. "You aren't responsible for this. If you wanna blame anyone, blame your damn father." He let her go with a push and Ophilia had a brief moment of vertigo where she was certain the chair would fall over again. With luck – and a bit of good balancing – she put all four legs of the chair back on the ground.

"My dad?" She asked, anger suddenly making her stupid. "But I don't even know him!" She struggled against the ropes, gritting her teeth. "He abandoned me when I was a baby! What does he have to do with any of this?!" She shouted, not realizing how loud she was being as she glared daggers at the man who'd hit her. "He's a scumbag, and so are you!"

She'd earned another punch. The concrete struck her harder this time – her head snapping against the stone, making white dots flash over her vision. She heard the man talking, but he sounded far away. "Get the fucking tape. I'm tired of this bitch already."

She didn't have time to recover before they were around her, peeling the tape off it's roll. She screamed, calling for someone – anyone – just before the tape was put into place. She still screamed after; helpless, useless, feeling warm tears burn their way down her face. That second punch had opened her other eye – it'd been crusted over with dried blood from her head wound – and Ophilia started to cry, struggling feebly against her bindings.

"Now what, Nick?" One of the other men asked the man who had hit her.

"Contact her dad. Let him know we have her, and if he doesn't want to find bits of her floating in the Hudson, he'll call off his fucking bloodhound." Fear made Ophilia whimper, flailing more strongly against her bonds, but it was utterly useless. She wasn't going anywhere.

The words of the men meant nothing to Ophilia at the time. She was completely clueless as to why any of this was happening. In fact, she wouldn't know specifics until that fateful day in her father's office when she learned the truth about her mother. All she knew was this was just another reason to despise the man she was forced to concede was her biological father.

Oh, he was there, somewhat. He paid her guardian annually and sent the odd letter on her birthday, but she hadn't ever seen him or her mother since she was a very little baby, barely able to toddle on her own two legs. 

She hated him and, up until about a year ago, she'd hated her mother too. When her guardian, Belle, had told her that her mother was dead, Ophilia had actually cried for her; she'd never gotten to meet her, never got to know her, and was convinced that she'd never get to know if she'd really cared or not. But Belle had sat Ophilia down and told her all about her unseen mother.

Apparently, Belle and Ophilia's mother – Lillianne Melody – had been good friends when they were in school themselves. When Ophilia was born, Lillianne had turned to her friend for guardianship and gave her charge of Ophilia almost immediately after her birth. Belle wouldn't tell Ophilia why she'd been abandoned, only that 'abandoned' wasn't the right word for it. Her mother, Belle had said, was trying to protect her; to keep her safe from something, though she wouldn't say from what. One thing she was certain of though was that Lillianne had loved Ophilia very, very much. She'd even visited several times over the years, while Ophilia was in school. She'd never stayed too long though; she had been too ashamed to face the daughter that she felt she'd failed.

And then, she was dead and gone. And now this. But this – her current nightmare – had nothing to do with her mother. This was entirely about her father.

The father who never came to see her, even when her mother died. The father who never once had shown even an ounce of compassion or love towards her. Even in those rare letters, he was all pomp and formality, like he was writing his congressman or a business partner or something...

She remembered one particularly snowy December when she was seven years old. She'd heard from boys at school that Santa wasn't real; that he was just her dad in a bright red suit. While other children railed against this idea and insisted Santa was real, Ophilia was actually excited. She wrote to her father that year rather than the North Pole, telling him how happy she was that he'd been delivering her presents all these years. She told him that this Christmas, she would wait up for him so he wouldn't need to sneak around anymore and she could finally see him. She told him she was glad that Santa wasn't real if it meant she would get to see her daddy.

He'd written her back with a letter almost immediately. Ophilia remembered her joy at seeing that letter, that feeling of her heart leaping in her chest. She'd taken it right from Belle's hand and scampered upstairs to read it. Belle had told her to wait, but at the time she hadn't listened. She'd locked her door, tore open the letter, and sat on her bed to read.

In the letter, her father opened by said he was amazed it took his daughter this long to stop believing in a magical fat man who delivered presents all over the world. With cold calculation he explained that, yes, he paid for her gifts every year. But, he quickly clarified, the gifts were hand-picked by her mother and sent by mail to Belle. He even went so far to clarify that he'd never set foot in Belle's house even once.

Ophilia hadn't opened her presents that Christmas. She'd refused, crying the whole morning while Belle sat in a sad, uncomfortable silence, unable to say a single word to make the pain go away. Belle had really tried her best, Ophilia recognized, and she was still like a mother to her. No matter how Ophilia looked at it, Belle was the only mother she'd ever really had.

Thinking about Belle and cursing her father, Ophilia cried silently into the tape with her eyes closed. The men in white ignored her, talking among themselves; about ransoms, about safety, about bloodhounds, and about someone trying to kill them. She drown them out, not caring what they did or said anymore. All of this was her father's fault. She didn't know why or how, but she hated him all the same for it. She'd never stop hating him, until the day she died.

Seconds turned into minutes, which turned into hours. Ophilia ran out of tears and her hate burned down to the flickering embers of disdain. Her tears were replaced with a kind of nervous fidgeting. Having never been restrained like this before, her body felt full of energy. Suddenly, an idea sparked in her brain.

She motioned to one of the men with her head, making some muffled pleas through the tape. The man walked over, turned to look at the man in charge named Nick to be sure it was alright, then ripped the tape off her face with a swift motion. She felt her eyes water all over again from the pain, but she didn't let herself cry.

"I need to use the bathroom," she said simply. She'd watched plenty of movies – mostly spy movies. She imagined herself doing that old trick where the hostage would plead using the bathroom as an excuse to get alone, then either escape when her kidnappers weren't paying attention or creep out a window and run for help.

Nick raised an eyebrow at her, then nodded. "Yeah, sure. Might as well wash the blood off her face while you're in there. She's been quiet enough the last hour or so."

Ophilia felt a sudden surge of relief and waited for them to untie her hands. She'd bide her time, be a good little prisoner, and then get her hands on one of their guns. Then she'd fight her way free in a flurry of action; they'd never expect it from a little waif like her. She didn't need her father, or anyone else for that matter, to save her. Never once did she consider that she'd never even held a gun, nor the implications that came with firing a gun at other people.

Her father wouldn't save her – she hardly existed to him – and fear was getting her nowhere. She had to save herself. She needed to get back home to Vivian.

Vivian. With an intensely hot flash of shame, Vivian's face flashed in her mind. She'd been so wrapped up in all this madness, she'd forgotten all about her nerdy little lover. What time was it? Was she still at school? Was she waiting to be picked up? Or had she gone home already? Did she know what had happened?

Had they hurt her too?

Ophilia couldn't wait for the ropes to come off. She'd get some answers, goddammit. She snarled deep in her throat, ready to punch one of them the minute the ropes came off. If any of these men had laid a single hand on her Viv...

But the ropes didn't quite come off. She was released from the chair, but her hands were still bound tightly at the wrist. For a moment, Ophilia was confused, then crestfallen when she felt the harsh material of the zip-ties. Nick, who had watched all the emotions play out on her face, smirked at her.

"What? You thought we'd just take the ties off you and let you wander around as you pleased? You've been watching too many stupid movies, kid." His words were so close to her own thoughts that Ophilia shrank back from him a little, a shiver shooting up her spine. "We aren't morons or some b-movie reject villains. Don't think about trying to run off on us or turn on us, girl." He put his hand on her chin, forcing her to stare right at him. "We won't kill you yet, but we will start cutting bits off. You don't need to be whole to do what we need you to do. And when the time comes, if you were a problem for us, we will kill you. And we'll make it look like an accident."

Ophilia's blood ran cold in her veins. The matter-of-fact tone to his voice made her restless; he'd killed people before, she could tell. If she tried anything, she wouldn't even be a sleepless night to this man. She'd just be another thing to brag about.

Defeated, she was led out of the room by another man in white – the same one who'd pulled the tape off her mouth. It seemed like he was Nick's personal lackey, but maybe Ophilia was just reading into things the wrong way.

She got a good look at the building they were in, but it wasn't very helpful. It was run-down and Ophilia noticed rusted signs that marked this as some old auto-garage. The man lead her along to a pair of doors – the restrooms, she presumed. She walked inside and heard the door close behind her. She looked over her shoulder and felt her heartbeat quicken; the man had walked inside with her and was standing by the door with his arms crossed.

"W-what are you doing?" She asked, countless grim scenarios playing through her head, making her breath catch and her eyes widen.

The man seemed confused for a half second, then rushed to speak all at once. "No, no, don't worry. I'm not a pervert or anything like that." He held up his hands and shook his head as he talked, looking genuinely shocked. "You'll probably need help at some point. Not to mention Nick told me to keep an eye on you, so..." He trailed off, scratching the back of his neck. He politely took off his fedora and turned around, putting his back resolutely towards her. "Please, don't mind me."

It was the single-most embarrassing moment of Ophilia's life. The humiliation was complete when, after managing to shimmy her panties back up, the tie that was holding her wrists together got hooked on her pants. Unable to see and nearly pulling herself over, Ophilia had been forced to take up the man's offer of help. She didn't miss the way this supposed gentleman took the time to stare. She wanted to kick him in the face while he was down there, but she imagined that wouldn't go over very well with Nick.

They returned to the room with the chair and Ophilia was tied back into place. She stared at Nick balefully, but didn't say a word.

"We won't need the tape again, will we?" He asked, almost mockingly, waving the silver roll of duct tape. Ophilia shook her head silently twice. "Good girl. Glad to hear we understand one-another. For your good behavior, you get a treat: something to eat. Anything you want." He paused and tossed the tape to one of his goons. "Take out, of course."

"I want a taste of freedom," Ophilia responded in a defiant tone, sneering.

Nick chuckled, raising an eyebrow at her, then laughed in full when he realized she was completely serious. "Oh, you've got wit, I'll give you that. You're nothing like your old man." 

"I take that as a compliment." Ophilia shot back, earning another laugh.

Wiping his eyes of probably fake tears, Nick pulled over a chair and sat across from Ophilia. "But that's a very costly request, you realize."

