· · · tango in the NiGHT, Open, yuuuuh~ xD

[Lucy Wilde]

fragments of the afternoon
[fragments] of the { __. afternoon

The smoke didn't affect her anymore. In fact, she had been at it for so long, she wasn't even sure if it ever had. Back in the days when the South Africa had been a place of untamed wilderness, of escapades with beasts, and of short letters from London that kept her 'updated' on her family, it very well might've gotten her teared up. Gray, acrid fumes escaped from between her red, plush lips, twisted slightly with displeasure as she continued to think. Her back leaned against a mildly grafitti-ed wall; one leg propped up, it's heavy rubber sole assisted in it's grip of the cement by the light layer of grime that lay on it. A rush of air blew the smoke farther away from her as she flicked the cigarette way from her smooth, lightly freckled hand. A delicate, but insistent pressure in her head reminded her of the last time she had slept, a few days ago, she thought...But there was no one to complain to, and she was not yet mad enough to talk to herself. What should have been blurred, bleary, slow and clumsy was sharp, clear, tense and toned, ready. They had said it would be easy, nothing too stressful, as she was just out of a long time behind bars. Something she could use to get primed again, get prepared for what was to come. Just a simple, basic, find and deliver gig with no real need for a weapon. She had caught them on that, with her knack for irritating interruptions, and told them they would have to find somebody else, because she was a weapon. Despite this rather bold statement, she realized that she was a strange kind of weapon indeed. Not a tool to be used at one's whims, but a carefully honed guard who would protect, faithfully and...Vociferously. But...As she had half-expected, they had lied, and therefore been honest, as she had soon come to expect of The Six Blue.

A swift push-off left her standing a little unsteadiy on both of her heavily-booted feet, swaying a little in the chilly breeze that buffeted her. Regaining her balance she tossed her hair out of her eyes carefully and then set off at a lope. It was a strange enough stride, not quite as fast as a jog, but with paces that were longer and looser. Nobody noticed her, not as she pushed through the milling crowds in her black uniform of tight, water-proof thermal underwear covered in a smooth leathery cloth that might have hidden a thin kevlar vest. It was not so bizarre as to attract attention, but she had been asked if she was with the police a few times before. The answer was, of course, no, but she took her time in answering it at the time, and added a bit more of a snap to it. 'Can't a girl go to a fucking fancy-dress these days without a laughing crowd?! Damn america, I knew it was confined...' Sent the tourists blinking and reeling back. And it wasn't that she was such a rude lady, for she had manners that she kept very clean and in her closet, but she truly despised being interrupted. As did her employers. The half-jog persisted, as did the late evening, which moved slowly into night. It felt about eleven, but it could be later, one never could tell with this place. Her clothes itched from the sweat that covered her mildly goose-pimpled skin, and blood was smeared along with some dirt across the right side of her face. It ached, but not as much as her head. Slow, rythmic breathing took her chest in steady motions, her silent footsteps unheard in the muffled night air. The river ran beside her, the city's lights ran along her left side, and across the moving water. She would be returning now, for some well-deserved rest, to her current abode, and her mind drifted in slight delirum as she thought of a comfortable bed and warm sheets. Her foot slipped a little, and she tipped perilously to the icy water before windmilling ungracefully and throwing herself roughly to the left. Our red-headed demon hit a murky puddle with a splashing crack that was mostly created by her head hitting the old-style cobble-stones sickeningly.

Dazed, Lucy felt a trickle of blood crawl down her sweaty face, following the trails of moisture down her cheek. She lay there, on the ground, panting to regain her breath, but not uttering another sound. Twisting around, she lay on her back, seemingly unconcerned with the fact that her bright hair was now soaked and filthy and that her whole back was covered in 'agua puerca'. A throbbing entered her temples and her eyesight seemed to fade, despite her rapid blinking attempts to fight it. Without much gentility, she put one hand on the almost sandy feeling dirt that covered the cobbles, cursing magnificently in four different languages. A fluttering breeze to her left led her to crick her neck in a sudden atempt to catch the movement. Suspicion and dislike were deeply rooted on her stained face as she peered into the darkness with her seemingly-mortal eyes. A passing stranger shrieked as she uttered a sound out of a nightmare, eyes flashing with luminescence. It was like a wonky cross between a wolf-snarl and a cat's yowl, her blue eyes turning darker and murkier than a marsh as her pupils dilated. Her throat wrenched as the sound turned more into a grated bark, teeth bared wildly, the ferocious tint back in her face. Something wasn't...Human about her. Something definitely off, strange, animalistic. Lucy continued to glare into the darkness, her stance wide and prepared, shoulders hunched over in a hunter's tense position. It came in a flicker of pseudomotion from a place just in her sight. She was not one of the most formidable belles that The Six Blue had seen in the last three decades for nothing, and she proved it in such situations as this. The 'thing' stepped out of the shadows, revealing a man that appeared to be ten years or so older than her, with a streak of gray decorating his messy hair every now and then. Greasy, unkempt, and wiry, he stared at her with a cocky smirk wavering over his face. Fury built up inside her, and she felt the sudden urge to rip that smile off his face and stuff it down his bleeding throat. The mad look in her eyes intensified, and she gave a snap of her jaws, discarding the idea of her being human completely. Her hands convulsed, and a vein was pulsating in her head steadily, a twitch of temper made her face move spasmodically. Lucy hated being interrupted. She had had a plan, she was going to go home and have a wash and go to bed, with her warm sheets and her dogs. This was breaking her plan, this was not welcome. Her thoughts became more fleeting and less thorough as her feral leer became more pronounced than ever, and she solidified her stance even further, the shadows that were her defined muscles hidden by her thick clothing.

