Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A young, brown-haired girl was running through a field, dodging and weaving between the occasional spattering of saplings as she did. Their spongy bark was as green as her youth, and the girl laughed when their infant leaves tickled her face while she raced past them. It was spring, and the air was fresh with the scent of new greenery, the last icy clumps of winter having finally disappeared to make way for the shoots of grass beneath the girl’s tiny feet. All the world was warm, the approach of summer announced in every tepid breeze.

The girl was on a farm, somewhere, that much her idle mind supplied: a beautiful, endless pasture on a farm surrounded by wilderness, the world around alive with the chatter of birds and insects. There were white fences off in the distance, back in the direction she had come from, to keep in the cattle, but there was plenty of space between the wooden fixtures for a delinquent child to slip between, out into the meadows beyond. After military-crawling her way under them, the girl ran freely, completely focused on the sprawling jade horizon before her.

Was this our summer home, in another life?

The grass became sparser the longer she ran, however, and less soft beneath her feet. It began to hurt, after a while, jabbing into her soft soles instead of tickling them; the little girl decided to run back to the farmhouse and put on her sandals when the sensation became unbearable. When she turned back, though, there was nothing there. The forest, the fields, the fences… all had vanished into an amorphous black whorl of ink.

The girl’s heart quickened, though a sense of terrible familiarity introduced itself alongside the panic. Her earlier joy and blithe disregard for the bottoms of her feet belied the distinct lack of belonging she had felt all the while; in her mind, the trees were supposed to be skyscrapers, the rocks and tree trunks, the rubble of decrepit buildings… or, more likely, a stinking dumpster or two. She had expected the air to be stale, only changing with the exhales of a smoker, not bright and clean. After a moment, that is what it became, and the girl despaired as her paradise fell away around her, but simultaneously leaned into the accustomed black as if it might embrace her. When it touched her, it instead felt like a slap to the face, and tasted like shards of glass mixed with blood on her tongue.

The tears, when they came, were familiar, too, and the girl fell to her knees, clutching her bruised ribs with a strange half-smile that looked too adult to belong anywhere near a child’s face, much less on it. It seemed to say, what did I expect, but this ? 

A pile of feathers appeared at her feet, then burst, falling around the girl like snowflakes. She sobbed anew, still smiling absently all the while, when they stroked her skin, leaving streaks of blood and viscera on her face as they descended.

Ring-RING-ring. Ring-RING-ring.

Revy rotated on her mattress with a sour groan as the insistent little tri-chime of her ringtone stole her from her misery. She opened her eyes, blearily, noticing that it was not yet light outside, and let out another sound of annoyance. She blindly reached for her vibrating BlackBerry, finding that it had been kicked to the furthest corner of the mattress during the night.

She stopped when she saw the number that flashed on her screen, one that she was all-too-familiar with. 

“Ugh, not this fucker again.” Revy groaned. She tossed the cell phone aside, shoving her face into her pillow until the infernal ringing ceased. She sighed when it finally did, turning her head so she could breathe in the musty Roanapur air again. Her eyes fluttered open, briefly, and she shifted her gaze to the alarm clock that sat catty-cornered on the small bedside table, which read: 4:30 AM.

Just as the ungodly hour registered in Revy’s mind, her phone began to ring again, and the gunslinger clenched her jaw so forcefully that her teeth ached. She pulled the flimsy, bleached-gray blanket over her until it covered her face. “Fuck off,” she hissed into it, “fuck off, fuck off.”

The ringing stopped, but before Revy could get too comfortable, the terrible sound filled the room once more, creating an aching vortex in the center of the gunslinger’s head. Flinging the blanket away and slamming her hand down on the offending BlackBerry, the poor thing but a vessel for the worst of Revy’s annoyances, she dragged it over to her ear, picking it up.

“Do you ever quit, Pigeon-Boy?” Revy greeted, her face immediately twisting into a scowl that could kill without help from her guns. “It’s too early in the fuckin’ morning for this bullshit.”

“Hey-hey, li’l sis. How you holdin’ up, baby?” Rowan said, with such syrup in his voice that Revy knew at once he would be asking her for a favor.

Revy rubbed the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “Cut to the chase, Pidge. I’m not listening to your bad attempts at flattery.”

“You haven’t changed a bit.” He drawled, a little melancholically, and Revy heard him light a cigarette. “Fine then, the chase: I got a high-profile client who’s lookin’ to hire you for your— mmm— let us say, services. Wanted to see if you’d be up to the task.”

Revy ran her fingers through her hair, cursing when she raked a knot. “If he wants me to fill some fuckers with lead, tell ‘im to call me himself. I’m not gonna play ping-pong with—”

“Oh, no, sweetcheeks, you’ve got me all wrong.” Rowan quickly cut in, clarifying, “I’m talkin’... services in the bedroom, honey.”

Revy’s eyes went wide, and her grasp on the cell phone tightened to such an extreme that she would crush the abused device if her grip were any stronger.

“Listen to ME, you stupid fucking piece of shit pimp … ”

“Whoaaaaa, now, I figured you’d react that way at first, but it ain’t like she’s some nobody, m’kay? She’s a real interestin’ lady, I’m tellin’ you. Real, hmm, interestin’ friends.”

“I don’t give a fuck who it is, I…” Revy trailed off as she replayed Rowan’s assertion in her mind. “...wait, ‘she’? ‘ Lady ’?”

“Yeah, you heard me right.” Rowan said, stopping to take a drag of his cigarette. “You’re a regular casanova, aren’t you, Rebecca? Catchin’ the attention of a woman like that. Gotta wonder what fine rugs you’ve been munchin’ since you stopped workin’ for me. Got me wantin’ to hire you back so you can bring all the rich lezzies to the yard.”

Revy’s face reddened, but now, the pinkness razing her composure was no longer strictly due to her fury. "Fuck off, asshole. I'm not some discount whore you can sell to anyone you want." She snarled, tempted to hang up then and there; but Revy almost wanted to remain on the line, if only to hear whatever pitiful excuse of a reply Rowan had for her. He always was a weak-willed fool, as far as she was concerned, incapable of throwing back a taunt to save his stringy ass.

Rather than the expected acquiescence, as had been his usual response to her last several refusals, there was a mischievous laugh on the other end that immediately set Revy's nerves on edge. "The fuck YOU laughin' about?" She snapped, like a cornered animal. She absolutely despised the gloating in his voice, ringing in a way that placed her as a canary in the maw of his cat. It drove her batty, and made her all the more aware of the unwanted color on her face.

Rowan ignored her indignance. “I’ll say you’re no discount, sista. You’re a fucking big-ticket whore, at least according to this chick. She’s willin’ to pay top dollar for a night with you… and I mean TOP dollar.”

"Didn't ask." Revy spat. "I don't give a fuck HOW much your rich bitch is offering. I don’t fuck for greenbacks, and I sure as hell wouldn’t fuck some nameless dyke, even if I did."

There was an amused sigh, which only further stirred Revy’s ire. "Sure about that, sugarlips? I mean it: she's shellin' out an awful lotta cash. We could divvy it up thirty-seventy between the two of us, me takin’ the bigger cut, and the leftovers would still be enough to supply your li'l pirate crew with bullets for a year— I'd say three, if you weren't such a loose cannon." There was a pause on the opposite end as Rowan took another drag of his cigarette. "I wouldn't pass it up if I were you, Rebecca. This ain’t chump change, and I’ve been itchin’ to renovate this ol’ place. Y’know, change up the decor, all that shit." 

Revy wanted, badly, to tell him to fuck off, and go bury some unfortunate army in their own tattered flesh so she never again had to think about this mysterious woman who wanted to get down with her. Her curiosity, however, won out over her disgust at being this thoroughly sought after, long after her days of cracking whips and swinging cat o’ nines before a degenerate crowd. "Okay, fine; you want me to pry? I’ll pry. How much dough are we talkin', Pidge?"

There was another pause, as if Rowan was weighing whether or not to tell her. Then, he uttered a figure that made Revy's anger melt and her mind go completely blank.

" Shit." Revy said, her voice coming out in an embarrassing warble. She pressed the phone close to her ear, glancing around as if afraid someone had overheard. 

"You're tellin' me." Rowan replied. She could practically see his shit-eating grin. "What do you think of them numbers, my girl?"

"I'm not your GIRL." Revy growled, defensive, though the retort was made on instinct more than anything. Her mind was elsewhere, driven to a strange, cobwebbed corner by the whole affair. She made a mental note never to answer phone calls that early ever again.

The grin remained in Rowan’s voice, and Revy desperately wished she could punch it out of him. “You were my girl. My best girl, in fact.” He said intimately, like he was sharing a stolen strawberry with her out in some bumfucking Texan cornfield; as if, beneath the layers upon layers of pretense, upon which were scattered the crumpled clippings of long-cashed checks and the pleather of cheap riding crops, they were friends.

Despite herself, Revy cracked a sardonic smile at his personal tone. Friends. That was a laugh. She had no friends to speak of… just business associates and more business associates, some less likely to shoot her in the back than others. “Playin’ the flattery card, now, huh? Don’t kid yourself. I was a massive pain in your ass for years. Bet you’re happy I’m not on your payroll anymore.”

There was another long inhale of smoke on the opposite end of the line before Rowan replied. “Two things can be true at once, y’know, ‘Becca.”

Revy scoffed. “Whatever. What’s the dyke’s name?” She demanded to know, abruptly returning to the matter at hand.

There was a muffled squeak on the other end, as if he had straightened up in his chair, or else it was the startled noise of whichever floozy he had down between his knees at that moment. “You’ll do it?”

Revy ground her teeth together. What little pride and rationality she had screamed absolutely not. It was a matter of principle: it had only been a few years since she had dragged herself out from under the leering gazes of the clubbers and Johns with tents in their pants. Now, the only tents the men who gawked at her got were coffins, or else, a blanket of seawater over their fish-eaten heads. Revy found little else fulfilling than putting overzealous gunners thirty feet deep where they belonged.

Yet, a part of her encouraged her to reconsider, especially upon hearing how much dough was at stake. It was one Hell of a payday for a single night.

“I didn’t fucking say I’d do it, did I?” Revy insisted after a few moments. “Tell me what you know about her.”

Rowan hummed. “Not much. She’s new in town, brought here on some mighty lucrative business venture, if her wallet’s any indication. Tall, good-lookin’ as hell, she’s got tits for days and she ain’t shy to show ‘em off; if only my girls could have natural beauties like that, would sure save me some hassle. Oh, and she struts around in an old military coat, so she’s probably some kinda war vet mama, if you’re into that sorta thing.”

Revy tensed at his last observation. She knew this had to be shady. “I’m bringing my guns.” She warned him in a growl.

“Yeah? She’ll probably like that.” He replied, to Revy’s mild surprise.

She sniffed to hide how flustered his reply had made her. “For a guy who claims not to know shit about this chick, you two sure are cozy.” She mumbled out between gritted teeth.

There was a click, perhaps of a pen, on the other end, and the distant jingling of shot glasses. “It’s my business to get a feel for ‘em… what they’re like, what they want.” He replied good-naturedly. “And my senses tell me she’s the type who gets off on a li’l danger. Why else would she be after you, of all the girls in Roanapur?”

Revy grimaced. “God, I hate her ass already.” She mumbled, despising that she was actively considering the offer. Pidge had been right about one thing: it sure as Hell wasn’t chump change. “So, what, I jack off this chick and get paid a small fortune?”

Rowan laughed. “She wants you for a whole night, sweetcheeks. Hopefully you can find a way to spice it up a bit. Get some tongue in there, a li’l hip action. Use your imagination.”

“Ugh.” Revy growled, rubbing her eyes like she had plans to pop them right out of their sockets.

He shifted in his chair again, continuing to smoke. “Don’t tell me I gotta train you up beforehand.” Rowan said, his voice hardening a little. “There’s a lot of money on the line.”

Revy sighed, having been made thoroughly weary by the conversation; and it was still only five in the morning. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Fuckin’ absurd.” She grumbled, dragging her palm over her face and down again. “And that’s all for just one night?” She asked again, suspiciously. 

“Just a night, sista.” He reassured her. “All that moolah for one li’l roll in the hay. How about it?”

Revy weighed her options: do nothing, or warm a crazy dyke’s bed for a night, and go home with a wallet several dozen sizes larger. Would the woman want to wire it to her, she wondered, or would she have it shoved into her hands by the stack? Revy didn’t exactly have a bank account to her name, so she guessed it would have to be hard cash. That was how Dutch paid her. She swallowed; she couldn’t even begin to calculate how many piles the promised amount, or whatever percentage she received, would make, but they would have to be hundred-dollar bills, that much she knew.

And there was really only one thing to say to that kind of offer, whore or not.

“Yeah.” Revy said, the word coming out weaker than intended. She cleared her throat, willing her voice to freeze over again. “I mean yeah, I’ll do it, Pidge.”

The audible sigh of relief on the other end could not have been imagined. "That's my Rebecca. Jus' like old times, huh, girl? Spread your legs a little and rake in the big bucks for me?"

The hairs on the back of Revy's neck raised, like the hackles of some dusty street mutt in a scuffle over an old bone. "I never fucked any of those bitches, or any of the chubbed-up men who came to watch me beat the shit out of ‘em. You fucking know that." She said morosely, her tone lacking all of its usual panache. A note of apprehension wound its way through every syllable, tautening them. "This is ONE fucking job, okay, Rowan? Your one favor. You call me about this whore shit again, I'll splatter your brains all over your shitty club, got that?"

“Yeah, yeah, I gotchu, li’l sis— you give the old man Dutch a ‘hello’ for me. I’ll see ya Friday at 9 PM. Don’t be late, or you’ll regret it.”

He hung up before Revy could fit in another word. She cursed, itching to throw the chunky BlackBerry at the wall, and almost doing so before thinking better of it. Friday. She mouthed incredulously to herself, staring up at the ceiling with a blank look on her face. She suddenly felt that the one step forward she had taken in recent years had suddenly been offset by about twenty steps back on an intrigue-charged whim. A whore. Revy thought, a shameful blush beginning to bleed across her cheeks. For one night fuckin’ only: Rebecca Lee, the whore of all whores.

Fucking hell.

Revy tried to entice sleep after that, but every time she closed her eyes, she imagined the nameless, faceless woman who had inquired after her. The woman she would be sleeping with on Friday night. In Revy’s disoriented mind, she was an intangible, ever-shifting nebula of blonde, brunette, and raven hair, her skin similarly paling and darkening at inconsistent intervals; her lips, however, were always warm and wet as they oh-so-sweetly closed in. 

Sick of the direction her subconscious had gone, Revy eventually rejected it altogether, trudging out of bed at fifteen-to-seven in the morning still wearing last night’s clothes… those being the same ones she always wore: the fraying, too-short jean shorts barely strapped to her waist with an old belt, and a flimsy black tank that didn’t cover her navel. If she could get away with it, she wouldn’t wear a thing at all aside from her holsters, or go topless like the men… it was always too damn hot in Roanapur, and sweat inevitably saturated her clothes as soon as she stepped outside. She might as well be naked.

She made her way to the kitchen, shambling like a zombie all the while. Dutch, who was already awake and looking far more put-together than she ever managed to be, greeted her, gesturing to the gurgling coffeemaker. “There’s coffee if you want— I just brewed it.” He said, the rumble of his voice rich and assertive, yet tinged with the evasive ideal of a peaceful rest. He adjusted his glasses, the lenses of which were obscured in black, before returning to his magazine, which had cars and women on its glossy front.

Revy could tell he was hiding his surprise, and sent him an arrogant grin. “Thanks,” she said, retrieving a mug from the cabinet and pouring herself one. “Surprised to see me up this early, old man?”

“Did you even sleep last night?” He answered her question with a question of his own. His features were stoic, but Revy could tell he was teasing.

She shrugged. “Slept as good as any other night.” She uttered, a half-truth. Her nights were far from the embodiment of tranquility, more often than not spent stumbling back to her apartment above the Lagoon Company office after a night of wild (or, occasionally, introspective) drinking, her fists still tingling from the punches she threw. Her rest, if any, was found in the witching hour, after passing out at last in a alcohol-induced haze.

Dutch hummed. “There’s leftover pizza in the fridge if you want it. We don’t have much else.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get some.” Revy replied moodily, putting her coffee down on the table and making for the fridge. Her stomach was still in knots, so the idea of food hardly sounded appealing, but she wasn’t about to let herself starve. She swung open the door, its old seal momentarily sticking, and found the pizza, which was in a large plastic slider bag. It had been thrown, somewhat unceremoniously, on a bed of old soy sauce and mustard packets from long-forgotten Chinese food orders. Revy reached for it.

She paused, noticing a jug of milk sitting on the center shelf, the expiration date about a week past due. It was not the milk itself that had captured her attention, but rather, the image pasted to the front: the label had on it a cartoonish cow with an eerie, human-like grin, leaping over a white fence that receded into a green meadow, brightly-colored flowers at the base of every pole. The brand name was written in big black-and-white Thai lettering, with an old-timey stencil of a farmhouse between two of the words, and the suggestion of more greenery just behind it.

Revy snorted bitterly. The only emerald fields she would ever see were those on the dairy aisle. Places like that— if any really existed— were not meant for people like her.

Dutch’s deep voice interrupted her moping. “Y’know, every minute you stand there with the fridge door open is another dollar I have to spend on keepin’ the damn thing powered. That and replacing the food you spoil.”

Normally Dutch’s banter would not bother her so much, but today, the irritation hit her square in the chest. “Yeah, yeah, don’t get your panties in a bunch, Dutchie.” She growled, roughly pulling out the bag of half-eaten pizza and shoving the door closed with unnecessary aggression. “You know, if you’re that concerned about food going bad, there’s an expired jug of milk in there. Want me to pour that shit down the drain?”

Dutch sipped his coffee. “Go ahead.” He said, a little nonplussed by her offer.

Tucking the bag of pizza under her arm, Revy grabbed the old milk after unsticking it from the glass pane of the shelf, giving one last disparaging look to the nightmarish cow caricature before snapping off the top of the jug and tipping it over into the basin, the half-gallon of its remaining contents spilling out with a satisfying glug-glug-glug.

Revy left it there, flopping down into one of the kitchen chairs with a faint ache in her chest. She attempted to fend it (and the encroaching hunger) off with several huge mouthfuls of cold pizza, the sauce weakly acidic on the back of her tongue, and the cheese artificially flavored. It was only a couple of days old and still plenty good to get the day started with, far quicker than a full English. “What’s the plan today?” She asked, once she had reached the crust of the first slice.

Dutch barely looked up from his magazine. “Got a job for us at 1. Should be a simple retrieval, nothing flashy.”

“Famous last words.” Revy muttered, folding the crust in two and pushing it into her mouth, nearly choking on it as she swallowed it down. 

At that, Dutch set the magazine on the table, taking another sip of his coffee. He had a contemplative expression on his face, the same one Revy recognized from whenever he was on the phone with a new client. “What’s got you all paranoid?” He asked after a brief silence, only perforated by the sound of Revy tearing into the second slice.

Revy barked out a laugh. “Me, paranoid? You’re fuckin’ dreaming.” She scoffed dismissively. Friday. Two days from now, I’ll be in bed with some woman I don’t even know. Because she bought me. “It’s just early, that’s fuckin’ all.”

He looked at her for another long moment, saying nothing, until she became agitated under his searching gaze. Eventually, though, he shrugged his oxlike shoulders, returning to the magazine, and Revy realized her lungs were aching for air.

After releasing an uneasy sigh, the remainder of the pizza disappeared down Revy’s throat, and she drained her black coffee in one long swig, bringing the mug down harder than intended upon the stout table. She stared up at the busted ceiling fan, one thought above all others occupying her mind.

Friday.

And, far too soon, Friday dawned and dusked, like an egg that had finally gone bad. Not that every day in Roanapur wasn’t rotten to its blackened core. 

The rest of the week had been relatively uneventful, the usual grind of transporting goods and busting kneecaps, and all-too-quickly, the days arrived and departed like they had never happened in the first place. Revy’s stomach was a cauldron of butterflies: It had been a quiet Friday, which meant no jobs or anything else to distract her from the evening ahead, so she had spent most of the day stewing alone in her room. She had not slept much the previous night, and so, her face looked somewhat gaunt, with the dramatic charcoal-gray semicircles that were the tar in which her eyes had sunk. 

She looked forward to the night as a convict awaited the guillotine, the blade being that woman she had yet to put a name or face to. Revy hated how this stranger had managed to consume her mind without the gunslinger having even met her.

About mid-way through the afternoon, the existential dread intensified, and Revy suddenly found herself anxiously poring over the contents of her closet, searching for an appropriate outfit. Rowan’s comment rang in her mind: Don’t tell me I gotta train you up beforehand. “Don’t worry, Pidge, you won’t have to teach me how to be a good whore.” She sneered bitterly to herself. “I’ll primp it up for that bitch, or whatever, like whores are supposed to.”

Revy did not have much variety in the way of clothing, the range of her wardrobe summing up to her winter and summer apparel (the latter of which was currently sweat-molded to her form). There had not been a need for diversity until that moment: she was not a grifter, not a businesswoman with a distinction between work and leisure. She was a mercenary, and mercenaries dressed light, keeping only the essentials with them. Revy did, however, own a few choice garments left over from her career as a dominatrix, most of it little more than useless lace that should have been thrown away years ago, all of which sat dormant in a flimsy cardboard box. When she rummaged through it, one item stood out: an intricate black corset and garter belt made of several-dozen little straps, meant to hug at a much-softer figure and impress upon supple skin their suggestive pattern. It came with lacy black underwear whose waistband was covered in bows, and a pair of stockings that were meant to attach to the belt on the corset. She had only ever worn it for one or two shows in total before she scrammed, and thus, it had the least wear-and-tear out of any of her more intimate outfits. She smiled gloomily as she pulled it out; yeah, that’ll work.

She dressed as quickly as possible— careful not to let her toenails catch on the stockings and ruin them— before layering on her fraying jean-shorts and a short black jacket, the latter also a remnant from her previous job, overtop of the lingerie, deciding to forgo the shirt altogether. The straps did not serve to cover much of her torso, seeing as most of them were not even a half of an inch in width, but the lacy bralette concealed her well enough, as did the jacket and shorts. Besides, Revy thought, if she was going to play… be … a prostitute, she might as well show a little skin, right?

Revy dared a trip down the hall to look at herself in the bathroom mirror. She sighed plaintively at what she saw, though there was some faint rumble of satisfaction to be heard in it: she certainly did look the part. Her hair was still a mess, though, and she took her hairbrush to it, grumbling all the while. Once the worst of the knots had been combed out (or over, which was closer to reality), Revy put it up in the usual style of a long, uneven ponytail, kinking down her back. It would have to do; she didn’t have the time or resources to pin it into something fashionable. She better not be expecting Cindy fucking Crawford. Revy thought.

She did ask for me, specifically… why the Hell does she want me? She thought back on everything Rowan had said about the mysterious client. Is it all about the fucking danger? Is that really it?

Or, had Revy’s reputation in prison somehow escaped into the real world?

Revy clutched her head in both hands, crumpling the same as tissue paper as she leaned over the sink. Fuck, of all the goddamn things, she did not want to think about prison. That had been a matter of survival, nothing more. She had to climb the ladder somehow, what did it matter if her fingers and face got wet in the process?

You’re not a dyke, Revy reassured herself. You did what you had to do. That’s all it was.

Before she could continue with that destructive train of thought, there started a booming knock from downstairs, which made Revy stop; it sounded like someone was at the side door, which no one ever really used (except for herself and Dutch, of course). There was a bell in the front office that clients could ring to make their presence known, but so much of the Lagoon Company’s business was conducted over the phone, or when Dutch was out-and-about, that Revy could not remember the last time anyone contacted them that way. It could be, she supposed, a late delivery, or someone had gotten lost.

“Yo, Dutch, there’s someone at the side door!” Revy shouted, but her only reply was a moment of silence and a second knock. Confused, she went out into the hall, leaning over the upper railing of the stairway leading to the first floor. “Dutch ! The fucking door !”

When she yet again received no reply, she frowned, descending the first few steps before vaulting the banister, her feet landing with a thud on the hardwood flooring below.

She poked her head into the kitchen and living room, seeing nothing, then checked what Dutch called the storefront. It and the glorified closet where the computer was kept both turned out to be empty. 

“Must’ve gone out, dammit…” Revy muttered to herself. Another insistent knock rang out, this time rattling the hinges, and Revy cursed, hurrying over to the side door to answer it herself.

She undid the chain and flung it open, leaning on the frame. “Yeah, yeah, what do you…”

Revy trailed off. Standing on the side porch was a pale, broad-shouldered man who filled the entire frame, a tall and imposing sentry in the twilight; he wore a turtleneck the color of duvetyne, like the short dark hair beginning to creep lichen-like over the tips of his ears, and a myrtle suit-jacket with pants to match. His diluted turquoise eyes bore into her, between which wove a nasty-looking scar (from a large blade, like that of a machete, if Revy had to guess); it started at the lower gully of his left cheek and paved its way over his right brow, eventually tapering off and ending just below his hairline. His large eyebrows were furrowed, and his lips formed a thin, tense line. From somewhere on the street behind him emanated the vibrations of a running vehicle.

Revy suddenly felt more underdressed than usual, but if the man was at all fazed by her attire, he rocked an impeccable poker face. “Are you Two Hands?” He inquired, and Revy’s hands flexed towards her guns at the Russian accent smoldering in his dark voice.

That can’t be good.

“Who’s fuckin’ asking?” Revy snarled, inching both hands up her sides until they brushed her holsters, readying to arm herself at a millisecond’s notice.

The man watched her hands, but otherwise, did not react to her hostile tone. “I am asking on behalf of the person who is employing Two Hands’ services tonight.” He said, delicately sidestepping a minefield of details as he did.

Revy’s blood ran cold. “You work for her?” She forced out between gritted teeth.

“Yes.”

Revy’s hands fell away from her holsters, her mind racing at a million miles a minute as she looked at the man, openmouthed. “I’m… yeah, I’m Two Hands. What do you want?” She said brittly, at an octave like the cracking of an iceberg.

“I’m here to deliver the payment we promised you.”

“Payment?” Revy echoed quizzically, clutching her arms in either hand. “It’s supposed to be split between me and Pidge— er, Rowan. He’s the owner of Jackpot Pigeons.” She added for his benefit.

“Mr. Pigeons has received his portion already.” The Russian man explained robotically. “This is yours.”

He presented her the suitcase he had been holding, placing it into her arms. Revy buckled slightly under the unexpected weight of it, and she stared at the man in shock. “It’s…” She started, her tongue suddenly feeling four times larger.

“The payment.” He confirmed.

Revy blanched. “Can I… uh, can I look at it?” She said, trying to keep from squirming.

“It is your money.” The man replied.

With an indignant roll of her eyes, Revy undid the clasps on the sides of the suitcase, opening it slowly. She blanched upon looking inside, seeing stacks upon stacks of American hundred-dollar bills filling it to its brim. It was not a small suitcase, either, and Revy did not doubt that the figure Rowan had given her matched its contents (minus his cut, of course). As for the money itself, the bills looked and felt real, the texture of them somewhat woolen under her fingers when she nervously brushed them. She had seen plenty of stacks exchanging hands at the sites of various jobs, and the Lagoon Company had more than once transported cases of a similar depth to the one in her arms, but Revy never thought she would ever have such a thing given to her.

This isn’t for nothing, Revy reminded herself with a shudder, I’m whoring myself for this. I’m a fucking high-price call girl tonight.

She quickly shut the suitcase and took the handle, allowing it to hang at her side. “Holy shit… paying up front, huh? You guys really are serious about this.” Revy grunted out, aiming to hide how much her voice quaked.

“We are efficient in our business.” The scarred man affirmed with the slightest dip of his head, but his expression supplied her with no further context. He did, however, feel the need to add: “It is expected that, in exchange for this courtesy, you will deliver the goods promptly and without fuss.”

Revy swallowed, clutching the handle of the suitcase so tightly, her knuckles went white. As far as descriptions went, “the goods” was not one she ever wanted used for her; but, here she was, being referred to like a slab of wagyu… and accepting it without argument. “…and, uh, what if I took the money and ran instead?” She asked, half-joking.

The man considered this possibility, his expression (or lack thereof) barely changing as the gears turned in his mind. “You won’t.” He eventually replied, with the sort of look that channeled just how fucked Revy would be if she did try to run. Try, her mind immediately went to, because she was certain there would be no chance in Hell of her succeeding, not if the terrifying Russian presence on the porch had anything to say about it. Revy’s confidence was shattered under the man’s stoic gaze; she could tell that, whatever crew he and the strange woman belonged to, they did not take prisoners, especially not if the prisoner was a half-Chinese girl with errant trigger fingers.

“…right.” Revy muttered quietly, afraid that at proper volume, it would come out a squeak.

The man nodded in satisfaction and began to turn away, but stopped. “She expects you there at 2100 hours.” After a brief pause, he added: “That is 9 PM, sharp.”

With that, he departed.

Revy stood there for several moments longer after the polished car had pulled away, the arm supporting the suitcase hanging limply at her side. What the fuck did I agree to? She thought numbly, dread as cold as death creeping up to settle in her chest.

The man’s use of military time did not go unnoticed. She remembered, vaguely, Rowan’s comment about the “old military coat” her mysterious client wore.