"If you let me go, I can talk to him. Whatever is going on, I'm sure it can be resolved in some other way," Ophilia said, hoping beyond hope that this somehow worked. However, before she was even done speaking, Nick was shaking his head.

"No, we know you and your pops aren't exactly close. We knew it before we nabbed you. But even putting that aside, your old man ain't really one to be stopped once he sets his mind on a goal." Nick sighed, his eyes gaining a far-away look. "He can't be stopped so easily. Else we wouldn't be here, you know?" He slowly shook his head a few times as his eyes came back into focus. "No... No, we definitely wouldn't be here otherwise."





Time began to blend for Ophilia. The days passed with so little incident that they were both tiresomely long in their boring nature, but also blessedly short in their sameness. When one minute is like another minute, it becomes difficult to determine how many of them have passed. 

After that first day, the men in white had moved Ophilia to a locked room without windows or furniture and left her to her own devices. She spent most of her time crying, sleeping, or imagining what Vivian was doing that very moment. Whenever she acted out, she was silenced swiftly and brutally. Whenever she complied, she was rewarded with peace of mind and peace of body.

The same man who'd brought her to the bathroom the first time, William – he told her to call him Will – took her every other time she needed to go, binding her hands with zip-ties and leading her along. Nick had told him he had to do it, or so he said. Ophilia was inclined to believe him. It seemed like he had been appointed her caretaker, or something along those lines, and he took his job very seriously. He didn't however, take advantage of her helplessness – not once. He stared, yes, but he never even said anything vulgar to her. One time, Ophilia decided to press him about it and he let slip that he thought she was beautiful, though he mumbled it under his breath so she could barely hear him. Despite the fact that he was at least ten years older than her, Ophilia found comfort in the simple compliment. With some time and effort, she'd have a steadfast ally in Will, she knew. 

Over all their time together, Ophilia had learned that she didn't hate Will at all for his involvement in what happened to her – at least not completely – and that she actually looked forward to being around him. It was far better than the solitude that ruled over most of her days. She could see the shame in his eyes now as he helped her shimmy into her pants; he was just as ashamed of this situation as she was about needing his help to pull her pants on.

William's absence was what let her know something was wrong. Ophilia didn't know it yet, but help had come and it had come riding a wake of blood and fury. After the fact, she became certain that Nick had known what was coming. However, no amount of preparation could prepare him and his crew for the Bloodhound.

Ophilia woke to the sounds of muffled bangs – gunshots, she thought. Even as hope surged in her chest, she huddled down into the blankets that served as her bed, terrified at what this all meant. A change in the routine frightened her now; it meant pain would be coming soon.

The door burst open and three men rushed in; Nick, Will, and a man Ophilia hadn't ever learned the name of. He was just another man in white, as far as she was concerned.

Nick was shouting for William to get her, while William refused to do it. The third man slammed the door shut and backed away from it, gun drawn, while Will moved between Nick and Ophilia with an almost protective air.

"This isn't the right idea, Nick."

With a furtive glance at the door and the silence that laid beyond, Nick bullied his way past a protesting William and rushed Ophilia. He grabbed her by the hair, hauling her from her cocoon of blankets and dragging her up to her feet. She screamed in pain but Nick didn't seem to hear her. He spun her around towards the door, wrapped his arm around her neck, and put something cold against her temple.

Ophilia bit down a mortified scream, trembling violently against the man's arm. It was a gun. He had a gun to her head. The scream leaked out as a kind of whistling whimper, like the mewling of a dying kitten. She felt a warm wetness run down her leg but she was too terrified to even care. Her brain shut down, replaced by the barest, most animalistic thoughts. Denied either a fight or flight reflex, her entire body locked up like a deer in a car's headlights. Like a rabbit staring down a wolf. He was going to kill her. She was going to die here. 

She frantically looked at Will, who was staring back at her with a mixture of fear and anger. She silently pleaded to him, begging him to help with her thoughts. He wasn't by any means innocent or trustworthy, but he at least saw her as a human being, which was more than she could say for the other men in white.

"Nick," Will said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "Let 'er go. Do you really think that'll fix any of this? She's useless to us now and killing her won't accomplish anything either. We'd be better off surrendering; maybe he'll spare us if we do."

"Bullshit!" Nick spat the word with so much force that Ophilia felt some spit his the side of her face. "You saw that shit out there. That was all one guy, William. One. Fucking. Guy. And he did all that." Nick laughed, but it sounded hollow, almost like wind flowing through an empty vase. "He won't show mercy. You're stupid for thinking that. I won't die like a dog. I'll kill this bitch before—"

Everything happened so fast. The door opened just slightly, but Ophilia saw it clearly. So did the third man, who shouted in alarm and surprise as something skipped into the room. It was a small cylinder with holes in it. She only had enough time to be confused for a moment before the stun grenade exploded in a burst of white hot light and roaring thunder. Ophilia was deaf, blind, in excruciating pain, and had no idea which way was up anymore. Two more muffled bangs hit her ears, but they were nothing on top of her pain. She felt the ground on her face and heard a loud ringing that she knew was tinnitus.

Slowly, very slowly, vision returned. An image of the cylinder was burned into Ophilia's vision, but she could see well enough to mildly understand what was happening. She was still facing the door. William and the other man were both on the ground, in some form of pain or another. The door was open and a man was walking in, dressed in body armor underneath a bullet-riddled jacket. The man had a gun in each hand, but Ophilia could only really recognize the pistol at that moment. He almost casually raised the weapon and fired a shot into the third man. Red and grey erupted from the back of the man's skull, mixed with chunks of white bone. Ophilia screamed, trying to pull herself to her feet to run.

The man ignored her feeble struggles. The grenade had disturbed the fluids in her ear, removing any sense of balance she had, causing her to stumble and trip back to the ground. William was likewise trying to get to his feet. He must have gotten it worse than her, which Ophilia found hard to believe; and yet, there it was. He pulled his gun off his belt, threw it across the room, and shouted something as he put his hands up in surrender. He partially opened one eye, looked straight at Ophilia, smiled a little, said something to her, and then his face exploded.

Bits from inside his head splattered all over Ophilia's front, covering her face and chest in red stickiness. She was positive she screamed then, even though she couldn't hear herself; she tore her throat absolutely raw. She stumbled over to the corpse, staring at him. His face was blown clean open, the exit wound having torn a fist-sized chunk out of his skull. She couldn't do anything but stare and scream and cry, even as the man walked to her and forcefully pulled her to her feet.

Now up close, Ophilia got a good look into the eyes of her 'savior.' They were dead eyes, like two black holes or the eyes of a doll. They were pits of darkness, devoid of any semblance of human emotion or conscience. Those eyes scared her almost as much as William's violent death. She tried to pull away from the man; to escape those heartless eyes; to run, hide, and never look back; but his hand was like a vice grip on her wrist.  She kept screaming and, lightning fast, he snapped his hand out and slapped her.

He didn't talk. Surely he recognized that she couldn't hear. But regardless, that slap silenced her. Worse would come if she kept making noises, she was certain. Now slowly regaining her mental faculties, Ophilia looked back over her shoulder to see Nick, a hole in his forehead, sprawled on the ground behind her. Before she even had the change to feel anything about that scene, she was being dragged from the room. 

The man moved with an exaggerated, almost silly caution, approaching every doorway in a kind of strafing arc. Ophilia quickly pieced together that he was scanning the next room for enemies before he even stepped inside. She knew there was a term for it, but she'd no clue what it was. He'd put his pistol away and was carrying a larger gun now – the one he'd had dangling from his off hand as he'd killed her captors. It was small, but still larger than a pistol, with a piece to rest against his shoulder and help him aim. What had Vivian always called them? Sub-machine guns; that was it. It was a sub-machine gun. Like from one of Vivian's games.

The auto-garage was filled with bodies – some dead, some in the process of dying – sprinkled about the floor like the first fallen leaves of the season. Their pristine white suits were now forever stained red. All twenty of the men who'd captured her were there, her fear-addled mind supplied. He'd killed them all mercilessly, like a butcher cleaving meat; she was both awed and afraid – though mostly afraid – of this fact. He'd saved her, even if he'd terrified her in the process. She should be thankful, shouldn't she? And yet, all she kept seeing was William's face exploding – that one scene, playing over and over again on repeat.

He hadn't been a bad person. He couldn't have been, with how gentlemanly he had treated her. Ophilia had genuinely believed he was a good man, beneath his flaws. And now he was dead and his blood was decorating Ophilia's face. Lost in a daze, she brought a trembling hand up to try and wipe the red from her face, trying to get it off, to get it away from her.

And the man, he just ignored her and continued to pull her along slowly and cautiously. She couldn't go home like this. Vivian would be mortified. Or maybe she'd think it was all kinda cool. She'd always loved those action movies and games, and now Ophilia was trapped in one. She could tell Vivian about it, and all of this would be okay. Like a bad dream.

Sunlight burned into Ophilia's eyes for the first time in two weeks and she raised a hand to shield them from the harsh glare. They were in an alley behind the auto-garage and the sun was aligned perfectly with one of the alley's openings. The man gave it a knowing glance, then looked down at his watch, giving a small nod before continuing along. He moved slowly, seeming to expect an ambush at any moment. He darted across the alley with Ophilia in tow, hurrying along to a garbage bin along that wall. The bin was pulled out from the wall slightly, the other end wrapped in a semi-circle of trash bins, and behind it all was a motorcycle – a dark-red Cruiser with the word "VMAX" on the gas tank – covered with a dirty grey tarp.

The man took time to drag the bike out – one hand always on or close to – a gun of some sort. He reached into one of the side bags and drew out a folded leather jacket. He draped it over Ophilia's shoulders and offered her a helmet that had a protective visor to protect her eyes from the sun. Either this man was very prepared, or he was just smart about picking out his gear.