Pain and blood forgotten, she started the game. The circle had been started, now it could not be broken, it was law. She circled, he followed, she changed direction, he followed suit. Nose wrinkling in her snarl, she grew rapidly bored with this game and lunged. He was more of a sprinter than she was, and therefore better at sudden acceleration. The man darted back with a surprised cry, just as dog-like as Lucy's had been, if a little less viscious. But he made a quick recovery and snapped as her neck with his larger fangs. The river continued to rush, the cobbles did not move, some old drunks shuffled away so as not to be involved, and the moon was above, casting long shadows behind each one of the combatants. The woman gave a growling yelp as his teeth grazed her ear, half ripping it from it's proper place before going on to nip away some of her shoulder. Blood started to flow, but not spurt out as one might've expected, and the dark stain against the black seemed to lessen as the fight went on, even if the movement did not cease. Teeth gnashed and crack against each other as Lucy parried another snap to the neck and shoulder, and went farther, darting past his fangs in a malicious parody of a kiss, ripping away at his face mercilessly. A howling roar came from the man, and she gave a growl of satisfaction before stepping back for a moment. He staggered forward, still with enough energy to roar in hatred and come at her again. She dashed aside, her turn to smile dazzlingly at him. Lunging, she feinted to the side and gave her characteristic growling snap, which sounded like a very cross Chewbacca, almost. Bowing carefully, she laughed nastily, a gurgling, rasping laugh of a beast more than lady. A fist, until now unused, wiped out and caught him in the gut, caused him to cough wildly and spray blood onto the pavement. Her eyes turned a frightening shade of red and she grew more ferocious still, the bloodlust taking her form and making it faster, strong and more wickedly accurate than ever. A bark, a few chattering laughs, more nipping, a few cutesy steps, and then a snap at his side decorated her style That was the way she fought. She taunted, teased, nipped, bit, snapped and frustrated her prey until it could take no more. There was no denying it, but Lucy was not the girl she had once been. As she stood there, looking up at the man who was so much bigger than her, a casual observer could tell that was was trained well, and she knew her business. She was a hunter, yes, a seeker, certainly. But more than anything, she was a killer.

A groan took the man as she stood there, towering over her, panting. She backed up, waiting for his next attack, which came soon enough. He moved like lightning, aiming for her face, an eye for an eye. She laughed, a high, nasty thing that sent shivers down any decent person's back. A hand came flying up, and she grabbed his throat visciously, throwing all her weight on his chest at the climax of his arcing jump for her. He was rocketed backwards, their combined weight sending them moving roughly through the air before they landed with a thud on the ground, a snapping sound indicating the definite breaking of one or more of his bones. She hoped it wasn't his back, she wasn't done yet. Agony was shown on his face as she tumbled off him and skittered into a crouch, one hand snapping up to his neck dangerously. Lucy didn't bother ask him any questions, he wouldn't be able to answer them anyway. If it was The Six Blue, they wouldn't have told him why they sent him, if it was somebody else...He was either high up enough to have a chance of killing her and would never to talk, or disposable enough to be sent after her as a test of her skills and style and didn't know enough. Her shrewd face was contorted in the aftermath of it all, and she grinned wickedly as his throat bobbed up and down in nerves. Her voice, went it came, was husky, about alto in tone, commanding, brusque, and flatly disinterested. It said 'I am not going to waste my time thinking about how to shape my voice because you are shit to me and you know it, kthx, the end, let's move on' "Wanna know somethin'?" She said, calmly, and quickly, in that South African accent of hers. The man didn't appear to be listening, but she continued anyway. People rarely listened to her, but that sure as hell didn't stop her from talking. "I'm not a bad person. Really. I do what I do, and that may not be as honorable as most people's jobs, but cor, I do it and I do it well. Isn't that what we're expected to do?" He didn't answer, but the pale colour of his skin, the ravaged face and sweaty complexion must've been keeping him busy. She shrugged and sat heavily on his chest, ignoring the wheezing gasp that accompanied it. Our lady Lucifer looked up at the moon curiously, not paying very much attention to her struggling captive of the blood that now encircled her hairlines like a bloody crown, and the trickles that dried as a wreath down her pale, high cheekbones. Speckled, they were, with the last of the previous summer's freckles. "I do what is asked of me. I am what I am. Where is the shame in that, if what I am is a bad seed? One of those little oopsadaisies that wasn't supposed to happen between two people nobody ever cared about, haha. Story of my life." She was monologuing. He had caught her in the mood. Anger mixed with embarrasment filled her. Did she not prove her foolishness by such idiotic displays?! She was too old for this shit.