A war vet mama, Rowan had said.

Revy closed her eyes, resisting the urge to put her fist through the doorframe. She had loathed the horrible unknown of it all, but what was worse was how the pieces were beginning to connect themselves behind Revy’s eyes… and the picture they made was far from pretty.

Whores… Russians… fuckin’ strip clubs. What next?

She shut the door, trying not to think as she climbed the stairs back up into her apartment. Revy set the suitcase down on her unmade bed, unclasping it again to get a better look at the cash. It was real, all right: Revy flipped through every stack to be sure, her eyes bugging when she perused the third and fourth layers. If Revy were to disassemble each pile and place them end-to-end on the ground, the line they created would slice all of Roanapur in half and then some, stretching out into the wetlands and tropical forests beyond. It was more money than Revy had ever seen in her entire life… and it was hers.

All I have to do is spread my legs.

The front door opened and closed downstairs, and Revy startled, piling the cash back into the suitcase and shutting it as best she could. Dutch’s heavy boot-steps approached her door, and Revy panicked, shoving the half-closed suitcase under her bed. “Shit… shit… SHIT !” She whispered urgently, grasping her hair in her hands.

Dutch’s heavy presence lingered outside her room for a few tense moments, as if in a state of indecision. Revy stared at his shadow, which crept through the space between the underside of the door and the metal threshold like it was reaching for her. Thankfully, it disappeared a few moments later, his footfalls putting him down the hall where the bathroom was. Revy released the breath she had been holding, clutching her chest to feel her pounding heart. Fuck, why am I so jumpy? She thought, glowering at the floor. One corner of the suitcase was still visible from that angle, and Revy hurriedly kicked it further beneath the bed, a sour expression on her face.

She looked at the clock, which read 8:15 PM. Sighing, she returned to the bathroom after Dutch had gone back downstairs so she could adjust her hair again, if only to distract herself from the inevitable. The time was almost upon her. 

In less than an hour, she’d be nose-deep in some stranger…

Memories of prison filled her mind, and Revy grimaced.

Ultimately, she decided to take her hair down, abandoning the tie on the vanity. It flowed past her shoulders and down her back, still knotted in places, but Revy did not pay it much mind. She sighed again, taking in her appearance one last time: glittering, tight straps that dug into her bruised skin, tousled hair, black lace, a somewhat bedraggled visage despite the shower she had taken, which for once had lasted longer than a minute. It was the look of a prostitute, indeed, right down to the dead-eyed stare.

With that, Revy shut off the light, venturing out into the hall. The clock at the far end read 8:20 PM, warning Revy not to stall further. She hurried down the stairs, heart racing, and made for the side door. A voice, however, stopped her in her tracks.

“Where’re you headed?”

Revy jumped. Dutch was lounging on the couch in the living room, nursing a glass of whiskey. Strangely, he stared straight ahead, no newspapers or magazines or other shit to distract him: just the drink.

After several seconds of juggling her possible responses, Revy eventually settled on, “out.”

Behind the obsidian lenses of his glasses, Revy saw him raise an eyebrow. “Lookin’ like that ?” He asked, swirling the liquid to make the ice cubes clink against the sides of his glass.

Revy growled. “Since when are you my fuckin’ dad?” She hissed. “Yes, looking like this.”

Dutch looked on, unfazed. “That kinda night, huh?”

The blush that rose on the back of Revy’s neck was blistering under the old vet’s scrutiny. Having observed herself earlier, she could understand how easily one could ascertain her plans for the night. She looked like one of those cheap whores haunting main street, flashing her chest at every car that moseyed by until one finally pulled up.

At her silence, which she realized had stretched on for an uncomfortably long period of time, Dutch added, “there’s no reason to freak out on me, Revy, I know you do jobs for Jackpot from time to time. Ain’t any skin off of my back.”

Revy relaxed just a bit. At least he had not somehow seen through her completely, with those discerning eyes of his. “Yeah. Look, I owed Pidgeon-Boy a solid, okay? A real quick one. You know how it goes.”

“Just watch yourself.” Dutch said, deadly serious, after a lull of quiet that briefly had Revy worried that she had somehow slipped up and told him everything. “It’s no Mayberry out there, and I don’t want to hire new guns tomorrow if I can help it.”

She rolled her eyes and tried to appear casual, even though every muscle in her body was coiled like a spring. She could not help but think that Dutch’s words carried a double meaning, a warning beneath the warning. He had been acting strange since the beginning of the week. “When has it ever been fucking Mayberry ?” She muttered under her breath, adjusting her jacket over her holsters. “I don’t need your concern, Dutchie. I’ve got my boys. No one can touch me.”

No one except that bitch you’re sleeping with. She paid to touch you all night long, and she’s sure as hell gonna capitalize.

He stared at her for a moment longer, before shrugging his burly shoulders with a half-sigh. “All right.” He said, with a tone of defeat Revy rarely heard from him, before downing the rest of his drink in one go. “See you later.”

She repeated it back to him before making her way outside, too strapped for time to show Dutch any further concern. He was a sentimental guy at times, but Revy was not his brat.

She half-ran, half-walked a few blocks down the street, eventually finding a parked cab. She knocked on the window, and it rolled down, revealing an American man with pudgy cheeks and beady little eyes.

“Well, howdy there, cutie. You lookin’ to have a good time? In that li’l getup, you must be. I can help with that. Maybe you can come back to my place, get a little high, and we can have some proper fun. How about it?” He drawled with a scum-sucking grin.

Rather than honoring the driver’s sleazy line of questioning with answers, Revy shoved a hundred-dollar bill into the fat of his face using the end of one of her guns.

“Jackpot Pigeons. Step on it, scuzzbag.” She ordered, sliding into the back seat and kicking her feet up.

Wide-eyed, the driver pocketed the payment and did as told, remaining silent for the rest of the journey. When they arrived at the club twenty minutes later, neon lights burning and flashing like an epileptic’s nightmare, Revy exited the cab without another word, descending into the jungle of smoke and booze that was the Jackpot Pigeons.

Revy stalked inside, stormily, all-to-familiar with the sights, smells, and sounds of the club. It had been a couple of years since she had last been inside, and not a thing had changed: there were the same slobbering men with puppy-dog eyes, the same women in tall black heels swinging floggers and riding crops at one another, the same hot-pink-and-blue walls and purple floors that were about twenty years past their time. The reek of arousal pervaded the air, and Revy might have wrinkled her nose, had she not grown so accustomed to the smell over the course of her employment there.

“Revy?”

A familiar soft, feminine voice called out from over the buzz, and Revy swiveled her head in its direction, seeing a woman a little younger and a little shorter than herself with straightened black hair pirouetting her way through the clubgoers. She was wearing a schoolgirl’s outfit that clung so tightly to her figure that it looked like it intended to suffocate her. (Revy knew first-hand how small the uniforms were, and rubbed her throat uncomfortably at the memory.)

“Hey, Lucie.” Revy greeted her, a bit of genuine warmth seeping into her tone. She and Lucie had been colleagues back in the day, and they had always maintained the usual level of friendliness expected at work. “Is Rowan around?”

Lucie shook her head. “Mr. Pigeons is busy at the minute. He told me to keep an eye out for you so I could take you to your client.” There was the suggestion of a smirk on her face, and she lightly punched Revy’s shoulder. “You sly dog. I wish it had been me.”

Revy scowled. “What the hell are you talking about?” 

Lucie’s eyes widened incredulously at her. “Revy… she’s gorgeous. Like, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” Lucie let out a wistful sigh. “I’d give anything to be in your shoes.”

Go ahead; you can have her. Revy wanted to say, but she bit her tongue. “Didn’t take you for a lesbo, Luc’.” She said sardonically.

The woman blushed, but before she could answer, Revy cut in. “Whatever. Where is she?”

Lucie composed herself, brushing out the small pleated skirt she was wearing. “In the back. Follow me.” She beckoned, flustered.

Revy went with her, shouldering through the crowd. Jackpot Pigeons had back rooms for business purposes, as well as… business purposes: quiet nooks away from the main stage where VIPs could spend time with the performers up close, and everything that entailed. There were rooms upstairs, too, all with beds. Some were miniature apartments for the employees without anywhere else to stay, but most were kept open. Available. The club was not technically a whorehouse, as much as Rowan himself was not technically a pimp; but the flowery words scratched into contracts were belied by everything Revy had seen and heard there, both behind closed doors and out in the open. Prostitution, however, was the least of its sins, as far as Revy was concerned: Rowan habitually involved himself with black marketeers, scary motherfuckers with the ammunition to back up their threats, and Revy hoped for his sake that the seas of his unsavory affairs always stayed as calm as they currently were. 

Lucie led her to one of the curtained rooms, the one closest to the stairs leading to the second floor. Of course, Revy thought with a dry cough. “She’s in there.” Lucie said, blinking slyly up at her under thick lashes. “I have a show to do. Have fun.” She added, waving, before scurrying off. Like a cute little mouse.

Revy stood before the curtains for at least a minute, captured in thought. She pondered the phone call that had started it all, the Russian hunk with the suitcase, the money. It was like something out of a mafia movie.

Wouldn’t that be psychotic, Revy thought with a snort. Her, playing pet to a Russian mafiosa. 

She cast the idea from her mind, even as it blared like an alarm call before fading. Taking a breath, as though preparing to plunge into the sea, Revy crossed the threshold.

The room was small, cozy, with black carpeting and red walls over which were draped more of the same shimmering curtains. A plush-looking lavender couch curved against the far wall, near the middle of which sat a lone figure: the woman.

Revy exhaled sharply.

She was older than Revy by some margin, though the gunslinger could not say exactly how much older, only that she had aged incredibly: her pale skin, what little of it Revy could see in the dim lighting, looked flawless, so much so that even the tiny birthmark under her left eye almost seemed like an intentional fixture. She had pale blonde locks that cascaded in silken tapestries along the front of her, framing her half-visible face in gold, the rest of which was tied behind her into a tight ponytail at the top of her head, nevertheless spilling down her back to pine for the couch cushions. She wore a thin black turtleneck that cloaked the entirety of her swanlike throat and chest, over which a claret suit-jacket was buttoned, its shoulders as sharp as twin bayonets. Her pencil skirt of the same color closely hugged her thighs, and her legs were wrapped in black nylons not unlike Revy’s stockings, though contrary to that of the gunslinger, there were no unshaved hairs poking through. She had tall black heels that undoubtedly put an extra inch on what Revy was certain had to be a substantial height— even when sitting, she looked enormous, in both stature and muscularity. If Revy had found the man at the door to be brawny, then the woman was in a league of her own, the dainty hands with pink, whetted acrylics capping each fingertip a stark contrast to the size of her arms and legs, both of which were reminiscent of tree trunks. The same clothes that made her appear elegant simultaneously accentuated her mass, honed enough to make for a dangerous weapon.

But none of this could distract Revy half as much as her eyes; the moment their gazes had connected, Revy found herself momentarily mesmerized by how blue they were: it was an icy, silvery color, one lighter than the other. They were critical, incisive enough to make anyone shrink, yet the way they drooped at the far sides in slight ectropion vaguely painted a picture of a haunted woman, someone who had experienced pain that could not be articulated. Mascara had been applied generously to her lashes, however, turning her every blink seductive despite their melancholic tilt. 

The woman also wore a thin black veil that had been swept aside to waterfall over the right half of her face, obscuring all that was there but her right eye, which glittered crystalline through the mesh in the half-light. Like the phantom of the fucking opera. Revy thought to herself when her mind began to function properly again, her lips forming a disdainful tch.

Lucie had warned her, but damn… she had not expected the woman to be this fucking attractive.

Despite the blush that was now racing up the back of her neck, Revy tried to retain her detached air, ignoring the awe and adoration bulldozing her psyche. Fuck. This is really happening. And she’s hot as fuck. “You’re it, huh?” Revy said snarkily, willing her voice not to break; she crossed her arms and tried her best to saunter over to the couch before sitting down beside her. “What’s your name?”

“Vladilena.” The blonde pronounced, in a sultry, smokey manner that gave Revy pause. She, like her associate, sounded Russian, though it was not as heavy in her tone as it had been in the man’s. Even still, it raised goosebumps on Revy as she spoke. “And you must be the infamous Two Hands. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

“ Vlad -i-le-na?” Revy pronounced. It did not roll from her tongue in the same graceful manner as it had from the woman’s, but it was the best she could do, especially through the stupid grin it brought to her lips. “You can call me Renfield. Nice to meet you, too.”

Unexpected delight surfaced in Vladilena’s eyes, and Revy felt momentarily pleased with herself, despite the tension thickening the air between them. “Already you are full of surprises. I didn’t think someone as young as you would have appreciation for the classics, or the 15th-century Romanian history that inspired them.”

Revy snorted. “Isn’t it rude to comment on a lady’s age, or some shit?” She mumbled, too rattled to respond to the rest.

“Only when you get to be as old as me.” The woman’s eyes sparkled, and Revy flushed. “Which will take you some time yet; never fear.”

“Whatever, granny.” Revy said scathingly, shoving her hands into the pockets of her jean-shorts and looking away. It made her feel like a petulant child, but maybe that was exactly what she was… an idiot girl who doesn’t know her tits from her ass, as her dad used to say. What an award-winning paragon of a father he was.

Vladilena did not allow her to sulk for long: she suddenly felt the woman’s acrylics beneath her chin, and she jumped, surprised, as they gently tilted her head back up. “I understand that this is an unusual situation for you. I am also… unaccustomed to meetings such as these. Do you, perhaps, have any questions for me?” She said, her tone inviting, but still a bit stiff, much like the ironed sleeves of her jacket. She placed an elbow on the couch’s backrest, leaning forward to rest the side of her face in her other hand. Her soft smile hid one-thousand secrets behind it.

Revy nearly laughed at that, batting the woman’s hand away. Questions? She had more of those than could be possibly voiced in the span of a single night. She settled on the tamest one, figuring that the other two dozen on the tip of her tongue would not receive answers if allowed to slip. (Like “who the fuck are you, really?”)

“Okay, let’s start with this: Why me ? Hate to break it to ya, I’m literally the least pleasant bitch you could’ve bought, if good company was what you were after.” Revy sneered, hankering for a cigarette. “There are hundreds of actual whores in this city you could get down with if you wanted. At a tiny fraction of the price you paid, by the way. I know you’re not from around here, but the roads are practically lined with sluts for a dollar apiece at night.”

The woman’s lips, which were the color of a hibiscus flower, curled in an odd manner. “I don’t want any of them.” She said simply.

“Why the fuck not?”

Vladilena angled her head down, her eyes never leaving Revy’s. “You are a smart enough woman, Rebecca.” Revy cringed at the sound of her own name on the woman’s lips. It was like nails on a chalkboard compared to the regal sound of Vladilena. “Surely you must understand by now that I am in too sensitive of a position to be picking up prostitutes off of the street.”

Revy sucked in a breath, not daring to ask what position she meant. “Yeah, that’s obvious enough.” She admitted, her attitude momentarily faltering at the ravenous look Vladilena had fixed her with. “But… I mean… I’m not a whore. Even back when I worked for Rowan, I was just a performer. I didn’t fuck anyone.” She was babbling, making excuses, and she knew the other woman was aware of that fact. The scarlet on Revy’s face somehow deepened. “Why did you think I’d do this?” She said, gesturing helplessly to this : the two of them sitting adjacent on the same greasy couch, soon to waltz upstairs like this was a normal occurrence… like Revy actually was a prostitute, and this was just another Friday night on the job.

“I wasn’t aware that this required further explanation.” Vladilena sighed, closing her eyes. Revy felt her heart flutter in response to the somber expression the other woman wore. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, but…” Revy bit her lip. Vladilena opened her eyes once again, peering at her through the dimness. More than just their piercing color, there was something intense about the way she looked at Revy. The men who dared ogle her behind her back gave her the impression that they saw her as little more than a piece of cheap lunch meat— something to be consumed, or else perished and thrown away like trash. Vladilena, in contrast, looked upon her as a devout Catholic did their bible… like she was something to be revered, cherished. Revy did not claim to know anything about reverence— not anymore, at least, memories of prayer wrapped up in the stench of a rotting apartment and sprinkled with bottle glass— but Revy was familiar with it, especially when it sometimes flashed across the faces of the people who knelt before her, seconds before one of her Sword Cutlasses made an indelible impression on their heads. It was not exactly the same on Vladilena, but there was some suggestion of it on her inscrutable brow, enough that Revy’s heart pounded at a reckless speed as if desperate to be heard.

“...but?” Vladilena murmured with amusement. She shifted closer to Revy on the couch, and the gunslinger’s mouth went dry as a hand… more callused than she would have expected… trailed up one of her thighs, no doubt with intent to find where they converged. “Did you have another question?”

“I guess ‘who are you’ is off the table?” Revy said, trying to disguise how her breath caught behind a layer of scorn. It was not as effective as she had hoped; her voice still quavered. “Are you some kinda Russian princess or something?” Did they even have princesses in Russia? Revy assumed they must.

Vladilena’s eyes widened, and she laughed. It was a lovely, full sound that occupied the entirety of the small curtained room, and Revy instantly wanted to hear more of it. “A princess ?” She said, nearly choking on the word, but managed to compose herself enough that she didn’t. “Sarcasm or not, you are the first to have thought that in any capacity. I am truly touched.” The muted glee in her expression made Revy believe her. She brushed away a few strands of longer blonde hair from her face, using the hand that had been on Revy’s thigh, before returning it there. “No, I am far from a princess. I have some prestige, but I am not nearly as pampered as royalty.”

Could have fooled me, Revy thought, eyeing the expensive fabric of her suit-jacket. It was practically oozing money. “Then what are you?”

Vladilena paused, considering what she was going to say. “Just a lonely businesswoman.” She murmured, after a moment, sliding her hand further up Revy’s thigh. “I am currently here on business, in fact.”

“Y-yeah, Pidge told me.” Revy stammered, leaning back. Vladilena’s hand was deliciously warm against her stress-chilled skin. “He didn’t say what you did.”

“Good,” Vladilena purred, and Revy thought she might keen at her decadent tone, “because I do not want to think about work tonight. Only you.”

Before Revy could react, she was pulled onto the woman’s lap, her knees on either side of one of her large legs. She gasped when she felt the sizable bosom press against her own, and dexterous hands run up and along her sides. “You are beautiful, Rebecca. I assure you, I’m very content with this arrangement.”

Revy opened her mouth to say something, anything to regain some semblance of control, but Vladilena chose that moment to take Revy’s breasts in either hand, thumbs immediately finding each of their peaks, and her machinations of control were no more.

“Is there anything you would not like me to do?” Vladilena murmured, spoken in a voice so low and quiet that Revy almost missed it.

She chuckled in disbelief. “That a trick question?” Revy replied hazily, burying her face in Vladilena’s neck. She smelled like cigar smoke and floral perfume, sweet and a little spicy. She inhaled, trying to take in as much of the unique aroma as possible. “You paid… mmm … a shitton of money for me. Isn’t the point that you can do whatever you fuckin’ want?”

Vladilena said something in Russian, perhaps a curse, and slid one of her hands down to cup the swell between Revy’s legs, still frustratingly clothed. Nevertheless, Revy moaned as the accompanying jolt of pleasure raced through her, bearing down her hips into the touch. The edge of a sharp acrylic ghosted over the very center, moving up to find the spot that made Revy squirm the most, only to whisk her hand away. “It is not.” She assured her. “I would rather not do anything to upset you, if I can avoid it.”

Revy chased the hand with both of her own, dragging it back down between her legs. “Fuck, you won’t upset me.” She said, her voice almost a whimper when those fingers touched her again.

“Rebecca.” Vladilena said sternly, withdrawing yet again, this time gripping Revy’s shoulders and holding her slightly aloft of her leg. “I need to know. I can be exceedingly rough, but if I must be gentle with you, then I will make every attempt to do so.”

Revy shook her head repeatedly, closing her eyes tight. “You can be rough… please … you can be rough.” She chanted, her hips moving in the empty air. It should have been embarrassing, grinding against nothing, but Revy was well past the point of shame. She had wanted to thrust against the woman’s thigh, but no such feat was possible as she half-dangled in her firm grasp. “As rough as you fuckin’ want.”

Vladilena released her shoulders, pulling her in once more. Her lips pressed against the shell of Revy’s ear, and Revy relished in the hot breath that came with her words. “Are you certain, malyshka ?”

Revy’s eyes snapped open. She seized Vladilena by the front of her turtleneck, hissing recklessly, “I swear, if you don’t fuck me right now, I’ll take care of my fuckin’ self, bitch.”

That sparked something in Vladilena. The Russian woman drew Revy into her, sliding her hands under her backside and hoisting her effortlessly into the air, making the smaller woman yelp in surprise. Damn… she really is as strong as she looks. She thought, deliriously. On instinct, Revy’s legs crossed around her waist, clinging to her like a newborn koala. She briefly felt the texture of the curtain against her skin as Vladilena propelled them forward, and the music of the club became louder, but Revy didn’t care; she was fixated on the woman’s jawline, which she sucked and licked as if there was no tomorrow, and as far as they were both concerned, there wasn’t. Vladilena carried her up a flight of stairs, down a featureless hallway, and into a room, shutting and locking the door behind them. The thrum of the club could be faintly heard below, only a few inches of wood between them and the indelicate slapping of floggers paired with cheesy, fast-paced music, but it felt far away in a metaphysical sense, like it existed in another time separate to Revy and the Russian.

Vladilena set Revy down on the queen bed in the center of the room, taking a few steps back. She removed her suit-jacket, hanging it on the hook protruding from the door, and approached, her eyes immodestly trailing up-and-down Revy. “What a sight you are.” She whispered, so confidentially that Revy was not sure, at first, that the words were meant to be heard by her.

She responded nevertheless. “You’re not half bad yourself. For a dyke.” 

Vladilena’s eyes darkened. 

Revy noticed her change in demeanor and grinned. “What? Don’t like me tellin’ it how it is? You picked the wrong whore if you’ve got a problem with that.” She said, sassily.

She held her breath, however, when Vladilena placed the palm of her hand at the apex of her legs, pink nails digging into the exposed skin of her abdomen.

“You are soaking through your shorts.” Vladilena stated, her demeanor suddenly menacing. “Are you simply starved for attention, malyshka, or do you perhaps share my proclivities? Don’t tell me all women drench themselves to this extreme when they are paid well enough.”

Revy squirmed. She wanted to be enraged, wanted to lash out like a captive jackal. She tried to chase the traitorous sun-hot blush from her face, but it only pulsed darker, warmer. I was surviving prison in any way I could. She tried to tell herself again, but the condemnation no longer landed with the same conviction as it had before. “Fuck you, bitch.” She snapped, which did not help her case whatsoever.

Vladilena’s grin was predatory. “You will, my darling.” She said, leaving no room for argument. Pulling her hand back, she ordered, “remove those. You will not be needing them for the rest of the night.”

With a tiny huff that wasn’t quite a moan, Revy quickly unbuttoned and shimmied the jean shorts down her legs as far as she could, exposing the black lace of her underwear, and Vladilena took them the rest of the way. The thin panties looked a bit ridiculous, in Revy’s opinion; since she had stopped working for Rowan, there was no longer the need for her to shave every day, and so, her thick hair strained against the fabric, making it appear bulbous. Vladilena did not seem to mind, though, drinking her in all the same in that reverent manner from earlier. Revy almost looked away, nervous at being examined so sumptuously, but found she could not tear her gaze away from the hungry woman. She looked gigantic in the recessed lighting, and Revy thought that with all possible flattery, in that she secretly enjoyed how the woman looked like could easily snap her in half if she wanted to. When she had picked her up earlier, she acted as though Revy weighed nothing at all, like all the muscle she had been cultivating over the years as a gunwoman had put upon her zero pounds.

Vladilena set one of her index fingers down upon the surface of the lace, making Revy tremble. The pad of her fingertip burrowed down, slightly, into the bump of her hair, finding the jewel tucked away inside. This time, Revy properly moaned, lifting her hips in encouragement. One finger became two, and they began to circle her with a gusto, the woman they belonged to seeming to find no end of enjoyment in Revy’s squirming and whimpering. She couldn’t help it; it felt good.

It felt too good, in fact.

Revy’s eyes nearly leapt out of her head when she remembered she was supposed to be… or rather, just was, in that moment… a whore. Don’t tell me I gotta train you up. Rowan’s exasperated words echoed yet again in her mind, and her legs closed on the hand that was currently between them.

“W-wait, wait wait wait.” Revy gasped, edging away from Vladilena’s touch, despite her entire body screaming at her to stay put. “Shouldn’t I… fuck … shouldn’t I be… getting you off?”

The woman sighed, placing her other hand on the side of Revy’s face. Revy winced, at first, expecting pain, then leaned into the touch when none came. “I’d like to see you fall apart, first.” Vladilena confided, a conspiratorial glimmer in her eye. Her thumb stroked Revy’s cheek, and she added, “for some reason, I don’t think it will take a very long time.”

“Shit…” Revy whined. She didn’t think so, either. “I thought… you’d want…”

“Oh, I do, sweetheart.” She purred, spreading Revy’s legs and placing her hips flush against her, prompting another strangled cry. “Believe me, I do. But I want you to feel good, also. Will you allow me?”

Revy shut her eyes, breathing so hard it was more like when a dog panted. What should it matter, she thought, if the stranger who was paying a ridiculous amount of money to have sex with her wanted her to get off? She may as well soak it in. It wasn’t as though there would be another opportunity. Her hardened body went slack, as she accepted the attention the woman was lavishing her with, not that the choice was really hers… Revy was a slave to her body’s reactions, each of which only goaded Vladilena on. Every touch was insistent, but laced with a gentleness Revy did not know how to rationalize, and her mind descended further into the haze.

The front of powerful thighs ground against the back of Revy’s, and she could not help the moan that breached her lips. She did not even try to contain them anymore. She felt Vladilena lean down and smile indulgently against her neck. “Yes? Malyshka ?” 

Revy squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. "Yes.” She gasped.

Those glorious hips rolled again, and if Revy was not already a goner, she would certainly have been, then. She let another begging whimper slip, and the Russian woman was on top of her on the bed in an instant, washing over her like a wave. It called to mind the warmth in the scattered dreams she’d had the morning she accepted the job, though Revy’s own body was not so molten then as it was at that moment. She thought that she might burn straight through Vladilena at her current temperature, not that such a small flame would do much to disturb the titanium her one-night lover was composed of. 

Revy shuddered, so intensely it hurt, and gave herself over.

Chapter Text

Revy was dreaming about the farm again.

She was older, this time, perhaps in her early teens, but she was still barefooted, having not learned her lesson the first time around. She inhaled the crisp air, sitting cross-legged in the green grass, spreading her hands out over it and stroking it absent-mindedly. The sky was infinite and blue above her, broken only by the occasional streak of clouds in the endlessness, pushed by the windways until they disappeared over the horizon, and leaving a diluted trail of cottony fluff behind. In the evening, when it was beginning to get dark, she would go out into the field with her telescope, scanning the clear skies for signs of faraway planets. There was too much light pollution in the city to see much of anything above, except for maybe the occasional airplane or orange hospital helicopters, but out in the country, the black became a glittering ocean of a thousand immemorial sparkles, any number of cosmic objects visible for miles around. Maybe, when she was finally old enough to go to college, she would aim for a degree in science or astrophysics, anything with a fancy enough name to get her into NASA— then, she could see them all up close, if technology had advanced enough by the time she joined.

Then again, maybe not. She had plenty of dreams— she would settle on one eventually, maybe two if she was feeling ambitious. She had all the time in the world to plan.

Revy fell back into the bed of green and closed her eyes, setting aside thoughts of rocketships and soaking in the gentle afternoon sun. Must be spring again, she thought to herself with a chuckle. Summer sure as hell isn’t this nice.

Her eyes cracked open, sadness coiling in her gut. Not in Roanapur, anyway.

Were there places with mild summers and gentle sunlight? There had to be. The green fields depicted on milk cartons or in movies were surely inspired by something. In New York, the cityscapes went on for as far as the eye could see, nothing but trash piles and decay. (Sure, there had been whispers suggesting the existence of Central Park, where green grass and trees existed, but Revy had never seen it.) In Roanapur, it was more of the same, though the city was nestled between dense jungle on one side and the sea on the other. These were no glamorous, sun-sweet rainforests like those in storybooks, though: the wilds of Roanapur were crawling with rats, from petty gunmen to state-sanctioned organized crime groups. The seas weren’t much better, but on occasion, when Dutch took them out far enough into the open ocean, Revy thought she could smell something in the air, beyond all the salt and rotting corpses. Occasionally, when she turned her head at just the right angle, she would catch a whiff of something homey, something green and fresh, too sweet to be the saltwater algae; if she focused on scent long enough, it was almost like she could see it, off on the west horizon. Freedom. 

But perhaps it was only the remnant of someone else’s memory.

Suddenly, she felt something beneath her hand, soft and alive. She jolted, worried it was an animal, only to lift her head and realize that she was surrounded by violet flowers on all sides, each lighter in the middle with yellow particulates sprinkling out. (Revy was glad she wasn’t allergic to pollen.) Laughing pleasantly, she rolled over to look at them more closely, feeling fresh soil coat her knees as she did. She must be in the garden, now: there seemed to be hundreds of different flowers, as well as tomato plants whose fruit looked sweeter than strawberries, but Revy was focused on the quivering little violets surrounding her, thoughtfully running her hands over their petals. She loved the scent of them, how they looked, how they felt in her grasp. If she had a farm of her own, someday, she would plant the field full of them, and go out and roll around like a border collie until she smelled like them, too.