Ophilia put on the things offered to her mechanically, thinking about home and how nice it would be to hug Vivian and let her know everything was going to be okay. This nightmare was finally over. But the man didn't take her home. Instead, he drove out of the city, roaring down the thruway without stopping for a moment until the sun set. As her mind cleared and fear settle back into place, Ophilia realized that she was being kidnapped for the second time in two weeks.
> Chapter 10: Bloodhound – Part 2
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the motorcycle pulled into the parking lot of the roadside motel, Ophilia tried to at least get some solid answers out of her would-be kidnapper, but the man continued his silence. He waved her down when she went to rise from the bike, removed his helmet, and walked to the front desk. Ophilia shivered, too afraid to run and too anxious to stay still.

And yet, when the man returned, he handed her a key to a room and slipped off to a room of his own. No ropes or ties; no forceful hands or harsh words. She longed for Vivian, but she was growing more and more curious about this whole situation as time passed. 

The man had spoken, but only in clipped, brief responses that gave no real answers. His voice bore an accent, but Ophilia had some trouble placing it. He hadn't even told her his name.

Likewise, Ophilia made it a point to give him as little attention as possible, even though questions buzzed through her head like angry hornets. She knew he wouldn't answer her. Besides, she was beyond caring at this point. She was slowly growing resigned that she'd likely die before she ever saw her home again.

Despite her resignation, that first night in the motel felt like a purge. The water of the shower was warm and pleasant – Nick and his goons hadn't allowed her the luxury of a shower, or even a bath. Even if they had, William would've probably been ordered to watch...

She winced at the vision of Will's death as it played over her eyes again. She looked down at her feet which, for obvious reasons, didn't help at all; all it did was let her see the lines of blood and small chunks of... things... going down the drain. The bits from inside his head.

She looked up instead, closing her eyes to the stream of the shower head. She traced a hand up her body, letting out a long sigh. She'd gotten several large bruises during her time in Nick's company. The one on her face from her initial punches had already faded to yellow, but she had two sore spots on her abdomen and one on her collarbone, just over her breast.

As her hand trailed over the curvature of her chest, Ophilia began to wonder – perhaps even fear – what Vivian was doing right then. Was she looking for her? Or maybe she was sleeping soundly. Maybe she was crying, terrified for her. She chewed on her lip, closing her eyes tightly to keep from crying. She'd shed enough tears these past few weeks. She needed a break from them.

When she returned to the bedroom of her space, Ophilia found a fresh set of clothing laid out on her bed in a neat pile. Despite the creepiness of this – she'd locked and deadbolted her door – Ophilia almost squealed at the prospect of being dressed in clean clothes after roughly two weeks in captivity. 

She reached for the clothes, eager to get them on, but remembered her exhaustion just as her fingers traces over the clean shirt. She sighed and pulled the panties from the pile, slipping them on and setting the other clothes aside. She'd only make them sweaty overnight.

She was asleep the second her head hit a pillow. She slept so soundly that she didn't remember her dreams – or her nightmares – but she woke covered in sweat. She took another shower, washing the previous night's events away for the second time, and finally took the luxury of dressing. She took her time, drawing on each piece of clothing slowly. To her, it became just another part of her departure from everything that had happened to her.

A knock on the door pulled her back from her thoughts. She knew who it was without asking; it could only be him. She walked over, opening the door sharply. "Yes?" She asked the man, who was standing with his arms crossed.

"We cannot stay here much longer," he said in that strange accent of his. Now that she'd cleansed herself of the past few weeks, Ophilia was finally able to take the man in properly. He wasn't too much older than she was, at most eight years her senior, making him somewhere between twenty and twenty-seven. His hair was black, short, and wavy, but not very well groomed. He obviously didn't pay much attention to it. His eyes were brown and sharp, when they weren't vacant and empty. He had a very athletic build and no facial hair to speak of; he had to have shaved this morning.

She could finally place his accent, too; it was Italian. Very strongly Italian too – so much so that Ophilia was confident that English was his second language. Despite how fluent he clearly was, he spoke in a strange, halting way, as if careful to enunciate clearly.

"We'll leave when I'm ready to leave, whoever you are," Ophilia shot back, glaring. "This is my first morning with cosmetics and coffee in two weeks, and I won't let you take the small pleasures from me."

The man looked genuinely shocked. He blinked several times, then his eyes lit up and he let out a hearty laugh that sounded like it came straight from his belly. "You are quite a... how do you say..." He snapped his fingers rapidly several times. "Ah! A manciata; a handful." 

He seemed to be an entirely different person than the one she'd seen last night. His smile was so warm that it actually hurt. This man was sub-human. He'd killed twenty people barely a day ago and now he was smiling like anyone else. How did he do it? "Fine, Principessa, take your time. But do not test me." He wagged a finger at Ophilia, the emotion draining from his eyes. "You have twenty minutes."

Ophilia felt a lump form in her throat and nodded at him silently. She closed the door, dead-bolting it again and leaning against it, catching her breath. She shouldn't have said that to him. She should've just let things be. She's even forgot to ask him how he'd gotten into her room! Closing her eyes, she gave her head a shake and started to the bathroom. She only had twenty minutes to make herself presentable.

When Ophilia walked out of her room, feeling like a woman again, the man didn't speak a word about the exchange they'd just had, nor about how he'd placed the clean clothes in her room. Or how he'd known her sizes and had clothes to fit. Even down to her bra size... He simply took her dirty clothes from her, put them into his motorcycle's side-bag, and pulled his helmet on. "The shirt, at least, is ruined," was all he said.

She ended up buying coffee at a drive-thru. Even with the cream and sugar, it still tasted like tar, but Ophilia slurped it happily in the brief time the man allowed her.

The trip continued for two more days, with Ophilia riding behind him on the motorcycle, her hands clasped around his waist. He made two more stops similar to the first, both times at a motel on the roadside. Each time, despite her best efforts, he always seemed to slip into her room when she was showering and deposit clean clothes. 

The time in between those stops was spent on his motorcycle, tearing away the asphalt in front of them. She imagined they had to be headed to a different state, but she had no idea which one.

Long after Ophilia had stopped feeling her ass, the man finally pulled into the third stop. At first, Ophilia saw nothing out of the ordinary about this building, until she considered that this wasn't a motel by the road he was stopping at, but an apartment complex in the middle of a small town.

The man propped up his bike on it's kickstand, killed the engine, and pulled his helmet off, giving a small sigh at being freed from it. His hair was plastered to his head with sweat and Ophilia had to bite her lip to not laugh at how ridiculous it looked.

The man snapped his attention to her, making Ophilia nearly swallow her own tongue, and motioned for her to follow him. He left his helmet hanging off the handlebar of his motorcycle, so Ophilia did the same.

Ophilia had begun to notice strange little details about this man over the past three days. For instance, whenever he walked around her, he always kept just out of arm's reach. Also, his eyes always seemed to be scanning any room they walked into at all times. Ophilia wanted to believe that this added to his mystery, but in reality it made something painfully clear; this man was constantly on edge, ready for violence at a moment's notice. It wasn't a very comforting fact.

Finally, he stopped at a seemingly random door and dug a set of keys from his pocket. After unlocking the door, he opened it and held it for her. She stood still for a moment, unsure if this was a trick of some kind, and the man waved her in. "Ladies first," he said smoothly, giving Ophilia a wink. For a moment, she was stunned by the shift from silent and on edge to playful. She walked through the doorway, slightly berating herself; if this man had meant to hurt her, he would've done so by now.

The space beyond was a small apartment, reflecting the smallness of the town around it. Still, Ophilia was genuinely surprised at how... normal it was. After all she'd seen this man do, she expected him to be some secret agent or something of that vein. However, when she walked into what she presumed to be the living room, she saw that it was simple – almost spartan – in design. No 'X'ed off faces of previous targets. No spiderweb of pictures, news clippings, and red string covered some map, all pointing to her. Just a table, kitchenette, a couch, a TV, and an adjoining room – probably the bedroom.

The man walked past her, tossing his jacket onto the couch like any other man. He stretched and groaned, suddenly seeming more human than at any point during their travels. Perhaps it was because he was in his own home, but Ophilia finally didn't feel uneasy at the idea of talking with him.

"Who... are you?"

The man looked back her, blinking in surprise. Then he laughed again, genuine humor flashing over his face. "Che ridicolo! All this time, and I have not even said my name!" He held his stomach as his laughter died down. "My name is Salvatore Fontana, at your service." He gave a small bow at the waist as he said the last part, gaining a sardonic smirk. "I also go by the name Lupo in some places. È un piacere conoscerti."

Ophilia felt almost sick. How could this person be the same one who saved her? The same one who...

"Why?" She heard herself asking, without her brain really registering. Already locked into this road, Ophilia steeled herself and finished the question. "Why'd you do all that? Kill all those men? Some of them surrendered. You could've let them live."

At the mention of the killings, his cheerful demeanor fell away. To her, it was impossible to tell what was the mask he wore and what was his true face. "Your father gave me orders to make sure you were well taken care of." He leaned against the couch, voice flat and factual. "They were very clear: there were to be no survivors. A message had to be sent. And he sent me to deliver it. I had assumed that was clear."

Blood pounded in Ophilia's head as she remembered the end of her first conversation with Nick with a sudden, vivid clarity. "You're his... 'Bloodhound,' aren't you? The one the men in white were so afraid of?" She felt her legs shake, but kept on her feet. If she was right, then she had nothing to be afraid of.

"Yes. Colpevole come accusato – how you say 'guilty as charged.'" His rakish smirk didn't seem nearly so coy anymore. "And those men, they were members of the Bianchi Family." He motioned to the bedroom before she could say or ask anything else. "Now, the bathroom is in there. I know how much you love your showers. I will bring in more clothes for you." He crossed his arms again, his eyes deep pools of emotionless black. "I would ask that you not try to leave. If you do, I will have to find you again."

The way he said it raised goosebumps all over Ophilia's body. Those eyes were so empty. "That," he continued, "would be unpleasant for both of us, as well as for anyone you would seek help from." He took another pause, letting Ophilia absorb that threat properly. "Please, think of me as your protector and as famiglia; as family."

Ophilia gulped, nodding quickly. She had no desire to spend another moment in that room with this man. She hurried into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her and quickly scanning her surroundings. Yes, there was a window. Yes, she could run. But, if he was serious – and Ophilia didn't doubt for a moment that he was – then that would be a horrible idea. No, she decided, she'd have to stay. If he wasn't lying to her and he was sent by her father, then it was safe to assume that he really was her protector.