One of those trademark growls escaped her as the man struggled to get free, something white and gleaming sticking out of his chest. Probably a rib. It took one snap, and her face was covered in scarlet. He probably wasn't dead, not yet. Lady Lucifer took no chances, she had before and learned her lesson. Mercy ain't in the cards if ya wanna live, she would say. A flash of a knife, silvery gray, was in the air, her hand shivered as she held the bane in her cut, bleeding fist, knuckles bared to the air from his shattered nose bones and jaw slivers. A sharp stroke, then a jab sent the man howling in agony and gut-wrenching anguish, a howl of unsuppressed suffering ripped from his wasted throat, bruised and clawed at as it was. A toe shoved him roughly into the water, narrowed eyes and a methodical grace in the face accompanying such a movement. This was not a game. She played it like one, but she knew it was all in her head at such times. The splash of the body hitting the icy Charles River made her lick her ripped lips in satisfaction. Addreneline still pumped through her, and she kept it from leaving by jerking her arms and legs unexpectedly, half-suceeding in surprising herself by the action. Actually, it was really made to work when she smashed her arm agains the iron rail and snarled, whirling around. Heart beating a little faster, she turned her back to the river, watching the silver knife's handle sticking out of the man's eye socket with an expressionless face. A shiver passed through her as the cold air blew through her sweat and blood soaked clothes, even the thermal underwear failing to keep her entirely safe from the chill. Her blue eyes glanced around carefully, spotting a bar ahead, housing complexes to her right, a street also to her right and some tipsy pedestrians stumbling and giggling to a taxi. Her car was about four miles ahead, a stones throw (one might think that was literal if they'd ever seen her throw a rock) for her expert legs, but she contemplated just renting a cheap motel two or three miles away and having a sleep there. The eyes continued to gaze about, and she almost laughed as she stared longingly at the gnarled roots of a tree, inviting her to curl up and sleep for a few dozen hours.

It was tempting, but all the same she began to walk, not jog, slowly to her vehicle. Hunching her shoulders up, slouching over so she appeared about an inch shorter, she relaxed herself a little, and felt the change come over her again. The tree now seemed a ridiculous place to sleep, her ears seem to hear less, her eyes see brighter and more clearly, and her face seemed less sharp and feral. A sigh came from between her chapped, cut lips and whispered through the night as she made her solitary way on the sidewalk. Neck lowered a little, she looked like a lioness on the prowl, a slight roll to her walk, a carelessness about the way she flicked her feet out. She wondered, idly, if she would be approached on this walk, or whether it would be one she shared with only the moon, the stars and the inky blackness. Her weariness seemed to come back, and her body caught the cold more strongly as her sweat cooled. A cough became a body-rattling hack, and she shivered, nose running a little as she walked. Her eyelids felt like stones, weighing a hundred pounds a piece, forcing her face into uncomfortable paroxysms when she tried to keep them open. Feet became lead weights and she tripped a little over them as she walked. Fleeting images of her falling down and fainting, launching herself into ol' Charlie by accident, drowning without knowing she was. Shaking herself awake a little, she crossed her arms and leaning in a little farther, head to the light wind, which felt so much stronger. She had to keep moving...And yet a voice told her not to. 'Just rest...Just shut your eyes, you're too tired, you'll never make it anyway...' Another voice sobbed back. 'But...They could find me, I don't want them to find me! I don't want, don't want...Don't want...Don't...Want.....Don't........Want.....' Her thoughts burst in and out of her head erratically, and she felt the bruises come back in full force. Her legs seared with pain from all the miles she'd run, chest and ribs bruised something dreadful and she knew they would be purple in a few hours, cuts and gashes running up and down her arms and on her shoulders from the blows she had fended off, and ear ripped. The drop off would have to wait until later, and she didn't care what The Six Blue said, she was barely conscious now she was back from her state of crazed madness. Her boots made her feet feel heavier still, and she tripped yet again over them, scraping through her first layer of skin on her naked hands and snapping at the cappilaries. More blood, she bled some more, feeling her chin go a little numb from the cold cement she had scraped it on. A slow, unfeeling push up sent her almost catapulting backwards to the ground again, her legs and reaction time not up to the sudden movement. But things had never been convenient, or slow with her. They had always been fast, sudden, close and far too bitingly personal to ignore. The darkness became darker, and even her excellent night vision blurred now she was more 'human'. Her independence did not weaken. She didn't need anybody, why should she? Men always felt the need to scoop her up and coddle her like a child, when she was normally several decades older than they thought she was. Her palms throbbed now, on top of everything else, and she did not lift her head as she ambled, seemingly drunk, down the sidewalk, alert and cautious, despite her exhaustion.