She expected the image to fall away— the violet petals to turn into a tumultuous blend of shattered glass and feathers beneath her— but, surprisingly, they did not. The flowers clung to her in a gentle embrace for several minutes, or maybe hours, longer, and she continued to gaze up into the sky, watching as a flock of geese passed over the farmhouse, making honking sounds. She did not notice right away when the sweet air turned smokey, nor when the sound of honking geese became the honking of cars outside, and the green grass morphed into bedsheets.

Revy blinked awake, her head unusually light for a Saturday morning. Normally, she would be feeding a hangover the second she came to, her alcohol tolerance still somehow not high enough to stave off headaches completely. She wondered if she had finally gotten to the day where she could drink all through the night and into the next morning without repercussions to worry about.

Then, she remembered.

“Just relax, my darling. I promise you will get there, but you need to have patience.”

She suddenly became very aware of the stinging sensation that seemed to come from everywhere, the manner in which her skin burned that of nails, bitemarks, and a bruising grip on her wrists. Sitting up abruptly, the plush mauve quilt slipping to expose her naked, blemished shoulders and chest, Revy’s gaze immediately went to the opposite side of the bed, seeing nothing but rumpled black sheets and a dented pillow, the slightest impression in its center to indicate someone had been there. A used ashtray sat somewhat askew on the right bedside table, and Revy could still smell the peppery vanilla of a cigar, not a cigarette, swirling sweetly in the air. These were the only traces of Vladilena that remained… those, and the delightful ache between Revy’s legs.

Revy flopped down onto her back again, wincing as more bite and nail-marks announced their presence, unsure if she should feel disappointed or relieved that Vladilena was gone. She wasn’t certain she could handle the awkwardness of waking up beside her, the two of them getting ready to leave in the now-cold afterglow, then going out into the world like nothing had happened. Could she have managed it, the detachment of a whore only focused on her timecard? She had been so fucking desperate, so unhinged in her desire. The Russian, damn her, had seen a side of her that even the gunslinger herself was not fully conscious of: the overeager, dripping, impatient side, that did not resign herself to sexual favors for the power or notoriety such acts would bring, but rather, deeply enjoyed them with every fiber of her being for no other reason but to revel in her own pleasure, and that of her accomplice. Her fingers had ached to rub the soft, wet place between Vladilena’s thighs, hungering for more of her moans that never quite seemed to breach fully; and that was not even to speak of how the slightest touch to her own body was like an electric shock that made her knees quake. When prompted, Revy allowed her jacket and lingerie to be removed piece-by-piece, with plenty of petting in between that drove her to hysterics; Revy set her own guns aside as part of the disrobing, unwilling to let a stranger handle them, but the blonde seemed to respect that. If anything, her eyes had darkened as the gunslinger placed the modified Berettas on the bedside table, as if she wanted to fuck them, too.

Vladilena had taken her time with Revy their first round, making Revy question what she had meant by roughness ; however, when she could no longer stand the fingers rubbing quick circles over her and the voice promising her all the filthy pleasures in the world, and she finally felt her body lurch into paradise, Vladilena was not content to push her over the edge just once. She methodically guided Revy through the sensitivity to follow without reprieve, a powerful arm keeping her in place when she tried to squirm away, until the sharp overstimulation became ecstasy once again. Before long, she was covered in scratches, and her neck was littered with Vladilena’s brand. Rough was an understatement, if anything.

“Fuck…” Revy cried out, pressing her face into her arm; her wrists were crossed over themselves above her head, with strict instructions to keep them in place. “Holy fucking shit, Vlad…”

Vladilena’s nails dug harder into the backs of her thighs, tormenting the flesh there while holding her hips in place as they shook. Spots of pain in the shape of the blonde’s acrylics overtook Revy’s mind, and she trembled harder as they mixed with the pleasure into something incredible. Revy blearily lifted her head from her arm, for a moment, and when she glanced down, she saw her own wetness glimmering on the Russian’s chin. “I’d have thought you would call me ‘Lena’ as a nickname.” Vladilena mused, before returning to her task.

“Vlad… sounds fucking cooler…” Another swipe by the practiced tongue drew a loud whimper from her. “You’re as white as a fucking vampire, too.”

Vladilena hummed, stopping briefly to sink her teeth into the soft skin of Revy’s thigh in response, and Revy threw her head back again, making fists in the pillowcase with her hands as she cried out. “ Please… ” She begged.

“Please what, malyshka?” Vladilena murmured, lips still against her. “What do you want?”

Revy’s arms ached. Her breath came out in a moan, and her words were slurred with need. “Lemme hold your hair… please… I promise I’ll be fucking careful…”

“No.” The Russian asserted immediately, and Revy felt a silent sob tear through her. “I can’t have you ruining my veil.”

“Fuck your stupid veil! Just take that shit off!” Revy wailed, like a child who hadn’t gotten her way. Boldly, unthinkingly, she darted both hands down to grab at Vladilena, but the woman was well ahead of her, ducking out of the way before the gunslinger’s ragged fingernails could tear the thin mesh to shreds.

In an instant, an unforgiving weight was upon her, the Russian’s hands all but crushing Revy’s slim wrists back behind her head. Vladilena was angry in her stoicism, her sharp face calm though her eyes were alive with fury. “I should punish you for that, Rebecca. You disobeyed me.” She rumbled ominously, the sound low and threatening in the back of her throat.

Revy’s heartbeat was frenzied. Her breathing sped up to match, like she was running a marathon. The veil reached for her, lightly brushing Revy’s cheek as if mocking her for even thinking to touch it. She squirmed, fitful as prey, in the Russian’s inescapable grasp. “Shit… fuck … NO.” Revy gasped, thrashing her head and body from side to side as if feebly attempting to evade being devoured. “I’m sorry, I’m fucking sorry, I was… I won’t touch it. I fucking promise, okay?” Whether it was for Vladilena’s pleasure that she begged, or for fear of her cash-filled suitcase being taken away for her transgression, Revy no longer knew, but she begged all the same. “Please! Fuck!”

Vladilena’s stern expression shifted to one of thought at the gunslinger’s panicked tone. She released Revy’s hands, trailing her own down slackened arms instead until they reached either side of her face. Revy cringed when they first stroked her, but upon realizing that the touch was gentle once again, she let out a relieved sigh, her heart continuing to drum at a hurried pace. “You are too easy, my dear.” Vladilena purred. “I told you I am not always gentle, didn’t I?”

Revy looked at her uncertainly, still trying to calm down after that scene. “You looked fucking pissed.” She rasped, her stomach twisting as she recalled the fire in Vladilena’s eyes, the intensity of which had burned itself into her brain. Had it really just been a part of the game the two of them were playing?

Vladilena’s smile was soothing, or else, the smile of a wolf before sinking its teeth into the rabbit, savoring the last moments of its frightened kill’s life. However she meant it, it failed to bring Revy’s thudding heart to heel, as did the non-response to follow. “The veil stays on,” Vladilena said with finality, not that Revy had planned to argue that further, “but your effort was… hmm… admirable. Even still, you must be punished, sweetness.”

Revy tensed again.

Vladilena noticed, and went to pet her hair, gently dragging her nails over Revy’s scalp. It disarmed her to the same extent as her smile, calming and unsettling all at once. “Lucky for you, I have something in mind that we will both enjoy, Two Hands. It is a method of discipline that should be very familiar to you. Do you trust me?”

Revy did a double-take at the concern lacing the Russian’s words. It was the same tone she had used earlier when she had asked if there was anything Revy would not want her to do, and that, unlike her syrupy drawl, succeeded at tempering the gunslinger’s adrenaline. She felt completely ensnared by her, and though it felt like every whispered word in her ear existed to screw with her mind as much as her body, the calculated moments of calm, kind understanding in the heat of the fray made sex-for-pay a frighteningly intimate experience that Revy hadn’t bargained for.

Then again, maybe it was more of her game, but Revy was in no state to analyze the blonde’s intentions further. There remained only one, desperate thought in her mind.

“...yes.” She finally murmured, nervous yet eager for what the Russian had in mind.

The lines of worry that had appeared on Vladilena’s brow vanished, and she smiled in that monstrous way again. That time, Revy found that she enjoyed the look on her, and furthermore, she relished that she was the one it was directed at. Vladilena moved off of her, instead sitting on the side of the bed, and patted her knee. “Get over my lap. Now.”

Revy shivered at the sinful memory, shifting onto her hip so she could run her fingers over her backside, which radiated with a subtle heat. She twisted her head, as much as was possible, to look at it, and she could still see the faint red markings the Russian’s hands had left creeping over the curve. Some soreness remained, but Vladilena had been very deliberate with where she struck and how much force to put behind each blow, so what pain there had been was mostly gone.

Vladilena was right, Revy begrudgingly admitted to herself: she had enjoyed it. Far too much.

When she was sufficiently penitent, at least to Vladilena’s tastes, the woman had all but flung her back-first onto the bedspread, proceeding to take her in an especially violent bout of passion that paid no heed to her glowing behind. To Revy’s relief, Vladilena didn’t put her dangerous fingertips anywhere near where such things entered, only her tongue, but the rest of the gunslinger was not so safe from those claws of hers, and she could still remember vividly how they felt when they burrowed into and tore at her skin without mercy. The marks, which continued to simmer into the morning, would not disappear anytime soon.

What Revy had liked even more than the roughness, though, was how Vladilena had pulled Revy’s back flush against her chest to spoon her in the aftermath, murmuring into her ear while a soft hand rubbed her abdomen. Revy was not especially familiar with the concept of sweet nothings — people like her neither received nor gave that flowery shit— but she assumed that they must resemble the blonde’s doting words, every utterance sugary and light like a batch of fluffy confections, and Revy could not help but to scarf down all of them in her vulnerable state. A sentence or two of them were in English, but most of it was Russian, yet Revy could tell by the way the woman cooed out each foreign word that they were endearments of some kind. She wanted all of them, as if they belonged to her.

For the night, she could pretend that they did.

Revy reached out to spread a hand out over the unoccupied side of the bed, letting out a small chuckle of satisfaction when she felt more remnants of Vladilena’s stay, dried but unmistakable, further down the bed. The gunslinger enjoyed that she was not the only one who had been reduced to a shaking mess.

The woman did not hold her for long before Revy noticed her thighs listlessly shifting, as if trying to quell a building urge.

“Antsy?” Revy asked, grinning.

Vladilena stilled at once, humming, “no.”

“You’re such a bad fuckin’ liar.” Revy replied, rubbing the elbow of the arm that was currently wrapped around her. “Bet I’m not the only one who’s soaking.”

She heard Vladilena breathe in sharply, coughing to conceal it. She shifted, and her hand trailed up the tattoo on the gunslinger’s upper arm. What the woman wanted next was obvious.

She wanted Revy to be the man.

Revy thought back to New York, contemplating how the dykes in prison crawled all over her like she was some kind of messiah. She considered, for a moment, telling Vladilena how she had ruined sex for those horny chicks forever, how her tongue, fingers, and hips were just that goddamn good. There was an army of lesbians out there, if they weren’t all dead, who still thought about those quickies with her while fucking their lovers, needing the memory of it… of her… to get off.

But Revy had always preferred action over chit-chat, whether in the heat of battle or across a dining table. She decided to treat this no differently. 

The gunslinger rolled over to face Vladilena, urging her onto her back, and positioned herself so that her knees were on either side of the woman’s torso. Vladilena’s only reaction was to part her lips in breathless anticipation, and Revy grinned. “Okay, so I can’t take off the stupid veil, but what about the rest of this?” The woman’s suit-jacket was hanging up by the door, but she still wore the black turtleneck, the bordeaux skirt, and the nylons. She had shed her heels at some point during her conquest of Revy, their disappearance having gone completely unnoticed up until that moment. She added, playfully, “c’mon, let me light your fire, baby.” (Even Revy knew the pseudo-quotation was cheesy, and she cringed a little when the words left her lips, but Vladilena did not seem to mind, looking inquisitive if anything.)

The woman’s smile vanished, and at first, Revy was afraid she had screwed up again. The way Vladilena looked at her, however, was so filled with longing that it stirred the butterflies in her stomach. “The shirt needs to stay.” Vladilena said, her confidence lapsing to the extent of sounding momentarily apologetic. Revy noticed that part of the veil was tucked into the turtleneck, keeping it in place. 

“Got it.” Revy chewed the inside of her cheek as she scooted down Vladilena’s body, both hands eventually coming to rest upon the luxurious fabric of her skirt. It felt too fine for her fingers. “What about this?” She whispered.

Vladilena stared down at her, her breaths coming out ragged and loud. “Yes.” She said, after considering it for a moment. “You may remove it.”

Revy’s heart rate spiked at how Vladilena’s accent thickened as she searched for the zipper, eventually finding it on the left side. She took it between her fingers and pulled down, while tugging the waistband in the opposite direction with her other hand to avoid the zipper getting stuck. If that happened, so fucking help her, Revy would find a knife and slice the fabric from Vladilena’s hips, consequences be damned. Thankfully, no cutting was necessary: the zipper glided down, the track ending about halfway through the garment, and Revy wasted no time in stripping her of it, the blonde’s hips lifting to make the job easier. The skirt was annoyingly snug, and Revy struggled to remove it even with Vladilena’s compliance, but when she finally managed to free it from around the maddening circumference of her, sliding it down sturdy legs and onto a pile on the floor, Revy swooned at what she saw: the nylons turned out to be stockings, thigh-highs that traveled so far up her legs, it was as if they were aiming to cover her hips, but fell short. A garter belt, black as night and made up of intricate floral patterns, held them in place. The turtleneck was longer than Revy had thought, spilling down her body to cover what the stockings failed to, but in the process of removing her skirt, Revy had unintentionally hiked it up in the middle, revealing that Vladilena wasn’t wearing any underwear. The gunslinger was immediately rewarded with the image of honey curls between smooth inner thighs, and a hint of slick, blushing pink nestled in the very center, just barely in view.

Revy’s mouth watered without end at the sight. Holy fuck, she thought, blushing madly. Even though Vladilena was far more dressed than Revy would have preferred, especially considering she was stark naked, what did show was enough to make her lose her mind. She wanted to suffocate in that silky-looking pale hair between her legs, drench her face and hands in the wetness beneath. She wanted— needed — to be inside of her. Badly.

“Do you like what you see?” Vladilena teased at the stunned, starving silence she received, though Revy did not miss the apprehension in her voice. The dark centers of her chalcedony eyes were blown with desire and anxiety alike as Revy fucked her with her gaze.

“ FUCK yes.” Revy half-whispered, half-whimpered.

She was trying to hide it, but Revy saw Vladilena’s lip tremble in response to the gunslinger’s breathy affirmation. “Touch me.”

Revy wordlessly obliged.

The gunslinger’s wrist still ached. Her neck, too. She had nearly blacked out when Vladilena’s thighs wrapped around her head…

Revy shook herself, rubbing one of her eyes as she slid from the bed, and groaned at the swollen heat between her legs. She didn’t want to think about how good Vladilena had tasted, or how lovely her moans had sounded, or how immeasurably beautiful she was when she finally lost a fraction of her composure, giving in to the throes of ecstasy. Upon reaching her peak, she clenched her teeth tightly to stop all but a few small groans from escaping, her porcelain brow contorting with exertion, and blues that had gone dark in her pleasure rolling back into her head before her shimmering eyelids fluttered over them. (Revy would never admit to it, but making the blonde fall apart nearly brought her to her own edge again… the mere sight of her climaxing would have been enough to reignite a wildfire in the soreness, let alone the feel of her clenching around Revy’s fingers and twitching in her mouth.) Rebelliously, Revy had brought her free hand between her own legs, toying herself with mindless passion to the rhythm of Vladilena’s thrusts against her tongue, not missing how a single ice-blue eye slid open to watch her.

Those eyes haunted Revy as she trudged about the dim room, which was lit by a few rays of sunlight that passed between the blinds of a southerly window. Particulates of dust filled the air, dancing when the gunslinger’s movements about the room disturbed them. She found pieces of the lingerie crumpled up in a tangled pile on the floor, a mass of confusing black straps and lace. Revy scowled, plucking the stockings from the assortment and setting them aside. She fixed the corset as best she could, pulling and twisting at the elastic until it eventually fell into some kind of formation, before deciding it wasn’t going to get any better and resigning herself to the discomfort. She redid the clasps around the back of herself and pushed the bra into place, sliding the straps onto her shoulders. Last night’s sweat was still noticeable on the garment, but she tried to ignore it.

Her underwear had been tossed over the opposite side of the bed, and upon retrieving it, Revy was immediately disgusted by the horrible, inflexible feeling of the fabric in her hands. Vladilena hadn’t minced words when she observed Revy soaking through them the previous night, and the gunslinger’s ears pinkened as she realized just how evident her arousal had been. Unhappily, she set the underwear with the stockings, not so indifferent as to wear lace that had been soiled to Hell. Her jean-shorts, in comparison, were not nearly as ruined, but even they had the same peculiar solid texture along the inseam, and Revy resolved to shed them the second she got to her bedroom.

It took until she was reaching for her holsters, which haphazardly balanced at the edge of the bedside table, for her to notice that a small assortment of items had been placed there, with a note reading, in neat yet spidery handwriting:

“Rebecca,

I apologize for not being there to greet you— I had a pressing business engagement early this morning and did not want to wake you at such an hour.

Please accept the following as thanks for the wonderful evening.

Until we meet again.

Regards,

Vladilena.”

Beneath the note sat a flattened plastic grocery bag with something inside, and atop that was a small, short-stemmed rose of light purple, that was so fresh and cool to the touch that it must have been bought only that morning. Revy gaped at the tiny flower, cautiously running the very tips of her fingers over the petals. They were softer than charmeuse, and unlike charmeuse were delicately textured and lovely on every side, not just one. Every thorn on the stem had been sheared away, leaving it smooth to the touch. When Revy moved it off of the clothes, she did so with extreme care, diligent that the precious gift didn’t fall apart at her touch. Her hands were so rough, and the rose was so fragile— she feared the lightest brush might make it come apart.

The bag turned out to contain a set of clothes: the darker item was a pair of black, knee-length jeans with shiny silver buttons, and the other, a loose-fitting white tank top with a built-in sports bra. Both of them were better-made than almost anything Revy owned, except for maybe the more expensive pieces of her old work uniforms. Revy held them close to her chest in a bundle, and she inhaled, letting out an embarrassingly high-pitched noise of delight when she realized that the clothes smelled like Vladilena, as if she had saturated them with the delectable fragrance of flowers and vanilla-scented cigar smoke. She couldn’t help but to press her nose into the fabric, drinking it in as much as possible, only to recoil when she realized what she was doing. She was being ridiculous, completely ridiculous.

“Fuck.” She mumbled, debating whether or not she should wear them. On one hand, wearing the clothes her client had given her felt like their session was overstaying its welcome, and on the other… what she currently had on, frankly, looked and smelled like sex.

She touched one of the sweat-salted straps of her corset and grimaced. The new ones it was, then.

At first, she was skeptical that the clothes were even in her size, but when she pulled the jeans up over her hips and buttoned them, they were a perfect fit, if a little snug. Her jean-shorts were looser, but that was probably because they were so worn. She found she didn’t mind the feeling of new denim hugging her legs so much, though. They did, however, press directly against the sheen of red on her backside, seeing as the Russian hadn’t bothered with replacing her underwear— an intentional move, for certain, Revy thought with a grumble.

As she was about to slip the white shirt on, there came a knock at the door, and Revy jumped. “Revy! You dressed?” It was Lucie’s voice.

“Fuckin’ almost. Gimme a sec.” She called, her voice still gritty with something more than just sleep. She pulled the shirt over her head, adjusting the bra until its band sat comfortably beneath her chest, before sliding her holsters back into place and stepping into her boots, leaving the shoelaces untied as always. She picked her original clothes up off of the floor, packing the jacket, stockings, and ruined underwear with them, and shoved the pile into the plastic bag the new clothes had come in. Afterwards, she retrieved the rose and Vladilena’s note from the table, taking a moment to read it over again.

She wasn’t sure she believed the “pressing business engagement” excuse— Revy was convinced Vladilena had been embarrassed and just didn’t want to face her— and the mention of “thanks” made her snort. Guess all this is a gratuity. Revy thought, rolling her eyes.

The last bit, on her second read, made her heart skip a beat: “Until next time.”

There would be a next time?

No. That was just something people said to be polite. No one ever actually meant it. It may as well have said I never want to see your face again, and the outcome would be the same.

Revy set her face into a scowl; she slipped the folded note and the rose into the right front pocket of her new jeans, slinging the plastic bag with her old clothes in it over her shoulder, before opening the door and stepping out into the hall, where the raven-haired woman was waiting for her.

Lucie smiled brightly. “There you are! I was beginning to th— oh my goodness.”

The sound Lucie made when she saw the condition of Revy’s neck, which must have looked like an absolute warzone of purple and red, brought a blazing scarlet blush to the gunslinger’s face.

“Not a fuckin’ peep outta you about it, Luc’.” Revy sneered, before the younger woman could utter a word. “What do you want?”

Lucie’s eyes twinkled, but she respectfully did not comment on Revy’s state. “Mr. Pigeons asked to see you before you head out.”

“ Ugh.” Revy groaned, rubbing her left eye hard. “Can it not fuckin’ wait a day? I feel like shit.”

“I don’t think so.” Lucie said sympathetically, gesturing for Revy to follow her. “But I’m sure he only wants to check on you… you know how overbearing he can be.”

“More like he wants to check out that bitch’s handiwork.” Revy muttered as they walked down the hall together, hissing as the seam of the new jeans rubbed against a bite-mark on her inner thigh.

“Yeesh… was it that bad?” Lucie whispered, her eyes wide.

Revy hesitated. The memory of Vladilena’s moans… perfectly synchronized with her own… filled her ears, and she struggled to be indifferent after that seismic encounter. If her temper existed on a slider, it was as if a hand with sharp pink nails had lowered it by several notches, all while teasing her heart open with those gentle yet insistent kisses of hers. It seemed the chasm she left in her wake had yet to close completely. 

“…no.” Revy said, slowly. “No, it was okay.”

Lucie’s smile returned, relieved. “Oh, I’m so glad for you! I try not to talk about it, but to be honest, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve woken up hating myself and everything else after having a bad client. It can really mess up your day if you let it, but Mr. Pigeons always finds a way to make me laugh about it after…”

Revy let her prattle on, but she stopped listening almost immediately. Her mind was far away, occupying wherever it was that Vladilena had gone to. Was this what it had been like for those bitches in prison after her escape? Did they wonder what happened to that ghost who pleasured them better than anyone ever had or would? Did they think about what she was doing, if she was alive or not? Revy hadn’t given them so much as a second thought until the past few days; their names and faces were all one big neoplasmic blur in her head, people to be fucked and forgotten like tasks crossed off of a list.

Being held by Vladilena hadn’t felt like a task. It felt like a necessity she had somehow been missing out on her entire life; like she had been starving since she was born, and had a full belly for the first time after sucking the tit of Athena, when she hadn’t ever tasted so much as a crust of bread before. Was this heaven? Was this finally the answer to countless murmured cries by a seven-year-old after getting their nose kicked in by their father for the third time in a day? Did prayers take that long to travel?

“Re-vy!” Lucie’s singsong voice interrupted her, and Revy abruptly returned to reality. “Were you listening to me at all?”

Revy sighed, gripping the back of her neck hard with her right hand as her eyes went heavenward. “Yeah, yeah, I was listening. Just missed the last part.”

“I asked if she was just as beautiful under all those clothes. Was she?” Lucie asked eagerly.

Revy wasn’t surprised Lucie wanted to know that, considering how enamored she had seemed with Vladilena the previous night when they briefly spoke. It should have been you, Revy thought, disheartened, you'd probably know how to pick yourself back up after that fuckery.

“I don’t know,” Revy muttered, sliding past Lucie as they stepped out onto the main floor, “she wouldn’t let me take most of it off.”

They found Rowan lazing on a blue couch against the back wall of the room, dressed in the same banana-colored suit and pink dress-top Revy had always known him to wear. His fingers and wrists flaunted an assortment of garish jewelry, glinting gold whenever he moved them, and his eyes were concealed by a pair of reflective Gucci sunglasses. He sported a single golden ring in the lower half of his left ear, and the black afro that was almost wide enough to rival his shoulders made him look like a bobblehead. A pair of women about Lucie’s age lounged against him on either side, neither of whom Revy recognized from her days as a dominatrix. They wore matching lingerie sets, though one was black and the other, red.

Rowan whistled when she went to stand in front of him, hands on her hips expectantly. “DA-AMN… that hot mama really did a number on ya’!” He said, practically beaming at her. “I knew ya wouldn’t let a brotha down.”

“Shut it, Pidge.” Revy spat, grinding her heels into the gaudy carpet. “What the fuck do you want now? Our deal’s done.”

His eyes glimmered shrewdly over the gold-rimmed sunglasses, which had slid down to balance near the tip of his nose, and he grinned. “Just thought ya might wanna know that I caught your lezzie on her way out. She was practically glowin’. This ain’t gonna be no one-time thing, I can tell ya that right now, sista.”

Some of Revy’s irritation melted away, replaced by a fluttering in her belly, but she tried to remain frigid. “What, did she tell you that?” She asked flatly, ignoring the excitement that sparked in her chest at the idea of having her again. Having Vladilena squirming under her tongue again. Had she really meant the last part of her note? Did Revy’s wishful thinking hold any water?

Rowan laughed, squeezing the girl to his right a bit tighter, who giggled. “Nah. I jus’ know these things. You do this shit long enough, you pick up on the folks who are stickin’ around. They got these li’l tells.”

Revy crossed her arms. “ Tells, huh?” She muttered, deadpan. “Tells like what?”

“Well, for one, I ain’t never met a John— or Jane, heh— in my whole career who’d wake up early to buy their pair o’ tits fresh clothes and a flower.” He said connivingly.

“Sure you have.” Revy retorted, unwilling to believe him. He was just trying to get her hopes up. “Bet every sorry sap has petals bleedin’ outta his pockets, hoping one of your girls will run away with him or some mushy shit, like it’s a fuckin’ romance movie. I’m nothing to her, you got that?”

Please let it be true.

The girls at either side of him snickered; their gazes were almost pitying as they looked at her, probably silently mocking how little she knew about being a whore. She glared back, receiving only amused smirks in response. Rowan himself wore a gloating smile, like he had just stolen the winning lottery ticket and claimed the cash for himself. In a way, he had, Revy thought with resent.

“Oh, honey bumpkin… ” Rowan said saccharinely. “…you ain’t got a clue what you in for, do ya?”

She bristled at his tone, low and patronizing like he was speaking to a child. What the fuck did he know? He was just an old pervert whose dirty movie collection had probably rotted his brain beyond repair. Not even spiders would build their webs in that mush, she thought.

As Revy silently seethed, Rowan leaned back on the sofa. “You nabbed a funny one, li’l sis.” He drawled, twirling the left girl’s hair around his fingers. “Jus’ imagine what folks would say if they knew... the infamous Two Hands, tucked into bed by a Russian giantess. Y’ might actually get in the papers for that one, or the porn mags, more like.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully, adding, “I could make a fortune off a photoshoot with the pair a’ you. Shame she wouldn’t go for it.”

Fear coursing through her at the very suggestion of word getting around, Revy seized him by the collar of his shirt, startling the girls at either side of him. Rowan looked on without concern, that big stupid grin still covering his face. Revy wanted to make it a toothless one. “You… you … you fuckin’ tell anybody about this, Pidge, and I’ll gut you. Don’t try me. I’ll shove your balls down your disgusting-ass throat and mount your head on a pike like a fuckin’ roast pig.” She threatened, her body vibrating with rage.

“Mmm-hmm, don’t I know it.” Rowan said dismissively, shooing her hands away. He was well-accustomed to her antics by then. “Enjoy your party favors, baby.” 

Revy high-tailed it out of there after that, offering a half-hearted bye to Lucie when the two nearly collided. God, she hated Rowan’s smug face. Him and his dumb Gucci sunglasses. Her trigger fingers itched to shoot them off.

When she got out onto the narrow sidewalk, her violent line of thinking was further bolstered by the sight of a broad shadow loitering about the front of the club, blocking the way with its mass. Revy growled, cracking her knuckles and looking up. Guess this shithead’ll be my punching bag today.

Obstructing her path, however, was none other than the same golem of a man who had appeared on the Lagoon Company’s side porch the day before, still draped in dark greens and grays such as that where ancient stone ruins resided… fitting for a man who resembled a turret in appearance. He stood vigil in front of a white Mercedes-Benz, the entire body of which had been so thoroughly polished that it gleamed like it was weighed in carats instead of pounds.

Revy stopped where she stood, round-eyed. “You again. The fuck do you want?” She demanded to know, feeling oddly defensive under the man’s piercing gaze. Like a skittish animal.

“I was instructed to take you home.” He said simply, turning around and opening the passenger-side door for her. 

“I can find my own damn way home.” Revy retorted, shoving her hands into her front pockets. “I don’t need to be fuckin’ chaperoned by some rich bitch’s Rottweiler.”