She looked at the shower through the bathroom door with longing. Salvatore had been right about her love for showering after a long day, and the motorcycle always made her sweat and ache. Just as she was starting to undress, Salvatore knocked on the door.

"I'm getting in the shower; what is it?" She asked, a little testy at being interrupted.

"I have received new orders from your father," he said, making Ophilia's heart do a flip. This man could get in touch with him, just like that. "He says we are to not make any contact with anyone, so I have cut off the phone line. Please, respect his wishes in this."

Ophilia balled her hands into fists, wringing her shirt between them. Everywhere they'd gone, it'd always been the same. Phones that were shut off, time and time again. Contact no one; not even Vivian. She hadn't been able to get a message to her before, but now that she knew he was protecting her and not kidnapping her, maybe...

Ophilia walked right up tot he door, leaning her forehead against the smooth wood. "I-I just... I have someone special I need to contact. Someone important to me. Someone I love. I'm sure my father will understand that, right? Please, ask him if I can contact her."

"One moment," was the reply. Ophilia waited patiently, rooted to the spot and holding her breath. After several minutes, Salvatore spoke again. "I am sorry, but your father said to wait. We do not know who is watching us right now and it is better to be safe. Once you see him, you can ask him again in person."

Ophilia's heart froze in her chest. Loathing and excitement battled within that frozen place inside her, making her blood boil despite the sudden cold. "Oh. I see. Now he wants to meet me. I always assumed my father was a disgusting individual, but this is an all-time low, even for him."

Shocked silence was Ophilia's only response for several seconds, before Salvatore answered. "I will not pretend that your father is a likable man, but I am also sure that you do not know why he does what he does. You should not condemn a man without knowing his reasons for the evils he commits."

Ophilia slammed her fist against the door, hard. "I can and I will! My mother died and he did nothing! Not a visit, not a phone-call, not a letter, not even a fucking sympathy card! So don't you dare tell me I can't judge that man!"

More silence. "It seems you will need to see for yourself. I warn you now, your father is not quite what you seem to believe. While I cannot say much, I will say this: whatever else might be true or false, you are... valuable to him."

Ophilia tensed up. Not important or special or even loved. Salvatore had picked that word very carefully. Valuable. She turned that over in her head a few times before leaning off the door and sighing heavily to herself. She continued undressing, wanting that shower even more now – she felt dirty after hearing someone talk so sensibly about her father. She didn't want to admit it, but Salvatore had a point.

The shower was especially relaxing. Not only was Salvatore's bathroom much cleaner than the public ones in the motels, it was also fully stocked with various hygiene products. She used them shamelessly, not even bothering to ask her 'host' if it was okay. If they really were family, he shouldn't mind, right?

As she walked back into the bedroom, drying her hair and humming to herself, she noticed that her dirty clothes were gone, replaced by another meticulously folded set of clean clothes. She was beyond seeing this as creepy, and instead took pleasure in the small ritual the two of them had established. She smiled and trailed her fingers over the clean shirt, silently thanking the man in the other room. She blinked, realizing just how bipolar she was acting towards Salvatore. "I really should apologize, shouldn't I?" She asked herself, dressing with casual slowness before stepping back into the living room.

Salvatore was sprawled out on the couch, flipping lazily through channels on the television. When he saw her, he switched the box off and rose.

"I, uh... I wanted to—" But Salvatore simply walked past her – not speaking to her, nor listening to a word she said. He shut the bedroom door behind him and, seconds later, Ophilia heard the shower start up again. "Well... Good talk..." She grumbled under her breath at the silent treatment, knowing it was basically her own fault.

She sat down where he'd been sitting, switching the television back on. It was the news, and what what they were reporting made Ophilia shiver. Twenty dead; all members of the Bianchi Crime Family; suspects in kidnapping earlier that month; further details pending.

Two days. It'd been two long days, and yet it felt like it'd all happened just a few hours ago. She recalled it all vividly – the blood, the chaos, the death – but everything was shrouded in a thin veneer of abject horror. At the time, she hadn't been entirely certain that everything she'd seen had been real, but...

She'd been so very, very wrong. He'd killed twenty people, entirely by himself.

She stared at the closed door to the bedroom again, her breath deepening as fear gripped her heart. She seriously considered ignoring his warning and running away from this clearly homicidal man. But even if she ran, what would she do next? Call the police? And how many of them would he kill to reclaim her? Go home? What would stop him from just going back and grabbing her again? And what if he hurt Vivian?

She bit into her lip and sank back down into the couch. Maybe she could try to get word to Viv? Just to let her know she was okay, of course. But what if this man was right and there was somebody watching them – maybe even tracking their calls? It was common knowledge that the men who'd held her captive were all dead and that she was missing, but what if that wasn't all of them? What if more of this crime family – the Bianchi Family – came to find her? What if they were outside right now, waiting for her to do something stupid?

Terror crawled through her skin and kept her from moving. She stayed on the couch and stared at the television, not really processing anything she was seeing. She stayed there, exactly like that, until Salvatore walked back into the living room.

He was wearing a clean pair of jeans and a white tank-top. His wavy hair was pulled back into a small, low ponytail. As much as she hated to admit it, Ophilia thought he actually looked almost attractive.

"You can have the bed," he said, motioning behind himself towards the bedroom. "You might want to get some sleep – we will be leaving here early tomorrow. Your father asked to see you before sunset, so we will need to move fast to deliver." His smile was just as painful as the first time he'd shown it to her. "And please, don't try to run when I am asleep. I wake up very easily and this whole apartment is rigged with alarms and traps. At best, I would know you left; at worst, you will really injure yourself. Either way, I will know."

Ophilia tensed at the threat. No matter how plush the prison, a prisoner is still a prisoner. She huffed at him and picked herself up off his couch, storming into his bedroom with as much of an imperious nature as she could muster. Without a word, she slammed the door harshly against anything he might do or say.

And as soon as those all-too-human eyes stopped looking at her, she ran to the bed and cried.





The next morning, Ophilia felt horrible. She'd slept not a wink and couldn't stop thinking about Vivian for a second. She missed her bubbly lover more than anything, and now that she was 'free,' she wanted her back. She'd asked for very little of life, but happiness with Viv was one of those few things she demanded. She'd worked hard to secure their life together, and now it had all been torn away by something outside of their control.

Salvatore unceremoniously loaded her onto the back of his motorcycle and the two sped down the thruway, careening towards her new future. 

Ophilia clung to him, thinking about her father. Supposedly, he wasn't like she imagined him to be, and that was believable enough. She imagined him as entirely heartless, but according to Belle, he had loved her mother just as much as she loved Vivian, if not more so. He'd been devastated by her death, of course, but Ophilia recognized that nothing had stopped him from reaching out to her and sharing in their mutual burdens. Instead, he'd suffered on his own, and forced her to bear the pain in isolation as well. He probably wasn't some soulless monster, she reflected, but she doubted that would make her like him any more. Even if a part of her wanted to.

It wasn't until Salvatore pulled down a long driveway that lead to a soaring mansion – white pillars adorning the front and glorious gardens splashing the grass with color – that Ophilia began to understand the full extent about what Salvatore meant by her father not being what she knew.

Her rescuer and captor kicked his kick-stand down, stepping off the bike, and helping her off, all while Ophilia gaped and gawked like the commoner she so clearly was. "He... my father can't live here. He's a small-scale businessman. He doesn't own any chains or large-scale companies, so... how?" She turned on her heel while she spoke, trying to see everything and understand what was happening.

"Your father's business might not be in the public eye, but it is large nonetheless." Salvatore replied cryptically, putting his helmet in it's usual place on the handlebars. "I assure you, it is larger than you could ever conceive." He held out a hand, taking her helmet from her stunned hands.

As she collected herself, Ophilia gulped down some of her bitterness. She was determined to not carry her negativity into this meeting; beyond wanting to try and enjoy the presence of her last remaining parent, Ophilia also refused to be the one to cast the first stone.

This became much harder as she laid eyes on the entryway.

Servants bustled this here and there – butlers and maids – all going about this job or that job. Magnificent pictures and statues rested on or near the walls and vases held beautiful flowers of a hundred hues. Supposedly, she'd been sent away for her own protection. Apparently, she considered with a sneer, she was – in fact – being protected from her family's wealth and prestige. 

She snorted, but couldn't hide her amazement at it all. She was a part of all this. Trailing a hand over a flower, Ophilia stopped to smell it's delicate scent, fully aware of Salvatore's eyes on her. She sighed whimsically at the sweetness and started walking again, her eyes trying to absorb it all in at once.

The door that turned out to be their destination, however, was simple and unadorned. Ophilia decided, however, that it was probably made of some high-grade wood like mahogany or something along that line. Salvatore knocked as soon as she was by his side, eyes locked on the door before him.

"Come in, Salvatore."

Ophilia shivered. That was the voice of her father. She knew it, but she didn't believe it. He sounded so... cold, like how Salvatore looked sometimes. He sounded like a winter storm blowing through the branches of dead trees, only more refined, as if it were somehow snowing flakes of frigid gold. Salvatore stepped aside and motioned for her to enter. Taking a deep breath, Ophilia swallowed her nerves and opened the door.

Salvatore followed her in, pushing her forward gently as she froze in the doorway. The room was a neat, tidy office with a casual air. This was a place someone spent most of their day, working, organizing, and planning. A cabinet along the wall to one side was filled with wines and liquors, while the other side had a sliding glass door leading out to a balcony overlooking an expansive back yard. In the center of the room, near the back, was a desk – it was a large desk, meant to hold all the papers and gears one would need to work.

The man sitting behind the desk – made of the same wood as the door, Ophilia noted clinically – had to be him. She had his eyes: like twin pools of grass, if the blades of the grass were sharp like actual blades. When he looked up from his desk, his stare tore through her clothes, her skin, her muscles and bones, exposing her completely and utterly. She felt the sudden need to hide behind Salvatore, like some small child hiding at her mother's hip when meeting a stranger for the first time.