LOCATiON: Around one of the bends of the Charles River, around midnight on a cold March-ish sort of time. About 28 degrees fahrenheit with the remainder of snow on the ground, dirty and soiled by sand from the snow plows and pedestrian traffic of the day. Seperates Cambridge from Boston, uptown city from more Univerity-ish houses and apartments.

[Isaac Mulciber]

im just trying to be a good man

why the hell are you making it so hard for me to be?

He heard her scratching at the door. The heavy, heavy door that had replaced the thin, thin one before. Her nails digging into the wood as she mumbled and blubbered and whispered. He heard her sob and scream and cry. He heard her through the solid door that separated them. In the end she would cry herself to sleep, or get tired and leave. She always did… and then return a week or so later… to try it again with little hope that her desperate measures would ever meet the desperate times. He laid on the couch in the small apartment listening to her. Hearing her, he closed his eyes and shut them tight. He wished he could rip off his ears, claw out his eyes… anything to get the noise to stop. Why couldn’t she just stop? Just stop?

… Why couldn't she just… stop?

The little girl was curled in her bed in her room. Her room of pink wallpaper and daisies. Of fluffy rugs and dolls. The little girl with a nightlight on, sleeping peacefully while clutching her teddy. A teddy bear she had gotten when she was so young, when everything seemed so right and so good. The little girl with pretty brown hair and big green eyes. So cute, so pretty, so sleeping. She didn’t hear her mother… Didn’t see her, didn’t hear her, didn’t know she was there. Her father did not want her to see someone who had met life and crumbled so. He didn’t want her to see the skirt that road up her thighs, the blouse that barely covered, the cracked lips and the tongue that ran over them, the dark bruises on her body, the needle marks on her arms… the hollowness of her eyes and how they flickered. A woman buzzed, coming off her high. Crashing, crashing, crashing… the beauty she once was shrunken to nothingness. He did not want her to see a woman who had lowered herself and lost all pride and dignity. He didn’t want her to see this woman and mistake her for her mother. … When he had tucked her in for the night, sitting on the edge of her bed and listening to her read to him for the night… he had been amazed at how she grew and how she seemed to be a spitting image of that mother that once was. And amazed at how well she read. So smart for someone so young. Where was she learning all those big words? Where was all her blissful ignorance going? Since when did she become so wise, so clever, so smart? There was pride and then there was sadness. When he had kissed the top of her head and nuzzled the blankets under her chin, when he had turned on the small light beside her bed and turned off the overhead… As she became comfortable in the safe, safe haven of her room he frowned and dread crept in. Was he going to loose her, one day, too? … He would, he knew he would. He could not keep her small, he could not keep her little, he could not keep her here. What he could do, the only thing he could do, was keep her from the truth. And he did. It was kindness. It was deceit. And it was entirely for her well being. He told himself that, even if he knew, like everyone else knew… it was for him, too. It was like a sign on his forehead, a telltale mark in his eyes. He was keeping Jazmine away not just for Maria… but for himself. The greedy, fucking son of a bitch he was. Pretending, all this is… The girls teased him about being a saint. He wasn’t. He wasn’t like his cousin but he wasn’t much better. That’s how the sign would read. The wooden cross that would rot and only mark his grave for a time. One day he would die. And no one remember the Mulciber that lived. Lived, ha, lived. His living was just grasping at straws. Trying to do things right but never making it without doing the wrong. But his kid would have more. She didn't have his name. And she wouldn't have her mom's for long. Get it changed to something good. 'Jones', 'Johnson', 'McMane', something good and respectable. His kid would be more. His kid would go to college. His kid would have a legit job. But how the hell you going to pay for that popeye? He didn't know. He knew he would though. He'd get the money. He would.