The man did not so much as flinch at her callous tone, nor her unflattering description. “Miss Vladilena insisted on it.” He explained.

Of course she did. Revy gritted her teeth as her temper flared. “News flash, Tarzan: the window for roleplaying fuckin’ passed. If mommy wanted daddy to drive me to school, she should’ve paid for the morning, too.”

She thought she saw the scarred man’s eyebrows lift ever so slightly, but she may have imagined it, as he otherwise remained as unflappable as a brick wall at her sneer. “If you would prefer to walk— or take a cab— I will follow you.” He offered instead. 

A chuckle nearly escaped her at the absurd visuals his suggestions painted. “What are you, the secret fuckin’ service?” She sneered, glowering up at him. “Fuck off, stalker. I get it, Vladilena wants to cart me around like it’s the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, but she’d better shove another one of those big-ass suitcases in my face first. Capiche? Ya? Whatever the fuck it is you people say?”

She refused to stay and hear his response. Letting out a bad-tempered huff, she spun on her heel, tearing down Rachada Street at as brisk a pace as possible without biting it.

As she did, she looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of a possible ride. Of course there’s not a fucking cab in sight, she thought to herself, her lip curling with annoyance.

Upon rounding a corner, and once again seeing that the street was deserted, she became aware of a vehicle’s low purring just behind her. She whirled around, snarling out an obscenity, only for the harsh words to die in her throat when she saw that it was the same white Mercedes at her heels, with the scarred man at the wheel. 

Holy shit. He wasn’t fucking kidding. 

He rolled down the window when she stopped and stared, thinking she was prompting him. “Yes?”

Revy shook her head in bitter astonishment. “Don’t yes me.” She hissed. “Are you seriously going to follow me the whole fuckin’ way?”

He exhaled heavily through his nose, as if listening to her was the most tiring activity in the world. “Whether we like it or not, Two Hands, I have my orders.” The scarred man replied, something like boredom in his tone. “Miss Vladilena was very clear.”

Revy growled. She could be clear, too. “How about I shoot out the tires on your fancy-ass ride?” Revy took the grips of her guns in threat. “What then, asshole?”

He thought about it. “I would follow you on foot,” he decided, “while discussing the price of replacements. Tires aren’t cheap.”

Grinding her teeth until they hurt, Revy started to draw her Berettas, just to see what would happen if she called his bluff. Maybe she’d put a few rounds in his chest for good measure, and see how well he followed her with a torso like Swiss cheese.

“Oh, Rebecca…”

Revy’s guns slid about three-quarters of the way out of their holsters before the memory of Vladilena’s voice made her freeze in place, as if she was hearing it in person again. The woman’s smooth face appeared in her mind, framed by golden hair that Revy knew to be softer than satin, having felt it caress her thighs as an even silkier tongue worked her over. She had wanted more than anything to run her hands over the full extent of it, taking it down from its tight ponytail and brushing it with her fingers. If it wasn’t for the goddamn veil. Revy’s mind was such a muddled mess by the end of the night that the thought of mutiny did not cross it again, but if it had, she may very well have braved the blonde’s ire again, if only to sate the cravings of her fingertips for a fraction of an instant. She imagined that terrifying look on her face— the one that promised punishment— that appeared as Revy had been drawn over her lap, thighs firm against her stomach while a solid hand rocked her, until the pain twisted into a pleasurable swirl that turned the chaotic mess of lust to follow from enjoyable to mind-altering. Just as it had then, however, the image changed to one of comfort, of devotion, the ice of her eyes melting into a pale blue sea that worshiped her with every wave. Her very presence was all-encompassing, her approval and devotion like nothing which Revy had ever known, and all in the span of a single night, the gunslinger’s quickness to the trigger had been masterfully ruined by that woman.

Until next time.

Fuck. Revy couldn’t do it. She couldn’t dash the possibility of a next time, one that Rowan had easily predicted, and Vladilena herself had implied in her note. Sure, maybe the blonde liked a hint of danger, as Pidge had claimed, but Revy doubted she would stand for batshit insane and a menace to the errand-boy’s wheels. She suspected the consequences for insubordination such as that were of a somewhat different caliber than what she had experienced at the Russian’s firm hand the last time she stepped out of line.

Was this the penalty for fucking all of those prison bitches, Revy wondered morosely, rendering them unable to feel a fraction of the pleasure with their future lovers as they had felt with her? Now making the succubus who had corrupted them bow to the will of a woman equally skilled with her tongue and fingers, and well surpassing her in the domain of the English and Russian languages? A woman who now occupied every corner of her brain, ordering her about even in absentia?

And what was beneath that stupid fucking veil? She had to know.

Hanging her head in defeat and burgeoning despair, Revy pushed her guns back into place, and the man shifted. Revy squinted, noticing how his hand had inclined towards the inside of his suit-jacket before relaxing it at the same time she did.

Every bastard’s gotta be armed in this god-awful place. She thought with a snort, secretly wondering what the Russian was packing.

“You’re not gonna leave me alone, are ya?” Revy eventually asked, grimacing at how small the words sounded, like she was a rat on the streets of New York again. Her childhood memories were encased in the concrete used to pave those trash-filled gutters; even hitting it with a hammer would only drive the can-lids and broken glass in deeper.

“No.” The man agreed, and Revy could have laughed at how serious he sounded, like he was addressing the fucking president and not some hotheaded half-Asian brat whose only prospects were the gunfire she spewed. Everything about the situation was endlessly comical, as if it was all a figment of her imagination after a long night at The Yellow Flag… highlights of a half-remembered conversation with a moody Vietnamese man, the intrigue of which had yet to fade away and thus danced in her conscious memory well past its allotted time.

Absolutely laughable.

Revy realized the man was waiting for her to react, and her shoulders sagged. It’s a free ride, guess shit could be worse. Revy adjusted how her holsters sat on her shoulders, after jostling them earlier. Carpooling with my whoremonger’s bitch… this has got to be a fucking fever dream. “Okay, fucking… whatever. I’ll get in.” She groused. When she popped open the passenger door of the shiny vehicle, she half-expected one of the driver’s mammoth hands to drag her inside. No such thing happened, however; he simply waited for her to settle into her seat and buckle in before starting forward again, no more at a snail’s pace.

Revy glanced around, seeing that the interior of the car was as opulent as the exterior, though that wasn’t much of a surprise, it being a Mercedes: the color of the inside, from the seats, to the dashboard, to the floor, was almost entirely a luxurious bluish-black, starkly contrasting the pale outside, the only exception being the beige ceiling. All of it was meticulously maintained and shining, like it had only just left the lot, no scuffs or a speck of dirt or dust to speak of. The gear stick was surrounded by a moat of polished auburn wood that screamed money, and a radio with a CD player that looked newer than the car’s model had been carefully installed where the original had been.

When Revy inhaled the cool air through her nose, she noticed how it smelled like someone had dumped an entire bottle of Vladilena’s flowery perfume all over the passenger’s seat and rubbed cigar ash into it after, providing those smoky vanilla notes that distinguished her scent from that of all the other fancy chicks.

“Dang… ‘s this her car?” Revy didn’t know why the idea excited her so much.

“One of them, yes.” He replied, and her mind cartwheeled. If she weren’t so focused on maintaining her brooding appearance, she may have kicked her legs like a small child at the reality of occupying Vladilena’s seat.

Instead, she simply hummed in acknowledgement, leaning her elbow against the car door and watching as the streets passed by. She observed the scarred man in the reflection of the window; it figured, she supposed, that Vladilena’s errand-boy doubled as a personal cabbie. That woman, and everything connected to her, exuded pretension with such shamelessness as to make a financier blush. Her shoes alone looked like they cost more than the Lagoon Company made in months. How did someone with eyes like they had seen Hell and remembered it in vivid detail come to possess such extravagance? Who could afford to sling suitcases packed with dough at half-Chinese chicks like it was nothing?

What kind of business called for muscles like steel and lips like Kate Winslet’s?

She tried not to think about it. Detective work wasn’t her strong suit, and she would inevitably end up with an answer she wasn’t going to like.

Determined not to arrive at that answer, Revy wondered, briefly, if Vladilena had a husband, some bumbling fuck back in Russia who couldn’t please a woman for shit (not that any of them could, to her knowledge). A man who was so grossly incompetent that his wife sought out fellow women to get her off, haunting the back rooms of seedy clubs and dive bars in distant countries like the world’s most overdressed ghost, all for a taste of dirty yet decent sex in the slums of every new place her job took her. After having it, did she return to a house with a white picket fence (or maybe an iron one with stone lions keeping guard; supposedly everything in Russia was more severe, from what Revy knew) and kiss him chastely, saying only, “fine, dear,” when asked how her trip went? Did she lay awake in their shared bed at night, unsatisfied and lonely?

Then, she thought back on the previous night, recalling how fiercely Vladilena defended her “proclivities” when Revy demeaned her. Nope, definitely a pure fuckin’ dyke. A tall, muscular dyke whose arms were made to have smaller, shorter dykes hanging off of them. No, Revy couldn’t imagine that hulk of a woman with a man any more than she could imagine…

Revy sighed, putting a stop to her brain before it hurtled right over a cliff, taking her dwindling sanity with it. The gunslinger wasn’t a lesbian, just… opportunistic. Besides, who wouldn’t eat out a “lonely businesswoman” for a suitcase overflowing with hundred-dollar bills? It wasn’t as if doing so had been a hardship.

Especially since that lonely businesswoman happened to be a smokin’ hot babe whose Russian accent took over when she was licked just right.

Revy groaned, burying her head in her hands. What a fucking disaster.

“Would you like music?”

The man interrupted her internal tirade, and Revy jumped, looking over at him. “Huh?”

His face, as usual, betrayed absolutely nothing, as if he were wearing one of those rubber Halloween masks over his head. “I asked if you wanted me to put on music.” He repeated.

Revy drew a breath, scowling to conceal her surprise. “I mean, sure, whatever. As long as it’s not Russian dirges or some shit.” She mumbled, crossing her arms.

He looked a little bemused at that. Never taking his eyes off of the road, he retrieved a CD case from the center console, showing it to her.  “‘ The Doors ’?”

That surprised her. How the hell did he know? The Doors seemed too specific to be a coincidence, never mind that she fell asleep to their keyboard, drums, and a guitar strummed bereft of a pick nearly every night (with some Guitar Wolf for added flavor, naturally). “You, uh… you a fan of theirs, macho man?” She tried with a weak grin.

The man’s posture implied a shrug. “Miss Vladilena mentioned that you might like them.”

“When did I say…” Revy bit her tongue, her brow furrowing. Light your… my… fire. Right. “Yeah, fine. Go ahead.”

He nodded, shucking the disk of its covering and inserting it into the player. It squeaked as it spun into place, clicking at an inconsistent interval subsequently before phasing into the first song. Jim Morrison’s voice floated out of the speaker after a few familiar guitar notes, greeting Revy like an old friend might, if she had any old friends to speak of.

“ People are strange, when you’re a stranger; faces look ugly when you’re alone… ”

Revy closed her eyes, losing herself in the music as much as possible. She tried to push thoughts of Russian dykes, prostitution, and white picket fences far from her mind.

“ Women seem wicked, when you’re unwanted; streets are uneven when you’re down.”

Uneven. Ugly. Even in mindlessness, the lyrics drove her to wonder… was that overwhelming ugliness she noticed everywhere part of Roanapur and New York’s natural schemas, or did it just follow Revy wherever she went, like grayscale lenses had been sewn onto her eyes? Even on the rare occasions she and Dutch transported goods into the wilds outside of the city, plunging into the dense junglescapes for a solid buck, the greenery had looked… desaturated, almost dead. The trees seemed to sport the same chipping, rusted texture as the dumpsters in the urban alleyways, paint wearing away to expose the cold metal beneath. The seawater at the docks, which Dutch himself occasionally referred to as “emerald,” seemed much the same to her: the water was always a sludgy, oily taupe, no matter which way she looked at it. It was toxic at every angle.

She leaned back in her seat, staring up at the car’s beige ceiling with a discontented huff. Would Revy even be able to recognize bright greens, like the visions of those that appeared to her while she slept, if she ever stumbled across them in real life? Were her eyes too tainted?

The song’s not meant to be taken literally… dumbass. She chastised herself sourly, blocking it out for the rest of the ride. It didn’t matter if she couldn’t see glistening green foliage and rolling hills if she stumbled upon the set of The Sound of Music— the fact of the matter was, she wouldn’t. Roanapur was the place for her, muted hues and all. 

After what felt like an eternity, they finally pulled up in front of the Lagoon Company building, and Revy breathed a sigh of relief. She unbuckled her seatbelt before the car had even stopped, shoving the door open and stepping out into the gutter. The humid Roanapur air immediately made her pores weep, and she found a part of her missing the comfortable, air-conditioned interior of the car. The fans in the apartment didn’t work half as well.

She had enough consideration to turn to the man, unsure of what to say. “I, uh… gave you a real hard time, huh?” She began, a lopsided smirk on her face. She hated the nervousness that threatened to seep into her voice.

The man inclined his head, but it was not so much a nod as it seemed an attempt to see her face better in the backlighting. He said nothing to the contrary, nor did he make a move to agree.

Revy sighed. She sucked at apologies. “I give everyone a hard time, okay? My fuckin’ job is to fuck people up, it’s kinda my thing. Be glad I didn’t make today your fuckin’ last.”

Really sucked.

His response was measured. “I’m not concerned.”

She looked away, disgraced. “‘Course you’re not.” She mumbled, about to shut the door. She had nothing else to say to him that wouldn't be punctuated with bullets, and she had already decided against shooting him… for the time being.

“Two Hands?” A weight prevented the door from closing, however, just as she went to slam it. It was the man’s forearm. “You dropped this.”

Sighing again, Revy creaked the door open, faltering when she saw that he was holding out the rose from Vladilena. It looked so small, so delicate, in the vast palm of his hand, and Revy immediately felt a surge of protectiveness in her chest. 

She took it at once, looking over it carefully for any damage, and upon finding it to be completely intact (if a bit more pliable than it had been an hour earlier), she felt some of the pressure in her middle depart. “...thanks.” Revy murmured, so genuinely she surprised even herself. She cradled the fragile blossom in both hands, more tender than if she were holding one of the seven wonders of the world. Guilt crept into an open hole in her conscience, and reluctantly, she tried to put words to it that didn’t contain threats. “Hey, I… fuck, this is so fucking stupid. Y’know, I wasn’t trying to…”

“It is nothing.” The man cut her rambling off with a wave of his hand, thoroughly unbothered. There was suddenly an urgency about him, like he had at last realized just how long chauffeuring her had taken. “Goodbye, Two Hands.”

“Bye.” She replied, glumly, shutting the door and watching him speed away. She stood there until the car was a speck in the distance, the cool air and scent of Vladilena lingering blessedly on the cotton of her shirt for a long time to follow.

A cloud smudged across the sun, temporarily darkening the gray sky to a slightly less offensive shade of ash, just as the vehicle disappeared completely, and Revy took that as her cue to get inside.

She unlocked the side door before plowing in. “I’m back!” She called out, receiving no answer but the echo of her own voice. The office was otherwise silent.

She headed into the kitchen, setting the rose on the dining table to ensure she didn’t lose it again. As she did, she saw that a note had been left for her there, scribbled in permanent marker on the front of a legal pad.

Went out, it said simply in Dutch’s handwriting, the capitals bold and blocky to match his temperament, help yourself to lasagna.

Her stomach growled. Realizing she was famished, Revy took his suggestion, racing over to the fridge and pulling out a half-open square of tin foil. She slopped its contents into the only somewhat-clean bowl in the cabinet before tossing it into the microwave, hitting the 30 seconds button a few times and collapsing into the nearest chair. She stared absently at the lasagna as it spun around, barely visible through the layer of gunk on the inside of the microwave’s window, before noticing the documents that had been spread across the dining table, the kind usually reserved for their unofficial office area in the living room. Her eyes trailed over them curiously; most of it was fairly unexciting, but a few items caught her attention, particularly the photographs that had been attached to some of the pages with paperclips. One was of the Roanapur harbor, not aimed at anything in particular, but if she squinted, she could faintly make out a few figures in the distance, huddled near a boat of a model she could not name. There was another picture of a brownish-tan, multistory building that Revy didn’t recognize, that appeared to have been captured from a rooftop of a neighboring structure; the camera was angled downward at a group of people gathered at the entrance to the building, but once again, it was at such a distance that no features could be discerned.

The last photo, however, caught her attention right away: It was a shot of an alleyway, and specifically, the back of a building, a red-painted railing next to a set of stairs leading to a back door. She recognized it immediately, having smoked many a night away on the stairs pictured there, and she still had the chips of flaking scarlet paint caught in the ties of her old uniforms to prove it. There were more indistinguishable figures climbing them, but once again, the image had been captured at a considerable distance and at night, so once again, there were few meaningful details to make of the scene.

Who the Hell was reconning the Jackpot Pigeons, of all places? And why was Dutch seemingly helping them?

She looked over the attached document for answers; a truant street rat though Revy may have been in her youth, she could at least read, but the pages were made up of cryptic half-sentences she couldn’t make heads or tails of, and the notes that had been penciled in by Dutch and one other person didn’t clarify much. What did Bou-gain-ville-a even mean?

Her concentration broke when the microwave beeped, and she tried to shrug away the unease. She reminded herself that it was Rowan’s own fault if he had gotten himself into shit, and tried to leave it at that, though the stab of discomfort pervaded. Revy couldn’t help but notice how Dutch’s demeanor had shifted shortly after she took the club-owner’s call, and it was hard to ignore the possible connection; had the “renovations” Pidge referred to ultimately been code for “I owe some shady people and you’re my ticket to getting out of it?” That wouldn’t explain why Dutch (and who she could only presume was a client) were looking into him now, though, unless the other pictures provided context Revy couldn’t glean, which was altogether possible. Besides, as far as she knew, Dutch and Rowan had always been on good terms, and the club owner had never failed to pay what he owed before. There had to be something else going on that she wasn’t privy to yet, but if she waited long enough, she knew Dutch would probably tell her.

Sighing, she retrieved the lasagna, dipping into the first layers of noodles, meat sauce, and ricotta with her fingertip. Only one side had heated up all the way, but that was good enough for her. She stuck a plastic fork into the middle of it and headed up to her room, gripping the cooler side of the bowl in one hand and the rose in the other, the latter having been placed into a mug half-filled with tap water.

When she got to her bedroom, Revy rolled her eyes at the mess she walked into. The space bore not only the signs of her frantic fashion show the previous evening, her closet vomiting up a meager jumble of lingerie and casual clothes all over the floor, but there were also the lengthier tells of neglect: half-empty bottles of liquor, anything from rum to tequila, lined the gray walls, some having been upturned and spilled over what seemed a millennium ago, from the dust coating the multicolor glass; food wrappers that had accumulated next to the foot of her bed had formed an impressive pile of plastic and crumbs, no doubt inviting rodents and insects from the cracks in the walls to feast; the chunky TV on the far wall sat askew on its stand, the connected DVD player balancing precariously on the edge after having been shoved about, both of which were also blanketed in a layer of dust.

She all but fell into bed, careful not to get tomato sauce everywhere. A few water droplets from the mug containing the rose splashed onto the bedspread, but Revy barely noticed. She set the bowl next to her hip, awkwardly maneuvering a forkful of lasagna into her mouth as she stared at the rose. Its lavender petals seemed to shimmer, unearthly bright in the dimness of Revy’s room. She had heard, somewhere, that different colors of roses had different meanings, and Vladilena seemed like the kind of person who would be intentional about that. 

Revy wondered what lavender meant.

After looking it over for a little while longer, she placed it on the windowsill so it could drink in the sunlight. Revy wasn’t an idiot; she knew the little rose was dying, and no amount of sun or water would change that. She wanted to make it last for as long as possible, however, just like the scent of Vladilena on her clothes. She never wanted to take them off.

She lifted her arms over her head, stretching. When did I get so fuckin’ soft? She thought. It was just a rose. A fucking rose. She’d had hundreds thrown at her on Rowan’s stage before, all of which ended up speared by her high heels and simply tossed into the trash at the end of the night. She couldn’t bear the idea of doing the same to this one, though; it felt, almost, like Vladilena had entrusted it to her, and the last thing she wanted was to fumble the delicate bloom. In the same way, she ate the lasagna with more care than usual, to avoid any spilling on her clothes and being forced to wash the blonde’s perfume and cigar smoke away. She wasn’t yet ready for either to fade into memory.

Revy tossed down the rest of the lasagna, shoving the bowl aside. She remembered the suitcase under her bed, and she angled herself to peer cautiously into the darkness, as though expecting it to be gone. Thankfully, it was still there, having not been moved since yesterday evening. She could still see some of the stacks of cash peeking out, after she had thrown it all back in without rhyme or reason upon Dutch’s approach. 

She rolled back into bed, wondering how much it would cost to buy a farm out in the middle of nowhere; or, if not a farm, a house with a white picket fence, like those on the front of home improvement magazines. Revy snorted: she still didn’t understand why the convenience stores and street merchants sold those, it wasn’t as if anyone was in Roanapur to improve shit.

Revy dared not count the money properly with that dangerous thought hanging in the air. If she did, she may be tempted to run away. Pull an Anne of Green Gables and stumble into Avonlea. 

Corpses did not leave their graves, she reminded herself again.

Groaning, Revy draped her arm across both eyes. Her head was buzzing, and she was tempted to shove one of her Berettas against it to relieve her torment for good and all, but that would be cheating.

She ventured downstairs a few hours later to find that Dutch had moved the documents to the coffee table in the office, and was flipping through a fresh stack of them that had likely been procured as part of his outing. Revy could see that there were more photographs, and she craned her neck to try and catch a glimpse, to little result. 

“Hey, Dutch, got a sec?” She asked.

He was too focused on his work to offer her even a glance. “What’s goin’ on?”

“What’s, uh…” She chewed her lip, her confidence abruptly waning. “What’s boo-gane-vill-a?”

That got his attention. He looked up from the paperwork at once, the emotion on his face a mystery. “Where did you hear that?” He asked, the raggedness in his tone betraying his concern. His glasses concealed where exactly his eyes had wandered to, but perhaps, Revy thought, he was looking at the mess of bruises and bitemarks covering her neck, which she placed a hand over one side of somewhat self-consciously.

“Saw it on your papers. They were thrown all over the fuckin’ table when I got back.” She defended herself, scowling as she crossed her arms over her chest. “If you wanted to keep that shit confidential, maybe don’t put it where everyone can fuckin’ see it.”

He relaxed, but only a little. The creases in his brow, the slight dishevelment of his clothes, and the taut way he hunched over the table gave him the appearance of an ox who had been made to pull too hard for too long. “Just checking that you didn’t hear it somewhere else.” He told her. “I’m not keeping anything from you intentionally, y’know.”

“Sure doesn’t feel like it.” Revy snapped, and Dutch sighed.

“Look, Revy, I didn’t let you in on this right away because of how complicated shit got. Mister Chang didn’t know for certain what was going on before, but now—”

Revy’s chest tightened. “Wait, Chang? That’s who you’ve been talkin’ to?”

He nodded. “Yeah. All this week.”

Revy sucked in a breath. Mister Chang, leader of the Hong Kong Triad’s Thai branch, was a big dog in Roanapur— a sunglasses-and-suit-wearing Chinese badass whose power, influence, and prowess with a pair of Berettas could not be overstated enough. (They may call Revy “Two Hands,” but he was the original dual-wielding genius, and she occupied second place without complaint… for now.) It would not be an exaggeration to say that all of Roanapur balanced on the muzzle of his right gun, and shook like a delicate little flower every time he pulled the trigger. Around town, he was the king, and all the rest of them were court jesters trying to keep their heads attached for another day.

Point was, if Chang was that personally invested in casing places that he would bring in Dutch for help, it could only mean that shit was about to hit the fan in a major way.

“There’s… talk of a competitor movin’ in.” Dutch finally said. He pulled up a glass and the same whiskey bottle she had seen him with earlier in the week from beneath the coffee table, pouring one. For the first time since she had met him, there was hesitation in his tone, like he himself barely could believe what he was saying.

Revy’s eyes widened. “A competitor to the motherfucking TRIAD? Are you bullshitting me?”

The exhaustion and poorly-concealed dismay on Dutch’s face could not have been invented, however. “You’d know if I was.”

Revy swallowed. “What is it?” When he failed to respond right away, she asked, “is Pidgeon-Boy involved?”

“Not sure, on either point. ‘S what we’re tryin’ to figure out.” He admitted.

There was a pang of disappointment in her chest. If Rowan was in trouble, she could forget about seeing Vladilena again, provided the woman was as cautious as she had claimed to be. If she’s that fucking important… or sensitive, or whatever the fuck she called it… she’ll get the Hell out of Roanapur, and stay away.

Another possibility entered her mind as her thoughts inevitably shifted to the towering blonde, but Revy squashed it like an insect beneath her boot. She didn’t want to entertain the notion for a second, not while blissful ignorance was still possible.

Still, she couldn’t help but wonder… did any of the blurry figures in the photographs have long, golden hair? Even that would be noticeable at such a distance, but Revy hadn’t looked all that closely, and she especially hadn’t bothered with searching for blonde locks. Now, she was wishing she had.

A lonely businesswoman…

“Why does the boss man need your help with this shit, though? Since when did our job get fuckin’ political?” Revy snapped suddenly, dragging her foot against the carpet. She needed to start shit, or else she’d continue that train of thought to its logical conclusion. “Isn’t the whole point that people like us survive because everybody needs a fuckin’ moving crew, even when the whole goddamn world’s gone to Hell in a handbasket?”

She saw Dutch’s jaw stiffen, but he remained composed as ever, not a tremor to be heard in that booming drawl of his. “You know the answer to that.” He started. If he rolled his eyes, or just stared directly through her in abject annoyance, she couldn’t tell. “Chang’s been a loyal customer from the beginning, and losing his patronage would be bad news. Besides, the sea doesn’t discriminate between the pirates wearing suits and the pirates wearing the discount rack— if we’re caught in a tsunami together, everyone goes down.”

“Fuck ‘em, then.” Revy growled, kicking at the floor childishly. “Let the boss and his thugs drown. Not my fuckin’ problem.”

“Didn’t you hear me? They’d take us with ‘em.” He looked at her curiously. “Thought you and Mister Chang were tight. Where’s the animosity comin’ from?”

“We’re not that tight.” Revy retorted. “If his brains got splattered all over the street tomorrow… well, that’s just business. Isn’t that what you always say?” She nonchalantly scratched at the side of her neck, though her agitation was steadily growing. She pushed away the twinge of anxiety in her stomach at the idea of Chang’s death— she was loath to admit it, but it was because of him that her aim got to be so goddamn good. “And who really gives a shit, at the end of the week? It’s dog eat fuckin’ dog out there, Dutchie. Death, death, and more death.” She sneered, her face darkening. “You and I waltz on the fuckin’ bodies like if D-Day and Dirty Dancing spawned the Antichrist.”

Dutch stared at her for a long moment, the silence broken only by him drumming his fingertips on the coffee table in thought. Just when she was starting to think she had stumped him, he finally replied:

“I know you couldn’t give less of a damn, Revy, but I actually care about this shithole.” He said, his voice hardening. “I didn’t break my back givin' the Lagoon Company its current reputation just to see it all go up in smoke, like this whole damn city will if Chang decides it. If I can prevent this from turnin’ into a total clusterfuck, I’ll do what it takes.”

Oh, that had her seeing red. “You think I don’t care?” Revy spat, her hands balling. “FUCK you. I care about the fuckin’ money, I care about replacing all these fuckin’ bullets, and I care about surviving in this shit town. Just like you.” She stepped in close, so much so that her knee was almost touching his. “So don’t fuckin’ act like you’re any better than me because you’ve decided you don’t wanna see the world burn all of a sudden. We’re both backstabbing gutter trash… we’ll tear the spines out of half of Roanapur if the paycheck’s hefty enough.”

“Revy…” Dutch warned.

But Revy was on a roll. Her face split into an unnerving grin as she drew her guns; she spun one of them on her pointer finger, the base of which audibly thwacked its trigger with every flippant rotation. “If the boss is gonna burn this fuckin’ place to the ground anyway, why don’t you and I play in the ashes? Rough shit up a little? They’ll all be too busy blasting each other’s faces off to pay any damn attention to us.” She didn’t even know what she was saying anymore, if there was a point behind any of it; she just rambled, the words as meaningless as the click of her fingernails against gunmetal. “So who the fuck cares if two li’l pirates live it up in the middle of the apocalypse? While they’re paintin’ the town red, we’ll make our own new shade, Dutchie-baby. Let’s re-enact the Alamo for all to fuckin’ see.”

“That’s enough.”

Revy flinched when Dutch’s hand made a fist in the front of her shirt, bunching the soft material and dragging her in close. He held the whiskey in his other hand, and the acrid scent of it filled her nose with his every breath.

