The Pretty Murderess
This fanfic is about the universe this particular PM comes from and can get rather grimdark at times. If you can't handle seeing bad things happen to the character, you probably shouldn't read it.
The shuttle between Prospit and Skaia is empty except for you, nobody else dares travel to the Battlefield with the current state of things. Prospit is losing and the Reckoning could start at any time, but the message you hold in your hands is important enough to risk it. You are a Parcel Mistress for Prospit, carrying a message from the White Queen herself that may turn the tide of the current battle.
Your focus is so intently on the planet in front of you that you don't notice the meteors moving behind you until one rockets past the window and your breath catches in your throat. You're too late. The Reckoning has started. You turn to look out one of the rear windows just in time to see a gigantic chunk of rock collide with Prospit and can feel the tears stinging at your eyes. Your home. Thousands of people dead and a large part of the city reduced to rubble. You stare in abject horror for nearly a minute before you tear your eyes away, but that proves to be a mistake. Your shuttle is no longer perfectly aligned with Prospit and therefore not shielded. You don't see the meteor coming for your shuttle until it crashes and you're sent flying forward, your vision blacking out as your head hits the wall.
When you wake up, you're lying amidst the wreckage of your shuttle, clothes torn and carapace cracked in multiple places. But you're alive. It's night, but you can still see and turning your eyes skyward reveals why. Two gigantic moons shine brightly amidst the stars and you can only imagine how bright the sun must be, even to your dark eyes, for the moons to reflect so much light. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch movement and, turning, you see the ruined banner of Prospit fluttering in the light breeze.
You struggle to your feet, blood seeping from the larger cracks, and begin to climb the wreckage. Halfway up, you feel something dig into your foot and look down, spotting a jagged and sharp piece of metal that looks to be barely connected to the wreck and wince at seeing the splotch of red covering its tip. You don't want to touch it, but you'll need a knife for what you have in mind and steel yourself with a grimace as you reach down and tear it free of the rest of the metal. Your injured foot makes climbing more difficult and each step brings a wince to your face, but you make it to the top and cut the banner free, draping it over your shoulder as you begin your descent.
Back on the ground, you hold the golden banner in your hands as the last remnants of your home and your body begins shaking as the realization hits fully. You've been exiled. This is Alternia, the home planet of your heroes, and now its empty wasteland is your prison. You will never see the bright streets of Prospit again, you may never even see another Prospitian. Your legs suddenly give out and you fall to your knees, dropping your makeshift knife to press a hand to your mouth. It takes all of your willpower not to be sick and you swallow heavily, tears dripping on your planet's insignia.
You might have stayed there for hours, even days, but the burning in your limbs reminds you of your injuries and you recall what you had recovered the banner for. You shed your uniform and take your knife up out of the sand. The jagged edge cuts through the cloth of your old clothes and you fashion them into crude bandages, holding the cracks closed and stemming the flow of blood. Then you turn your attention to the banner and, whispering an apology under your breath, give it the same treatment. By the time you're done, you're wrapped in golden rags, carrying the banner of your people with you wherever you go.
You watch the blood fly, staining your flowing black skirt as your victim wheels about in surprise. Droog would throw a fit, but that's not on your mind right now. You'd hoped your initial strike would be the deathblow, but your aim must have been off and, glancing down at your hands, you note blood on your white carapace from brushing up against the wound, giving you an idea of how deeply you'd driven the knife despite the fact that you hadn't had time to pull the blade out of your target's back. You don't wait for the Dersite before you to realize what had happened before you draw a card, a color inverted Joker, and swing the white short sword in front of you. You keep your expression calm and impersonal even as you feel the blood splatter against your face, but inside you're retching. You're different from the rest of the Midnight Crew in more than just carapace color. You specialize in quick murders not out of a cold efficiency, but because you can't bear to cause your victims more pain than necessary.
But you're still a Pretty Murderess. You're the Midnight Crew's Joker, the wildcard nobody expects. As far as anyone outside the Crew knows, you're the polite Prospitian oddity that keeps the mail running smoothly. There are also rumors that you're Slick's moll, but you squash those whenever you hear them. You tell Slick you're so vehement about it because even the suggestion of a familiar association would put people on edge around you, but the reality is because the very idea makes you sick, just as much as the blood on your carapace does. He probably knows the truth, though, and you wouldn't be surprised to discover he started them himself. Sometimes, you just can't help but ask yourself how you got into this situation. And then you remember...
Years in the past, but not many, a figure walks through the desert, swathed in gray rags. You are a Peregrine Mendicant, and have lost track of how long you've spent wandering the sands. Both moons are skirting the horizon, and you know it won't be long until the sweltering Alternian sun rises. As a Prospitian, your white carapace and black eyes give you enough protection against the heat and glare that you can survive the day without cover, but travel is impossible and even being out of the shade is uncomfortable. You've been forced to endure the sunlight in the past, but it seems you'll be lucky this time. At the edge of your vision, you can see the buildings of an old town. It strikes you as somewhat odd, seeing as you've never encountered such a collection of buildings on this planet before, but you're too tired to think about it right now and continue onward, holding a jagged piece of metal in your hand in case you find yourself needing to break through something your claws can't cut.
As you draw closer, you begin to realize that the buildings look more like they're under construction than like they've been destroyed. Entering the town, you begin to hear sounds of construction. You follow those sounds, and soon hear snappish voices joining in. Rounding a corner, you finally see them. A group of Dersites is working one one of the buildings, with one man sitting on a bench and barking orders. You come in just in time to hear the tail end of what he's saying, “-and don't fuck it up this time! Fucking useless pieces of shit.”
You gulp and back up, hoping to turn around and leave before any of them can notice you, but the harsh man turns his head and sees you before you can make your escape. He looks surprised for a moment, but then breaks into a grin that shows far more teeth than you're comfortable with. “Weeeell, what have we here? A Prospitian, is it? Ain't seen any of you since the Reckoning.”
Now all of them are looking at you and a tiny squeak escapes your throat before you can stifle it. You try to speak, but it just comes out as a hoarse whisper. Your throat is too dry to speak, and one of the other Dersites seems to notice. This one is taller and dressed better, with a more serious expression that borders on judging. He walks over from where he was standing, not seeming to be doing much more than providing more direct oversight than the shorter man is willing to, and offers a flask from his pocket. “Here, before you start hacking all over everybody.”