They thought ‘slaves’ were no more. But they were. It was now not just a race. It was a sort of person. Desperate people do desperate things… Hookers, sluts, street corner vendors selling their body like products going out of fashion. They were slaves. Those who shot up, who drank, who had to have the substance. They were slaves. As was he, his bosses, he couldn’t defy them. Couldn’t and expect to get away with it. He had some respect and a reputation, going ballistic on a random stranger who had been chatting his kid up at the park - beating him to death (if he had been human) … he had a reputation. A not so great reputation but one that earned him respect. He wasn’t psychotic like the Conner boy but he wasn’t much better. Not much better. He was trash, gypsy trash - a Europe boy who came to the States. He wasn’t a halfbred mutt like Conner - a freak of nature… but he was just as bad. A bitch to those who had the money and the power and the influence. He knew who he could cross and who he could not. He knew his limits, what he could do, what they would let him do. They decided, he didn’t, he was a slave, but he had a mind, intellect, intelligence, he was a conartists, a fluke, a shark, a disguise. They thought they knew him? No. That was the only thing he had, appearance, face, they thought they knew but they didn’t. The only ace he had, the only trick he could pull. They didn’t know him, they thought they did. Thought they knew what he was capable of but when it came down to the wire, came down to the line, blood was blood and you fight for your blood. Family was all one had - All. One. Had. He knew himself, he knew what he was and who he was. He was one of them. They were his family. Never turn your back on your family. Ever. He was an idiot, a fool, a stupid asshole. He was suppose to be smart, suppose to be the wiseguy but he had one big flaw. If progression meant cutting someone loose he couldn’t. Dominik was a sandbag, weighing him down and keeping him put. The asshole, the shithead… He was the reason why he could never get anywhere fast. Reason. Number one reason. Too busy covering for him. Too busy trying to take care of him. Too busy with him. He was suppose to be smart, the only thing he had they could never, ever take away… Smarts. But he wasn’t smart. He couldn’t cut away the tumor threatening to kill him. He couldn’t. Promises. He was out of date, he knew. He believed in promises. In words. A man was only as good as his word. As if keeping his word could make him a good man. Forgive him of all his mistakes. His mistakes. So many…

… Was she a mistake? He wondered. Then he shook his head.

Was it a mistake to love someone? No. So quick to say no. Everyone so quick to say it wasn’t. Did she think he was a heartless man? He wouldn’t be surprised if she did. He ignored her, he shoved her away, he kept her away. He didn’t fall for her games. He treated her like she was - worthless. Why? Because every time he slipped up, every time he forgot he wasn’t suppose to give a shit about the person that never did for him… She preyed on it. She saw the glimmer in his eyes and exploited it. He gave her so many chances, he had wanted her so bad. He just wanted her with him, to stay with him, to be with him. He wanted her to be the mother, wanted her to be the wife, wanted her to be the lover. He wanted her, but she didn’t want this. What he wanted was him, alone, his money and how easy he was for her. That’s what she wanted, plain and simple. But she could get the money for the drugs anywhere, and could have another guy in her bed. He was replaceable what he was to her was replaceable… she only wanted him now for what he wasn’t so easily ‘replaced’ by, the one thing. She wanted the looks he had for her, the tenderness and affection that went past just a fuck buddy stint. But she didn’t want the kid. He did. She wasn’t better, she was worse. She drank, she smoked, she shot up, she huffed, she dusted. She… Not anymore. No more. He was done. He gave her all the chances in the world, how could she ask for more? How? After everything, after all the things, how could she be so cruel? She loved to be mean. Loved to be nasty. She tried sleeping with Dominik just to encite his jealousy. She wanted to be fought over. She wanted to be wanted. He wanted her. He fought over her. But now he was done. She was not something he could touch before - now she was just something he didn't want. He said this to himself. Maybe the more he said it the more true it would become.

… Maybe the more he reminded himself of it, the more likely he would be to take his advice.
Man up. Forget about it. Live. Life. Buck up. Accept it.