“I’d like to think I’ve gotten to know you pretty damn well these past couple of years.” Dutch began, more evenly than Revy had expected. “You don’t act up like this without a reason. I can tell last night was… a lot for you, whatever the hell happened, which is why I’m not kicking your ass out like you deserve right now; but you’d better screw your damn head back on before someone puts a hole in it.” He washed down the boiling words with a last swig of whiskey before setting the empty glass down on the table in front of them. “Believe it or not, I hired you for your skills and your brains. If I’d wanted a human weapon, I could’ve gotten myself one, easy: there are plenty of soulless bastards out there who’d do anything for a quick buck. But I didn’t hire them, did I? I gave you the job.” One-by-one, he guided her guns back into their holsters with his free hand, and she made no move to stop him. Revy simply allowed him to manipulate her wrists while she looked on apathetically, feeling empty. “I knew there’d be a day where all this shit fell apart, and when it finally came, I’d need someone by my side who can think, not just shoot. You’re my guns, Revy, but you ain’t just guns.”

The words remained with her as she trudged up the stairs to her bedroom shortly after, so lost in thought she almost tripped over her own feet in the process.

Ain’t just guns.

What kind of sentimental bullshit was that? They had only known each other a couple of years, at most; how could he claim to understand a single damn thing about her?

His parting words to her, when she finally got fed up enough to storm out of the living room, were: “You’ve got smarts in that thick head of yours somewhere, Revy. Start usin’ ‘em from time to time, for fuck’s sake.”

Smarts. She smirked dully to herself. At least Dutch could tell a decent joke.

Revy took a long drag of her cigarette, which she had lit the second she crawled into bed, staring aimlessly up at the ceiling. The stream of gray that poured from her mouth formed vaporous curls in the space above her, refracting stray rays of afternoon sunlight that had pawed their way through the blinds. It looked like the life was leaving her with every breath.

She wanted to fill the whole room up with smoke, until the little rose sunbathing on the windowsill wilted and turned to dust… and Revy, with it.

Chapter Text

The smoky Roanapur air seemed thicker than usual.

Revy noticed the shift all the more as the week stretched on. It began with the mornings, which loosely encompassed whenever the gunslinger happened to roll out of bed: she and Dutch no longer joked around as they often did (or so Revy facilitated by way of treading on his nerves), exchanging gripes and quips with one another over yesterday’s leftovers. When the pair of them bothered to be around one another anymore, the breakfast table was instead gripped with tension, the icy influence of which saturated everything, from the greasy, MSG-laden takeout to what little rigid conversation they managed between stretches of heavy silence. The same tension quickly wove its way through the winding streets as the populace at large became aware that something was horribly amiss; no more were there the sounds of locals bartering with the street merchants, or even the usual chorus of gunfire and sawblades on bone that was the city’s lullaby. Everything was uncharacteristically, eerily, silent.

The gunslinger would not be prevented from venturing out, however, despite the foreboding atmosphere all of Roanapur had suddenly taken on. With business at a standstill, and Dutch’s insistence that she remain uninvolved on other fronts for the time being, she found herself skulking about the surrounding neighborhoods more and more, a cigarette between her teeth and an uneasy resistance in her step, like even her own boots were trying to drag her back indoors, à la Hermes.

She hesitated to wear the latest additions to her wardrobe since the bruises on her neck and arms had faded. For the first timid days immediately following the incident, as Revy had taken to calling it in her head, she guiltily pulled the turtleneck on, never mind that the woolen material (which felt suffocating in the tropical heat) did almost nothing to conceal the damage. She wasn’t sure why it even mattered; Dutch didn’t give half a fuck, and if anyone was stupid enough to be outside when she was prowling, they’d lose the organs needed to talk shit. No one was interested in the hickeys and bitemarks on a gunslinger’s neck, except for the gunslinger herself. She spent more time looking in the mirror that week than the entirety of her life, obsessively tracking the multicolored patches until they dwindled, after which she shoved the clothes as deep into her closet as they would go, unable to stand the lingering aroma of perfume for a moment longer.

The rose, to Revy’s surprise, had somehow remained in decent shape, despite the hellhole in which it existed. After the first two days, Revy had noticed a repulsive green slime building up around the insides of the mug, and after replacing the water, resolved to do so every day. Unexpectedly, the tiny flower somehow opened even more, the petals growing fuller and denser as time went on. It almost seemed to be alive, still, though Revy knew it was only a convincing imitation of life: like everything existing within the city limits, the rose was dead, no more a romantic gesture than a handful of dead grass ripped up from the grounds of a cemetery; and yet, Revy would spend whole hours just staring at the little purple flower, as if trying to decipher a message painstakingly scrawled inside the petals. She knew she should just accept it at face value instead of rotating it in her mind like the world’s most infuriating Rubik’s cube; it was a pat on the head for being a decent whore, she knew, a treat for rolling over like a good doggy. Every time Revy looked at it, however, she became lost in herself, like her lover had gone away to war and she was admiring what few fragments remained.

Where the fuck are you, Vladilena? She thought, when Thursday rolled around. She had just changed the rose’s water, but even hours later, it continued to droop, no longer accepting what was given. It was nearing its end as a prize on Revy’s windowsill, a shred of beauty in the ugliness of her midnight. Everybody said you’d want me again… you practically said it yourself… so where the fuck are you?

Did you run back home where you belong?

Something about prisons and escapes passed through Revy's mind, and the gunslinger shoved her pillow over her face as if aiming to suffocate herself. Iron bars, surrender, feathers and bullets… it all swirled in a twister of petals from a lavender-colored rose.

She threw the pillow from her head abruptly, incensed. “‘Until we meet again,’ Vlad.” Revy mocked in a sarcastic chuckle. She sat up, seething, and shot her hand out in front of her. The mug containing the rose was the unfortunate casualty of her fist, and she watched as the tap water mixed with ceramic shards dripped down the bedroom wall to puddle under her bed. The rose nearly went with them, but stopped just short of the edge, sunlight catching on the beads of dew riming its surface. It seemed to wink at Revy, and the gunslinger curled her lip. She wished she could punch it into a million pieces, too, but found herself unable to lay even a finger on it in her vexation.

In the aftermath, Revy paused to contemplate the absurdity of what she had done, all over a woman whose memory surely spared her no room, like the trash that had been taken out. One of the shards from the shattered mug had caught on her knuckle, and a small rivulet of blood began trickling down it, teasingly viscous and bold against the muted tan of her skin. The skin of a girl simultaneously not Chinese enough, but far from American enough despite the East Coast swagger ingrained in her mannerisms. She was, as all things were in Roanapur, an abomination. A Frankensteined mess.

Before long, another night fell upon the city of the dead, and Revy needed something new to drown her sorrows in, upon finding her stash largely having been depleted over the past several days. Stress made a drunkard of her, and Revy gave herself over to her own worst impulses without restraint. She shrugged her holsters over upon her shoulders as she made for the stairs, intending to slip out without a word. No sooner had she reached the side door, however, did she hear Dutch’s voice rumble from the other room, sounding as rough as she felt. “Hey, Revy, come take a look at this real quick.”

Revy sighed heavily, sliding her fingers from the doorknob and trudging into the dining room, where Dutch was laboring over a fresh pile of photographs and a box of fried rice. An empty Heineken can sat toppled to his left, cigarette ashes spilling out of it. “What is it?” She sounded lifeless even to herself. She would never admit that recent events had taken a toll on her, but the lull in her voice gave it away like a gaping sore on her face.

“Did you see anyone who looked like this when you were at Rowan’s the other day?” He handed her one of the pictures, and a stab of apprehension passed through her, suddenly afraid to glimpse bright blue eyes inside a Rapunzel curtain of gold. No such image greeted her, however; instead, it was a grainy photo taken inside the Jackpot Pigeons, in the area that Revy immediately recognized to be outside the private rooms. It captured a pale-skinned man with short brown hair and thin eyebrows leaning against the wall; he wore a black suit over a mauve dress-shirt, which was buttoned all the way to the collar.

Revy shook her head. “Nope. He could’ve been there, though, Pidge’s attracts ugly fuckwads for days.” She muttered dryly. “Why? Did Mr. Receding Hairline steal Chang’s candy or somethin’?”

“Try, ‘shot out the tires on his car.’” Dutch replied, and Revy's jaw slackened. “A bystander happened to see him fleeing the scene earlier today. That picture was taken last week on Friday, the same day you had your… show.” Revy didn’t miss the beat before he said the word, nor the suspicion with which he uttered it. Seeming not to humor the passing uncertainty much, however, he turned away, forcing stoicism to his face. “These fuckers are getting bolder, whoever they are.”

Dutch was quickly absorbed back into his work after that, and Revy left him to it, similarly lost in her own head. She locked the side door behind her, the quiet oppressive on her fraying nerves as she stepped out into the night. Shot out his tires… She thought with a thick swallow that seized up her entire throat. How long will it be ‘til one of them blows out his brains? Chang was more than capable of holding his own, Revy knew that first-hand, but it felt like these invisible trespassers were dancing circles around everyone, the king of Roanapur included. Time suddenly seemed to be dwindling at a faster rate than before, to the point that Revy was distinctly aware of every second, the very sound of a ticking clock having wormed its way into her consciousness permanently.

She stalked down the dark street, feeling more like a shadow than anything near human. Nothing answered her footsteps but the sound of their own echoes, which ricocheted off of the asphalt and down the silent road for what seemed like miles. Even the insects had apparently fled, attuned to the impending cataclysm. It was funny, Revy thought, how the crickets always went silent in horror flicks when the monster was about to appear. Can’t be long now, she told herself grimly, hands poised at her Berettas. Revy refused to go quietly regardless of what Dutch threatened, resolving to be an ember surging into the sky in pursuit of fireworks, even if she would inevitably acquiesce on a breeze. Revy had faced finality before, and yet emerged; perhaps this upheaval, however violent, would be just another of many.

Loitering on that thought, Revy popped into one of the few stores that still had its lights on, a lone beacon in the shrouded landscape. It was owned by an older Thai man who didn’t know a word of English, but that was all the better for Revy, who wanted anything but to linger about chit-chatting in the middle of a cold-turned-suddenly- very -hot war. She pulled the two heftiest bottles of rum he had on offer from the shelf and paid him quickly, already beginning to pour one of them down her throat as she shouldered her way through the double-doors. After drinking and smoking the better part of her life away, it usually took a longer time for alcohol to overwhelm her, but the rate at which she downed it would see her well on her way to delirium before the ten-minute walk back to the Lagoon Company headquarters was complete. If an inferno worse than the Hell in which they were already living was imminent, Revy could stand to fuck around before the fire started proper. Got plenty of fuckin’ cash for it, Revy thought, any relief she had found in her indulgence swiftly souring in her mouth. Vladilena was probably home by now, or else in a cushy hotel room somewhere far away from the incoming carnage. Above it, like the monarch she denied being. ‘Not a princess,’ my fucking ass. Another gulp helped to wash down the worst of the bitter pills.

A silvery glint of moonlight off of a structure to her left distracted Revy from her wandering, and she noted the black spire of a steeple cutting into the distance. The dark may be chased away by a sun that would soon rise on calamity, but not a shingle upon an old church roof would be out of place when it hit, like peddled miracles could somehow ward the unholy inside. The people it encased were damaged relics, alabaster artifacts crumbling in their displays. Abandoned monuments heralding eternity while the rest of the city suffered.

Pessimism aside, Revy’s legs steered her towards the shadow, half-lucid and welcoming the call of oblivion. Like creeping death, the grounds of worship wound their tendrils around her in welcome, a den of thieves beholding their minstrel in a drunken swirl.

Contrary to its stately appearance, the church was about as inviting as anything the alleys of Roanapur coughed up: it was devoid of warmth except for the tips of smoking pistols beneath black robes, greetings colder than ice not even the sweltering Thailand heat could melt. The hollowed insides of its Virgin Mary housed grenades, and the torn mauve drapery (which smelled like a funeral home) was hiding a terrorist’s wet dream in its folds. That aside, it may as well have been an old, worn cathedral, with all its empty space and tall ceilings, so very unlike the cramped shops and office buildings that had never seen legitimate business packing the hilly coast. That was how Revy saw the world of arches and tympanums she currently occupied, at least, for what gothic architecture meant to her in her current state. (For all she knew, it had been made to look old and worn.) Were it not a sanctuary to a band of irreparable crooks like herself, Revy might have felt like an intruder inside those stucco walls, a gun-toting devil among angelic sentinels, with their glittering stained glass fixtures casting maddening patterns of light, color, and shadow upon a beam of moonlight unmeant for her tainted eyes. She wasn’t so different from the likes of Lucifer, after all: when she was a wiry little brat, she, too, stood among the most devout of all God’s lambs, bleating prayer after prayer into the emptiness. The difference was, no pride went before her fall, only the agonizing realization that no one was going to save her. She was the ghetto rat in the cage, being zapped over and over again to no reprieve, who eventually gave herself over to the helpless agony. That was her sin: existing.

She sometimes wondered, should she ever be so brazen as to set upon a proper place of worship, if she would simply burst into flames and sizzle away to nothing. What an ironic spectacle that would be… perhaps even the clergy would laugh.

“If I knew you’d be barging in here in the middle of the night, I would’ve raided the fucking Xanax supply.” A voice intoned callously from the aisle, interrupting her moping.

The gunslinger looked up as the owner of the voice entered the nave, pinching glasses and a few bottles of her own between her fingers, before sitting opposite Revy at the wooden altar, which had been converted into a drinking table for the night’s purposes. The woman in question wore a traditional nun’s habit, not that anything about her otherwise screamed traditional, least of all those reflective pink sunglasses whose lenses were tilted at such an exaggerated angle that they gave her a permanent scowl. Messy blonde bangs poked out from under her coif, spiking in multiple directions.

“Shove a rosary up your ass, Eda.” Revy growled, catching the stout glass that was slid to her across the altar. “I’m not fuckin’ drunk enough for your bullshit yet.” She took the already-opened of the two oversized bottles in hand, pouring rum into the glass until it nearly spilled over. The bottle was already over half-empty; Eda had found her guzzling down its contents at a nauseating pace, parodying a newborn at the teat.

Eda poured her own with a far-steadier hand. “That makes two of us.” She replied, easing into her glass with a superior neutrality of manner. “Not that you get any easier to stand after a few rounds, eh?”

“I almost forgot how much I fuckin’ hate you. Thanks for the reminder.” The gunslinger sneered lowly. The effect of the rum had long been evident, making moments of snappy backtalk run fewer than the obscenities. 

Eda smirked, leaning back in her chair. “Yeah, you hate me enough to yowl outside of my fucking door at all hours of the night like a stray cat. Go drink yourself to death in a gutter somewhere if you loathe my company so much.”

Revy didn’t have a brilliant response to that, other than to flip her off while she took another swig, after which she was almost sputtering with the demand for more. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but shit’s gone to Hell around here. Gotta take what I can get.” She said, slurring her words. The bite in them was dull with intoxication.

The woman laughed incredulously. “It’s Roanapur, Revy, since when hasn’t shit gone to Hell?” Eda balanced her glass on the tips of her fingers for a moment. She always had the look of someone who was actively biting her tongue through every tired conversation, and the gunslinger hated her reticence with a passion. “Or did you only just now notice all the fresh corpses you’ve been making with those little toys of yours? Though, it’s nice of you to keep the cleaner chick busy, not that she needs the fucking help.”

“Stupid bitch.” Revy spat, dousing the poisonous words in another downpour of rum. The faster she blacked out, the better, and she had made decent headway. “This ain’t about me. I’m talkin’ about Chang’s new admirer, the one Dutchie’s been tailin’.”

The liveliness on Eda’s face stumbled upon a speed bump of unease that had risen at the unwitting gunslinger’s command, but it was only for a second, and Revy barely registered it before it was smoothed over under a practiced heel. “Don’t you ever think about anything other than work?” Eda demanded to know, a tipsy grit beginning to appear in her own voice, though it progressed at a much slower rate than that of her companion. The woman’s eyes were a mystery behind reflective shades, but Revy knew the look in them was likely every bit as arrogant as her smile. She fought the urge to chuck her glass at full force into Eda’s idiotic face so she could watch the conceit bloom into rage, calling for the exhilaration of a fight to reduce them both to tatters. “If I was interested in talkin’ shop, I would’ve rolled a blunt with Sister Yolanda instead of hanging around your mangy ass. Don’t bring that bullshit in here.”

Revy set the rum down aggressively, her shoulders squaring as the remainder of its contents geysered from it in a sparkle of golden droplets. “The fuck else is there to do? I’m not singin’ hymns with you, Jeanne Deckers. We ain’t catholic schoolgirls kissing in the closet when big daddy’s not lookin’.” The world was already spinning for Revy. What a night to be among the dead, she thought to what extent she could manage, as her surroundings twisted and malformed like blobs of dark matter. “They shot out Chang’s tires earlier today. All of ‘em, one right after the other. Bang… bang… bang…” She pantomimed the event with her right hand, curling her ring and pinky finger in. “...bang.” That time, Revy nudged her emptied glass with the finger gun’s tip, watching as it rolled around on the altar until it eventually reached the edge, where like the rose had on the windowsill, it just barely stopped. “Makes me wanna fuckin’ heave.” She concluded, righting and refilling the glass with a grimace of discomfort.

Eda’s smile widened to morbid proportions. “Fuck me, you’re actually pissing your pants over this political shit. Never thought I’d see the day Two Hands started giving a fuck.” She crossed one leg over the other, declaring, “don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’ve decided to join the rest of us in the real world. If you’d gotten here sooner, you would’ve noticed that the war’s been well on its way.”

Revy rose to the bait in Eda’s smug voice. “If you’ve got somethin’ to say, fuckin’ say it already, you pretentious asshole. We both know you can’t keep secrets for shit.”

“Heh. I can keep ‘em better than you think, Revy.” Eda said strangely, capturing a longer strand of blonde hair that had escaped to tickle her nose as she readjusted her coif. “But fine, I’ll give ya the rundown… not like your drunk ass is gonna remember shit after tonight.” She muttered under her breath before proceeding. “Word on the street is, there’s a bunch of Ivans in town. I’m talkin’ proper cigar-smokin’ mafia types, not like the pussies slithering around this pile of trash. They’re some mean green motherfuckers.”

“ Ivans ?” Revy repeated in a mutter, staring skyward and to the right at the giant crucifix on the wall. What she wouldn’t give to be nailed to a cross right about then. The gilded Jesus stared down at her with sightless eyes, and Revy glowered back, envious.

“Yup, you heard me right. The city’s been crawling with ‘em since last week. Fuckin’ Russkies.”

Revy dangled her head over the back of the chair, closing her eyes. “Mmm.” She hummed. Russkies, huh? She knew a couple of those: one was built like the Iron Giant, and the other looked like if The Rock and Cate Blanchett had a Russian baby, naming her after either a tyrant or a bloodsucking boogeyman. Revy shivered; she would bet on the latter, if the force of her bite had been anything to go by. A part of her— a small part of her— wished the marks had lasted longer. They had been so nice to dig her own fingers into in the dead of night, while her other hand busied itself between her legs…

“ Yo, Earth to Two Hands.” Fingers snapped in front of her nose, and Revy groaned, opening her eyes. “You gotten any lately, or are you still drier than the fuckin’ Sahara?”

“Get outta my face, bitch.” Revy hissed, slapping the hand away when it continued to trespass. “No, I haven’t fuckin’ ‘ gotten any.’ Not that I’d tell you if I fuckin’ did.”

“Don’t be such a killjoy.” Eda returned with distaste of equal measure. “I thought you’d have something juicy to share, since you couldn’t wait ‘til ya got here to get wasted. Fuck me for getting my hopes up.”

Swiftly, defensively, Revy laughed. “In your dreams. I’d fuck a lit stick of dynamite over your bony ass any day of the week.” The amicability between the pair must have resembled a car crash in its current condition; at least they hadn’t shot at each other yet, which was a change of pace.

Eda cracked yet another conniving grin. “Yeah, and you’d get off on it, too, you kinky-ass hoe.”

In response to Revy’s withering glare, the woman cackled. “What? Is it wrong for a couple of dusty old hags to share fetishes over a drink or five?”

“I dunno, bitch, what does your fuckin’ bible say?” No one ever said deflection was improper form in a battle of wills; Revy had never been the sharing type, over rum or otherwise.

“Mmm… ‘the lady doth protest too much,’ that’s what it says.” Eda snarked.

“That’s Shakespeare, not a fuckin’ psalm. Even I fuckin’ know that.”

Eda rolled her eyes. “It was a joke. Gonna make me take the Lord’s name in vain at this rate.”

Revy momentarily stopped drinking in favor of watching the dim light dance over her glass, which projected shifting patterns of gold and deep maroon upon the altar. “Don’t fuckin’ start. If you gave half a shit about God, you wouldn’t be spreading your legs all over town like some cheap-ass whore.”

Eda’s laughter rattled the belfry. “Like your holes aren’t stretched to Hell. Give me a break, you fuckin’ hypocrite.” She jeered, breezing past the comment before Revy could start a proper fight. “Seriously, though, what actually gets you goin’? You droolin’ all over that big black bull of yours? Or, maybe…” Eda licked her lips deviously. “... maybe one of those gigantic fuckin’ Russkies caught your eye.”

The latter observation was as sobering as a house fire; it had Revy straightening in her chair, and brought a dull heat to her face, not to mention elsewhere. Distantly, she wondered how Eda could have possibly stumbled into the truth without even realizing it… unless, somehow, she had known all along. Rarely anything was coincidental in the town that never shut up, and Eda’s ears seemed to extend across continents.

Before Revy could respond, however, Eda interjected once again with yet another damning observation. “Are… are you blushing, Revs?”

She had only just noticed it herself. “It’s the fuckin’ booze, bitch.” She hastened to say, which somehow made the color worsen.

Eda’s grin only widened at Revy’s insistence. “And I’m the Dalai Lama.” She leaned forward over the altar, putting both elbows on it. Her smugness was that of the vulture about to pick a piece of carrion apart as she leaned on the palm of her other hand, the one not currently toying with her glass. “Let me tell you your problem, Revy: you present as this cold, mysterious hardass without a romantic bone in your body, but we both know that’s just posturing.” She swirled the rum in her glass expectantly. “So c’mon, just tell me already. Is that your type? Big Russian mama’s boys?”

Boys…

Black noise speckled in Revy’s vision. She wished it would close in on her, steal her away from the conversation before it continued too far down its current route. “You don’t know shit about me.” She mumbled into her glass, the cliffside before freefall frighteningly close. Drinking had never felt like such a mistake as it did in that tense minute.

“Oooooh, I hit the nail on the head, didn’t I?” Eda persisted. When Revy didn’t reply right away, Eda chuckled triumphantly. “Damn… when did you get a taste for borscht, huh?”

“Don’t even know what that fuckin’ is.” Revy replied through gritted teeth, caught helplessly between wanting to punch Eda into next week and being too drunk for the desire to have any tangible effect. She swayed, unbalanced, in her seat, unable to stabilize herself no matter how much she shifted.

“Bunch of ground up beets in a soup. Russkies down that shit by the gallon, apparently.”

Ugh. Revy shuddered, the idea of it making her want to vomit. “I’m gonna make it a life mission never to fuck any asshat with beet breath.”

If Vladilena’s kiss had tasted of beets, however, she hadn’t noticed for long enough to be sick.

Eda didn’t buy her revulsion. “I’m sure you could get past it if the dick’s good enough.”

“For the last fuckin’ time, I don’t fuck Russkies, and I never will.” Revy snapped, at first making as if to stain the infuriating woman’s habit with a combination of blood and rum, but instead, she slumped back into her chair, liable to fall asleep in it if she closed her eyes for too long.

“Why? You didn’t seem so against the idea a second ago.” Eda’s lower lip jutted out from her smile into a mock-pout.

The gunslinger’s mind gave into wandering once more. She thought of the man with the scar, all hard lines and sharp corners. His face was like the sheer side of a glacier. Vladilena had some of the same angularity as her errand-boy; her jawline, especially, could have been carved of stone or ice. She was covered with a layer of velvet, however, a softness and a heat that Revy yearned for.

“They’re fuckin’... shit, I dunno… gargoyles or somethin’.” She groused.

The woman let out a boisterous laugh. “Uh-huh, bet you’d like one of those gargoyles to be balls-deep in ya. They’re always… get this… rock hard.” Eda sassed, and Revy groaned at the terrible pun. “It’s a shame, though. I hear they carry hefty packages, but they have no fuckin’ clue how to get ‘em through the front door, if you know what I mean.”

Oh, Rebecca. Vladilena’s voice was in her ear again, and the gunslinger quivered. She was reminded of when the woman’s hips had rocked against the back of her thighs, how forceful the thrusts had been. Revy had little doubt that, if Vladilena had been a man, she would have no trouble at all with managing her package.

To hide where her mind had wandered to, Revy forced a grin to her face and barked out a mocking laugh. “Very fuckin’ funny, bitch.” She snarled out darkly, before seizing the bottle of rum by its neck and downing the rest of it in one long gulp.

Ring-RING-ring.

Revy was rudely awoken from her alcohol-induced stupor by the caterwaul of her phone, which lay close enough to her head that the sound made her eardrums ring. Her eyes fluttered open to behold the afternoon sunlight gracing her trashed room, which she had somehow managed to stumble back to after the previous night’s blackout. Her memory ended sometime during her miserable conversation with Eda, after which there was nothing but empty space and a blanket of fog.

Her phone continued to ring, and Revy groaned, peering between her eyelashes at the unfamiliar number displayed on its cracked screen. She could not name the force that compelled her to reach for the BlackBerry, yet she did, accepting the call with about as much enthusiasm as could be expected of her outside of a gunfight.

“Lemme guess… I won the fuckin’ lottery.” She answered, sans greeting, before popping a cigarette in her mouth, which had become slightly bent while in her pocket.

“Hello, Two Hands.” Replied a masculine voice, recognizable by its resonant grit. It brought Revy to alertness even in the doldrums of her hangover.

“You!” She gasped, sitting up too quickly and paying for it when her head spun, the awful sensation of which only added to her anger. The cigarette slipped from her mouth and rolled into some dark corner, not to be retrieved. “How’d you get my fuckin’ number? Did Pidge give it out? I’ll snap his tiny dick off if h—”

“We found it ourselves. It was easy to locate.” There was a noise in the background, like someone was humming. It was muffled. “Pardon the commotion. I’m calling from the office.”

A distant thud sounded, and the humming, or whatever it was, abruptly stopped. Revy felt queasy. “What’d you people do, look me up in the yellow pages or somethin’?” She tried for a joke, but even that came out sounding painful, and she winced like it had stabbed her under her fingernail in retaliation for making it.

Thankfully, the man did not entertain her weak attempt at humor, instead cutting immediately to the matter at hand. “Ms. Vladilena would like to hire you again. Do you have availability tomorrow night? For dinner?” He inquired, his tone perfectly level. 

Revy blinked, unwanted excitement bubbling in her gut. “Dinner?” She echoed, like it was a foreign word.

“Yes.” He confirmed.

Revy rubbed the side of her face with her palm, a certain soreness in her jaw flaring at the implications. Where her imagination inevitably invited her to go made her shiver. “Uh, is that code for me eating her out, or…?”

The man cleared his throat. “She wishes to dine with you at Le Candélabre. It is a restaurant in Trat.” There was another hum, and what sounded like the crinkling of papers as they were shuffled through. “She is offering 1.5 times your previous fee.”

Holy fuck. She thought, going white. One suitcase wouldn’t cut it this time, that’s for damn sure.

“Not… not just dinner, though. Am I right?” Revy scraped the words from her throat, as if with the edge of a rusty butter knife. Every swallow felt raw, like she was choking back blood.

There was a pause on the opposite end of the line that told Revy all she needed to know, but eventually, he replied anyway: “It is… expected that you will provide services to her after the meal has concluded, yes.”

Revy covered her eyes with her hand, another shiver tearing through her at the loaded words. Fuck. To say she was having second thoughts would be an understatement: she was unsure she could go to bed with that woman again and be able to pull herself out of it a second time, not without holding to that Goldilocks-looking hair for dear fucking life. If blues clearer than quartz crystal met her clouded browns one more time, Revy was sure she would die on the spot, that gaze more final than the lethal injection prison had failed to deliver on.

The man interrupted her spiral. “Does that not agree with you?”

Revy shook her head to herself, willing her breathing to even out, and scowling when it remained turbulent. “No… that’s fine. I’ll do it.” She smiled sourly to herself, her voice dripping mockery. “No ‘fuss,’ right, sir ? Wouldn’t wanna hurt your precious girlfriend’s feelings for anything in the fucking world.”

There was another pause on the opposite end. “Ms. Vladilena is my manager.” He said, and Revy wished she could see his face in person, hoping (but doubting) that he had blushed at her suggestion. “We are not—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re her hunky errand-boy.” She sneered. “Bet you wish you were up her skirt. She likes going commando, y’know.”

Evidently, there was nothing suitable to say to that, so he let it be. “I will see you at 1900 hours tomorrow.” He said, his tone somehow even flatter than it had been when the call first started.

“Fucking… ugh, fine. See you then.” Revy said coldly, hanging up.

When there sounded the beep to indicate that the call was done, Revy froze in place, her heart drumming. Holy fuck. She didn’t leave. The bitch didn’t leave. She thought, excitement and dread creating a nauseating cocktail in her stomach. Revy wondered what Vladilena was doing at that moment. Was she getting off on the atmosphere of encroaching doom? Was she so enamored with danger that the approach of a large-scale disaster made every second spent in Roanapur orgasmic for her? Was that why she needed Revy again, to soothe the urgent ache it created before she disappeared to another war-torn city to bang the local floozies?