You take the flask and pull the wrappings off of your face with an appreciative smile. The liquid has a strong, unpleasant smell and burns your dry throat on the way down, but it's wet, and that's all that matters to you right now. You feel like you're being studied, and looking over the edge of the flask confirms your hunch. The first Dersite is giving you a look that can only be described as appraising, like you're some object who's value needs to be determined. His tone is curious when he speaks, but no less depreciating. “So, how'd a doll like you end up exiled? Thought that shit only happened to Dersites.”
You cough a little bit as you pull the flask away from your lips and the taller Dersite frowns. You give him an apologetic look before trying to speak again. “Accident. I was traveling to Skaia when the Reckoning started.”
He leans back with a thoughtful 'huh' and for a moment you wonder what he's thinking about, until he addresses you again. “You're either really fuckin' brave, or dumb as shit.”
You can't help but feel a little annoyed at his accusation and your response comes out more curt than you mean. “I was carrying information that could have been vital if we'd lasted long enough.”
He crosses his arms behind his head and gives you an incredibly unimpressed look. “So you're both.”
You open your mouth to defend yourself, but the taller Dersite responds first, looking you over. “I dunno, Slick. She's at least smart enough to survive the wasteland. Could use a new outfit, though.”
Slick pulls a face at the part about your outfit and sits up straight. “Dammit Droog, we're not here to talk about your shitty fashion. But whatever, doesn't really matter if she's smart or not.”
Droog scowls at Slick's comment, and you get the feeling that this is an argument they've had many times before. You briefly consider letting them argue while you slip away, but they're the first people you've seen in years and Droog had done you a favor by giving you the drink, even if it did taste horrible. Instead, you try to cut in before they can get going. “Um, Mr. Droog, right? Thank you for the drink.”
Droog glances back at you and you think his look is somewhat approving, but you can't be sure. “Don't mention it. It beats listening to you cough up a storm, and I wouldn't have been surprised if you'd managed to tear your throat up and spit blood all over everyone.”
Slick snorts and his eyebrow ridges raise in a way that suggests he's rolling his eyes. “Droog, I think you're the only one that gives a damn if their shoes get a little bloodstained. So,” He turns to you, that appraising look back on his face. “What're you gonna do now?”
You blink, already getting a bad feeling about Slick, but feel like not answering would be a bad idea. “U-um...I am not entirely sure. I was not expecting to find a town here...”
He gives you a flat look, then starts counting on his fingers. “Should be pretty fuckin' obvious. The way I see it, you've got two options. One, you turn around and wander that desert for fuck knows how much longer until you keel over from dehydration. I think everyone can agree that that would be shitty planning on your part. Two, you stick around, pull your own weight, give me the respect I fuckin' deserve for getting these fuckers organized so that there's even a town to begin with and we all get what we want. Sounds a hell of a lot better, don't it?”
Slick's attitude makes you nervous, but you nod. The Dersites are scary, but the wasteland is worse. Slick snorts in approval and turns his head to shout. “Hey Boxcars! Get yer ass over here and show this dame the ropes!”
You blink and look over, your eyes going wide as you spot the largest of the Dersites, standing at least twice as tall as anyone else, lumbering over. You're shaking by the time he joins the groups and salutes, and his loud voice is jarring after so long hearing nothing but the wind. “Ya got it, boss. We're pretty much wrappin' up fer the fuckin' night, though. Ain't fuckin' long 'fore the sun comes up.”
Slick rolls his eyes again and crosses his legs. “Then show her where she's gonna be sleepin' and get her a job in the evening, fuckass!”
Boxcars nods and looks down at you. “Fuckin' on it. C'mon, it's this way.”
You nod weakly and consider asking if Droog could show you instead, but he's already gone back to keeping an eye on the workers. You wonder if he forgot about his flask, but decide that it would be better to give it to him tomorrow instead of making the gigantic Dersite wait while you go find him and follow. You have to take two steps for each of the giant's and he's rambling on about the worksite, but you can't force yourself to focus at this point. You're tired from the night's travel and shaken from the confrontation with Slick and barely register when he asks you a question. “Huh?”
He's looking down at you and frowning. “I asked if somethin' was fuckin' wrong. Ya ain't even payin' attention ta where we're fuckin' goin'.”
You blink and then start at realizing he'd noticed you spacing out and wave your arms in front of you in a panic. “O-oh! I'm sorry, I'm just a little tired.”
He nods and you relax when he doesn't seem mad. “Then I'll save the fuckin' tour fer tomorrow so I ain't gotta fuckin' repeat myself.”
You agree, and pass the rest of the trip to the only completed building in silence.
Months pass, blending into years, and you watch the small town grow. It's not long before you manage to settle into a position of ferrying messages between workers, and from there it's a small step to establish a post office when the construction starts slowing down. You've made a comfortable life for yourself, and even gotten used to being the only Prospitian in a city of Dersites. That's probably why you're caught off guard when an arm shoots out of a dark alley and a black claw clamps around you're arm.
You shout and try to pull away, but the street is empty and the grip is too strong. All you manage to do is convince your attacker to move into the light. You don't recognize the Dersite, but his expression tells you he's not friendly even before he demands that you hand over anything valuable you have. You tell him you don't have anything and he tells you it's too bad. He reaches into his pocket and you realize he's going for a weapon. Barely thinking, you pull the jagged piece of metal from your shuttle out of a pocket in your new clothing and stab at his eye. He reels back, clamping his hand over his eye and exposing the soft flesh of the joint between his head and his neck, but still has a knife in his hand. You act purely on instinct, swiping the metal at his throat and cutting a jagged hole.
He falls to the ground and drops the knife, hand covering the gaping hole in his neck. You know even a Dersite can't survive long with a wound like that. As realization dawns and it hits you that you've just killed him, you start shaking and feeling ill, but a familiar voice from behind you pulls your attention from the gruesome sight. “Not bad, doll. You've got talent.”
You turn and your eyes fall on Spades Slick standing there and nodding at the dying man on the ground. You try to respond, but all you can manage is a weak, “Talent?”
“What are you, deaf? Yeah, talent. Ain't easy winning a knife fight with a piece of shit scrap of metal like that, and you made it out without a scratch.”
Your stomach turns at the reminder of what you've just done and you turn your head to the side. “I don't want congratulations on that.”
He raises an eyebrow and shrugs. “Shame. Waste of good fuckin' talent. Join my crew and we could put it to use.”
You shudder, thinking about the horrible things the Midnight Crew does to anyone that crosses them. “Never.”
He looks unimpressed and tosses you a card, the Jack of Spades. “Never's a long time, doll. Here's my card, in case it changes your mind.”