"Ophilia," he said softly. Those razor eyes softened instantly and suddenly everything was okay. "My God... You look so much like your mother..." She forgot all her hate. It was still there, of course, but for now it would sit there behind her happiness and fester. She was here, in a room with her father. She squealed then, an undignified sound to be sure, but she didn't give a damn. She ran around the desk, grabbing her dad and pulling him into a hug.

He drew back but didn't push her away, as if he had no idea what to do. Slowly, very slowly, he put his hands around her, patting her back. "It's so wonderful to finally be able to meet you," he said, sounding achingly genuine. 

After a half-second, Ophilia felt very silly. She was nineteen, and here she was acting like a ten-year-old. She took a sedate step back clearing her throat loudly. "Likewise, father." She looked at him again and finally saw him clearly. He looked like a jolly sort of man, despite those sharp eyes. The lines on his face showed signs of both good and bad times, and Ophilia felt her chest tighten. Salvatore had been right; he was nothing like she'd assumed.

"Salvatore," he said, turning in his seat to stare at the other man. "Have you updated her on the situation?" And that was all. Just like that, she was invisible to him. Ophilia felt the clenching in her chest turn molten and drop down to her toes.

"Not yet, sir. I believed it best to leave that to you."

Ophilia's father sighed in a painfully familiar way. Ophilia vowed she'd never sigh again, knowing full well that she'd break that promise in under an hour. "Explaining things is a tedious business, Salvatore. Next time, take it upon yourself, please." Two hours, Ophilia amended with a haughty snort.

"As you wish, sir," Salvatore replied, bowing his head slightly. "Shall I retreat to the hall?"

Her father waved for him to sit and turned back to her. "Please my dear, take a seat. We've much to discuss."

"What happened to my mother?" Ophilia shot back as she walked around the desk again, not breaking eye contact with him as she went.

"All in due time," her father replied, holding up a hand. "Let us deal with the current crisis first, shall we? I'm glad to see safely out of the hands of the Bianchi Family. I assume Salvatore has told you that much at least. I apologize that it took as long as it did."

Ophilia gave a shudder at the memory of her time in captivity. Especially the last few hours of it. "No, it's... quite all right. They didn't treat me poorly, all things considered. Not all of them were terrible people." The words felt like lead on her tongue, heavy and poisonous.

Her father waved a dismissive hand. "Good or bad, they're all dead now, down to the man." The calm way he said it made goosebumps run along Ophilia's arms. What was wrong with these people? She knew, right in that moment, that perhaps her father was exactly as evil as she'd once believed.

"Now, let me start this reunion off by setting a small rule. My name is Charles, my dear. I know you've known that for some time, but I say it to remind you; I am not 'daddy' or 'papa' or anything as frivolous as that. I am either 'Charles'. 'father', or 'sir.' Do I make myself clear?"

Ophilia wet her dry lips with a swipe of her tongue. "Like crystal, sir."

"Very good," Charles shot back with a charismatic smile. It no longer seemed jolly. "Secondly, I should assume you are still slightly alarmed about all this finery." He motioned to the room around them with a half-smirk on his lips. "I believe you said I was a... small-scale business owner, correct?"

Ophilia blinked, unable to hide her surprise. "How—?"

"It is an accurate judgement, in some aspect, but it's overall very, very wrong. My business is only small in that the world at large doesn't see much of it. You see Ophilia, my business is the oldest business; the business of sin. I work in the dark for those who live in the dark and I have been blessed with great success. My business – or perhaps organization would be a better word – as well as this manor and all this wealth has been passed on from generation to generation. And now, you are home at last." He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers like a cliche mastermind. Those laugh lines on his face looked downright sinister all of a sudden. "Welcome to the Family, my dear."

There was a distinct difference in the way Charles had said the word Family. Namely, Ophilia could hear the capital 'F' very clearly. "T-the Family?" She asked, hoping that she was digging too deep into all this and that he was just welcoming her home. That none of this was true.

"Indeed. I am the current head of this city's strongest Mafia Family, now that the Bianchis are all dead. We are the Melody Family, my darling daughter, and you... you are my one and – sadly – only heiress." He shook her head as if she were some great disappointment. 

Ophilia barked out a sudden laugh, leaning forward towards her father as she spoke. "Y-you're kidding me, right?" She felt herself settle into an adequate glare. "It it's so horrible that I'm all you have, then I'll head right back out that door. If you want the honest truth, I want no part of you, or this Family of yours." Ophilia hadn't really considered her words before she spoke them and the poison in every syllable was shocking, even to her. Now, looking back, she was more shocked that Charles hadn't had Salvatore kill her on the spot.

Instead, Charles studied her, lightly tapping his fingers together. "You misunderstand me, child." He lowered his hands, resting them on the desk. "It is not horrible that you're here, not do I resent anything you've done or said. On the contrary, your mother – bless her soul – she wished for you to live a normal life, away from all this. She died with that wish in her heart and no siblings born into the world for you. And with the intervention of the Bianchi Family, it's become plain that – as I said, sadly – her dream cannot remain a reality any longer."

Ophilia sank back into the chair, information raging through her mind. Pieces began falling into place so fast, she fancied she could hear the clicks in her mind.

Click, click, click.

"You... my mother wanted to protect me. You both sent me away so I could live a normal life, and you were both distancing yourselves so I wouldn't be wrapped up in anything involving this life... That's why I grew up with Belle. Why I never saw or heard from either of you..."

Click, click, click.

"But then, these people – the Bianchi Family – they came for me. I'm your only child, and they kidnapped me to use me as a bargaining chip. You were after them, for some reason or another, and they wanted to use me to keep themselves safe – to barter for their lives..."

Click. Click. Click.

"So now... now I'm not safe. I can't keep apart from this life anymore. Others will see my value and come for me if I try. Everyone I love will be... in danger..."

Click!

She felt tears burn their way into her eyes, clenching her fists tightly. "I'll either accept your disgusting lifestyle, or live my entire life on the run, not able to be happy, all because of the life you and my mother lived." She gritted her teeth, grinding them for a moment before continuing. "Not to mention... here I am, your only child. Your heiress, right?" 

She drew into herself, muttering just under her breath. "You... you bastard. You absolute fucking bastard. You've ruined my life..." She toned her voice up, feeling herself rise in pitch, a mocking tone entering into her words. "And now, now you expect me to dance on your strings – your own little marionette. Well, I won't do it!" She was shouting now, about ready to jump out of her chair. "I won't be your fucking puppet! I just won't!"

Anger flared through Charles' eyes and he leaned forward in his seat. Later in life, she would realize that this action meant one of several things: Charles was either trying to be persuasive and charismatic, was genuinely curious about something, or was very, very angry. She had no idea how close she'd come to dying right then.

"First, you misunderstand me and now you make assumptions about my intentions? You are either willful, stupid, or both. To be fair, I believe you are willful and ignorant, which is easier to cure. And requires less cleaning up afterwards." His voice dropped lower, entering a tone so frigid, it could freeze water. "I'm your father, child. And last I checked, I'd just saved your life." He motioned to Salvatore, who was sitting quietly and patiently. "By proxy, yes, but Lupo acted on my orders. He saved you from those men. I can't deny, my life-style – yes, my lifestyle; not your mother's – intruded on your own blissfully ignorant facade of an existence, but it would have eventually, one way or another. With your mother dead, I have no other children." He slid back into his seat, suddenly deflating. Mentioning his wife's death so bluntly had drained away his vitality, leaving a pale, miserable man behind. Even Ophilia could see the extent of his pain, and it made her chest ache again.

"I'm growing old, child, and I don't plan to remarry. Your mother was my angel – my life – and I will not disgrace her memory and scramble to have another child simply because you choose to ignore the fact that I brought you into this world, just as surely as your mother gave birth to you. You are our child – my child – and I need you now. My empire, this legacy our family has built, must pass to someone of my blood. I want it to be someone of her blood as well." He paused, seeming to gain some color in his completion again. "As such, you are the only one I could possibly give it to. Once you have it, you are free to do with it what you will, but do not think to sit there and tell me – your father – what you will and will not do. Do not test me, child. I have done far worse in my time than discipline a willful, ignorant child."

Salvatore shifted to Ophilia's side and she flicked her eyes over to him. He shook his head very slightly and Ophilia deflated. She knew this was serious, deep down in her heart. She felt that old hatred bubble up in her chest and she embraced it like an old friend, gripping the arms of the chair in a white-knuckled grip. Salvatore had been right after all: her father wasn't what she'd envisioned of him. He was infinitely worse.

"I... Fine. What would you have me do? Sir." She clipped the word and filled it with as much malice as she could, sitting up straight, her eyes forward, meeting his gaze.

Charles sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "My dear, believe me when I say that I genuinely had no intention of dragging you into this world. However, every other option has been exhausted. Your exclusion from this lifestyle was her dying wish. One of them, anyway." He reached down to the drawers of his desk, pulling out a cigar and closing the drawer silently. Ophilia wrinkled her nose at it: she detested smoking.

Whether he missed her distress, or he he chose to ignore it, Charles clipped and lit the cigar, puffing it a few times before he continued. "As you are now, you're a target. You're weak in more ways than one, and my enemies – or should I say our enemies – will break you without much effort. As it stands, I offer you two options," he said, punctuating his words with a long pause to take a deep drag from the cigar. Ophilia was beginning to understand that these long pauses were a normal part of any conversation with Charles. He loved to make you wait on his every sentence. He slowly let out the smoke before moving on. 

"The first option is the easiest: you will become like a wallflower, raised in this manor, never leaving the grounds. Here, you'll receive the best education money can buy, and will learn the arts of subtly, manipulation, and tact. You will run the Family as a shadow boss, pulling the string and making the puppets all dance, as you so aptly put it." 

He admired his cigar as he finished, considering his next words. "Or," he continued, "you can depart with Salvatore when he returns to Europe. There, you will train under him and learn how to be like him. When you come back, you will be free to go wherever you want, do whatever you want, and this Family will be like putty in your hands once you inherit it." He took another long drag, sighing out the smoke quickly this time. "Decide."