He had had a plan. He always had a plan. Thoughts raced, collected, gathered. He was the thinker, no mistaking it. He was not a killer, the Connor boy said this as eagerly as the James girl… with the reserve of the Evrid man that got them curious and the Baisu demon that got them snickering. Mulciber was not a Killer. He deviated from the course in not being one. He didn’t often opt to touch guns or knives… didn’t meddle with explosives or anything of the like. He played tough but they doubted his ability to go through. When it came down to it, Baisu would say, he’d be the fool taking two to the chest. Watching as the intended victim walked free and his murderer spat on him. His hesitation was his weakness, his inability to take a life without repose just as much as one. Baisu said that he was a disgrace… Azure said that, for someone to have choose the path Isaac had… that this business, what Isaac did for a living, was not the sort to meddle in. Chris had said that he shouldn’t play highstakes games that he couldn’t payoff on. Because said nothing, but his eyes said it all. Someone wanting to tell, someone wanting to give advice but knowing that it didn't matter what he said. The mistakes Because made in his own youth would be repeated. Again. And again. And again. Asaki said nothing, as well. Eyein Isaac, taking his measure. Her eyes were feirce, her way emotionless. She didn't give a damn. If he died, if he lived, if he succomb, if he rose up. She didn't care. Then Dominik? His cousin? Dominik smirked, he was so smugly amused. So that was the opinion of the crew. He was weak. The weakest link. The one who would be setup to take the fall. The one who would… But they didn't get it. Loyalty… Bordeaux understood. She seemed to - Rosalyn as well. Ralos, too. Bordeaux worked with the code like he. She just didn’t follow it to tee. Roz, on the other hand… Ralos… He was a thinker. He had had a plan. This was breaking his plan. His plan was to go home. That was his plan. Every day, every night, in the end that was his goal - his quest. To make it through the day and to get back. In one piece. But having the shit knocked out of him deviated from the plan. On his knees, palms on the asphalt as he coughed up a wad of spit, blood and teeth. Ready to stand again, but only meeting another kick to the ribs that sent him to his back. Eyes looking up to the sky, debating, milling about as he closed his eyes and offered a sadistic, halfhearted smile. Busted lips smiling as a heavy shoe was placed on his chest. Pressing hard, harder, hardest - were they looking to crush a few more ribs? They already broke three, guaranteed… fractured two more. They could bust another couple, if they wanted. Hope that one of them punctured his heart. But he tried to laugh. Keep the atmosphere light. Pretending like it didn’t matter, sucking up the pain. He imagined a large straw… slurp, slurp. He tried to imagine it as he laughed, blood bubbling up and out, forcing him onto his stomach again to hack and cough to keep from choking. Laughing hurt, almost as much as getting a kick to the face. His eyes, after coming to his knees and palms again had flickered to the dominating party in this equation. A smirk and defiance (So stupid. Dominik was rubbing off on him. Pride, what a murderous sin.) his mistake, obvious, so obvious as his neck whipped and he was down again. Another brigade of spike-wearing Pain riding in to tortch the villages.

Out numbered. Out gunned. After the first few swings he lost the will to fight back. He figured by now as he was pummeled to the ground that this, this was exactly what he deserved. Cheating. Cheating these good, God-fearing men out of their money! This was what he deserved for doing such a thing. Getting his ass kicked. … But it wasn’t the money. It was family. Kin. Blood. They couldn’t get to Dominik so they’d get to him. He was convenient… How many beatings did he take for Conner? Too many. Too many that the bald-headed bastard didn’t know about. I’m such a good man… such a good man… such a good cousin… But why wasn’t it convincing? … He wasn’t convinced. “Hey, hey, hey now… Can’t we all just…” He wasn’t a fucking loser. As much as he could be, he wasn’t in entirety. He wasn’t a pussy ass lass who they could just toss around. Aye, aye, aye… Maybe they had been beating him down something feirce… but… But when the sucker came to stomp his face into the ground again he met a surprise from Mr. Mulciber. The man had taken a pocket knife, and when the other had come to bring his foot down, found it jerked out from under him. One Isaac can surging at him. Forcing him off balance and onto his ass. Muscling him quickly and efficiently, the foot, the leg, leverage as he followed through. Ontop of the man in a mere second he was taking that small pocket knife and giving the chest a quick stab. His mark was the lungs, and when he heard a distinct gasping as the blade went in and his fist (which clasped the handle in a vicious grip) connected with sweet, tender flesh, he took the gagging as a sign he had met his mark. Not that the lad would die, nay… Just pass out. Fadeout. Come back another day. Nonetheless using the surprise he had (finally working up the balls to resist, had to give it to Isaac for looking for keen opportunity) he went on to rip the calf of another gent, slice at the lower extremities of another, then lock the knife in one more’s thigh before flying the coop. His actions hastily, but calculated. He made to make a big boom, then his exit. Preoccupying them as he made his escape. Moving like a bat out of hell, ignoring the danger of broken ribs and sudden movement, while debating the destiny of his bruised self. Moving quick, quick, quick. Had to scoot. And he did. Where? To the only place he knew he would be safe. The River. Weres frolicked there from all around. It was a safer place to be in wolfie form. Safer, safest…