You catch the card in both hands and look down in horror at the black knife sitting on your open palms. You don't even notice him walking toward you until he shoves roughly past and you nearly drop the knife, barely keeping it from falling to cut open your feet. Your first instinct is to throw the vile weapon aside, but a twitch from the dying man at the edge of your vision forcibly reminds you that you were just attacked. You decide that you'll hold onto it. It will be a last resort, for when you have to choose between hurting someone and dying. You still don't like it.
More years pass, and the town becomes a city. The Midnight Crew dominates major crime, but petty thieves and murderers don't get much attention. Time and again you're attacked, muggers, psychopaths and worse. Time and again you have to defend yourself. It becomes reflexive, to draw the Jack of Spades when you see someone else with a weapon. Eventually, word gets around. The Prospitian is tougher than she looks. Naturally, it's only a matter of time before Slick catches wind.
You cringe when you see him walk up to the desk at the post office and pray that he just has a package to deliver, but you should be so lucky. The first thing he does is lean on the desk, holding an Ace of Spades. By now, you're fully aware of how fast a card can become a weapon and you gulp, but he's here to talk for now. “Looks like you're startin' to make a reputation for yourself around here.”
You shoot him a quick glare and make a point of continuing your work. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
His scowl turns deeper and his glare makes yours seem like nothing. “Quit playin' dumb, it ain't fuckin' cute. I hear you've been making a real killing on the streets.”
You don't bother commenting on the poor taste of his puns, instead glancing around to note that everyone else has already left. You didn't really expect any help anyway. “What do you want?”
“The same thing as last time. And this time, it ain't a friendly suggestion. You're either working for me, or you're a problem. And I'm sure you've heard what I do to problems.”
You glance at the card in his hand and briefly wonder what kind of weapon he's holding. But it doesn't really matter, by the time you could get your knife out, he could probably have already killed you with just about anything he might be carrying. The look he's giving you lets you know that he's not feeling particularly patient, either. Survival instincts kick in against moral protests, and your mouth seems to move on its own. “What do I have to do?”
He doesn't smile, you've never seen Slick smile in all the time you've lived here, aside from the threatening grin he'd given you when you first met, but he at least puts the card away. “First,” he says, giving your pastel outfit a look of disgust, “We get you into something a lot less fuckin' colorful.”
You don't see anything wrong with your outfit, but you aren't about to argue with him after he threatened to kill you if you didn't do what he said. You close the post office and follow him outside, where Droog is smoking and watching the door with a bored expression. He glances at you and then says to Slick, “She said yes, then.”
“No, she said not on my life, but I'm feeling generous. Of course she fuckin' said yes!”
----
It turns out, Droog wasn't just there to keep people out of the post office. Slick tells him you need an outfit that doesn't make him want to puke, and Droog smirks. Slick just rolls his eyes. “Don't take all fuckin' week. She doesn't need anything fancy.”
Slick stalks off and Droog looks at you. You get the feeling you're being studied and eventually he gives a nod. “Follow me.”
“Y-yes!” You follow along and everything has a surreal feeling. You can't believe this is really happening and a small part of you hopes it might just be a bad dream, but you know you're awake.
Despite Slick's comment that you don't need anything fancy, Droog leads you to a tailor. You give him a questioning look, and he seems to get it. “Slick has no style, but I've got standards. If I'm helping you get something decent to wear, it's going to actually be decent.”
“Oh...” You don't try to question him any further and the tailor takes your measurements in silence, shooting the occasional nervous look at Droog reading his newspaper. He asks Droog if this is another priority job, and Droog says it is. He tells you to come back in a few hours, and Droog tells him you'll wait.
You sit down next to Droog and give him plenty of space because he still scares you. Droog addresses you without putting his newspaper down. “You can stand the sun, right?”
You blink and look at him. “Huh?”
“The sun. Can you stand it?”
“Oh, um...yes. For a while, anyway.”
He smirks, and you edge away a bit more. “Good. I thought you might be able to. You'll come in handy.”
You don't like the sound of that and cross your arms so that you're hugging yourself. Droog doesn't seem to notice and asks, “What do you call yourself, kid?”
You try to keep your voice from shaking, but aren't sure you quite manage. “I'm the Post Mistress.”
His smirk fades. “I know. What's your name?”
“Pentacles Misere.”
Droog closes his newspaper and sighs, offering you a cigarette. “Relax a little. Recruiting you and then killing you would just be plain stupid.”
You hold up a hand to abstain and he puts the cigarette away. You barely look at him as you respond, “I don't want to be here.”
“Would you rather be dead?” He says it in such a matter of fact way that you're sure your options with him are the same as the one's Slick gave you.
You're tempted to say yes anyway, until a thought occurs to you. If you're part of the Crew, maybe you can prevent some of the more cruel things they're known for. You shake your head and mutter a response. “No.”
He nods. “Then do what we tell you and don't try anything funny. You'll be fine.”
You don't answer. You don't tell him that you're afraid of what orders you might get. You don't tell him that you aren't sure that you could carry them out or that you're afraid that you can. You just sit there in silence, gripping your arms so tightly that your claws leave shallow marks in your carapace and wait.
It feels like an eternity until the tailor is finished his work, but you're certain it's only a few hours. He must have put everything else on hold to finish the job quickly, and inwardly you wonder what Droog would have done to him if it hadn't been finished quickly enough. You decide that you don't want to know. Outwardly, you thank him with an apologetic smile you know looks weak and accept the new outfit. It's all in black, aside from the gray ascot. A suit top with two lines of buttons and a long black skirt with a small pocket in one side. It looks professional, if too dark for your tastes.
Droog nods in approval when you come out of the dressing room carrying your old clothes and nods toward a selection of hats. “Pick one to go with it.”
You're tempted to look at the more colorful options, but don't want to simply be told to pick another one. Instead, you take a plain black hat with a wide, droopy brim. It looks decent enough, but you have something to add anyway. You take a long gray cloth that you'd been using as a belt and tie it around the hat, leaving one end to dangle over the edge. It's way too long-you'd been wearing it looped twice with some extra trailing free-but you're determined to keep it. The cloth was once part of Prospit's banner, and you'll wear it proudly whatever you do.
Droog doesn't know what the cloth is from, but he seems to like the way it looks. “Not bad. Looks like you've got some style yourself.”
You just nod weakly in answer and hold tightly to your old clothes. The long sleeves of your new shirt feel unusual and itch against your joints, but you don't dare complain. You think, a little angrily, that the physical feeling reflects how trapped you feel emotionally, but are quick to deflate in the knowledge that letting yourself be annoyed won't do anything but give them a victory.