Envy unexpectedly fluttered to life in her chest, and Revy groaned, slinging her tattooed arm over her face. She reminded herself Vladilena was only a client, and Revy, the service… the fucking “goods,” when it suited everyone; jealousy had no place in an arrangement like that, especially not when her cunt was the Russian’s personal commodity, a thing to be bought and consumed.

It would have been a hell of a lot simpler if she had treated it like that— a job to do. Nothing should have been easier than spreading her legs and moaning some stranger’s name for the satisfaction of crisp hundred-dollar bills slapping her palm. It could never be simple, though, could it? Vladilena had to look at her with that adoring expression, and whisper to her like those idiots out in their fishing boats Revy and Dutch often saw, uttering prayers to the Buddha statue overshadowing the port… like Revy was an idol worth praising, even as she, too, disintegrated into the ocean where the dust of her spelled out a nonsensical epitaph. There was boundless admiration to be had in the Russian’s vast gaze; from any significant distance, frozen tundra was all that was visible in the pale cerulean of it, but Revy had been close enough to witness the fire that existed there when hands wandered and heavy breaths turned to cries of necessity, light blue darkening to a lustful cobalt shade. God, when she witnessed it burning all over again, no amount of force could tear her from that woman. She would fuck her into the next century, time blinking by as the world became mystical with passion.

There are exceptions, right? Don’t tell me I’m an actual fucking queer. She languished to herself, stricken by her own senselessness. If I was a real dyke, I would’ve gone ga-ga over chicks earlier. I’ve had plenty of chances…

She bit her lip. Had she? She thought back to the murky time before prison, when memories were scant and those that still existed were slathered with a thick black ooze, sinking rapidly into the oil with the shattered glass and the tears and the fucking feathers. The further she traveled into that swamp of nightmares, the more she began to realize that she couldn’t remember the last time she had felt attraction towards anyone, man or woman. Revy was vaguely aware of what puberty was supposed to have been like, anecdotally speaking: along with the acne and crippling social anxiety, she should have been horny for almost anything that moved, before her brain latched onto the few kinks that really got her going. It hadn’t been like that for her at all, though, not that she could remember: from the very beginning, her world was dominated by guns and cigarettes, no time or desire for even the basest pleasures. Wherever that mechanism in her head was, her childhood demons had found and destroyed it. Prison only seemed to break it more: sure, she could get wet on a dime, that was only a matter of practice, but genuine attraction? That was asking for a kick in the ribs. It was only sex, a few blank seconds of adrenaline as part of the larger power play. There was no room for romance under those circumstances, no opportunity to take things further beyond the patronage of a few regulars here and there. Roanapur had been more of the same, only mouths and fingers had been exchanged for the business end of whips and floggers; it created a distance that was almost comfortable after her claustrophobic prison days, spent face-deep in someone’s crotch on the floor of a filthy bathroom stall, day after day.

Revy had tried to tell herself that it was the money that sweetened the deal enough to diminish the offense of bedding a woman, perhaps even making the act of it pleasurable, but even Vladilena had called her out on that excuse. She could see through the gunslinger like shrink wrap, and Revy had let herself be so translucent and tender that those experienced hands effortlessly picked her apart.

This was going to be an utter disaster.

It was all Revy could think as she tore fitfully at her hair, ripping at knots that the flimsy spindles of her hairbrush failed to untangle. The day had arrived like the engine of a train, a morning lost from getting high leaving her with only hours to prepare, and she had yet to raid her closet for something wearable as the moment loomed; the name of the restaurant sounded high-end, but even the few tasteful pieces of her wardrobe only narrowly met that criteria. Everything was some combination of low-cut, leather, or tight as fuck; while Revy doubted any of those would offend Vladilena, who had ogled her freely in the black corset she had chosen last time, domme gear didn’t exactly scream “fancy dinner,” not unless some tied-up bitch was the centrepiece.

Revy snorted, recalling one time while working for Pidge where she was that tied-up bitch: she never learned the exact context of the event, only that a collection of current and prospective investors would be present, and Rowan intended to have all of his best girls on the clock that night. The theme had been “play parties,” which Revy found to be almost tame when considering some of the activities that the Pigeons accommodated, but she supposed “anal drilling” was probably too unpalatable for a bunch of stuck-up bitches (though she had met plenty of richies whose kinks would disturb even the most experienced dominatrix). In the weeks leading up to the function, Pidge hounded her relentlessly about it, eventually all but ordering her to appear as the head table’s decoration, a role which Revy despised. Sure, laying spread-eagled for the lecherous enjoyment of Rowan’s gaggle of guests was light work when compared to her usual fare, but that was exactly the issue: what little mental fortitude Revy had left relied upon the active element of her work, a sense of power and control given to her by the tails of a flogger, the crack of a whip in her hand— the performative cries of the women beneath her, begging for more, harder, through tears and drool. She could take it like she gave it, too; the pain distracted her from whatever bullshit went on in her head, and the other leather-clad women complimented her afterwards on how nicely her skin marked when she was on the receiving end. Playing a glorified Christmas ornament offered her nothing, and naturally, Revy fought Rowan on it every step of the way; she counteroffered to take the stage for double her usual hours, or even work the tables instead, only to be denied vehemently each time. Rowan rarely threatened anyone, let alone his girls— as far as Revy understood, he was a rarity among his breed for that— but his capacity for tolerance did not negate the viciousness he was capable of when his cards dared turn against him. Revy knew first-hand just how ugly an argument with Pidge could become when he was motivated; his sweet nothings turned to acid quickly. Everyone had two sides, Revy found; some seemed to have more, but when push came to shove, it was usually always two.

After she was at last worn down by half-a-month of constant weedling and personal attacks, Revy finally accepted, the defeat bringing with it a twinge of resentment towards old Pidge that refused to be dislodged.

“I know it ain’t your style, li’l mama,” he told her, his tone implying a wisp of an apology, “but I wanted to shake it up for this one, you feel me?”

Oh, she felt him, all right. She felt the satisfaction he would give her when she made a wreath of his entrails in Hell.

On the day of the event, Revy was led to the room before the attendees arrived, completely nude if not for the leatherette around her neck. She was flanked closely by bouncers on either side, per Rowan’s (not unfounded) concern that she might change her mind and run for the hills at a second’s opportunity. She did as she was paid to do, however, glumly allowing the doms to manipulate her like a life-size marionette into the positions they desired: they blindfolded and lifted her upon the main table, her back made to arch against the cushioned, half-cylindrical platform that had been raised above it by a pair of steel beams; red rope was drawn across her skin over and over again, securing her ankles to the backs of her thighs so it appeared like she was crouching in midair, knees butterflying out until nothing was hidden. Her wrists connected to her feet, not unlike a hogtie, enforcing the curve of her spine and tethering her to the apparatus. She balanced there for hours while the party went on below her, the ambience of clinking glasses and muted conversation filling her head until her mind eventually began to go numb by it; unable to see or move, a half-suspended fixture in the world’s trashiest museum, Revy cocooned herself in that imaginary place where nothing could touch her, leaving her body to weather what her mind could not while she watched from afar.

She quit within the month to go work for Dutch after that, thoroughly unaffected by Rowan’s groveling, however impassioned. Even a little over two years later, Revy swore she could still feel the faint tingling of her limbs after such prolonged stillness, accompanied by the suffocating caress of hemp, coiling tighter as it absorbed more and more sweat. It made her want to vomit up her guts, or better yet, shoot her left tit off.

It was an hour before she was meant to meet with Vladilena that a knock sounded from the side door, and Revy swore, tugging on the first garment she saw that wasn’t completely provocative— though the slender black dress had more coverage than most of her outfits, her ass was still sticking out of it. She cursed again and pulled the hem of it down as far as possible, not that Dutch would see; he was out again, probably meeting with Chang. Skating her way anxiously down the stairs, she opened the door to the same scarred man, who looked as severe as when she had first seen him. He was holding a suitcase in each hand this time, both larger than the one currently rotting under her bed, and Revy’s heart thudded hard in her chest as he proffered them.

“Your payment.” He announced in lieu of a “hello,” brusque and to-the-point. 

Revy grunted when he released the suitcases into her grasp; she stared down at them, awed by the feeling of holding a small country’s fortune in her hands— with the knowledge that it was all hers— for the second time in a row. “…thanks.” 

The man nodded, stopping her when she turned to store the money away and possibly finish wrestling her hair. “Wait; there is something else for you, too.”

Revy noticed, for the first time, that a large paper bag was resting at the man’s feet, from which he retrieved two sets of clothes still attached to their hangers. He was careful not to let them brush the dusty pavement as he held them up to either side of himself. “Le Candélabre has a dress code. Ms. Vladilena did not wish for you to be embarrassed.” The man explained.

“How nice of her.” Revy said dryly, trying not to make her fascination with the outfits too apparent. The first of them was a sleek black pantsuit that looked like something out of a James Bond movie, an alternate universe where Pierce Brosnan was a lesbian ladykiller out for blood. Instead of a button-down shirt, however, it was paired with a deep black v-neck, which Revy could tell just by the sight of it would nearly reach her navel. The other was a mid-length, strapless gown, also black; it split on one side to reveal a splash of purple beneath, which continued up and along the chest in the form of embroidered African violets, the sight of which immediately brought a blush to Revy’s face. She thought of her dream while sleeping off her first session with Vladilena, how it ended as she lay upon a bed of violets. She prayed to whatever existed out there that Vladilena wasn’t telepathic; she couldn’t live the embarrassment down if that woman glimpsed even a fraction of what went on in her head.

When the initial allure ran its devastating course, Revy managed a hesitant murmur. “...are you guys loaning these to me, or what?” The gunslinger could have slapped herself for the nervous tremor in her growl; it wasn’t as though this were prom, not that Revy was ever invited to one back in those days. Her teenage years were a blur of black eyes and nights spent on the floors of useless welfare facilities; even if she weren't a middle school dropout, a life ruled by blood and bullets earned her no rungs upon the social ladder. Hardening, she added: “‘Cuz I’m not promising shit about what condition you’ll get ‘em back in. Your boss is a fucking menace.”

“I should have clarified: Both are yours to keep.” The man answered. “You may wear whichever one you want, or neither, if you already had something in mind,” he glanced at her current attire with an appraising eye, further stoking her sense of inadequacy, “but it would likely please Ms. Vladilena to see you enjoying her gifts.”

Real smooth. She thought, rolling her eyes. “Are you her flunky or her fucking wingman?”

The man did not reply. He gave her another moment to review her options before returning both garments to their bag, which he handed to her, also. (Between the suitcases overflowing with dough and what seemed to Revy the rejects of a duchess’s wardrobe, she imagined Vladilena dipping her in gold by the night’s end, the deserved surprise barely present in its jaded beneficiary.) “I’ll wait out here until you are ready.” He said simply, popping the screen door for her to spare her the struggle.

“Uh-huh.” Revy mumbled, clumsily shoving her way back into the half-residence and lugging her haul up the stairs. She was glad Dutch didn’t have security cameras, at least insofar as she knew; paranoid as he was lately, she’d be in deep shit if he saw her cutting deals with Russians, sexual or otherwise.

When she reached her bedroom, the two suitcases joined the other beneath her bed, reminding her of her preteen years spent hiding spare change from her dad inside her filthy mattress back in New York. He nearly beat her into a pulp the day he found out. She shrugged the black dress off her shoulders and let it fall into the wasteland, where it joined the rest of the garbage. She turned her attention to the paper bag on her bed, swallowing as she lifted both outfits from inside. Her heart skipped a beat as a familiar scent hit the back of her throat, and she immediately drew both of them into her chest, pushing her face into the fabric and inhaling deeply through her nose. Vladilena’s perfume wafted up from the clothing in a cloud... had the Russian hand-picked them like before, Revy wondered? She must have. The realization made her tongue thicken in her mouth.

Somewhere outside, there was the sound of a crowing bird, signaling to Revy that her time was nearly up. In a panic, she chose the dress, placing the pantsuit on her bed as carefully as she bothered. She awkwardly lifted the gown above her head, raising both arms and forcing it down her body until it lay comfortably. It was a decent fit, though Revy supposed she shouldn’t be surprised, not after her client had taken such care in the previous week's clothes-shopping stunt. It was still a bit unsettling how intimately the woman seemed to know her body after just one night with it: the dress hugged her curves in all the right places, accentuating her hips and wrapping snugly around her chest, though not so much as to impede her breathing. A quick glance into her TV’s broken screen at her reflection proved that, among all the provocative outfits with varying degrees of exposure she had worn, it was somehow the most concealing, yet also the sexiest, yet.

Speaking of sexy…

Revy frowned; the threadbare tan underwear she had on beneath the dress hardly fit that description. She forgot to retrieve a nicer pair out of her closet, if any were even clean, and was about to go look when an idea struck her. Smirking as she remembered her first encounter with the Russian, she yanked the shoddy fabric down her legs and did not replace it. Let’s see what she thinks of that.

When it came time to put up her hair, Revy was at a loss; the dress came with a butterfly-shaped hair clip, which Revy could begrudgingly admit looked pretty with the multicolored gems filling in its wings of black wire, but while she could see where the clasp was, she had no idea how to make it release. She figured slamming it against the nearest hard surface, as was so often her method for dispatching inconveniences, probably wouldn’t solve anything this time. (She inexplicably felt a twinge of remorse for the poor rose on her windowsill, but shoved the feeling aside as quickly as it reared.) Soon enough, it was too late to bother with further; defeated, she rescued her guns from the disarray of her mattress and hurriedly strapped their holsters to her torso. They rattled around at her sides as she blazed down the stairs, trying not to eat shit on the plywood wall at the bottom (and succeeding, luckily, though she wondered if Vladilena would have kissed away the resulting scrapes… and covered up the bruises with some of her own).

The man hummed in what might have been approval when Revy stepped out onto the porch again, her shoulders raised self-consciously into her neck.

“I… uh… I didn’t know how to do the fuckin’ clip.” It was all she could say, coming out in a lame stammer that Revy barely registered as her own voice. Her hands still cradled the annoying object, fidgeting absentmindedly with its rhinestone-encrusted petals.

He held out his hand. “May I?”

Revy grinned. “What, you goin’ dancin’ tonight, pretty boy?” When her jab elicited no reaction, she scoffed, shoving the item into his grasp with a vicious sneer. “Sure, whatever; knock yourself out.”

The man made a twirling motion with his pointer finger. “Turn around.” He said, adding when she balked at his request, “I know how to do it.”

‘Course you fuckin’ do. Revy thought to herself, swallowing hard enough to make her throat sore as she did what was asked. Even still, she watched him over her shoulder, glancing at his hands while he fiddled with the clip. There was a clinking sound as the clasp came undone, and Revy flinched when his knuckle brushed the back of her neck, nearly recoiling completely. She reminded herself that the bars of the screen door in front of her were not those of a prison, nor the concrete of the back porch that of a cellblock. She wasn’t about to be thrown by her hair into a slab wall. Deep breath.

“There,” the man declared after a moment,  “that should stay.”

He reached into his back pocket, removing a small round disk of red metal, into the top of which a design of golden florets had been etched. There was a click, and the disk unfolded, revealing itself to be a compact mirror. “Would you like to see?” He held it up to her, and Revy, who was completely taken aback by his sincerity, could not help but to peer inside. The barrette pulled the gunslinger’s hair taut to her scalp, hiding the knots she had failed to smooth out. Her bangs still descended in messy clumps over her forehead, frizzy and unkempt like old hay, but their wild appearance seemed almost intentional when considering the ironed sum of her.

“What… what the fuck do you have that for?” Revy demanded to know, regarding the mirror with a weak half-frown.

The man shrugged. “Emergencies.” He returned the mirror to its place and checked his watch. “We need to be going before we’re missed, Two Hands. Quickly.”

The car ride was an uncomfortable affair, but Revy hadn’t expected anything less. Her stomach was a basket of nerves, and the man’s silence over the past ten minutes did nothing to help. She alternated between staring listlessly out the window of the Benz as they sped down Satanam Street, messing with the A/C, and glaring at the man in the driver’s seat, who moved like he belonged in a factory. Revy was tempted to roll up his sleeves and find out if he dreamt of electric sheep.

Instead, she settled for subjecting him to a series of one-sided conversations every so often, figuring she may as well try to get under his skin with what time she had, which was not as effective at bullying him into transparency as she had optimistically assumed; at most, she squeezed a one or two-word reply out of him every other thesis. By the time thirty minutes had passed, and their surroundings became an almost unrecognizable smudge of cityscape to the gunslinger, she was no closer to knowing anything about him nor Vladilena than she had been when the ride started.

“…so, I said, ‘eat this, motherfucker!’ And hit the dumb bitch over the head with his own rifle. Then, I sent him and the rest of his buddies to kingdom come with one blast.” She ended with a proud flourish, grinning to herself at the memory. That overzealous squad of nobodies thought they got the jump on her and Dutch, only to find out seconds later how wrong they were. They begged for mercy in their final moments, which only intensified Revy’s glee as she put a bullet in their fuel tank; a job well done, as always. She secretly liked when she could coax those commending little smiles from Dutch after an especially good day, clinking glasses down at The Yellow Flag together.

Her grin faltered. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d celebrated that way; even before Roanapur had gone into lockdown, their visits to the bar, which were a nightly occurrence for a while, seemed less and less frequent, until they one day stopped altogether. She missed them— missed him — though she would never admit to it so long (or short, more accurately) as she may live. Maybe, when it all came crashing down, he would pass by her watery grave from time-to-time when it was convenient, sparing her a thought in the process… maybe he’d pop an extra Heineken just for her, raise it to her memory.

Revy lip curled. What a load of bullshit.

After a wave of sullen silence enveloped her, she thought of something to distract herself from that pang of loneliness that arrived to eat away at her soul. “Hey… wanna know why I go by Revy and not Becky, or some shit like that?” She asked the man, who barely glanced at her. “It’s ’cuz Revy sounds halfway fuckin’ decent, like revving an engine, y’know? Becky’s like… I dunno… the girl in high school with an acne problem, glasses that’re too fuckin’ big for her face, and teeth like a horse with a six-figure dental bill. Not sayin’ that was me— I was the quiet kid with the hoodie in the back row who everyone figured would grow up to be another Eric Houston— but it’s an image thing. No one’s scared of Becky Lee, but Revy Lee? That’s got fangs. Sounds like an actual merc, not some oily bitch starring in an anti-bullying PSA.”

To her credit, that wasn’t totally untrue. She had other reasons to hate the nickname, to explain the ghostly chill that rippled down her spine and the sinking feeling in her gut when the uninitiated used it for her. She cleared her throat and kept on when the man, as expected, said nothing. “But… but it’s what people think of when they first meet me, right? So I’m constantly telling off these idiots when they get it wrong.” She looked over at him as he scanned the road, searching his face and finding little. “I mean, you get it, right, latke boy? Americans suck at anything that ain’t Dick and Jane— I’m guilty as fuckin’ charged— so yours probably gets botched all the time.”

“My what?” The man finally spoke, and Revy perked up.

“Your name.” She pressed. “Yknow, that thing people have?”

The man looked at her out of the corner of his eye, humming noncommittally to himself. “It doesn’t come up, usually.” He told her; Revy could tell by the change in his tone that he was tiptoeing around the matter. “But it has not been an issue.”

Revy released a breath, growing impatient. “Uh-huh… so it’s not Dostoevsky, then?”

“Pardon?”

She chewed her lip. “Actually, even the herbs in Camden probably wouldn’t screw that one up.” Revy backtracked, frowning as she tried to think of other Russian names. “What about Tchaikovsky?”

“Those are family names.” The man corrected gently.

Revy’s nose scrunched. “Well, yeah, obviously. They're still names, though.”

He didn’t reply after that, appearing to be fixated on the route, and Revy thumped her foot with a dramatic sigh. If the man paid much mind to the annoying thud, thud, thud she made, he did not react, beyond perhaps scratching the side of his face. Revy at first thought about slicing it open again, seeing as there was already a dotted line to follow. Instead, unable to reign in the compulsion, she petulantly jabbed her finger into his bicep, finding that the soft texture of his jacket— the green to Vladilena’s red— covered iron. If she were to punch him, she would probably shatter her hand. Hell, maybe her bullets would simply bounce off of him, as though he were a Ralph Hinkley raised by grizzlies in the heart of Siberia.

“Is there something you want, Two Hands?” He said, finally showing that he was at least somewhat alive.

“I just wanna know your fucking name, jackass.” Revy snapped at last, no longer teasing him lightly as she had been doing since they set off. “I’ve been calling you The Hulkanov in my head for the past week. That and errand-boy. I need something new.”

A small part of her had been hoping to make him chuckle— or grimace, at least— with the nicknames she’d chosen, so the scowl on her face deepened when he remained as rigid as a beam of steel, refusing to emote one way or the other. “My name is not of importance.”

Revy sucked in a hotheaded breath. “You’re so fucking creepy.” She growled, crossing her arms over her chest and slumping back in her seat. “If it’s not important, who gives a shit?”

The man did not respond for a while, focusing intently on the road. “This is not a negotiation.” He said, a small note of danger suddenly slinking into his otherwise emotionless tone.

“Guess I didn’t get the fucking memo.” Revy spat. “I bet Vladilena isn’t her real name. Shit sounds corny as fuck.”

He did not answer, and Revy took that as confirmation. “It’s not, huh? Figures. She gets to know everything about me— call me fuckin’ Rebecca to my face— and I don’t even get to know her pet dog’s name, let alone hers.”

“It is a matter of confidentiality.” He replied, smoothly as ever.

“What about my fuckin’ confidentiality? Or privacy, or what-fucking-ever?” Revy snarled out the words, raising her voice to obscure the potent misery that stung her. “I fucking hate this bullshit. People in power thinkin’ they can stomp on anyone they fucking want without consequences.” Her growl deepened and she lowered her chin in condescension, attempting to mimic Vladilena’s voice and mannerisms. “‘I’m in a sensitive position! I cannot simply pick whores up off of the street! Are you a fucking idiot?’ Tch. What a joke. Well, let me tell you somethin’, bitch boy: I’ve killed a lot of people, and you want to know what it taught me? It doesn’t fuckin’ matter how ‘sensitive’ someone’s fat ass is: everyone sounds the same when they’re choking on their own blood, writhing around in the dirt until they go down to Hell.” 

Her tone darkened further. “I’d probably get more answers if I blew her fuckin’ head off and looked inside than if I asked a goddamn simple-ass question.” Revy added in a scornful mutter, for good measure.

The scarred man set his mouth into a somehow tighter line than it usually was, and without warning, he wrenched the steering wheel, making the car swerve violently. Revy squealed as they turned, nearly slamming her head into the window of the car, but managing to catch herself in the nick of time. “Holy fucking shit! What the fuck is wrong with y—” 

Revy realized they had pulled into an alleyway, where the man parked and turned off the car. Panic gripped her, and she immediately reached for her guns, her lifelines, but the man reacted with the reflexes of a panther, capturing her smaller hands in his own before her fingertips met gunmetal. The scarred man curled his fingers over hers to keep them closed, and he leaned back, as if trying to appear non-threatening despite his steely grip on her. It was like he was holding a beetle by the wings, not too hard as to injure the breakable structure, but with the force necessary to imply that his hold could turn crushing if he exerted even the slightest bit of strength. He looked like he could deck half the WWF with his left thumb, let alone a 150-pound-even bitch with a chip on her shoulder.

“Don’t you fuckin’—”

“We are stopping.” He explained unnecessarily, his hands unmoving. Neither were reaching for the gun she knew to be hidden somewhere beneath the vastness of his suit-jacket, but that could change in a matter of seconds.

Twisting with all her strength, she managed to wrench herself free from his grasp when it loosened by a fraction. “I fucking see that. Why?” She growled, surreptitiously wiping the sweat from her palms as she glared at the man.

“To prevent you from saying or doing something you will regret.” He explained, adjusting a cuff she had rumpled. “Ms. Vladilena does not wish this evening to be unpleasant. How long do you need?”

“To what? Calm down?” Revy practically laughed in his face, seething. “I’m perfectly fucking calm, asshole. Get back on the fucking road.”

The man eyed her dubiously for a moment before carrying on. “I have been instructed to avoid causing you discomfort, but that privilege can be rescinded at any time.” He drummed his fingers against the dashboard to punctuate his admonishment. “The key word there is avoid, Miss Lee. I have no qualms with restraining you if absolutely necessary.”

The threat of restraint— fucking restraint— was more than motivation enough for Revy to make her Berettas sing the Bohemian Rhapsody on his ass; seconds before giving in to instinct, however, she was yet again pacified by the phantom sensation of Vladilena’s breath on her ear, the steak dinner presented to a cornered, beaten stray. It satisfied the hunger of her fury even better than the blood she routinely bathed in, and her hands, while not leaving her holsters, slid safely down and away from her pistols’ grips. She cowered in her seat like she was shouldering several anvils’ worth of weight upon her back, clenching her teeth and meeting the infuriatingly neutral gaze of the man yet again. “Go ahead and try it, bitch, see what fucking happens.” At least she could collect a few points for bravery… although, it was probably closer to stupidity, if the rapidly curdling expression on the man’s face meant business like she thought it did. “I ran my mouth; so what? Vlad’s not gonna suck you off for wringing my skinny neck, ya fuckin’ pansy. I’m just tellin’ it like it is, because guess what, I wasn’t expecting to be carted around like Eva fucking Perón today. I wasn’t—” Her hands balled into fists, her nostrils flaring as she struggled not to lose it completely and risk being punched full of holes by the Russian’s pocket-sized friend. “I wasn’t expecting to be fucked by her again. Ya got it, errand-boy? You can unbunch your little girl pants now.” When he continued to stare, Revy let out a shaky breath, her eyes no longer quite so narrow. “It’s fine. I won’t piss off your mistress, or whatever she is to you. Okay? I’ll… make sure she has a good time.” Like a good little whore.

Sweating when the silence wore on, Revy quickly added, “I won’t hurt her, or whatever.” I don’t think I could if I fucking wanted to. She added miserably in her mind, hoping the sentiment somehow got across all the same.

At that, he finally nodded in acknowledgement, the unmistakable look of you had better not, or else you will disappear to where not even the seagulls will find you in his face more than speaking for him as started the car again. He pulled out of the alleyway and back onto the main road, continuing forward as if nothing had happened.

Revy was still fuming when they arrived at the restaurant minutes later. The scarred man had driven them around to the back of it, yet again citing confidentiality.

“Hers, or mine?” Revy sneered.

To that, he provided no clarification. “I will get the door for you.” He told her instead, before sliding out of the driver’s seat once they had parked.

“What a fucking gentleman.” Revy muttered, never mind their earlier confrontation. This is really, really fucked. She thought with a deep frown that seemed to drag the rest of her face down with it.

She waited for him to pop open the door, and once he had, she hurried to step out, cursing when her heel caught on her dress. The scarred man held out his arm, almost automatically, and without thinking, Revy took hold of it, leaning on him as if he were a telephone pole while she disentangled the loose thread from the back of her high heels. Should’ve worn the fuckin’ suit. She thought to herself, irritated.

When it occurred to her that she was currently using the scarred man like a wall, she flinched away, stomping her freed foot down on the pavement. In contrast, he looked thoroughly unconcerned, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to be her multitool.

Vladilena’s toy soldier, thought Revy with disdain. I bet he lights her cigars for her.

Brushing her hair out of her face, the gunslinger straightened her shoulders. “Let’s get this party started.” She sighed, starting forward with the same energy as a delinquent teen about to face the principal (if the principal was a blonde supermodel who favored corporal punishment), but the man’s voice stopped her before she had taken so much as two steps.

“Boris.”

Revy turned, slightly. “What’d you say?”

“My name is Boris.” He clarified.

Her brow tightly knotted as she attempted to conceal her surprise. She hadn’t expected him to cave to her demand, especially not after the scene they had created in the Benz; and was that sheepishness on his face? “Uh… fuck… okay, whatever. Nice to meet you. Or… re-meet you, I guess?” She tripped over her words, apprehensively offering her hand for him to shake when he did not give her his. He accepted it: his handshake was reminiscent of arm-wrestling a boulder, though she suspected he had toned his usual greeting down for her.

For a brief moment, Revy swore she saw the slightest upturn of his stony lips, but perhaps that had only been her mind filling in the blanks of his face. “It is nice to meet you properly as well.” He said, and for once, Revy thought he sounded faintly pleasant, like there was a human heart beating beneath all the cold and mechanical plating after all.

Her flustered response aside, Revy smiled at the small triumph, suddenly not caring if it was his real name or not. She was just happy to know that the statue had cracks after all, even if he wasn’t the one she was really after.

The two proceeded into the back of the restaurant, the interior of which was all glossiness and upscale furnishings that all looked like they cost a fortune to maintain. Even the inconspicuous hallway in which they were currently standing had paintings on the walls and luxurious seating arrangements lining the passage, exactly as she had imagined it and the other snobbish buildings they had passed on the way there might look on the inside. Revy had traveled throughout most of Roanapur (as her job demanded), but rarely had she ever set foot in Trat, an opulent and glamorous town in comparison, trod upon by polished shoes worn by the likes of Chang and his pretentious compatriots.