So this was what his kin felt like? Convict on the run… adrenalin pumping, surging along with the constant pain. Somewhat lukewarm about the idea of being stalked by the boneheads home and all the rest? He was, but no doubt Dom ever thought about the trouble he brought along with him. The only thing on his mind the fact that Isaac didn't approve of bloody daddies and uncles and other sorts in his household with his child. One of the reasons why Dom visited the warehouse district so much to lick at his wounds and get wasted. Another thing Isaac didn't allow - drugs and whores. Booze was the thing, though, and large sums of money. Those he got weak on. But, nonetheless trying to get into the whole mindset was he. Trying to get it. Though… personally Isaac could see the thrill in this whole thing, but didn’t quite relish it in a wild, outrageous way his kin did. He felt like shit at the moment, busted ribs, torn sided, bruised and sick - to be honest. Sick on multiple counts, better yet. Having swallowed his own blood he was growing repulsed by the taste of teeth, blood and salvia… And then there was just the through of how he looked, that didn’t do much to ease the tides in his stomach. Then about his daughter, mhmm? Bet she would be wondering where daddy would be in the morning. Sick there, too, he couldn’t stick his nose in his own troubles and brood there. Had to have more to add to the cauldron… had to stay busy… Huh. Busy. Speaking of he had been busy tonight, hadn’t he? The bloody wad of cash in his pockets a clear sign of that. Got the money to cover the loan and then to turn a profit. Had to turn some of it into the Maf but, hell, the pool tables had been good. The filthy rich shits of the northern end in the plenty. So, all in all aside from the pain tonight was fantastic, nuh? Morning would be a bit worse… bit… just a bit… Mhmm… he needed money though. Call Janette and tell her that Maria’d need a ride to school. Couldn’t count on Dominik, he was probably wasted fucking a mailbox on main street - swimming with the clouds on ecstasy while making a fool of himself. Tell you, tell you, tell you, I have the most… disgraceful lot of realities… Oh! But he needn’t get himself laughing. Painful was laughing as he came to the river and clutched his side. Offering a sneeze to the brisk, chilly winds before coming down a bit and going along the sidewalk himself. Scuttling along at a mild pace, roaming for the moment without clear destination (he figured he’d find some other Maf the longer he went) all the while his eyes lingered on the back of little miss thing. Curiosity there but little interest. Another banged up wolfie was nothing new. Matter ‘fact he was surprised. Expected to see more.

[Lucy Wilde]

In a way, their stories were almost a like. Almost.

Lucy was not what one would call a 'good' mother. That is to say, she was not like Dancer, she was not eternally patient with her children. They annoyed her, to a very large extent. They pulled, they poked, and they bit her, their needle-sharp little white pearls nipping her in what one might call 'affection'. It was all in good fun of course, of course but... It drove her mad! Never left alone, never let to sleep! Everything had to be shared. She didn't want to share everything, goddamit! But...She did. Against her will, against what she called 'better judgment', she gave her two children everything they needed, and not a cent more. They would go one step too far, and she would snap at them. Depending on her current...Form, things went rather differently. Either the children yelped and licked at her chin, before returning to the attack, or they would smile sheepishly, and do something endearing. It wasn't that she couldn't stay angry at them; she just wasn't the sort to ever hold a grudge. If she did, she'd have already killed, or been killed by, many other people. Or rather, werewolves. Nah, she fancied herself a forgiving lady, never holding a grudge long. Must've been the canine in her.

A great shudder wracked her body, making her double up. Pain shot up her sides at she gave a forced cough, trying to expel a sudden draft from her body. A wind bit at her face, and she realised just how much she abhorred the cold. This job...Was not worth the effort it demanded. Why did she keep at it? Psh, questions questions! She didn't like questions. Do your job, do it well, and shut up; that was her motto. Her steps grew slower, more drowsy, and for a moment, her consciousness seemed to slip a notch, colours blurring in front of her eyes (not that they were all that vivid anyway, only snow and grass and black railing) and a haze fizzling in her mind. It would have been so easy to just...Give up. Something kept her going, though. Perhaps it was a memory, perhaps it was a strange imagining, or maybe it was just the thought that being still would only make her colder and that she would have to get up and move sometime. It would have been terribly romantic for us to say that she was driven by inner strength, by the recollection of her children, long gone as they were. Or even an odd spectre, it would add interest to say she believed in such illusions as her Aunt created but...Lies, lies, such a pack of untruths. She liked lies. They were comfortable; they were something to fall back on. Not little plays, little games, like Sileree had fun with, but real, fat, filthy lies. The sort that you worried about in bed that made you get up and pace, sweating a little. Shouldn't you call him up, just now, and tell him, the Truth? But she would never; she wouldn't even get up, most likely. Truth would never snare her in for a confession, a therapy sessions. She was a killer. A hunter, yes, but a murderer. She had killed him, in that bathroom, and the water, the innocently clear liquid had run red, and black. Crimson drops had sprayed her face, and she couldn't help but feel a twinge of nausea at the long-lost thought, one she had not mulled over in many a day. She had made so many wrong choices, taken so many wrong turns...It almost sickened her to think about how fractured her life was. It would continued to be so, however...Until the end of time. Or until another did them all a favour and snapped her neck, and burned her head in a fire, with silver pins covering her face. But don't let's think about such gruesome, nasty things as that! Lucy was an optimist; she always looked at the bright side! The bright side, just now, was that she had only gotten 20 years in a fetid smelling prison, and only broken eight bones escaping from it fourteen years early. If they thought she was going to spend more time than that in a place where half the occupants still thought they could take advantage of her, and paid for it with their lives, or their sanity, they were dearly mistaken.