Droog gets out a Ten of Spades and a Four of Diamonds and you tense for a moment before realizing that he's just holding a radio. He tells whoever's on the other end that you'll be there soon, and gets an annoyed sounding response that you can't make out. He insults the other man's patience and then puts the radio away before turning to you. “We'll be meeting up with the others in an hour, and then we'll take you back to the hideout. Remember, no funny business.”
He takes you to an unused warehouse this time. You're early, but that just means you get to spend some more time in silence. Slick shows up soon enough, with Boxcars and Deuce in tow. You don't look at Slick, but rather, anywhere else. Your eyes fall on Deuce, practically bouncing with excitement, and for a moment think that he seems so harmless before reminding yourself that nothing here is really harmless.
You're not looking at him, but you can feel Slick looking at you, before he grumbles, “Thought I told you she didn't need anything fancy? We should've been able to get this over with hours ago.”
Next to you, Droog takes a drag from a cigarette and exhales a cloud of smoke. “It isn't fancy, it's tasteful. I'm not going to let her make me look bad by running around in rags.”
Slick makes a strangled, angry noise, but Droog doesn't move. Finally, he mutters something profane under his breath and responds with, “Droog, your priorities are shit, but we'll deal with that later. Now, why not let our new friend introduce herself?”
You face Slick, but you still don't look at him. “I am Pentacles Misere.”
Deuce starts waving his hand energetically and practically shouts, “Hi Miss Misere! Are you really going to be our friend?”
You hesitate and look down at the tiny Dersite. He seems so happy and excited that you don't think you can bear to tell him how much you want to be anywhere but here, with anyone but these people. Slowly, you nod and stammer out, “Er, y-yes, I suppose so...”
Slick gags as Deuce's face lights up, and for a moment you think that they're both acting almost childish, before you firmly remind yourself that they're the Midnight Crew. The other two ignore Deuce and Slick and Boxcars gives you a nod. “Nice ta meet ya again.”
You nod timidly in return, wishing that they would hurry up and tell you what you should expect to have to do, and then Slick speaks up. “Boys, meet our new hit man.”
You feel your blood run cold and your heart skips a beat. Hit man? You try to tell him you can't, but can't find your voice. Just the thought of killing someone who hasn't even tried to hurt you sends a shiver through your carapace and you know you're staring in horror, but you can't even bring yourself to move.
Slick notices your expression and his eyes narrow. “Unless you're gonna go changing your mind on us.”
Your head is spinning too much to answer as you desperately pray for this to be some nightmare that you're about to wake up from, but you don't. Part of you thinks that it wouldn't be much different from killing to survive, but a much larger part of you feels that it's too different. Finally, it's the part of you that realizes that Slick wouldn't let someone live just because he didn't feel like taking the effort to get to them himself that breaks through your internal struggle and you barely notice as you shake your head.
Slick's glare lets up a bit, but you don't really calm down. He says a few more things, but you only understand the gist. He tells you that you'll be coming back to the hideout with them, that they'll see if you're any good with other kinds of weapons. He tells you that you'd better know how to get past a locked door, or else be able to learn fast. He tells you you'll probably have your first target real soon. It's all too much, and your mind is racing for a way to avoid actually having to kill anyone.
Days pass, but not many. You have your own room in the hideout now, but it doesn't feel like yours. The walls are dark and oppressive, and you plan on painting them as soon as you get a chance. You've been learning to use a gun, reluctantly but the Crew insists it would be idiotic not to at least know how to use one. You refuse to carry one of your own. You have some tools now, to help you get into your targets' houses without getting caught. Like everything used by the Crew, they also happen to be playing cards. You're learning to pick locks, and you aren't half bad. Even with your sharp claws, you've always had good manual dexterity. You try not to think about how well your natural talents seem to be suited to what Slick wants you to do.
Slick doesn't knock before he opens your door and you jump when you hear the door creak, dropping the lock picks you had been halfheartedly practicing with. He looks more annoyed than usual, and you briefly wonder if you'd done something without realizing it before he drops a picture of some Dersite with an address scribbled on the bottom onto your desk. It takes a second for the implication to click, and then you gasp. Slick just continues to look annoyed and says, “I want this guy dead by dusk.”
Your mind races as you try to think of a way to get out of it and you consider telling the poor man to hide, but Slick seems to have already thought you might try that, because he says, “And I'd better see his head.”
You swallow, already feeling sick to your stomach, and pick up the King of Diamonds that you'd dropped. Your movements are shaky as you stand up and put the card back in your deck, but you try to keep it from showing. As you walk past him and out of the hideout, you're already wondering if you could flee the city and survive. But you know that even if you could survive the desert, Slick would have you hunted down.
Your thoughts at least distract you from the feeling of the blazing sun on your carapace, uncomfortable and bordering on painful. You keep to the shadows where you can, moving freely through the deserted streets. Your targets house isn't anything special and you fumble with the lock for a while before you manage to get it open. It feels like your heart is in your throat as you ease the door open and step inside with your Jack of Spades in hand.
You take your time searching the house, not really wanting to find your intended victim, but all too soon, one door leads to a dim room with the sleeping form of the man from the picture. You stand over him, the tip of your dagger poised over his heart, and try to will yourself to plunge the blade into his carapace, telling yourself that he would die no matter what you did, but you can't bring yourself to do it. Your hand starts shaking and you can feel your eyes water as you fully realize the corner you've gotten yourself stuck in. You can't kill someone who hasn't done anything wrong, you can't go back empty handed, and you can't flee.
You lower the knife and let out a choked sob, but immediately know you should've held it back. The noise wakes him up and he reaches under his pillow the second he realizes he's not alone. Before you realize what's happened, you hear a gunshot and your left arm jerks. It doesn't hurt as much as you thought it would, but you realize you've been shot. Already, the gun is moving as he adjusts his aim, and you move in a panic. Your right arm swipes, an all too familiar movement by now, and blood sprays from the man's throat. He drops his gun in shock and pain, and you cringe as you bring the blade down into his chest to end his pain sooner. He crumples to the ground, and soon he's dead at your feet. You feel bile rise up in your throat, but swallow it down even as tears start to trail down your cheeks, and tear off part of your skirt to tie around your wound before you get to work severing the corpse's head the rest of the way. Your arm is starting to hurt now, but you're too numb to register it properly. You've just killed a man who did nothing but try to defend himself from an intruder, and feel as vile as you expected as you limply carry the severed head back to the hideout.