The fact was not lost on Revy how unfit she was for such an environment. A monkey in a dress is still a fuckin’ monkey. She thought glumly, cringing as she imagined stepping out into a grand dining room, the eyes of its silver-spoon-sucking clientele reducing her to a pig wearing lipstick.

The chatter of the other patrons was distant, however, as the man led her up a series of stairs to another private hallway: vast, windowless, and sparsely decorated, it read as a passage used by staff than anything traversed in such an outfit as that which she was currently sporting, the dress seeming to scintillate with dollar signs as she walked. (Revy wondered why exactly the dress code mattered if no one was around to judge her against it.) They made their way down the corridor until they reached the set of red doors at the end, and Revy caught the scent of familiar perfume lingering on the handles, which made her breath tangle in her throat.

Boris stepped off to the side once they had arrived, assuming the posture of those tacky suits of armor found in old blockbuster mansions. “I am to remain here, to ensure that you and Ms. Vladilena are not bothered.” He explained.

She swallowed. “Yeah, yeah.” Before heading inside, she turned to Boris one last time, deciding he was owed something for all his trouble. “Hey, uh… thanks for not… shooting my ass off, or whatever.” Revy mumbled, genuinely.

“You are welcome.” He said, and this time, Revy was certain she saw a ghostly smile on his lips.

Revy returned it with a cocky grin of her own, before breezing into the closed-off space. “Yo, Vlad, I’m here.”

The little room she entered was dim, though not as much as Pigeons’ had been, since which it had begun to feel like decades had passed. The walls were beige, but not so beige as to appear sickly yellow; it instead took on a ruddy appearance that matched the red-and-gold oriental rugs below, which were placed over mahogany flooring that had been varnished to the point that it shimmered darkly in the low light. The furniture was of deep, polished wood, a table centered under a bronzy chandelier within which the light of faux candles feigned flickering.

She was as radiant as the first time Revy first laid eyes on her, but perhaps, wrapped up in the elegance of the Michelin-star atmosphere, she was made all the more so: She wore a high-necked burgundy dress with sleeves that trailed to her wrists, hugging her curves and containing the muscles Revy knew to be hardened beneath. The rosehip color of the ensemble gradated to that of fresh snow at its hem, rimed with hundreds of clear, shimmering jewels, which like prisms cast the spectrum of colors upon the wooden floors. Just like before, a dark veil obscured the right half of her face.

“Renfield— so wonderful to see you again.” Vladilena greeted her with a luminous smile. She stood at once to take Revy’s hands in her own, kissing each one, nearly driving the gunslinger to choke on air. Wintry eyes looked her up-and-down, each glance like the softest bite of cold and distant lands. “Although, tonight, I would sooner mistake you for Mina Harker.”

Revy chuckled apprehensively. “You gonna bite me again, bitch?” She said, acutely aware of how exposed her neck and shoulders were in the dress. She instinctually placed a protective hand over the vulnerable skin at the thought, only to let it fall away once more as Vladilena drank her in, the look in her eyes flooded with the memories of their time above the strip club. Revy knew, because her mind went to the same place. 

The Russian woman pulled her in closer, for a moment, teeth deliberately catching on Revy’s earlobe. The gunslinger hissed as if in displeasure, but the attention was far from unwanted. “Indeed I will. Far more than just three times.” Vladilena promised, and Revy swallowed harshly.

“You’d fuckin’ better.” Revy groaned, half-hoping Vladilena would just keep going and have her there on the table, but the woman only smiled that mysterious little smile of hers before gesturing for Revy to sit.

“You sure do have a boner for private rooms, huh?” Revy teased as she sat across from her, though her tone was far from entirely joking, veering hard into bitterness. “Don’t want to be seen groping a little Asian brat, right?”

Vladilena wore a thoughtful expression at that. “I gave you the reasoning for this secrecy already, which, if I can recall, did not involve your race or stature.”

“Right, right. ‘Sensitive position.’ I can actually fucking remember shit.” Revy spat. She couldn’t pinpoint why she had said it so harshly, then, or even back in the car with Boris; it wasn’t as though she and Vladilena were actually lesbian lovers. Revy was on the clock, the same as their last meeting, that’s the only reason why she had agreed to meet her at all. Remembering her lackey’s teal eyes shooting daggers (or a few rounds, more like) into her, she drew a breath, attempting to stop the thoughts that rampaged in her mind before they made her say something regrettable. She tried to wipe the vinegar on her face away as she picked up the thick menu in front of her, paging through it in a state of indignant awe. “Jesus fucking Christ… what is this, a menu or a fucking novel?”

Vladilena chuckled lowly, and Revy felt goosebumps again. “They have quite the selection. You can order as much or as little as you would like.”

Revy scratched the back of her neck, her nails jagged and uneven as they picked at her flesh. “To be completely fucking honest with you, I don’t know what most of this shit is. Cot-el-ettes dag-no al-ail? Squab a la go-dard?” She could barely pronounce the names of them, and the fact that they did not even bother listing the prices told Revy all she needed to know about the bill they would be receiving, which she probably shouldn’t look at. “What even is a sefton, anyway?”

“Mmm, well, côtelettes d'agneau à l'ail is lamb chops with garlic; I’ve had it once before. Squab… is pigeon meat, though I am not certain what the ‘Godard’ part refers to.” Vladilena’s nose wrinkled as she thought on Revy’s last question, eventually admitting, “I don’t know what a sefton is, either.”

Revy raised an eyebrow. “What about gâteau aux pommes?”

“Likely something to do with apples.”

“Turbot?” The gunslinger was enjoying this game, leaning both elbows on the table as she watched Vladilena’s brow contort.

“Mmm… that is unclear.”

Revy smirked. “Confit de canard ?”

“I could not tell you.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at the look of concentration on the Russian’s face. “You’re trying to impress me, bringing me to this fancy-ass place.” Revy commented facetiously. “And even you don’t know what half of this stuff is. That’s… pretty fucking cute of you, Vlad.”

The woman was quiet for a while, and Revy felt a flutter of anxiety in her chest at the possibility that she had once again overstepped some invisible boundary. Vladilena was still smiling softly, however, even as her gaze dipped down to play over her own hands, which twitched as if with uncertainty.

“You’ve caught on to my scheme; very astute, Rebecca.” She sounded impressed, at first, and Revy subconsciously straightened up at the praise; however, amused concession soon tapered off into that sadness the gunslinger had noted when first attempting to interrogate her, low and dull in Vladilena’s weary murmur. “As I told you when we first met, I’m still learning how to navigate circumstances such as these. After last week’s activities, I felt— hmmm— I regretted that our first meeting was above a strip club, though it was not the worst establishment of its kind I’ve visited. I would have preferred to do it this way, in hindsight. Consider this a do-over.”

The blonde was so earnest, so meek in her apology, that Revy narrowly avoided barking out a rude laugh. She couldn’t help some suggestion of one from slipping into her reply, however, when the endeared surprise wore off enough for her to manage it.

“You… you’re paying me, remember?” Revy reminded her lightly. When Vladilena’s face fell a bit, as if slapped, the gunslinger backpedaled, trying to keep casual about it. “I mean… you don’t have to try that hard, is what I’m saying. You could’ve ordered pizza and I would’ve been happy.” Could’ve done it on Jackpot’s fucking floor and I would’ve been happy. That traitorous voice in her ear murmured.

Vladilena’s eyes misted over with an emotion Revy couldn’t place, and the woman reached across the table to grasp her right hand in her own, dragging her thumb over bruised knuckles thoughtfully. “Hmm, well… I wouldn’t want to risk the delivery boy getting waylaid. Then we’d only have one another to eat, you know, and there would be nothing left of us should that happen.” She joked, but the smile she flashed didn’t quite reach her eyes that time.

Revy swallowed as she stared down at the hand touching hers. It was strangely callused, as if roughened by years of hard labor, and Revy was reminded of the superior strength that was barely contained by the wrapping of silk and lace.

God, she wanted to tear it all from her and fuck her like an animal.

“Speaking of that…” A devious smirk appeared on the woman’s face, and Revy’s heart skipped a beat at the sight. “Seeing as we’re both under-informed, why don’t we give everything a try?”

“I… what?” Revy said, dumbfounded. Paling, she added, “wait, you’re not gonna order the whole fuckin’ menu, are you?” They were going to need a bigger table… and Revy, a bigger stomach.

Vladilena chuckled at her sudden concern. “No. We’ll share a sampler— every dish on the first two pages in smaller portions. Would you like that?” She seemed genuinely excited about the idea. Where Revy had felt like the dog last time, jumping through hoops to please its master, now Vladilena resembled the proverbial hound in how her eyes searched Revy’s for approval.

Endeared, she gave it. “Yeah, sure. Why the hell not?” Revy said, shrugging her shoulders and grinning. When a man (who didn’t look like any waiter Revy had ever seen) materialized from the dark minutes later, to whom Vladilena explained their order in Russian, the grin did not fade; she leaned on one elbow as she watched the blonde intently, tracking every movement of her lips and each subtle change of her eyebrows. She looked so regal, so authoritative, and yet, she had been equally soft when they held one another in the dark of the strip club bedroom, harsh slaps and bruising grips melting away to velvet.

Never in her life had Revy known such gentle affection… or such violent turmoil.

Once the man departed, Vladilena turned her attention back to Revy, who quickly looked away to hide that she had been staring. It didn’t work; when Revy dared a glance at the woman, she saw that her eyes were alive with mischief. “Do you like what you see?” The woman purred, and Revy pursed her lips.

Busted. “Who the fuck wouldn’t? They’d have to be a fucking vegetable.” Even she could not fully comprehend the depth of unhappiness from which the compliment originated, such that it had been torn from her by piranha’s teeth in some brutal, aptly vampiric feeding frenzy. “It’s not like you even have to try or anything.”

Perhaps mistaking her misery for something more akin to jealousy, Vladilena seemed keen to smooth it over with that incomprehensible grace of hers. “Oh … aren’t you a flatterer.” The pacifying warble coloring her murmur came across as something between concern and gentle teasing, its disguise of flirtation a sheet of paper’s gossamer width. Vladilena simmered with genteel lust, though what restraint she exhibited was leagues shy of aristocratic; she touched the gunslinger freely, uninhibited by the bondage of polite society so long as walls surrounded them on all sides.

“It’s not flattery. It’s the fuckin’ truth.” Revy somehow managed, even as her throat tried to asphyxiate her in the process, but Vladilena only smiled, unbothered.

“By the way, Two Hands, I have a gift for you.” She said, bending down as she reached for something beneath the table.

Another gift? Revy’s head spun. “My birthday’s in November.” She muttered lamely. If Vladilena’s excessive generosity continued at its current rate, maybe the Casa Rosada wouldn’t be as far from her reach as it had seemed during her altercation with Boris. Eva Perón had nothing on her.

To that, Vladilena had no reply, instead righting in her seat and setting a small brown box in front of her on the table, on top of which Revy’s name had been scrawled in spidery cursive.

“Open it.” Vladilena ordered quietly.

Revy did so, tentatively, lifting the lid as though what was inside might bite her if she made any sudden movements.

The box contained a bundle of pastel tissue paper, which had been meticulously folded and taped around the object it concealed, demanding care in its removal that Revy uncharacteristically found herself heeding. The paper unfurled to reveal, in its center, the thin black band of a necklace, choker-style and curled around itself; it was held together by a silver chain at the back, and embroidered along the sides with elaborate floral designs— ranging from mauve to dark purple in color— that strongly resembled the violets of her dress, into the petals of which tiny beads were sewn that twinkled when it was moved. A silver pendant hung from its middle, twisting peculiarly to encircle a piece of amethyst that had been polished so thoroughly that it shone. The necklace had the same fragile aura as the neglected rose, and it, too, was soft as down to the touch.

“I hope it isn’t too extravagant for your tastes.” Vladilena whispered carefully, her gaze imploring, pleading for Revy to like it.

And Revy could not deny that she did. If Vladilena had asked her outright, she would have told her so, in a blushing and bashful response not played up for her enjoyment, but utterly genuine. Revy’s head swam with confusion as she gawked at the necklace, something far too precious to be wasted on her, a rabid sadist without a single delicate impulse— the crotchety packrat who could barely keep a rose from wilting for a measly week.

“Do you even know what my ‘tastes’ are?” Revy challenged, unable to chase the snarl from where it resided in the back of her rasping throat.

The Russian’s response came hesitantly: “I’m given to understand you prefer practicality over flair, as far as attire is concerned.”

Revy’s eyes narrowed. “Guess you don’t know me very well, then. I can be a fancy bitch if I want.” She bit back harsher words when they threatened to appear, the hurt restrained by Vladilena’s smile reminding her of the promise she had made to Boris.

“Of course.” Vladilena replied, quickly, and though it likely had not been meant as pretentious, it nevertheless came across that way to the gunslinger, who scowled a little at the lighthearted jab. Cursing under her breath, Revy’s thumbs darted over the flowers along the band, her quiet enjoyment of the soft threads near-fastidious. I don’t need this, she thought despairingly, the tan of her skin seeming to fade into the purple the longer she scandalized it with her touch.

Having noticed her appreciation of the stitching, Vladilena supplied, with a hint of pride, “the flowers took the longest to do, but I was pleased with the result.”

The admission, simple though it was, made Revy pale at once, forgetting her annoyance. “You… didn’t make this, did you?” It would all feel too real if she had. The price tags sticking to her other gestures were ridiculous, Revy was sure, but with how little dollar signs apparently mattered to Vladilena, maybe they only meant as much as the restraint their buyer showed, which was evidently a piss-poor amount. Even the rose had been cut by a stranger’s hands before the Russian ever touched it, its fee a laughable microbe of her millions. The necklace, however, was imperfect in the captivating manner of something homemade, an asymmetric but immaculate labor of love.

Vladilena smiled impishly at her question. “Spending is not my only skill, I hope you realize. I know how to use a needle.”

Were it not for the smidgen of control she had left— though even that was slipping— Revy would have sobbed. She would have put her face into her arms and wept until gravity deemed her a lost cause, disposing of her damaged stardust outright rather than allowing it to form anew. Or, maybe, she might have laughed, wild and deranged with some kind of confused mania. Trying for anger only increased the insistence with which the tears pricked at her eyes, but Revy hastily blinked them back, refusing to let them fall upon the necklace’s pristine band. She regarded Vladilena with wide, damp eyes, every intentional breath catching before it could make an impression.

“Would you like me to help you put it on?” Vladilena asked, when it became obvious that Revy was at a loss for words.

Tongue-tied, Revy could only nod.

Vladilena stood and crossed to the opposite side of the table, accepting the necklace once given. Unlike with Boris, Revy did not flinch when those hands touched her neck, their sides resting against her nape. If anything, she felt herself leaning into them, anticipating the far less innocent touches that were soon to come, but secretly wishing for more of those which sold the illusion of a romantic night out— fingers stroking her hair, lips kissing the side of her head, eyelashes tickling her chest. Revy stubbornly viced her teeth, hoping Vladilena would fuck her as roughly as she had the first time; the tenderness would be her end otherwise.

Once the necklace was secured, Vladilena rounded her, surveying. “Is it uncomfortable?” At first, the words were dark, and scrutinizing blues sought to catch her in a lie. At Revy’s torn expression, she added then, softer: “If it is, you must tell me so I can adjust it for you.”

Revy shook her head emphatically. “It’s…” The necklace was not uncomfortable, per se; it was more so that she was constantly aware of it, the gentle pressure of the pendant applied to her bobbing neck an ever-present reminder. “...it’s perfect.” Revy decided, refusing to look up from the polished table, where the vague outline of her new accessory was faintly visible. She unwillingly imagined Vladilena’s hands in place of it, or perhaps just one hand would suffice, holding her in place while the other did with her as the Russian pleased— pinching her, teasing her, ravaging her. She would probably combust if Vladilena were to glide down past her abdomen, uncovering the pitiful display currently gathering between her legs. Revy squeezed them tightly together, mortified by her lack of self-control.

“You treat all your whores like mannequins?” She attempted to divert the conversation in case it somehow turned to how she was squirming in her seat; she thought she would lose her mind more than she already had if Vladilena mentioned it.

Thankfully, she didn’t. “The image you must have of me.” Vladilena quietly mused, as if aware of the brushstrokes Revy’s mind thatched: a golden stag parading its collection of mates around, bearing the gleaming thorns of its antlers toward any who attempted to take one for themselves, before disappearing with the spring and summer warmth upon the first breath of winter, an accustomed ghost of decades’ cold leaving the does to fend for themselves in the savagery. Calmly, almost frostily, Vladilena confessed: “There’s no one else. Only you.”

Revy immediately scoffed, the sweet lie like a staple to the tongue. “Bullshit. You’re a fuckin’ natural at this.”

“You give me too much credit.” Vladilena turned partly away, hiding the visible side of her face behind a fountain of hair. She returned to her chair, striking a brooding pose. “The men who share my profession are far from discreet about their activities, and I… I listen, such as it is in my business to do. I observe. The customs become familiar in that way.”

“You ‘listen.’ Sure. Wanna tell me you’re the motherfucking pope, too, while you’re at it?” Razor-thin was the margin between banter and mockery the gunslinger walked, and for the first time that evening, she witnessed Vladilena bristle. It was subtler than it had been when Revy first provoked her— perhaps softened by the halo of candlelight in which she was captured— but it was noticeable how she suddenly appeared somehow bigger than before, a feat indeed for one already a giant. As though whetted, tender eyes at once became sharp, and the smile crispened dangerously.

“Bold thing, aren’t you?” Low though her voice already was, low and gravelly with untold faults numbered in the thousands, it deepened to become abyssal, and Revy, trapped in the booming sound, fought every instinct not to cower like the mouse before Vladilena’s lion. Each breath of the Russian’s was so enormous that Revy felt it had been stolen from her own lungs, and so, she set her jaw, stubborn yet weak to that rumbling timbre, and Vladilena’s expression soon became one of pity behind the malevolence. “That’s good. That’s very good, malyshka.” The unexpected praise, laced with something threatening, made Revy wish to leap up with guns ablaze, their barrels cold as ice compared to the impossible heat multiplying within her the longer Vladilena stared her down. “You know I appreciate a challenge.”

Then, a long arm slightly extended across the table, its elbow barely bent as Vladilena carded a section of Revy’s hair between her talons. Frozen with desire as she was, when that hand of absurd proportions viciously cupped the side of her face, before sliding down to stroke the velvet of the necklace, she could only trek further into the mask of Vladilena’s disapproval, desperate for attention of any variety when it was granted. The woman must have seen it in her face, the blatant hunger, because she at once withdrew, chuckling when Revy briefly chased the rescinded offering.

“Later.” Vladilena vowed, with what Revy could only imagine was a wink.

Before long, their small table was sprawling with baskets, bowls, and plates, stacked precariously upon a three-tiered serving tray that took up much of their small table, which left their dining area so slight that it was promptly filled. Seasonings of every origin perfumed the air, combining into an overwhelming aromaticity that made it impossible to discern the source of each scent. It was as mouthwatering in sight as in smell: There were breads with oat crusts, stews of blended carrot, tomato, and other vegetables, simmering beef and lamb beside bowls piled high with mashed potatoes (upon each were topped a heavy mountain of melted cheese, of course, though not the highlighter-yellow cheddar Revy was used to— these were gruyère, pulled curd, cubes of bubbling brie, and many others, all brown from having been lightly blowtorched). Curries and soups in saucers, or overtop fluffy white and yellow rice, each appeared creamy and swimming with chunks of meat. Citrusy, Parmesan-sprinkled asparagus, sugared muskmelon, cucumber sandwiches, and countless other delicacies were plated as Revy had only ever seen on TV, arranged in small portions with streaks of hummus, honey, chili sauce, and so on. There seemed to be hundreds of things Revy had no name for, and never would, aside from the large bottle of Pinot Noir that had been placed in the center of it all, and that was only because of the label.

“Well…” Vladilena said, somewhat in awe. “Приятного аппетита.”

“Yeah, sure, what you said.” Revy breathlessly replied, reaching for the first thing she saw: a golden-brown bun, still steaming and hot in her hand. She bit into it, nearly burning the roof of her mouth, and almost moaned at the taste: buttery, soft, and savory with just the right amount of sweetness. It melted like pastry with every bite, and soon, Revy was dying for another. Shyly glancing at Vladilena, who had only just started on the wine, she asked, “can I have, like, ten more of these?”

Vladilena shrugged. “I’m not your mother.”

And so, Revy inhaled the feast laid out before her, having no concept of how hungry she had been until that moment. Outside of breakfast, she usually ate light or not at all, skipping at least a meal a day (if not two). If Vladilena knew that, Revy thought, the woman would probably chastise her— or maybe, she wouldn’t care at all, so long as she still had a hot ass to grab. Contrary to what she said, though, she seemed like the mothering type. Revy cringed at the idea of calling her that while they fucked, but should it be Vladilena’s request, they’d probably both get off on it. Ghosting a hand over her neck between bites, accidentally touching velvet, Revy tried not to think about it anymore, nor acknowledge the blush that razed her pride. Just eat, dumbass, no need to make a fuckin’ trip out of it. She told herself, drowning the inner monologue in her own glass of wine; the red pool of liquid swirled like blood as Revy gulped it down.

She felt the necklace with every bloated swallow.

There were few items Revy disliked— the texture of a stray rice pudding, for example, made her queasy, though the taste was lemony and sweet enough— and while gutter mice generally could not afford to be choosy, the spread before her was far from a beggar’s scraps, and Revy felt justified in complaining when she stumbled upon something truly reprehensible.

The gray blend, which was splotched with yellow and salmon pink in places, floating in a pool of grease, did not look especially appetizing to begin with; when Revy risked a bite, however, she instantly regretted it, nearly spitting it back out onto the plate before remembering where she was.

“Yech!” She gagged, pouring her entire glass of wine down her throat to wash away the worst of the taste. “Whoever pissed in the fucking pudding is getting both my knees to the face.”

Like a ready tap, Vladilena hastened to pour her another, which led Revy to wonder why she wasn’t paying her. “What is that?” The Russian asked, peering curiously down at the rejected dish.

“Don’t know, but it tastes like ass.” Revy grumbled, shoving the plate away as though it contained a venomous reptile. “Actually, I’ve had better ass than that shit.”

Vladilena arched her brow at the colorful description. “May I?”

“Knock yourself out.” Revy dared. “No, really, it might actually knock you out.”

The woman hummed, accepting the gamble and bringing a spoonful to her lips. Her expression morphed into one of disgust, and she collected her napkin, chagrined. “Ah. That’s foie gras … or meant to be.” She eyed the substance suspiciously. “Perhaps they swapped goose livers for rat tongues. In this country, I would not be surprised.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, fucking goose livers ?” Revy recoiled further from the gray slop, horrified.

“Mmm-hmm. Could be duck livers, too, but I’ve only had the other kind myself.”

“No fucking wonder.” Before her stomach could flip completely, Revy banished the so-called foie gras to the lowest level of the tray, distracting herself with another item; it looked to be a red curry of sorts, and Revy moaned when the first taste of it lavished her tongue with flavor. “Fuuuuuck, Vlad, you gotta try this…”

They continued like that for ages, prattling on about the food, the day, or nothing at all, increasingly looking as though they should have been vignetted by a film grain filter. Revy, all the while, awaited the director’s heartbreaking yell of “cut” to signify the fantasy’s end; under the falsity of stage lights, the pair could be a proper couple, unbound by the demands of paid pleasure. For a merciful moment, the romantic atmosphere possessed Revy, and like Vladilena had seemed to do earlier, she forgot about the money exchanging hands and persisted as though the present reality were stalwart in its truth.

When they had decimated every meal on offer but the putrid foie gras, the two stood, both full past contentment and slightly unbalanced in their delight.

“Better than pizza?” Vladilena teased.

Revy grinned. “Shut up.” She said, wiping her mouth.

Before she knew it, her back was against the wall, pinned in place by Vladilena’s chest and powerful arms. “Make me.” She breathed.

And Revy did.

Their lips connected, the kiss much longer and slower than their first one had been. The blonde moaned into it, languidly dragging her tongue over Revy’s bottom lip, and the gunslinger eagerly opened her mouth to let it inside. She felt drunk, perhaps high, a euphoria for which the Pinot Noir was only partly responsible; the rest was the sweet perfume invading Revy’s nose, the spicy flavor of high-end cigars filling her mouth with every brush of their tongues. It made the gunslinger want for cocaine, desperate to prove that a drug could better subdue her than Vladilena’s kiss, the security of a vice to fall back upon that may fill even a fraction of the void the empress would leave in her wake.

Those prior kisses Revy forcibly underwent, if they could even be called that, were more a frantic assertion of tongue further blistering sunburnt lips, chips in a game of domination.

Vladilena’s kiss was something else entirely: domestication. 

The two parted only after they were completely exhausted of breath, eyes glazed with want for more than the artificial romance had offered them thus far. Revy thought she might go into cardiac arrest if the drumming in her chest kept pace with her arousal.

“You’ll have to pardon me. I’m eager for dessert.” Vladilena eventually said, before rendering the non-apology null by palming one of Revy’s breasts through her dress. Skin on silk placed a delectable pressure on the reactive peak, and when Vladilena’s thumb crept beneath to bless it directly, Revy gasped, arching into the sensation. Oh, they were doing this here. Now. She briefly thought of the man standing just opposite them on the other side of the drywall, who could likely hear everything, but her mind went blank when Vladilena kissed her neck, then heatedly whispered something in Russian right up against her ear, whisking her thoughts away and leaving only goosebumps behind.

“What?” Revy asked weakly, staring into the dark of the woman’s veil in search of the eye beneath— a diamond swathed in material shadow. It faintly shimmered back at her through the night, perhaps to acknowledge the longing she felt.

“I asked if you were ready, malyshka.” Vladilena murmured.

Revy moaned, barely hearing Vladilena over the blood rushing in her ears. She was coiled like a spring, and her eyes were trained on the river of black pouring over Vladilena’s face, far past patience with the unfathomable it enforced. Forgotten was the unyielding of an iron palm against the flesh it scorched, further burned with each slap landed— she would weather every consequence if she could just glimpse what necessitated that fabric.

Vladilena, realizing where Revy’s gaze had wandered to, preemptively captured her hands in one of her slim yet mammoth own, holding them above the gunslinger’s head. “Ah-ah. Let’s not repeat last week’s lesson.” She laughed, but her eyes flashed with warning.

Like déjà vu, Revy began to thrash in Vladilena’s grasp, hating how easily she could be cowed. She wasn’t some limp-wristed pussy, but the Russian sure made her feel like a sewer rat taken by the tail when the fancy struck. “Why are you being such a fucking asshole?” She again begged to know. “I’m not a baby. I don’t give a fuck if you’re a freakshow under there.” Probably wouldn’t make you any less fucking beautiful.

Vladilena’s expression betrayed little, smooth and stony as the brawn she concealed, but a flicker of warmth escaped her as she leaned forward, the forefinger of her unoccupied hand tipping Revy’s chin up to buy her full attention.

“You said it yourself, Two Hands: I paid for you, and the fact of the matter is, I don’t want you to see.” To distract her from the rejection, Vladilena kissed her with greater demand than before, hungrily dragging Revy’s tongue into her mouth to play with. She released her wrists and slid both hands down past the gunslinger’s holsters, taking her waist into a possessive grip while Revy found Vladilena’s shoulders, involuntarily kneading them.

Stealing into the slit of her dress, Vladilena trailed bare skin until she reached what she was looking for, only finding it to be more vulnerable than she had likely imagined. Revy gasped, ending the kiss as Vladilena cupped her, a new fervence growing to consume them both.

“Oh, Rebecca… no underwear? How shameless.”

“B… b-but y…” You didn’t have any last time. She tried to say, but it transformed into a strangled cry when two fingers slid over her, angled in such a way as to avoid the razoring pink points from savaging sensitive skin.

“What? I didn’t understand you.” The slyness in Vladilena’s tight line of a smile implied otherwise, and Revy chewed her lip hard in refusal.

Failing to repeat herself, she instead threw her head back against the wall with an audible thunk. “F-fuck… keep that shit up and I’ll make sure the entire fucking restaurant knows what you’re doing.” Revy growled, though half of her words were swallowed up by another moan.

Vladilena didn’t waver, much less entertain the idea of stopping. “Go on. I want them to know.” She commanded, pressing harder.

YES, ma’am. Was all Revy could think as she obeyed, crying out for all of Trat to hear when Vladilena’s teeth sank into the side of her neck; it would have been audible, she hazily thought, even over the opera of firefights in Roanapur, but Revy didn’t give half of a fuck. Maybe the rebellion in her wanted them all to know, too, at that moment.

She was far too warm and wet to steady herself when her orgasm hit, flinging her over the edge into the frantic descent while Revy scrambled to find purchase on anything— the wall behind her, the thrusting hips in front of her, the golden, voluminous mane engulfing them both. When she dared pull too hard on one of Vladilena’s locks, the Russian grunted, capturing the offending hand and slamming it hard into the space above. The sensation of restraint only increased Revy’s pleasure as she was dragged into the afterglow through the remainder of the tempest, a willing participant in the tumult.

“Still concerned about being overheard?” Vladilena whispered when the fire had somewhat waned, and Revy, whose delirium retained its hold, swore harshly in a gasp when long nails pinched her.

“I’ll bet those pigs are hard as a fucking rock now.” The gunslinger growled, her relative coherency a miracle as her mind buzzed. “That Boris guy, too. You should get him a consolation whore for putting up with your shit.”

