Chapter Text
V left the blinds open. When she wasn’t writing, her eyes would drift from the stilted words to the city’s bright gloom. Neon scarred the skyline with its pulsating veins, coiling and squeezing the rusting steel. Its glare had once disrupted her, displeased her in its overbearing luminosity. The quietness of the natural sky was masked by the city’s dominance; despite being named for the night, it wasn’t in tribute - It became it. It swallowed all that it reached, numerably those with a heightened degree of naivete.
She had entered the city hating its aesthetic, but she wore it now. Not proudly, to any extent. Still, the chrome of her eyes, limbs, and veins shined like the city, reminding her of the will which altered to a perpetual state of shame. What V had gained didn’t feel like a benefit; nonetheless, karma came from one’s every action. And the lights were now a pale pulse in her optics.
The pen dropped from her hand and onto the table adjacent to her couch. It really feels useless, she surmised, caving into the crowded pillows of yesterday’s laundry and takeout. The neon had stained her eyelids, a picture-perfect image resounding in her head as a visual lullaby. Yes, she was tired – exhausted even – the typically groomed hair in a shaggy mane, incessant ramblings to a man she called Johnny, and her handwriting were all signs of one who hasn’t slept rightly.
“Just what he wanted – I'm fuckin’ rotting, man.” She spat, her spine crumbling, and a trembling face digging into the back cushion. Pathetic rang in her head, from whom she couldn’t determine, the disappointed voices all blended into an amalgamation.
Her head would ring again that night. However, she could discern the name, see the face, recognize the expectation. Another gig, rightfully so. V didn’t need sleep, she believed. That could be augmented, too; maybe not as efficiently, but pills still did the trick. The name rung again, firm in gaining her attention. Sebastian “Padre” Ibarra, good God, her knuckles popped, and her brow now trembled on its lonesome.
“Hey, Padre. Why call me at the devil’s hour?” She jested, yet her tone implied the pulling frown on her face.
“Another gig, my friend. The hour, unfortunately, is of importance. Maelstrom does the Devil’s work, and swiftly, might I add. So, you must act faster. Details will be attached.”
Just as quickly as he intruded, the fixer left. Abrupt in his giving of what he deemed the Lord’s work towards order, as the odor of chaos grew to a dominating stench. What little was left of God’s work was entrusted to him, the man who dealt judgement, as none would receive the end of a barrel without his instigation.
A solo like V wasn’t an angel, but a sign. Chaotic in their own right; a necessary evil which knew its place. The angels she knew were all corrupted or gone from the reigns of Hell which were those who deemed themselves powerful enough to deliver their subjects from damnation. Again, the naivete, following those they believed to be righteous to do what they saw as right. To a solo, killing a man for money was right because the most important thing to a merc was themself; they were an inner sanctum.
Again, again, those voices. She was pathetic, naïve, even now. She looked through her contacts, the names she hadn’t spoken to in months, the ones she lacked the courage to delete; they were done with her, so eloquently put by their messages.
“So long, V.” She read aloud, “Rot in hell.” She read through more, like the pain was addicting. Her hoarse voice protruded from a grin, phone swaying from hand to hand as she continued to read. Eventually, her smile swerved into a choke, the burning in her throat and eyes walloping her mien further into the spiritless solo she had strived to be.
Her sorrow was self-contrived, she believed, arriving at Padre’s number. The choking left a grimness to her face that showed itself in the outlines of her eyes, the leer they bore towards all. In the irritable notoriety she hung over herself; the agitation she provoked would one day stir her allies to a better cause: against her.
Nonetheless, for now, she was still on the side of God. And what he had for his infamous - but again - controlled bundle of chaos, was a slaughter. He knew she was one to take what was most precious, what He bestowed upon his damnable subjects. Although, a slaughter of the metalheads of Maelstrom would be seen as merciful in His eyes. At least she still had a mind, what it took to be human. And so, their deaths were justifiable; they brought order, as their stolen goods would be delivered back to His devotee.
She echoed the disciple’s message in her own cruel tone, “...medicines could be used to abstain them from power in their own territory. However, I’ve recognized that you’ll require partnership with another merc.” She closed her eyes, chest heaving with a heated sigh, “Whether or not that harms your title as a solo should be of less importance than your prompted assault. Anyways, he is new, but not dubious to God’s work. His number will be attached, as well.”
She tapped the number, expecting some generic - a chromed idiot akin to her. Staring at her reflection grew tiring. So many contradictions she had observed in her life but didn’t expect one to come bursting in red, bold with the name Goro Takemura.