The shuttle between Prospit and Skaia is empty except for you, nobody else dares travel to the Battlefield with the current state of things. Prospit is losing and the Reckoning could start at any time, but the message you hold in your hands is important enough to risk it. You are a Parcel Mistress for Prospit, carrying a message from the White Queen herself that may turn the tide of the current battle.
Your focus is so intently on the planet in front of you that you don't notice the meteors moving behind you until one rockets past the window and your breath catches in your throat. You're too late. The Reckoning has started. You turn to look out one of the rear windows just in time to see a gigantic chunk of rock collide with Prospit and can feel the tears stinging at your eyes. Your home. Thousands of people dead and a large part of the city reduced to rubble. You stare in abject horror for nearly a minute before you tear your eyes away, but that proves to be a mistake. Your shuttle is no longer perfectly aligned with Prospit and therefore not shielded. You don't see the meteor coming for your shuttle until it crashes and you're sent flying forward, your vision blacking out as your head hits the wall.
When you wake up, you're lying amidst the wreckage of your shuttle, clothes torn and carapace cracked in multiple places. But you're alive. It's night, but you can still see and turning your eyes skyward reveals why. Two gigantic moons shine brightly amidst the stars and you can only imagine how bright the sun must be, even to your dark eyes, for the moons to reflect so much light. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch movement and, turning, you see the ruined banner of Prospit fluttering in the light breeze.
You struggle to your feet, blood seeping from the larger cracks, and begin to climb the wreckage. Halfway up, you feel something dig into your foot and look down, spotting a jagged and sharp piece of metal that looks to be barely connected to the wreck and wince at seeing the splotch of red covering its tip. You don't want to touch it, but you'll need a knife for what you have in mind and steel yourself with a grimace as you reach down and tear it free of the rest of the metal. Your injured foot makes climbing more difficult and each step brings a wince to your face, but you make it to the top and cut the banner free, draping it over your shoulder as you begin your descent.
Back on the ground, you hold the golden banner in your hands as the last remnants of your home and your body begins shaking as the realization hits fully. You've been exiled. This is Alternia, the home planet of your heroes, and now its empty wasteland is your prison. You will never see the bright streets of Prospit again, you may never even see another Prospitian. Your legs suddenly give out and you fall to your knees, dropping your makeshift knife to press a hand to your mouth. It takes all of your willpower not to be sick and you swallow heavily, tears dripping on your planet's insignia.
You might have stayed there for hours, even days, but the burning in your limbs reminds you of your injuries and you recall what you had recovered the banner for. You shed your uniform and take your knife up out of the sand. The jagged edge cuts through the cloth of your old clothes and you fashion them into crude bandages, holding the cracks closed and stemming the flow of blood. Then you turn your attention to the banner and, whispering an apology under your breath, give it the same treatment. By the time you're done, you're wrapped in golden rags, carrying the banner of your people with you wherever you go.
You watch the blood fly, staining your flowing black skirt as your victim wheels about in surprise. Droog would throw a fit, but that's not on your mind right now. You'd hoped your initial strike would be the deathblow, but your aim must have been off and, glancing down at your hands, you note blood on your white carapace from brushing up against the wound, giving you an idea of how deeply you'd driven the knife despite the fact that you hadn't had time to pull the blade out of your target's back. You don't wait for the Dersite before you to realize what had happened before you draw a card, a color inverted Joker, and swing the white short sword in front of you. You keep your expression calm and impersonal even as you feel the blood splatter against your face, but inside you're retching. You're different from the rest of the Midnight Crew in more than just carapace color. You specialize in quick murders not out of a cold efficiency, but because you can't bear to cause your victims more pain than necessary.
But you're still a Pretty Murderess. You're the Midnight Crew's Joker, the wildcard nobody expects. As far as anyone outside the Crew knows, you're the polite Prospitian oddity that keeps the mail running smoothly. There are also rumors that you're Slick's moll, but you squash those whenever you hear them. You tell Slick you're so vehement about it because even the suggestion of a familiar association would put people on edge around you, but the reality is because the very idea makes you sick, just as much as the blood on your carapace does. He probably knows the truth, though, and you wouldn't be surprised to discover he started them himself. Sometimes, you just can't help but ask yourself how you got into this situation. And then you remember...
Years in the past, but not many, a figure walks through the desert, swathed in gray rags. You are a Peregrine Mendicant, and have lost track of how long you've spent wandering the sands. Both moons are skirting the horizon, and you know it won't be long until the sweltering Alternian sun rises. As a Prospitian, your white carapace and black eyes give you enough protection against the heat and glare that you can survive the day without cover, but travel is impossible and even being out of the shade is uncomfortable. You've been forced to endure the sunlight in the past, but it seems you'll be lucky this time. At the edge of your vision, you can see the buildings of an old town. It strikes you as somewhat odd, seeing as you've never encountered such a collection of buildings on this planet before, but you're too tired to think about it right now and continue onward, holding a jagged piece of metal in your hand in case you find yourself needing to break through something your claws can't cut.
As you draw closer, you begin to realize that the buildings look more like they're under construction than like they've been destroyed. Entering the town, you begin to hear sounds of construction. You follow those sounds, and soon hear snappish voices joining in. Rounding a corner, you finally see them. A group of Dersites is working one one of the buildings, with one man sitting on a bench and barking orders. You come in just in time to hear the tail end of what he's saying, “-and don't fuck it up this time! Fucking useless pieces of shit.”
You gulp and back up, hoping to turn around and leave before any of them can notice you, but the harsh man turns his head and sees you before you can make your escape. He looks surprised for a moment, but then breaks into a grin that shows far more teeth than you're comfortable with. “Weeeell, what have we here? A Prospitian, is it? Ain't seen any of you since the Reckoning.”
Now all of them are looking at you and a tiny squeak escapes your throat before you can stifle it. You try to speak, but it just comes out as a hoarse whisper. Your throat is too dry to speak, and one of the other Dersites seems to notice. This one is taller and dressed better, with a more serious expression that borders on judging. He walks over from where he was standing, not seeming to be doing much more than providing more direct oversight than the shorter man is willing to, and offers a flask from his pocket. “Here, before you start hacking all over everybody.”