“ Boris ?” The pleasant warmth in Vladilena’s face dematerialized. If it was possible for her to look whiter, she was all at once cryogenically so, and Revy’s heart raced uncomfortably in response.

“Fuck, I wasn’t— I didn’t mean— forget I said anything.” She stammered, but before she could manage another word in her defense, Vladilena’s lips crashed into hers, and the flow of her thoughts halted as she gave in. Unlike the previous kiss, this one bruised and seared her lips in its ferocity, until they were scarlet with exertion.

Vladilena only pulled away once Revy was pitifully gasping for air, renewed desire throbbing to life between her legs. “Do not speak his name.” She commanded in a murmur, low and harsh. With a mean laugh, she added, “in fact, do not speak at all.”

The Russian’s ankle nudged her own until she was obscenely spread and vulnerable against the wall, the hem of the gifted dress hiked up to hide nothing. When Revy instinctively flinched away from her demanding touch, its destination still sensitive from the earlier release, Vladilena simply pressed harder, and the gunslinger failed to bite back a sob. “If it is too much, you must tell me now.” Vladilena rumbled, her accent thick with desire and her eyes blown. “I am not feeling very forgiving.”

“If I wanted fucking forgiving, I woulda paid for my own girl.” Revy snarled desperately in reply, imagining the doe-eyed stares of Rowan’s herd as she beat one of them into the stage. “Fuck me as hard as you want. I’m fucking yours.”

Returning the guttural noise with one of her own, Vladilena bent forward to slide her arm beneath Revy’s backside, easily hefting her upward until they were almost face-to-face. It reminded her that she could be broken in two so easily, like a porcelain doll… only the Russian and her goon would ever know if she shattered when her pieces hit the ground.

“Very well.” Vladilena flashed a sinister smile, signaling that the time for holding back had passed. “Before the night is done, I promise I will make you cry, malyshka.”

Oh, there was no doubt in Revy’s mind about that. The first orgasm alone nearly brought her to tears; any pleasure to follow would be unbearable and wonderful all at once.

Between the necklace and Revy’s jaw, Vladilena planted a kiss, before sucking the soft skin into her mouth, darkening it to a bruised peach shade as Revy aggressively swore. Again and again, she marked and bit the canvas in front of her, until the gunslinger was sure her neck would emerge a gigantic bruise from the ordeal, a pincushion of black and blue for Vladilena’s canines to savage. Revy shivered, remembering how long the woman’s brand had lasted previously, and privately reveled in the fantasy of wearing it at all times, something dark and constant to carry with her into the light so the dream need not be proven real.

Once Revy’s neck was hot and pulsing everywhere but beneath the necklace, Vladilena paused, hazy eyes making what they could of her condition. Revy could only imagine how she must have looked, hair falling out of the clip that had given her so much grief, skin red-and-blue from the attention, dishevelled and dripping like the common whore she was supposed to be. Apparently satisfied with what she saw, the Russian put on a Cheshire grin, and Revy felt the hand not currently occupied with holding her aloft snake along one of her legs, until something sharp eventually grazed her where she was most sensitive.

Vladilena’s intentions were clear.

Revy squirmed, resisting the clawlike points, which approached as if to pierce her. “Vlad, nooooo… your nails are too fucking loooooong…”

Vladilena paused just until those very same nails found a different target in the gunslinger’s thigh, and Revy whimpered, quaking at the mix of pain and pleasure overloading her senses. “What did I say, Rebecca?” Vladilena murmured in her ear, undeterred by the gunslinger’s agonized noises. If anything, the acrylics sank down deeper into her damp skin, and it took all the willpower Revy possessed not to scream.

“F-fuck! Please …” Stop and keep going blended into the same sound in her throat, coming out a garbled, nonsensical mess. The searing sensation was too much, and yet not enough, but she also needed something inside of her… nothing short of absolutely everything would satisfy the horrible craving.

Appearing to follow her train of thought, Vladilena hummed in contemplation, bringing her index finger to her own lips and wedging her canine beneath the acrylic. To Revy’s shock, she swiftly twisted her head to lever it off, leaving the short, bare nail below.

The gunslinger wasn’t given a moment to process this, however, before Vladilena’s hand disappeared beneath her dress again, the finger prodding at the source of her wetness questioningly. All Revy could do was spread her legs wider, too choked up to manage permission, but thankfully, Vladilena required no further encouragement before entering her.

Revy’s mouth opened and closed like a beached trout as Vladilena’s finger slid home; she knew she was tight— not much had been up there— but the distinct way she could feel every joint as it entered reminded her just how unprepared she was. Again and again, the finger retracted before diving back inside, and Revy was sure the face she was currently making was one for the books as she made her enjoyment known. The digit curled deliciously every time it hilted inside of her, massaging a spot that Revy had only ever been dimly aware of, making constellations appear in a grand cosmic display behind her eyelids. As far as Revy was concerned, Vladilena had the entirety of the universe at her behest, using her advantage to make ruins of the gunslinger’s walls. At the moment Vladilena’s thumb hooked over to press down where it was most needed, her nail cutting into the coarse hair peppering Revy’s groin, the gunslinger erupted into her palm with a whimper, unwanted tears slipping down suntanned cheeks precisely as Vladilena had vowed.

“I want to take you with me.” Vladilena said, plainly, after a moment’s respite had seen the tremors subside, though the tears continued to flow. She was still holding Revy airborne, her fingers threaded at the small of the gunslinger’s back. The distance from the ground might as well have been that of a skyscraper.

Too wrung-out to speak, Revy simply nodded, unable to express her surprise that she wasn’t going to be tossed out like a used condom, though even that would probably be made up for by the Terabithia she had barely glimpsed. Just as she had done during their first meeting, Vladilena effortlessly swept Revy into an embrace, bridal-carrying her from the privacy of the room and into the outside hall, where Boris was waiting for them. As they went, Vladilena flashed him a look that implied a future conversation. Revy swallowed, reminded of how the blonde had pinned her to the bed when she disobeyed her, then dragged her over her lap to make her displeasure felt. A nefarious little part of her wondered if she resolved all conflicts that way, or if that treatment was reserved for the backsides of mouthy whores. Boris, however, did not look especially concerned, his posture implying a shrug of “what can you do” before lumbering after them.

The car journey and beyond passed in a blur. Even as they started forward, Revy remained in Vladilena’s arms, the woman stroking her hair as one might do to their prized papillon. If it made Revy feel even more like a pet, doted upon by the Russian giantess, the comfort she freely gave balanced out any blow to her pride, and she moaned without care of the man in the driver’s seat when lithe fingers skirted lower to trace the tops of her nails’ vicious lovebites. Revy swore she’d have them tattooed.

Boris drove them until they came to an office building somewhere in the city, which was set somewhat apart from the shops, cheap hotels, and hole-in-the-walls that populated Roanapur’s plaza. Revy was aware enough to note that it was one of the tall few she could spy in the distance when out on the Black Lagoon with Dutch, though the signage was impossible to read in the dark as they descended into an underground parking garage, which served as the structure’s basement level. Once they stilled, Revy thought to insist that she could walk herself to the next destination, but any complaints were cut short when Vladilena lifted her once more, leaving little room for criticism while the trio of them made their way to an elevator, though not before Revy could notice the numerous other Mercedes occupying the garage, each a carbon copy of the one in which they had arrived: opalline-white exterior, dark interior, even the same make and model. Maybe there was a black variant here or there, but they were otherwise uniform.

This could pass as one of Chang’s garages. Revy mused to herself before the elevator doors obscured the view, carrying them several floors up. It was a slow ascent, during which Vladilena and Boris had begun to speak in low Russian, and in response, Revy found herself restlessly squirming in the former’s grasp, agitated by what she could not understand. Her efforts were swiftly halted when one of Vladilena’s hands traveled south, menacingly cupping her backside as a sharp thumb and forefinger pinched her sensitive skin. The squeak that left the gunslinger made her want to curl up somewhere and die, but her mortification worsened yet when Vladilena made an indecipherable quip to Boris, whose stony face unexpectedly cracked into a small smirk.

“I swear to God, if you’re talking shit about me…” The intended sneer came out as a whine as Revy glowered at them both, feeling smaller by the second.

“No such thing, Two Hands.” Boris interrupted, the following cough a poor attempt to hide his amusement. “No such thing.”

Cradled as she was in Vladilena’s arms and nearly sharing in her impressive stature, Revy could have kicked the man in the nose with little effort, but thought better of it in time for the elevator to chime, doors sliding open on a dark passageway that stretched back into shadow. No more time was wasted as they hurried forward, and had Revy’s tattered pride been frayed any further, she might have swooned when Vladilena drew her even closer into her bosom, as if to protect her from the subtle chill in the air like proper cooling wasn’t a coveted resource in the hellfire of Roanapur. Before long, they had passed through several doors into a small, drab bedroom, where a single window cast moonlight upon the bedspread’s cream-colored sheets. Boris was nowhere to be seen.

“I’ll be right back.” Vladilena promised, gingerly placing Revy upon the bed. The material of the coverlet kissed her silkenly all over, and she sighed, melting into it despite herself. “When I return, I want you wearing nothing but this.” Her long fingers toyed with the pendant hanging from the choker. “Do you understand, sweetheart?”

“Aye, aye.” Revy replied in a shaky voice, prompting a chuckle from Vladilena, who chastely pecked her forehead before beginning to walk away. 

“Oh, and one last thing, Rebecca.” Vladilena called over her shoulder, the grin on her face driving Revy mad. “Keep those hands to yourself. I trust you know what I mean by that.”

Revy’s face burned in the blonde’s wake, knowing very well what she meant by that. The gunslinger’s first instinct, of course, was to disobey, but the moment she was left unattended, her hands felt as if they had been shackled by Vladilena’s command. The unspeakable horror of wanting to please her, so she may soak in more of that delectable praise, was almost worse than Vladilena pinching her ass in front of her errand-boy. Almost.

She hopped from the tall bed and tried to busy herself with the scenery as she peeled the dress and holsters from her skin, not that there was much of note: the room was almost bare, with only the bed and a folding desk for furniture. A weathered old book with once-red binding and fraying corners had been placed there, but when Revy went to investigate it after sending the dress, guns, and hair clip to the floor, she saw that the title was written in Russian. Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. Revy thought to herself, predictably unable to make sense of it. She dragged her index finger atop the cover before returning to the bed, undressed to Vladilena’s specifications. The duvet promptly sucked her in, seeming to plump around her as she sank into it. A glance out of the window told her they were out at least a quarter of an hour or so from the seashore, and Revy was torn between wishing she was out on the ocean with Dutch and hoping she would never have to leave Vladilena’s possessive embrace. The thrumming throughout steered her toward the latter with each passing moment.

Vladilena couldn’t have been away any longer than ten minutes, but to Revy, whose entire body was afire like the smoldering insides of a lit cigarette, every second felt doubled. The rotation of the ceiling fan wasn’t exactly gripping entertainment, even less so with what awaited her. When the door creaked open to announce the Russian’s return, Revy could have wept with relief, because, despite everything, she was starving for more. She was fucking famished.

“ Very good, Rebecca.” Vladilena praised, and Revy swelled in response. Hell, she was burning with only the Russian’s words, let alone her touch. Somewhat disappointingly, Vladilena had exchanged the vibrant gown for the turtleneck she had worn when Revy had first met her, the ever-present veil yet again tucked carefully into it.

Less disappointingly, she was wearing only the same black stockings beneath, and Revy shamelessly drank in what little of her was visible; she could see that Vladilena was dripping wet.

“Miss me, bitch?” Revy husked, angling her hips in such a way that Vladilena’s gaze could claim what lay between. The gunslinger shuddered when it did, and she narrowly stopped herself from touching what she had yet to earn.

Vladilena’s face was mostly unreadable as she strutted forward, her form a silhouette that paid credence to musings of Dracula. She was missing only the black cloak, which, in a sense, she was in herself, a dark and heavy mass that slunk forth like oil into blood.

“This is what’s going to happen, Rebecca.” Vladilena began, her eyes nearly obsidian with need. “I’m sure the last few hours have been tiring for you, so I’ll allow you to lay back while I put your pretty mouth to work.”

It took almost no imagination to picture the Russian’s demand, and Revy’s eyes widened at the jolt of arousal it produced. She can’t be fucking serious.

Vladilena carried on: “If I decide that you’ve done a decent enough job…” Her smile broadened. “...I will see to it that you’re satisfied once more tonight. Do I have your permission?”

Do I have your permission? An odd question— now one of many— to ask of a whore, and the courtesy made Revy’s lip curl in on itself. Why did the Russian pretend to care, if not to joke about it in tongue with Boris, or else the other compatriots she had earlier alluded to? From how Vladilena had described it, however brief the mention was, their ranks seemed a melting pot of gossip where bought sex was concerned. “If you really listened to your fuckboy comrades as much as you said you did, you’d know not to ask me that shit.” Revy growled, petulant as ever. “Just give it up, Vlad. You’ve already fucked me inside-and-fucking-out— for the last time, take what you want. Stop acting like I have a fucking choice in this.”

The playful gleam in Vladilena’s eye disappeared along with her smile. The way she frowned down at Revy made the gunslinger feel infinitesimal. “Why all this melodrama suddenly, Two Hands?” She ventured, bemused. “I told you from the very beginning I would respect your wishes, and I’ve stood by that.”

“And I said you could do whatever the Hell you wanted with me. I’ve been saying that.” Revy protested, the pressure in her chest coiling tighter. “Fuck … do I really have to spell it out for you? I like it, okay? I’ve literally been fuckin’ dreaming about this all week. I… I was up at night waiting in case I got a call about you! Do you get it now, genius? You could do all kinds of shit to me and I’d probably want more. It’s that fuckin’ pathetic.” Revy squeezed her eyes shut and released an anguished breath before continuing. Her lip quivered. “I’ll beg if that’s what you want. I’ll get on my fuckin’ knees. Just let me fuck you however you wanna do it.”

Damn… if two orgasms broke her open this badly, she shuddered to think of what a third would do. She felt like she was made of eggshells.

“All right, malyshka, all right. I understand you.” Vladilena conceded at last, brushing away a tear Revy didn’t realize had fallen, and her eyes opened. “I won’t make you wait any longer.”

Revy almost kissed her, but hesitated at the last second, glancing away. She heard Vladilena shift beside her, and before she could react, the tip of a forefinger guided her gaze back into the Russian’s sights, glossy lips sweetly brushing hers. Revy let her carry on with it until the need to taste her overrode the gunslinger’s desire for affection, and she lightly pushed her away, the both of them giggling like the previous five minutes had never happened.

“Okay, halftime’s over.” Revy patted her shoulders, attempting to entice Vladilena with an easy smile. “C’mon, baby, you gonna leave me hanging after all that sweet talk?”

The gunslinger was happy to earn a dry little huff from Vladilena, her smile reappearing. “You are like a pendulum sometimes.”

“Oh, ‘cuz I swing your way a little? Yeah, I guess you got me there. Just don’t get too cozy.” She warned, regarding the woman’s hips warily. “I fucking mean it. If you fuck up my neck, I’ll kick your ass all the way back to Moscow.”

Vladilena snickered, more amused by Revy’s intimidation than anything. She slowly climbed into bed with her, turning to face the foot of the mattress and swinging her leg over the gunslinger’s head. “I won’t break your neck, baby. Relax for me.” She cooed, probably noticing how Revy’s abs were flexed in anticipation. Revy tried to obey, but the sight of Vladilena slowly sinking down upon her dizzied her to a state of insanity. She wondered how she would breathe, and what was worse than that, she realized she didn’t fully care if she did. Of all the ways she could go, there were far worse ends than suffocation between the pillowy thighs of a Russian seductress. Vladilena was careful, however, in her descent, constantly shifting and subtly repositioning herself to spare Revy the full brunt of her weight, which both were aware enough to know likely would kill her.

Revy was impatient, though, and attempted to drag the woman down faster, but Vladilena only chuckled. “Miss me, Two Hands?” She teased.

The gunslinger scowled. “Oh, fuck y— mph!”

Vladilena did not give Revy the opportunity to mouth off again, smoothly settling herself upon the gunslinger’s lips before she could complete the insult. The fine, feathery hair tickled Revy’s cheeks, and her nose pressed directly against Vladilena, nearly dipping inside. The gentle yet constant pressure on either side of her head anchored her where she lay, and in no time at all, her face was completely drenched.

“Begin.” Vladilena commanded, hoarse and furtive. She held the front of her shirt down over her stomach and backside, the ribbed hem chafing Revy’s forehead.

Drunk off her ass on the woman, Revy eagerly obeyed, her tongue flicking out to lap at her like honeycomb. She tasted just as good, maybe better, and the gunslinger dove in as deeply as their position allowed, trying to take all of her. A tiny, muffled whimper graced her ears as a reward for her enthusiasm, and a hand came down hard on her inner thigh, where the indents of Vladilena’s nails were still fresh. Revy let out a whine of her own when the delicious pain spread up her leg, sending another surge of desire through her body. She spread her legs wider, wanting Vladilena to notice what a mess she still was. See? Look at what you’re fucking doing to me. I’m ruined. She tried to whisper with the faint canting of her hips into empty air. Vladilena chuckled above her in understanding, fingers drifting down her toned torso to stroke the untidy patch of hair between her legs, just above where she badly needed the attention. A vow. A covenant. Keep going, it said, and you’ll have what you want. Revy changed the pattern of her attack, the long, slow stripes hastening until Vladilena began vocalizing freely.

The Russian barely lasted six minutes on Revy’s tongue, seizing up suddenly when the gunslinger swirled the sensitive bundle of nerves. Vladilena quietly cried out, a hand reaching back to tangle in chaotic brown hair, the physical manifestation of don’t you dare stop she could not quite articulate through the moans. Revy hadn’t planned to; she nipped, licked, and sucked the concentration of pink until Vladilena released her, shivering and falling away from the relentless pleasure. Revy gasped when she drew her first uninhibited breath since they started, staring dreamily up at the crux of Vladilena’s trembling thighs. A curtain of hair draped over her stomach, and she could feel the woman’s breath somewhere about her navel as she caught her bearings.

Revy’s head rolled to one side, her eyes slipping closed; she expected there to be a pause, an opportunity to rest. Vladilena, however, apparently had no tolerance for downtime when there were contracts to fulfill. Unconcerned with Revy’s harsh breathing, she simply leaned forward until her elbows could rest on either side of the gunslinger’s heaving stomach, her knees still firmly planted where they had been. Before Revy registered that Vladilena was sixty-nining her, the woman had lowered herself, her chest weighing on the other’s scarred abdomen. Without further warning or ceremony, Vladilena seized her by the thighs and buried her face between them.

Revy howled when that tongue raked over her, heightening the sensitivity to another level. She had thought their indiscretion in the restaurant was overstimulating, but this ? This took the whole fucking cake and then some. Every searing stroke left her utterly breathless, unable to do anything but writhe against the woman’s mouth, animalistic noises tearing from her throat. Pinned as she was beneath the Russian, Revy was afforded a delicious view of her handiwork above, still glistening with her efforts. Not a thought trickled behind wide brown eyes as the gunslinger lunged for it again; she was driven by the mindless instinct of a fox in heat, and whined like one into the decadent display before her.

She felt Vladilena’s gasp before she heard it, and Revy thought she might be shooed away for her impertinence, but blessedly, the Russian let her continue the impulsive act, the vibration of muffled moans enjoyed by them both. Bells sang in Revy’s ears when the rhythm of Vladilena’s tongue hastened, and the gunslinger in turn redoubled her own efforts, wanting to reach the summit hand-in-hand. The timing was not as perfect as she had aimed for: Vladilena flew over the edge faster than she had the first time, grinding back hard against Revy’s face when the trembling began, and the gunslinger’s nose was again damp and shining with her; the spent blonde recovered enough to make good on her earlier promise a few moments later, quickly driving Revy to her peak with the enthusiastic staccato of her ministrations. The gunslinger wailed her throat raw, so gone into pleasure that the lingering paranoia of eavesdropping had long since vacated; if she could feel even a fraction of it all again, she thought she would gladly bare herself before all of Roanapur, so it could watch on in disgust and envy while she was fiddled directly into the sun.

Vladilena’s thighs flexed, and the Russian carefully detached herself from Revy. A strand of saliva briefly connected them, then snapped, before she settled into the bed, indenting the mattress beside her paramour. For a period of time, neither made an attempt to speak, both focused on catching their breath. The manacles chaining Revy to her miserable grave felt millions of miles away, like she had grown wings and taken to the cosmos, immune to the frigid temperatures and lack of oxygen. The Earth was the size of a marble in her consciousness, and Roanapur, no larger than a speck of dust; the world caught in a sunbeam as she turned to gaze at it, the view so similar to a photograph she remembered from a book on astronomy she had read as a teenager. It was all nothing but a dot— just a dot— and Revy was laughing at its inconsequence from the safety of the Voyager.

Then, a hand reached for her face through the glittering black, and Revy shrank from it, keening. The stinging sensation that always followed haunted her, even as the fingers brushed her cheek with no more than the pressure of a butterfly’s wing. “Breathe, malyshka.” Vladilena’s voice commanded beyond the smog.

Revy inhaled, finally, after realizing her lungs had failed to perform for the last fifteen seconds. She let out a muted “holy shit” when that same breath left her, and Vladilena’s laugh filled her ears. Soft. Real.

“There we are.” She purred when Revy came back down. “That’s my Rebecca.”

My Rebecca.

Groaning, Revy turned on her side to face the woman, who looked out at her from under mascara-caked lashes. The mix of sweat and other fluids had, over time, begun to wash away some of the color, steadily revealing the same pale shade as the rest of her hair. Her face was clouded with concern, her brow taut. “Are you all right?” Vladilena whispered, her voice thicker than it had been before.

At that, Revy could not suppress the giggle that bubbled up in response. “You send me into the fuckin’ stratosphere, and ask if I’m okay ?” Unassuaged, Vladilena looked on in silence, her eyes trailing over the gunslinger’s bruised collarbone. Realizing she was still waiting for a proper answer, Revy added, “shit, I’m… I’m so fucking good, Vlad, you have no idea.”

Vladilena sighed, sounding relieved, and her sly smile reappeared. Revy’s heart beat faster at that ravenous expression. “Your reactions gave me some clue.”

Revy wiped her face with the side of her hand, grinning. “What reactions?” She cheekily asked. “I was actually working on my brick wall impression; your friend’s really good at those, by the way, think he’ll give me some tips?”

She expected the blonde to laugh, but Revy noticed that she no longer appeared to be looking at her, but through her, all teasing and delight absent from her face as it was from a tomb effigy. A sigh left her that did not seem to be directed at anything in particular, and concern fluttered in Revy’s chest at the gloomy sound. Without thinking much of it, she reached over to touch the right half of the woman’s face, her fingertips ghosting over the veil still covering it. Vladilena immediately tensed, her hand shooting out to capture Revy’s wrist, but the gunslinger unflinchingly continued to stroke the fine material, and the venomous look in Vladilena’s eyes transformed into something raw and bleeding at the tenderness. Her grip loosened, but did not disappear completely.

“Forgive me. I’m just… thinking, that’s all.” Vladilena replied to the unspoken question.

Revy attempted to make a joke out of the post-coital anxiety suddenly plaguing her gut. “Must not’ve done my job well enough if you’re brain’s still working. Guess we gotta go again, huh?”

That time, Vladilena did chuckle, swatting Revy’s hand away. The gunslinger allowed it, smiling timidly. “You did your job perfectly, not that you need my assurance.”

Revy snorted. Right; of course she didn’t. She was Two Hands, for fuck’s sake, Miss Get-the-job-done-at-all-costs; she didn’t need anyone’s goddamn kudos, least of all Vladilena’s. It shouldn’t matter how each encouraging purr stirred life in her corpse-like husk of a body, her sooty lungs shuddering awake in their smokehouse chamber to inhale the Russian’s perfume, crying to experience anything but the rancid air she fed it. It shouldn’t matter that each touch brought Revy closer to that world of Vladilena’s, perhaps that of opulent manors and dozens of manservants like Boris, scurrying to fulfill her every will and whim; maybe the stone lions were sizable enough for a raucous tramp to perch upon, kicking her feet while awaiting her lady’s return.

The gunslinger rolled her eyes. This fucking bitch is gonna pay for what she’s doin’ to me.

“So… what’s got you thinking?” Revy tentatively asked, desperate to cast the rabid want for approval far from her mind before it took permanent root. “Don’t get any ideas— I ain’t your shrink or nothin’— but if you’re gonna be lobbing suitcases fulla cash at me, you might as well get your money’s worth.” For Vladilena, she could attempt pillow talk, though she was no Danielle Steel.

The woman looked at her, for a moment, and Revy once more felt like she was being torn into bite-size pieces before receiving a reply. “I spoke to my s— to Boris earlier.” Vladilena started, lightly stroking Revy’s tattooed arm as a contemplative look came about her.

“...yeah?” Revy prompted, uncertain, when the woman failed to continue after an awkward half-minute or so.

Vladilena’s gaze drifted until she was looking out of the window, but when Revy followed it to do the same, all she could see was the starless sky, molasses bleeding into the South China Sea. “You have a fixation on names.” The Russian observed, broaching the topic with casual indifference.

Revy tensed. “Shit. How much did he tell ya?” She asked, suddenly very much afraid she would end the night in a body bag if mention of her threats had been made.

Vladilena, however, did not appear to be especially bothered by what it was she had heard, though the scheming expression upon her face briefly activated Revy’s fight-or-flight response… which was really just a fight response, anymore. “Only the important details.” If the apathetic little hum was meant to be reassuring, it had not succeeded at its task. “You must understand, malyshka, that my situation is far from an ideal one. For that reason, I am not able to be as forthcoming as I might otherwise wish.”

“What d’you think I’m gonna do?” Revy wondered exasperatedly. “Like, actually. I’m just some random bitch you decided to make your whore; who’s gonna give a fuck if I rat on ya? The Roanapur Daily ’s got better shit to print than my sex life.” Which didn’t even exist before you showed up, she could have added in a fit of shame, but she bit her tongue. “Plus, if you’re so fucking powerful or whatever, you’d have your Doberman on me the second I started singin’ anyway, so what does it even fucking matter?”

Vladilena’s eyes took on an odd appearance that the gunslinger could not read. “You have more power than you are aware of.” She told Revy plainly, brushing a sticky strand of hair from the other’s forehead. Before Revy could reply, Vladilena engulfed her in an embrace, hiding between her neck and shoulder as though for fear of something important escaping the stoicism. “Fine.” She sighed, squeezing the gunslinger once before releasing her. “If you want something to call me, I’ll give it to you: Balalaika is the name that I go by.”

The gunslinger’s brain caught up after a few seconds’ passage. “Balalaika?” She echoed. It didn’t roll off of her tongue in quite the same way that Vladilena had, but strangely, she enjoyed the sharper sound; it suited the steely woman before her well.

Balalaika hummed in agreement. “That’s correct.”

“Oh… like the dog?” Revy blurted out before she could stop herself.

Of all the possible responses, the blonde obviously had not been expecting that one, if the disbelief on her face was of any indication. “Excuse me?” Balalaika choked, her tone caught between confusion and indignance.

“Y’know, the dog who went to space.” Revy quickly clarified, so as not to offend her further. “Wasn’t that her name? Balalaika? I thought she was Russian. I don’t fuckin’ know… learned that shit in fuckin’ grade school.”

The woman stared at her a moment longer before recognition flashed in her eyes. “Are you referring to Лайка?”

Revy could feel her cheeks warming to cover her entire face at the woman’s incredulity. “Laika, Balalaika, same fucking difference!” She hissed, the vibrant color impossibly deepening when a wide smirk stretched Balalaika’s lips to their limit. Revy desperately wanted to vanish out from under the blonde’s teasing and scrutiny, but settled for withdrawing as far into herself as she could go.

“...don’t sulk, malyshka.” Balalaika teased through a chuckle; it only made Revy curl closer to her knees, which she had drawn up to cover her chest. “It was… amusing, that’s all, your game of word association. I never made the connection myself; most would think of the instrument first, I suppose.”

“Instrument?” Revy repeated tiredly. Unlike the night spent blitzed at the Ripoff Church she could no longer remember, yet haunted her periphery like a sun spot, the heavy dark upon her eyelids felt like the sweat-soaked blanket being drawn over her, instead of taking a sledgehammer named El Dorado to the face. She begrudgingly released her knees when a pair of arms reached for her, wrapping around her waist and enveloping her into Balalaika’s warmth once more.

Balalaika smiled, the look in her eyes as kind as it was ever going to be. “Don’t worry about it, Two Hands.” She murmured, stroking the gunslinger’s hair fondly. If the sensation called to mind that of a nonexistent memory, filling a void where maternal affirmations should have been, Revy exiled it to the limits of her consciousness.

“Rebecca.” Revy reminded her, the accompanying scowl interrupted by a yawn.

“Rebecca.” Balalaika corrected herself, still smiling, though there was a melancholy about her expression now, a stone that was partly turned over. “Get some rest, now.”

The gunslinger shook her head adamantly, trying to prolong the closeness as she had failed to do their first time together. When her head was guided to loll upon a soft breast, however, Revy easily succumbed to the warmth ensconcing her.