Ragged gasps tore from her throat now, but she willed herself to move faster, enjoying the agony of her bruises, her two crushed ribs, busted shoulder, and throbbing skull with on-suite ripped ear attachment, in a perverse way. She was back at a neat trot, with a stumbling limp every now and then; when a shard of bone dug cruelly into something in there she didn't want to think about. Gritting her teeth, and feeling the blood rush to her face, warming her unpleasantly, as she bit back a bellow of pain-driven anger. She promised herself she was going to quit, tomorrow if she could; she was going to end this ceaseless suffering. She always promised herself that and yet...She was still working this job, dropping off the drugs, picking up the cash, and shooting whoever got in her way. How many had she killed? Hundreds, thousands? Ah, she hated questions, questions. They got in her way. How many of them had families, how many of them had a little girl, and a little boy, who were left at home with a useless parent while the other fought, shot, and was shot while workin' the good ol' nine-to-five. She had wanted to be a mother, since she was little. She remembered watching her own Mater cooking, cleaning, and still smiling and though 'That's a real hero, I wanna be like Mummy, strong, and tough.' And yet now, now...She was a dirty, drug-dealing, undercover, black ops government agent who had been called onto this stupid job, part of The Six Blue, trying to find out who the leader was. 'Well guess what, Mr Bossman?! It's been ten fucking years, and you en't even given me a clue as to who the fuckin' 'ell it is I'm supposed to be ratting out.' that didn't matter though. She hated questions, really loathed them. They wouldn't get a confession out of her, she would lie, lie, lie her way to prison if she had to...She wouldn't ever bow to Truth. He had taken her baby away from her, volunteered maliciously to take care of Braithe when she had been put away. She didn't care that he had vouched for her in court, that didn't matter, it was base treachery.

Lucy had screamed at them, showing weakness for the first time in front of them all, shrieked in rage, spitting and hissing, growling and roaring, muscling back the four men who had been in charge of dragging her off 'Don't let him have my little boy! Send Braithe off, foster homes, adoption, anything! Don't let him take my son away!' It made her want to hurt somebody, badly, when she thought about how pathetic that had been. She had always tried to be the sort to keep her mouth shut tight, grinning like a deranged Cheshire cat, like Sileree would have done. Drawling out in that way she had done, in court, 'Your Honour... If we are here to discuss the likelihood of my niece killing her husband, Timothy, then I really think you should let as all go home. Because, really, I don't think she'd have the nerve to take him down. Always been a bit of a weakling, since she was a kid. See, she's a nervous wreck. We are pleading not guilty because of insanity, Your Honour.' Outside the court room, Sileree's cold mask had turned anxious, and she had muttered that Augustine would take good care of Braithe, and that he had full custody of the boy. Lucy...Couldn't decide when her aunt had been acting. 'Bitch...Nobody can be that good of an actor...So she must be a two-faced little skan--' WHAM. Without realising it, she had worked her way into a real froth, moving faster and faster without wanting to, trying to pound out those weak, weak memories of her past. Something collided with her, and she thought it must be...But was it?! His scent was Ierof, but the stench of Naikuy was on him. A low growl slipped and slid out of her bruised throat, grating against anybody's steel nerves, body tensing, slithering backwards in an animal's defensive position. Her head ached still harder from the solid crash, and she was half-thrown off of her balance by it. She searched his form, still human, and snapped her jaws a little. Something about his face though...Did she know him? Her eyes were tired, her muscles sore, and she was a frightful sight. But then again, so was he. A hoarse grunt sounded from her nose, and she straightened to her full height, only a few inches shorter than him. Bristling dominantly, she looked down her nose at him, aggressively, as a dog might do to a subordinate. She would not; she could not, not now! The desire to change lashes through her, but she muscled down the gut-wrenching feeling, and waited, waited. Then she relaxed, finding it not worth her time. Feigning disinterest, Lucy sidled half past the other, wherever he was, bumping him obnoxiously with her shoulder as she went, mock submission on her face. She whirled about, almost circling, and chuckled hoarsely. "Now what would a sorry scrap like you be doing out here in the middle of the night, eh?" Her eyes roved over certain bulges in his attire, and her haughty eyebrow rose. "Not something illegal, I hope..."