You take the flask and pull the wrappings off of your face with an appreciative smile. The liquid has a strong, unpleasant smell and burns your dry throat on the way down, but it's wet, and that's all that matters to you right now. You feel like you're being studied, and looking over the edge of the flask confirms your hunch. The first Dersite is giving you a look that can only be described as appraising, like you're some object who's value needs to be determined. His tone is curious when he speaks, but no less depreciating. “So, how'd a doll like you end up exiled? Thought that shit only happened to Dersites.”
You cough a little bit as you pull the flask away from your lips and the taller Dersite frowns. You give him an apologetic look before trying to speak again. “Accident. I was traveling to Skaia when the Reckoning started.”
He leans back with a thoughtful 'huh' and for a moment you wonder what he's thinking about, until he addresses you again. “You're either really fuckin' brave, or dumb as shit.”
You can't help but feel a little annoyed at his accusation and your response comes out more curt than you mean. “I was carrying information that could have been vital if we'd lasted long enough.”
He crosses his arms behind his head and gives you an incredibly unimpressed look. “So you're both.”
You open your mouth to defend yourself, but the taller Dersite responds first, looking you over. “I dunno, Slick. She's at least smart enough to survive the wasteland. Could use a new outfit, though.”
Slick pulls a face at the part about your outfit and sits up straight. “Dammit Droog, we're not here to talk about your shitty fashion. But whatever, doesn't really matter if she's smart or not.”
Droog scowls at Slick's comment, and you get the feeling that this is an argument they've had many times before. You briefly consider letting them argue while you slip away, but they're the first people you've seen in years and Droog had done you a favor by giving you the drink, even if it did taste horrible. Instead, you try to cut in before they can get going. “Um, Mr. Droog, right? Thank you for the drink.”
Droog glances back at you and you think his look is somewhat approving, but you can't be sure. “Don't mention it. It beats listening to you cough up a storm, and I wouldn't have been surprised if you'd managed to tear your throat up and spit blood all over everyone.”
Slick snorts and his eyebrow ridges raise in a way that suggests he's rolling his eyes. “Droog, I think you're the only one that gives a damn if their shoes get a little bloodstained. So,” He turns to you, that appraising look back on his face. “What're you gonna do now?”
You blink, already getting a bad feeling about Slick, but feel like not answering would be a bad idea. “U-um...I am not entirely sure. I was not expecting to find a town here...”
He gives you a flat look, then starts counting on his fingers. “Should be pretty fuckin' obvious. The way I see it, you've got two options. One, you turn around and wander that desert for fuck knows how much longer until you keel over from dehydration. I think everyone can agree that that would be shitty planning on your part. Two, you stick around, pull your own weight, give me the respect I fuckin' deserve for getting these fuckers organized so that there's even a town to begin with and we all get what we want. Sounds a hell of a lot better, don't it?”
Slick's attitude makes you nervous, but you nod. The Dersites are scary, but the wasteland is worse. Slick snorts in approval and turns his head to shout. “Hey Boxcars! Get yer ass over here and show this dame the ropes!”
You blink and look over, your eyes going wide as you spot the largest of the Dersites, standing at least twice as tall as anyone else, lumbering over. You're shaking by the time he joins the groups and salutes, and his loud voice is jarring after so long hearing nothing but the wind. “Ya got it, boss. We're pretty much wrappin' up fer the fuckin' night, though. Ain't fuckin' long 'fore the sun comes up.”
Slick rolls his eyes again and crosses his legs. “Then show her where she's gonna be sleepin' and get her a job in the evening, fuckass!”
Boxcars nods and looks down at you. “Fuckin' on it. C'mon, it's this way.”
You nod weakly and consider asking if Droog could show you instead, but he's already gone back to keeping an eye on the workers. You wonder if he forgot about his flask, but decide that it would be better to give it to him tomorrow instead of making the gigantic Dersite wait while you go find him and follow. You have to take two steps for each of the giant's and he's rambling on about the worksite, but you can't force yourself to focus at this point. You're tired from the night's travel and shaken from the confrontation with Slick and barely register when he asks you a question. “Huh?”
He's looking down at you and frowning. “I asked if somethin' was fuckin' wrong. Ya ain't even payin' attention ta where we're fuckin' goin'.”
You blink and then start at realizing he'd noticed you spacing out and wave your arms in front of you in a panic. “O-oh! I'm sorry, I'm just a little tired.”
He nods and you relax when he doesn't seem mad. “Then I'll save the fuckin' tour fer tomorrow so I ain't gotta fuckin' repeat myself.”
You agree, and pass the rest of the trip to the only completed building in silence.
Months pass, blending into years, and you watch the small town grow. It's not long before you manage to settle into a position of ferrying messages between workers, and from there it's a small step to establish a post office when the construction starts slowing down. You've made a comfortable life for yourself, and even gotten used to being the only Prospitian in a city of Dersites. That's probably why you're caught off guard when an arm shoots out of a dark alley and a black claw clamps around you're arm.
You shout and try to pull away, but the street is empty and the grip is too strong. All you manage to do is convince your attacker to move into the light. You don't recognize the Dersite, but his expression tells you he's not friendly even before he demands that you hand over anything valuable you have. You tell him you don't have anything and he tells you it's too bad. He reaches into his pocket and you realize he's going for a weapon. Barely thinking, you pull the jagged piece of metal from your shuttle out of a pocket in your new clothing and stab at his eye. He reels back, clamping his hand over his eye and exposing the soft flesh of the joint between his head and his neck, but still has a knife in his hand. You act purely on instinct, swiping the metal at his throat and cutting a jagged hole.
He falls to the ground and drops the knife, hand covering the gaping hole in his neck. You know even a Dersite can't survive long with a wound like that. As realization dawns and it hits you that you've just killed him, you start shaking and feeling ill, but a familiar voice from behind you pulls your attention from the gruesome sight. “Not bad, doll. You've got talent.”
You turn and your eyes fall on Spades Slick standing there and nodding at the dying man on the ground. You try to respond, but all you can manage is a weak, “Talent?”
“What are you, deaf? Yeah, talent. Ain't easy winning a knife fight with a piece of shit scrap of metal like that, and you made it out without a scratch.”
Your stomach turns at the reminder of what you've just done and you turn your head to the side. “I don't want congratulations on that.”
He raises an eyebrow and shrugs. “Shame. Waste of good fuckin' talent. Join my crew and we could put it to use.”
You shudder, thinking about the horrible things the Midnight Crew does to anyone that crosses them. “Never.”
He looks unimpressed and tosses you a card, the Jack of Spades. “Never's a long time, doll. Here's my card, in case it changes your mind.”