Ophilia was stunned. How could she choose between those two options so suddenly? Both were downright horrible, no matter how you looked at them! She began to think, her mind assimilating all the facts and considering all the options. If she stayed, it was likely she could convince Charles to allow Belle back into the Manor. Ophilia mentally winced. How much had her old guardian known? Was she a member of the mob too?

What about Vivian? If she decided to stay...

"L-let's say I decide to stay... Can I bring in someone I trust? Someone I'm in a relationship with now?"

Charles considered her with his razor-blade eyes. "I assume you're speaking of the blue-haired woman you've been living with for a year or so now?" Ophilia flinched. How long had he been watching her? "No. You will not be able to bring someone from the outside into our fold. If you desire a relationship, it will be with someone from within the compound. There are plenty of suitable candidates, I assure you."

Ophilia resisted the urge to sneer. She could hear exactly what he wasn't saying: he wouldn't have someone who couldn't give him a grandchild dating her. He wanted to make sure that his precious Family was secure for generations beyond him.

Ophilia chewed her lip. "And... if I leave with Salvatore...?"

"Upon your return, you may invite whoever you wish into the compound. However, you will have certain... responsibilities as the heiress to the Family. But Salvatore will enlighten you on those, as a part of your training, I assure you."

Ophilia saw no contest between the two. She sat up defiantly, rebellion burning in her eyes. "Fine. I'll go with Salvatore. And when I get back, Vivian will come to live with me."

Charles sighed out more smoke. "So confident. It will be quite a long time before you return, my dear. I suppose that, if nothing else, this will test her love for you, won't it? But I'm glad you chose wisely, Ophilia." Charles sneered, and it put all of Ophilia's best attempts to shame. It was like an arrow straight through her chest. She'd taken the cheese and the trap had snapped. "You leave tonight. I already have a plane prepared. Salvatore," Charles waved a hand to the murderer beside her, turning to him and ignoring Ophilia again. "She is yours to care for. Do try and bring her back alive..."
> Chapter 11: Blood in the Water
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

As Vivian pulled into Cataclysm’s garage, she considered what Ophilia had told her. She had always wondered about what had happened the day she’d vanished, but with no survivors – other than Ophilia herself – she’d assumed that she would never know. 

And yet, there it was.

She felt profoundly thankful to the man who’d saved Ophilia and an ever-increasing hatred towards Ophilia’s father. The way he’d played Ophilia, twisting her life – and Vivian’s by extension – into knots was sickening. What kind of father did that to his daughter? She could hardly believe that a parent could be so callous. Then again, she’d seen some of the shit the Family got up to since she’d gotten out.

“Well,” Vivian said, parking the car and leaning on the wheel. “That’s… I don’t know what to say about that, actually…”

Ophilia smiled from her place in the back seat. “You? Speechless? What a novel thought.” Vivian snorted. “But my father isn’t known for his benevolence, Vivian. He’s frightening, even to his own daughter, and that fear is his greatest weapon.”

Vivian shook her head. “No, I know that. I do the exact same thing, sometimes. Though it comes less naturally for me.” This time, Ophilia was the one to snort. Vivian shifted in her seat, turning to look directly at the woman behind her. “But I’d never screw over my own kid like that. It’s just… wrong.  A parent’s job is to protect their kids, not throw them to the wolves.” Vivian felt a knot in her chest tighten into a burning sphere of flame and watched as Ophilia’s jaw clenched, her eyes narrowing slightly. 

There was a moment of silence before Ophilia cleared her throat. She shrugged, wincing, and Vivian had the sudden urge to go find the banger who’d done this to her and introduce his face to a meat tenderizer. “Father may not have been kind, but he did protect me, in his own way. Who would try to kidnap me now? And if I’d taken his other offer, I would be no less safe, learning the nuances of running an organization from the background, letting someone else wear the bulls-eye.” She sighed, shifting a little again.

“Yeah, but from all you said, he wasn’t protecting you,” Vivian said suddenly, a heat burning in her heart. “He was protecting his own interests. You’re just a means to an end for him, Mel.”

Ophilia looked away, her eyes swimming with pain as she stared out the window. “You’ll get used to it, once you meet him.”

Vivian repressed a few treacherous thoughts regarding Ophilia’s old man and a tire iron. She turned to stare out of the car’s front window again, snarling to herself as she stared at nothing. “Fine,” she finally conceded, “I’ll be civil around him, even if I wanna put a bullet in his brain-pan. For you.”

“How sweet,” Ophilia replied blankly. She shifted again, this time giving a small gasp. “But… can we please get inside? I’m in quite a bit of pain right now, you understand.”

“Ah, right! Sorry.” Vivian hopped out of the car, her phone dialing Patrick McMillan before Ophilia’s door had even opened.





Dr. Patrick McMillan – P.H.D. – was forty-two years young, and about as Scottish as McDonnald’s. But while he’d never eaten haggis – as far as Vivian knew – he could still drink her under the table nine times out of ten. He was a man with a love for ladies and gambling that had landed him firmly in Vivian’s lap. But rather than bleed him for cash, Vivian learned of his profession and offered him another possible arrangement. Now, he would help the Mixers off the books, and Vivian would keep his beds warm and his chips clinking.

To be honest, Vivian rather liked Pat. He was a special brand of crazy – just like her – and had next to no filter – also like her. He was schooled in sociology, so the two of them would often break off into long philosophical debates. Often, these would end with Vivian licking her wounds and Pat grinning like mad. As much as Vivian adored Neo’s presence, the man simply couldn’t wrap his head around the idea of string theory. Ophilia had proven too pragmatic for conversations about Vivian’s hypothetical theories on time travel and alien infiltration. And the Mixers, as a whole, weren’t really selected for their book smarts. Though give some of them the right pills, and you’d have plenty of interesting discussions. With Pat, however, a good discussion was almost always a guarantee.

“Woo!” The doctor said gustily when he first saw Ophilia. The three met up in a back room of Cataclysm, a long, wide, bleak 
space with several shelves, counters, and a table taking up the center. It was devoid of decoration, wallpaper, or style. It served a purpose; that was all. “You look like you had a fist-fight with Edward Scissor-Hands, girl.” He ran a hand over his head, looking over the hitwoman. “And Vivi tells me you’ve gone and gotten some bones broken too? Try any harder, and you might start loosin’ bits.”

“Hah,” Ophilia replied, with no humor. “How impressively droll. Look doc, I’m in pain. A lot of pain. Can we hurry this up?”

Pat blinked and then nodded, putting his bag down beside the table. “Right, right; sorry, sorry.” As he spoke, he started removing various tools of his trade. “You seem like a pretty serious young lady, for bein’ in Vivi’s company. Normally, she gathers more nuts than a squirrel in the snowy season.”

“Hah,” Vivian mimicked Ophilia's dryness, crossing her arms. “Keep your hands where they’re supposed to be, Pat. She’s mine.”

Pat’s eyes got a bit wide and he grinned. “Me, oh my. Never pictured you as that type.” Vivian resisted the urge to throw something at him. “Well, she’s a real catch, she is.” He motioned with a roll of gauze. “Nice figure. Sexy butt. Huge ti—” Vivian threw something at him.

Pat gave a hearty laugh, ducking under the flying stethoscope. He looked over his shoulder, clearing his throat and thrusting his thumb after it. “I’m gonna need that, ya know…”

Vivian grumbled, walking around him to recover what she’d thrown. “Well,” Pat continued, while Vivian played fetch. “Time to be serious.” He placed the gauze wrap beside several other like it and motioned to Ophilia with his free hand. “Strip down to your underclothes.”

Ophilia raised an eyebrow at him.

“That’s not a proposition, girlie. I’m a doctor, not a psychic; I need to see your injuries to fix ‘em. Underclothes. Chop-chop.” He clapped with the last two words and Ophilia rolled her eyes.

“Where did you find this guy?” Ophilia asked as she unbuttoned her suit.

Vivian, who was just placing the stethoscope along with Pat’s other gear, chuckled and grinned. “About nose-deep in some lady’s box, actually,” she replied, making the good doctor blush. “It was a really awkward first impression. He’s got a ton of weaknesses, which I exploited shamelessly, until he finally decided to help me.”

“She’s quite generous, really,” he said, going over his materials once more. “She made me… heh, she made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“Oh, har har,” Ophilia grumbled, already down to her undershirt. Vivian noted passively that her lover was rather skilled at undressing quickly. The shirt came off with a quick motion, leaving Ophilia standing in a black lace bra. “If I catch you staring, I cut it off.”

Pat flinched. “Oh, that’s hardly fair. I need to examine your wounds, so I’ll need to look everywhere, you know.”

“It doesn’t hurt in any of those places. Dream on, doc.”

“Eh. Dream on I shall.” Patrick sighed, but Vivian knew it was all an act. Patrick may have been a lecher, but he was a lecher with professionalism. He separated work and pleasure with a very thick line and would never even think of abusing his position with one of his patients.

As Ophilia shimmied out of her pants, Vivian slid to the side of the room – well out of Pat's way – and ran her eyes over her lover’s figure.

Time had been as good for Ophilia as it’d been bad for Vivian. While her own arms and legs were a railroad of bad memories, Ophilia’s skin looked silky smooth. Vivian could spot several scars of varying sizes, but beyond that she was flawless. Hell, to Vivian, the scars made the woman. She smirked, reclining against the wall as Ophilia laid out on the table. 

As Pat began his examination, Vivian let her mind wander. Ophilia hadn’t explained with happened with Salvatore over in the east, but Vivian had a few ideas. The proof was clear as day, painted all over Ophilia’s body and in her honed killing skills. She had learned to kill, fought for her life, and eventually came back home to roost, where she’d become a killer for her father’s organization. Secretly, Vivian hungered for the story.

"Good call, Vivian," Pat said, making her snap out of her thoughts. "Two broken ribs. You'd guessed three, but one of 'em is only bruised. She'll be outta commission for a little while..." He began tracing a hand over some of the lacerations, squinting and muttering to himself. "Some of these are pretty deep. Gonna need stitches. You want painkillers, girl?"

Ophilia sat up just slightly, looking to the man with a raised eyebrow. "Do I look like a wallflower to you, doc?" She sounded serious, but her lip twitched slightly and her eyes shimmered with obvious mirth.