You catch the card in both hands and look down in horror at the black knife sitting on your open palms. You don't even notice him walking toward you until he shoves roughly past and you nearly drop the knife, barely keeping it from falling to cut open your feet. Your first instinct is to throw the vile weapon aside, but a twitch from the dying man at the edge of your vision forcibly reminds you that you were just attacked. You decide that you'll hold onto it. It will be a last resort, for when you have to choose between hurting someone and dying. You still don't like it.
More years pass, and the town becomes a city. The Midnight Crew dominates major crime, but petty thieves and murderers don't get much attention. Time and again you're attacked, muggers, psychopaths and worse. Time and again you have to defend yourself. It becomes reflexive, to draw the Jack of Spades when you see someone else with a weapon. Eventually, word gets around. The Prospitian is tougher than she looks. Naturally, it's only a matter of time before Slick catches wind.
You cringe when you see him walk up to the desk at the post office and pray that he just has a package to deliver, but you should be so lucky. The first thing he does is lean on the desk, holding an Ace of Spades. By now, you're fully aware of how fast a card can become a weapon and you gulp, but he's here to talk for now. “Looks like you're startin' to make a reputation for yourself around here.”
You shoot him a quick glare and make a point of continuing your work. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
His scowl turns deeper and his glare makes yours seem like nothing. “Quit playin' dumb, it ain't fuckin' cute. I hear you've been making a real killing on the streets.”
You don't bother commenting on the poor taste of his puns, instead glancing around to note that everyone else has already left. You didn't really expect any help anyway. “What do you want?”
“The same thing as last time. And this time, it ain't a friendly suggestion. You're either working for me, or you're a problem. And I'm sure you've heard what I do to problems.”
You glance at the card in his hand and briefly wonder what kind of weapon he's holding. But it doesn't really matter, by the time you could get your knife out, he could probably have already killed you with just about anything he might be carrying. The look he's giving you lets you know that he's not feeling particularly patient, either. Survival instincts kick in against moral protests, and your mouth seems to move on its own. “What do I have to do?”
He doesn't smile, you've never seen Slick smile in all the time you've lived here, aside from the threatening grin he'd given you when you first met, but he at least puts the card away. “First,” he says, giving your pastel outfit a look of disgust, “We get you into something a lot less fuckin' colorful.”
You don't see anything wrong with your outfit, but you aren't about to argue with him after he threatened to kill you if you didn't do what he said. You close the post office and follow him outside, where Droog is smoking and watching the door with a bored expression. He glances at you and then says to Slick, “She said yes, then.”
“No, she said not on my life, but I'm feeling generous. Of course she fuckin' said yes!”
----
It turns out, Droog wasn't just there to keep people out of the post office. Slick tells him you need an outfit that doesn't make him want to puke, and Droog smirks. Slick just rolls his eyes. “Don't take all fuckin' week. She doesn't need anything fancy.”
Slick stalks off and Droog looks at you. You get the feeling you're being studied and eventually he gives a nod. “Follow me.”
“Y-yes!” You follow along and everything has a surreal feeling. You can't believe this is really happening and a small part of you hopes it might just be a bad dream, but you know you're awake.
Despite Slick's comment that you don't need anything fancy, Droog leads you to a tailor. You give him a questioning look, and he seems to get it. “Slick has no style, but I've got standards. If I'm helping you get something decent to wear, it's going to actually be decent.”
“Oh...” You don't try to question him any further and the tailor takes your measurements in silence, shooting the occasional nervous look at Droog reading his newspaper. He asks Droog if this is another priority job, and Droog says it is. He tells you to come back in a few hours, and Droog tells him you'll wait.
You sit down next to Droog and give him plenty of space because he still scares you. Droog addresses you without putting his newspaper down. “You can stand the sun, right?”
You blink and look at him. “Huh?”
“The sun. Can you stand it?”
“Oh, um...yes. For a while, anyway.”
He smirks, and you edge away a bit more. “Good. I thought you might be able to. You'll come in handy.”
You don't like the sound of that and cross your arms so that you're hugging yourself. Droog doesn't seem to notice and asks, “What do you call yourself, kid?”
You try to keep your voice from shaking, but aren't sure you quite manage. “I'm the Post Mistress.”
His smirk fades. “I know. What's your name?”
“Pentacles Misere.”
Droog closes his newspaper and sighs, offering you a cigarette. “Relax a little. Recruiting you and then killing you would just be plain stupid.”
You hold up a hand to abstain and he puts the cigarette away. You barely look at him as you respond, “I don't want to be here.”
“Would you rather be dead?” He says it in such a matter of fact way that you're sure your options with him are the same as the one's Slick gave you.
You're tempted to say yes anyway, until a thought occurs to you. If you're part of the Crew, maybe you can prevent some of the more cruel things they're known for. You shake your head and mutter a response. “No.”
He nods. “Then do what we tell you and don't try anything funny. You'll be fine.”
You don't answer. You don't tell him that you're afraid of what orders you might get. You don't tell him that you aren't sure that you could carry them out or that you're afraid that you can. You just sit there in silence, gripping your arms so tightly that your claws leave shallow marks in your carapace and wait.
It feels like an eternity until the tailor is finished his work, but you're certain it's only a few hours. He must have put everything else on hold to finish the job quickly, and inwardly you wonder what Droog would have done to him if it hadn't been finished quickly enough. You decide that you don't want to know. Outwardly, you thank him with an apologetic smile you know looks weak and accept the new outfit. It's all in black, aside from the gray ascot. A suit top with two lines of buttons and a long black skirt with a small pocket in one side. It looks professional, if too dark for your tastes.
Droog nods in approval when you come out of the dressing room carrying your old clothes and nods toward a selection of hats. “Pick one to go with it.”
You're tempted to look at the more colorful options, but don't want to simply be told to pick another one. Instead, you take a plain black hat with a wide, droopy brim. It looks decent enough, but you have something to add anyway. You take a long gray cloth that you'd been using as a belt and tie it around the hat, leaving one end to dangle over the edge. It's way too long-you'd been wearing it looped twice with some extra trailing free-but you're determined to keep it. The cloth was once part of Prospit's banner, and you'll wear it proudly whatever you do.
Droog doesn't know what the cloth is from, but he seems to like the way it looks. “Not bad. Looks like you've got some style yourself.”
You just nod weakly in answer and hold tightly to your old clothes. The long sleeves of your new shirt feel unusual and itch against your joints, but you don't dare complain. You think, a little angrily, that the physical feeling reflects how trapped you feel emotionally, but are quick to deflate in the knowledge that letting yourself be annoyed won't do anything but give them a victory.