Pat boomed with laughter. "I like this girl, Vivi! She's a keeper, all right." He motioned Ophilia back down, sighing slightly as he drew out a pair of rubber gloves and put them on. "It's a shame two ladies like you need a guy like me around. You two aren't that old; you should be livin' life, not lettin' life live you, you know?" He drew a needle and medical thread from his bag, washing them in a small dish of soap and water he prepared just for them. "Light a fire for me, will ya?" He motioned towards Vivian, who was already moving to find one. She was well used to the man's nuances by now.

When she returned, Pat had left the needle and thread to soak and was already getting ready to sterilize the wounds. He looked over and clicked his tongue. "Vanilla? Very plain, Vivi. Very plain indeed." 

He snickered and held the needle inside the flame with a pair of tweezers, keeping an close eye on it, until the point was glowing with heat. He lowered the needle down onto a wet paper towel and folded it over, humming to himself as he worked. He stopped to replace his gloves while the needle cooled, coming back fresh.

With a grunt, he pulled a stool over to Ophilia's side and sat down, laying out his now-disinfected and sterilized tool around him. "Here goes, girlie."

And that was the only warning he gave before he started stitching the wounds. Ophilia twitched and let out a small, pained sound, but Pat was un-phased. He didn't let her discomfort slow him down or cause any mistakes. Pat knew one of the secrets of medicine: the quicker you finish, the easier it is on the patient. He continued to speak, however, in an attempt to keep Ophilia distracted.

"So, you and Vivi, eh?" He asked her, and Vivian leaned against the wall with a smirk.

"Mmhm," Ophilia replied, staring at the ceiling. "I figured that, if I didn't, no one would."

Pat laughed, but kept his hands steady. "Good on you. It's a charitable thing you're doin' in makin' such a drastic sacrifice."

"I'm right here, you two. Totally can hear you both."

Pat shook his head very slightly. "Completely tactless, ain't she?"

Ophilia smiled, gritted her teeth, then smiled again. "Oh, absolutely. But she's mine regardless. I've loved her for years." She gasped as Pat drove the needle into a particularly sensitive spot. "Watch it, doc."

"Sorry. So, you've known one-another for a while? I haven't seen you 'round here." He bit the first thread, tying it off. "But you do seem familiar. Have we met?"

"Doubtful. I'm Ophilia Melody."

Pat stumbled back, wobbling on his stool and nearly knocking over his tray of tools. He recovered quickly though. "O-oh. The Silencer? I heard you were a woman, but I never thought you'd be so... normal."

Vivian noticed an odd hitch in his voice and leaned off the wall, walking over to the doctor's side. He was sweating and having some trouble threading the next needle. Vivian had never seen him so intimidated before.

"Your hands are shaking, doctor. Not very professional." Ophilia's voice was level and emotionless. "What has you so nervous?"

Pat swallowed, calming himself; he steadied his hands and started on the next injury. "I... Shit lass, did you really do that?" He paused his work to shake his head, realizing he'd gotten ahead of the conversation. As he spoke, he started stitching once more. "I'm a surgeon at East Bend Hospital. About two months ago, we got a patient who—"

"I remember her. And yes." Ophilia closed her eyes, giving a sigh that Vivian could only describe as sorrowful. "That wasn't a very pleasant job."

"There are pleasant ones?" Vivian asked, making Ophilia smirk.

Pat took a deep breath, letting it out quickly. "You messed her up real bad, girl. We had to amputate her hand..."

"That was by design," Ophilia replied bluntly, eyes still closed.

Pat nodded, biting off a bit of string and tying it off. "Well, in that case, stellar job." He frowned, threading the needle again. The silence after that lingered as Pat started on the third injury.

"Are you afraid of me, doc?" Ophilia asked, opening her eyes and looking over to the man.

Pat shook his head, not even pausing in his work. "Nah. I've seen some terrible things in my life, girl, and you don't even make the top five." He paused, looking up to her and offering a smile. "I suppose I wish it wasn't the way of the world, but well..." He shrugs and goes back to his work.

Ophilia stared at him wordlessly, then nodded and closed her eyes again.

Vivian watched the exchange in silence, crossing her arms again. She hated to see Ophilia so sad. She wanted to walk over and hold her, but it wasn't a good idea for many reasons.

Pat snorted after a second, giving Ophilia a playfully lewd stare. "Well... like I said, you ain't too harsh on the eyes. If you 'n Vivi over there ever need someone to – I dunno – spice things up, I'd be—"

"Shut up, Pat," Vivian and Ophilia said in unison. Ophilia looked at Vivian and Vivian looked right back, and suddenly the two started laughing. Ophilia winced sharply, settling with a wry smirk instead.

Pat bit off the string and laughed openly. "All right you two, I'm done with that. Sit up now, girl." He motioned Ophilia up and she complied, giving a small gasp and grasping her side. "Yeah, you'll be real sore for a while." He looked over her abdomen, all professionalism. Vivian was almost amazed: Pat didn't stare, even though he was at the perfect height for an eye-full.

"Yeah, a wrapping should be good enough for this..." He turned, picking up one of the wraps of gauze, starting to wind it tightly around Ophilia's midsection. 

Ophilia let in a sharp, pained breath as he tugged it tight, but Pat didn't stop. "After this, you can get dressed." He looked over to Vivian and winked. "She'll be right as rain, given a week or so. They aren't bad breaks and should heal quick and clean, with proper care." He looked back to Ophilia, eyeing the wrapping. "Looks like you'll have one hell of a good nurse in the meantime, eh?"

Ophilia smirked, faking a thoughtful expression. "Do you think you could get me one of those? A nurses' outfit, I mean. One of those ones with the short skirt?"

Pat paused, blinking a few times before responding. "Only on the condition that I can see the results."

"No touching, though."

"Can do."

"Done then."

Vivian blinked, completely unable to come up with anything particular to say. Had she seriously just been used as a bargaining chip? She let out a burst of laughter, shaking her head, before words finally came to her. "You two are a treat, you know that?"

Pat chuckled as he taped off the wrap. "I could say the same, Vivi." He slid his chair back and nodded to his work. "All right. Get dressed, girl. Or don't. I wouldn't mind the view." He laughed, but still averted his eyes, busying himself with packing away his things.

Ophilia slid off the table carefully, keeping her weight off her injured leg. "You do good work, Pat." She pulled her shirt off a nearby table, tugging it on over her head. As she closed a few of the top buttons, she looked over at Vivian. "You can head upstairs if you want, Viv. I'll be coming up to bed real soon."

Vivian nodded, looking to the door. "I'll be in later; I need to keep up until the goods we recovered are home safe." Pat pretended to hear none of this. Ophilia simply nodded.

"Later then," Ophilia winked and Vivian smiled.

"Later," she replied, then paused with her hand on the doorknob. "Hey Pat. I can't help but notice, you never used that stethoscope."

"Hm?" Pat blinked, looking at the tool, which was still just sitting where Vivian had left it. "Oh yeah, no, I didn't really need it." He grinned. "Just wanted ta make you pick something up. You've got a real cute butt, you know."

Vivian opened her mouth to say something, but simply sighed and chuckled, shaking her head and slipping out the door. It closed behind her with a soft click, and Vivian stood there, taking a moment to consider how lucky she'd been these past few weeks. She felt a surge of happiness and started to her study, ready for whatever life would throw her way. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a bottle, taking out a pill and popping it past her lips. The goods could have been stolen all over again, and she'd hardly have even cared.

But when she opened the door to her study, she felt her entire world turn to ice.

He was sitting in her chair, smoking one of the cigars she'd gotten to celebrate the raid. His feet were up on her desk and he was staring at some papers she'd left out in the open. Charles Melody looked a lot like his daughter, if his daughter had abandoned any semblance of kindness, replacing it with a cruel, calculating emptiness. He looked up from the papers and tilted his head to the side, making sure nobody was behind her, before waving for her to close the door.

She did.

"Vivian Scratch, also known as Vivi, DJ V-Scratch, and Miss Misfit by some. Viv by my daughter." He breathed a cloud of smoke over the papers before setting them down. "Your cigars are... lacking. Please, take a seat."

She didn't consider that she was in her own study until she'd already sat down. Charles had made this room feel like it was his.

The man pulled his pristine shoes off the desk, putting them under it and linking his hands with the poise of a shrewd businessman. "We have much to discuss, don't we Vivian?"

Vivian clenched her fists, then loosened them, hoping he hadn't seen the hostile action. "Yeah, guess we do. Let me ask the first question: how in the fiery hell did you get past my security?"

Charles made a tsk sound in his throat, leaning back in the chair. "It'd have been more polite to let your guest ask the first question. As for your answer, I hope you don't mind if it's vague. I have my ways to get into most everywhere, Vivian. I'm always prepared."

Vivian felt a chill shoot down her spine. Did she have a mole? She had to, didn't she?

She'd known she'd have to deal with this man at some point, but she hadn't planned on it being this soon. She wasn't at all prepared, and she was struggling to keep her uncertainty from showing.

"My turn," Charles said, setting the cigar into an ashtray on the desk. "What made you think you could take my daughter onto a potentially fatal raid without my consent? And let her get injured in the process, no less."

Vivian bit the inside of her cheek to bite back the obvious, snarky response. She not only wasn't used to reigning in her emotions like this, but she felt the ecstasy she'd taken in the hall starting to work it's way through her system. This was... bad. "To be honest," she started, managing her words carefully. "I would've done it on my own, but Ophilia's way better at that kind of stuff. Besides, our goods had been stolen and Ophilia agreed that we needed to send a swift and harsh message back. Really, the whole thing was her idea to begin with."

Charles took another puff from the cigar and sighed out the smoke, leaning forward. His eyes suddenly went hard, boring into her. "Rule number one of conversing with me, child: do not ever lie to me. I know, sure as the sun will rise, whenever you lie." He leaned back, setting the cigar aside again. Vivian felt a tremor start in her leg, but rested her palm on it and beat the fear down; she couldn't look like a sheep in front of this wolf of a man.