Droog gets out a Ten of Spades and a Four of Diamonds and you tense for a moment before realizing that he's just holding a radio. He tells whoever's on the other end that you'll be there soon, and gets an annoyed sounding response that you can't make out. He insults the other man's patience and then puts the radio away before turning to you. “We'll be meeting up with the others in an hour, and then we'll take you back to the hideout. Remember, no funny business.”
He takes you to an unused warehouse this time. You're early, but that just means you get to spend some more time in silence. Slick shows up soon enough, with Boxcars and Deuce in tow. You don't look at Slick, but rather, anywhere else. Your eyes fall on Deuce, practically bouncing with excitement, and for a moment think that he seems so harmless before reminding yourself that nothing here is really harmless.
You're not looking at him, but you can feel Slick looking at you, before he grumbles, “Thought I told you she didn't need anything fancy? We should've been able to get this over with hours ago.”
Next to you, Droog takes a drag from a cigarette and exhales a cloud of smoke. “It isn't fancy, it's tasteful. I'm not going to let her make me look bad by running around in rags.”
Slick makes a strangled, angry noise, but Droog doesn't move. Finally, he mutters something profane under his breath and responds with, “Droog, your priorities are shit, but we'll deal with that later. Now, why not let our new friend introduce herself?”
You face Slick, but you still don't look at him. “I am Pentacles Misere.”
Deuce starts waving his hand energetically and practically shouts, “Hi Miss Misere! Are you really going to be our friend?”
You hesitate and look down at the tiny Dersite. He seems so happy and excited that you don't think you can bear to tell him how much you want to be anywhere but here, with anyone but these people. Slowly, you nod and stammer out, “Er, y-yes, I suppose so...”
Slick gags as Deuce's face lights up, and for a moment you think that they're both acting almost childish, before you firmly remind yourself that they're the Midnight Crew. The other two ignore Deuce and Slick and Boxcars gives you a nod. “Nice ta meet ya again.”
You nod timidly in return, wishing that they would hurry up and tell you what you should expect to have to do, and then Slick speaks up. “Boys, meet our new hit man.”
You feel your blood run cold and your heart skips a beat. Hit man? You try to tell him you can't, but can't find your voice. Just the thought of killing someone who hasn't even tried to hurt you sends a shiver through your carapace and you know you're staring in horror, but you can't even bring yourself to move.
Slick notices your expression and his eyes narrow. “Unless you're gonna go changing your mind on us.”
Your head is spinning too much to answer as you desperately pray for this to be some nightmare that you're about to wake up from, but you don't. Part of you thinks that it wouldn't be much different from killing to survive, but a much larger part of you feels that it's too different. Finally, it's the part of you that realizes that Slick wouldn't let someone live just because he didn't feel like taking the effort to get to them himself that breaks through your internal struggle and you barely notice as you shake your head.
Slick's glare lets up a bit, but you don't really calm down. He says a few more things, but you only understand the gist. He tells you that you'll be coming back to the hideout with them, that they'll see if you're any good with other kinds of weapons. He tells you that you'd better know how to get past a locked door, or else be able to learn fast. He tells you you'll probably have your first target real soon. It's all too much, and your mind is racing for a way to avoid actually having to kill anyone.
Days pass, but not many. You have your own room in the hideout now, but it doesn't feel like yours. The walls are dark and oppressive, and you plan on painting them as soon as you get a chance. You've been learning to use a gun, reluctantly but the Crew insists it would be idiotic not to at least know how to use one. You refuse to carry one of your own. You have some tools now, to help you get into your targets' houses without getting caught. Like everything used by the Crew, they also happen to be playing cards. You're learning to pick locks, and you aren't half bad. Even with your sharp claws, you've always had good manual dexterity. You try not to think about how well your natural talents seem to be suited to what Slick wants you to do.
Slick doesn't knock before he opens your door and you jump when you hear the door creak, dropping the lock picks you had been halfheartedly practicing with. He looks more annoyed than usual, and you briefly wonder if you'd done something without realizing it before he drops a picture of some Dersite with an address scribbled on the bottom onto your desk. It takes a second for the implication to click, and then you gasp. Slick just continues to look annoyed and says, “I want this guy dead by dusk.”
Your mind races as you try to think of a way to get out of it and you consider telling the poor man to hide, but Slick seems to have already thought you might try that, because he says, “And I'd better see his head.”
You swallow, already feeling sick to your stomach, and pick up the King of Diamonds that you'd dropped. Your movements are shaky as you stand up and put the card back in your deck, but you try to keep it from showing. As you walk past him and out of the hideout, you're already wondering if you could flee the city and survive. But you know that even if you could survive the desert, Slick would have you hunted down.
Your thoughts at least distract you from the feeling of the blazing sun on your carapace, uncomfortable and bordering on painful. You keep to the shadows where you can, moving freely through the deserted streets. Your targets house isn't anything special and you fumble with the lock for a while before you manage to get it open. It feels like your heart is in your throat as you ease the door open and step inside with your Jack of Spades in hand.
You take your time searching the house, not really wanting to find your intended victim, but all too soon, one door leads to a dim room with the sleeping form of the man from the picture. You stand over him, the tip of your dagger poised over his heart, and try to will yourself to plunge the blade into his carapace, telling yourself that he would die no matter what you did, but you can't bring yourself to do it. Your hand starts shaking and you can feel your eyes water as you fully realize the corner you've gotten yourself stuck in. You can't kill someone who hasn't done anything wrong, you can't go back empty handed, and you can't flee.
You lower the knife and let out a choked sob, but immediately know you should've held it back. The noise wakes him up and he reaches under his pillow the second he realizes he's not alone. Before you realize what's happened, you hear a gunshot and your left arm jerks. It doesn't hurt as much as you thought it would, but you realize you've been shot. Already, the gun is moving as he adjusts his aim, and you move in a panic. Your right arm swipes, an all too familiar movement by now, and blood sprays from the man's throat. He drops his gun in shock and pain, and you cringe as you bring the blade down into his chest to end his pain sooner. He crumples to the ground, and soon he's dead at your feet. You feel bile rise up in your throat, but swallow it down even as tears start to trail down your cheeks, and tear off part of your skirt to tie around your wound before you get to work severing the corpse's head the rest of the way. Your arm is starting to hurt now, but you're too numb to register it properly. You've just killed a man who did nothing but try to defend himself from an intruder, and feel as vile as you expected as you limply carry the severed head back to the hideout.