After a few moments of silence, Charles nodded. "Very well. Lie or no lie, I agree with the choice. The Black Dogs are annoying as it is, but if they had gained access to the firearms they'd stolen from you, they very well might have warranted a more... frontal approach than what you did tonight. I have made note of your quick thinking." He looked at the ceiling, seeming to think on something in particular. "You should know, I am not particularly fond of you. You have a long road ahead of you, if you wish to prove your worth to me. Otherwise, I assure you, your road will be very, very short."

Vivian swallowed, then leaned forward, mimicking his previous posture. Maybe it was the drugs giving her a surge of courage, but Vivian rode that high. "You talked to me about politeness earlier, but is it polite to sneak into an ally's home, then threaten them without provocation?" She shook her head and smiled. "Seems to me that you've got your own moments of impropriety."

Charles stared coolly through the smoke, then gave a small chuckle. "If I didn't know any better, I would say you had some backbone, child. However, I can hear the anger in your tone and see the shaking in your leg. You're afraid of me, as you should be." He studied the cigar before taking another drag from it, leaving them in silence as the cherry burned. Just as Vivian was about to put words in to fill the void, Charles spoke again. "That's lucky for you. If you had a backbone, I'd have been forced to break it. As it is, you're in just the position I would have you be in, for our relationship to continue." He snubbed out the cigar, leaning back into the chair again. "Fear, child, is a powerful weapon. You've used it as a child uses a stick to fend off a wild animal, but you've yet to see it truly carried." He sneered at her and Vivian felt certain that, should she say one more wrong word, he'd kill her. "I am in control here. Not you. And if you try to pretend like it's otherwise again, I will show you I'm in control. Understand?

"My daughter loves you. I attempted to discourage this emotion. However, it has persisted. When you returned into her life, you wrested control from me, and I do not like losing control of my tools. Out of respect for my daughter, I'm granting you a chance, one singular chance, to prove your value to me and the Family. If you fail, you will depart from my daughter's life; either on your feet or on your back, one way or another, you will depart. If you fail to make me see your importance to my daughter and my organization, I will ensure that."

Vivian couldn't move. She could barely think. Maybe it was the drugs, or maybe it was the fact that Ophilia's father had just threatened to kill her. He'd pointed the entirety of the largest criminal organization at her like the barrel of a shotgun and asked her if she felt lucky. She was confident that, if he wanted to, Charles would kill her without a single bit of passion, remorse, or concern for his daughter's well-being.

She licked her lips, unable to hide her fear any longer. "Okay. Yeah, I'll prove it. I love Mel just as much as she loves me, Charles. Just tell me what I need to do, and I'll do it. You have my word."

Charles raised an eyebrow at her. "Oh? Very well." He leaned forward, steepling his fingers under his chin. It made him look like a goddamn super-villain.

"First, you will cease to throw my daughter around so recklessly, like some cheap pawn in your insignificant games. I assure you, I can smell her blood in the water of this city whenever it's spilled, and I will not have it happen again. If she had suffered any lingering damage today, I likely would have killed you the moment that door opened. Luckily for you, she was battered, but received no injuries that should be permanent... At least, that's what I gathered from the little information I learned about what happened today. From now on, if you need aid from the Family, you will contact me first and foremost, and if I deem your need proper, I will send support. But do not endanger my daughter for your petty whims again.

"Second, I expect you to abandon your drug usage within a year. I am not an unreasonable man; so long as I see progress in you, I will not hold your addiction against you. I will not, however, show any mercy if you continue to be nothing more than another worthless fiend. I will remove you from the equation as quickly as I would decide on what to wear in the morning, and I will feel as much regret in it as I would feel in not choosing a particular garment.

"Lastly, you will speak to my daughter within the next two years about seeking out a surrogate to give her a child. You may raise this child with her, so long as you continue to please me. But this child will belong to the Family as a whole. It will be taught by my teachers, protected by my men, and will be intricately tied to the workings of this Family. I will meet this surrogate before you decide on him, and I will be the final arbiter of his worth. If he fails to meet my expectations, I will find one myself, whether you like it or not. Are those things clear to you?"

Vivian closed her eyes behind her glasses, willing her heart to stop racing and her fingers to stop itching. Her gun wasn't that far from her hand, just inside her coat. It could end this problem right here, right now.

But was Charles really as unprepared as he seemed? And what would Ophilia say if Vivian shot her father? Could they even still be together, after something like that? She bit her lip so hard, she was certain she'd start bleeding. She closed her fists in an effort to keep her hands from diving into her coat and ruining her life.

"Yeah. Clear as crystal, Chuck." She had to struggle to keep any venom from her voice. "So, is there a set deadline for this kid thing, or are you just aiming for two-year-ish as my limit?"

Charles flashed her the briefest of grins, showing off perfect, white teeth. "Don't call me Chuck. And lets settle for New Years Day for both deadlines. In the coming years, I will expect these things to either have been completed, or for you to be gone." He stared at her for a few moments longer, before rising from the chair. "You will not tell my daughter of this conversation. When we meet, as I'm sure she will want us to, you will act as if we have never met before. What was said here was for the two of us alone, not for her. You would not want to worry her unduly, I assume." He gave her a sidelong look, and Vivian felt herself looking down and away from those eyes. "Good. Continue to know your place, child, and we will get along swimmingly. Good night." He patted Vivian on the shoulder as he walked past, strolling almost casually out the door.

As soon as the door closed, Vivian let out a loud gasp as she dropped her restraint. "Sure, I'll get right on that, Chuck. Whatever you say Charlie Brown. Big C. Ground Chuck. Blowing Chucks! The Chuckmeister! Chuckie salsa! The Chuckinator! Hawaii Chuck-O, motherfucker!" Her breathing was labored and her eyes were wild as she talked to the empty room. With a snarl, she punched the wall so hard it hurt her hand. She couldn't believe that'd seriously just happened; it was way too surreal. She almost thought for a second that it'd been some kind of drug-induced hallucination. But she could still smell the sweet smell of his pricey cigar lingering in the air, and the burnt-out stub was still left behind in her ashtray. She gulped down her heart, which had tried to lodge itself in her trachea.

She took several minutes to compose herself, then pushed herself from the chair and walked to the door. She thrust her head out, making sure Ophilia's father was actually gone. Thankfully, the man was nowhere in sight and hopefully hadn't heard her little outburst. Vivian felt the little prickles of fear settle into the dull throb of dread.

She closed the door with a slam, walking around the desk and opening all the drawers and compartments to make sure nothing was missing or if something had been planted. With some relief, she found everything right where she'd left it and no new additions to her study. She set her glasses down on the desk, running a tired hand over her face. Then, she pulled her cellphone out of her pocket and dialed up Neo.

"Hey Vivi," he sounded pleased. "Everything went smoothly, I hear. I'll get on—"

"Charles Melody. Did anyone authorize him to come into Cataclysm?" Vivian interrupted him bluntly, rushing over his words.

There was a long, confused pause on the other end of the line. "Charles Melody? No, no one cleared him. Why? Was he there?" He sounded very concerned now, hearing the panic in her voice. "Are you alright?"

Vivian swallowed, nodding to herself. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Just had a bit of a scare, that's all. He was just flexin', showin' off how much clout he has." She was saying this just as much to herself as she was to Neo. "The raid went great. Ophilia got a bit banged up, but we took out a bunch of Black Dogs and left one to run with his tail between his legs. We're back at the club now, gettin' Mel patched up. Send someone to get the guns, pronto. I want those weapons yesterday, Ne-yo."

Neo paused again, and when he spoke, he sounded shaken. "Uh... the one you let go; black, curly hair with brown eyes? Tattoos of claw marks under his right eye?"

Vivian blinked. She placed her hand on the desktop, bracing herself. "Yeah, that's him. How'd you know?"

"I don't think he got far, Viv. My guys said the Dogs were in a frenzy; I guess they found a head on their doorstep matching that description. He'd been given an Sicilian Necktie before the head was cut off... I'd assumed it was Ophilia's work, but..." He trailed off into an uncomfortable, worried silence.

Vivian's eyes widened and she fell into her chair, holding the phone to her ear limply. There was once piece of the puzzle solved; Charles had been watching them the whole time, and had tortured that banger for information. It was how he'd known so much about the raid. "Get that crate back now, Ne-yo. Yesterday! And burn that fucking warehouse to the ground too." She bit her lip, trying to think up any other angles they might've left open. "The Family is tailing us, Neo. I still ain't sure if that's good or bad."





By the time Vivian finished patching up loose ends and reading into this dumpster-fire of a situation, it was closing on the next morning. She sighed as she slipped into the bedroom, looking to Ophilia on the bed. The other woman was fast asleep on her side; splinted, stitched, and bandaged. She was wearing a silky nightgown, laying on top of the sheets with a kind of casual sexuality. Vivian moved as quietly as she could, but Ophilia was nothing if not a light sleeper.

"Ngh... Just getting in?" Ophilia rolled onto her back, her breasts shifting under the thin fabric. She smiled at Vivian with dazed eyes and a lazy smile. "Pat had a few painkillers. Said they'd help me sleep." She rolled slightly, taking some weight off her injured side. "I feel good." She chuckled lightly and pays the bed. "Come join me, Viv... I'm chilly."

Vivian was silent for a second, then chuckled. "Maybe you should get under the blankets then." She stripped off her jacket, tossing it aside. Track marks aside, she'd grown completely comfortable with being naked around her lover. Her pants and top followed, leaving the mobster in her panties. "Seriously. You're hopeless sometimes."

"Mrr..." Ophilia rolls over again, grumbling. "But I want you, not some blankets." She moved over, making more room for the gangster.

Vivian grins and hopped onto the bed, scooting closer and snuggling up to her lover, kissing her neck. "You're amazing, you know that?" She gave a low chuckle, peppering the other woman's neck with kisses.

Ophilia gave another groan, this one blended with a low moan. "Yes. I do." She pressed her back into Vivian's, matching the curve of her lover's body. "You are too. I love you, Viv."

Vivian was quiet for a few seconds. The events of the past day swirled in her mind, and she bit her lip before giving the back of Ophilia's neck a soft kiss. "I love you too, Mel. And I'd do anything to prove it to you..."