“I do not understand how that is a meat tornado.”
Stiletto mimed slicing the air with nonexistent scimitars in both hands, making herself look like a human windmill in the process. “The speed at which he slices—with both hands—creates the illusion of it being a tornado made of meat.”
“I do not see it.” Harry responded. There’s a fair chance she hadn’t seen a tornado in her life.
“Really? I should just take you to Abrakebabra sometimes so you can see for yourself.”
“I am busy.”
“But I never said when! Are you busy all the time?”
“Yes.”
Stiletto scrunched her face up. Operation: Get New Friend wasn't going as smoothly as she hoped.
Harry, on the other hand, stared vacantly. “Is there something wrong?”
“I'm just concerned you're too busy for kebab. Who passes up meat wrapped in—I don't even know what they're wrapped in.”
“I am not too busy for kebab,” she responded flatly, despite what she stated not seconds ago. “— Why would you eat something without knowing what it is?”
“Because it's delicious!” Stiletto already forgot Harry's contradictory statement.
“There are many things that are delicious that you should not eat.”
“…like what?”
“Roadkill.”
“It's been a long while since I needed to eat roadkill, so I've forgotten about that, actually.”
Harry continues with her vacant stare. “Why would you eat roadkill? There is food here in the club, is there not?”
“That's exactly why I haven't needed to. I wasn't always part of the Banshees, though.” Stiletto paused. “How'd you end up in the Slag anyways?”
Harry stared gormlessly, almost per usual, but with a distinct hint of dredging up memories long past.
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Some time ago…
Brigitte looked up to the sky. She didn’t understand much, and she especially didn’t understand this.
“It’s no longer safe here for you. Go.”
The words Father told her repeatedly as he ushered her out the door with barely more than the ragged clothes on her back, a Holzer Ultrakompakt light pistol, and a commlink with instructions to meet up with an old coworker of his. Still, she did not understand. The night prior there were sounds that she was familiar with. Ones that signified practice.
Why would he be practicing hunting at that hour? Brigitte did not know. A lack of understanding did not mean she was allowed to forgo what she was told to do. The one thing she did understand was that Father was always correct in what he stated. If he told her to do it, then it was for her best interest.
She assumed as such, that is.
Her legs took her into the unknown. She didn’t know much of the outside world since she became aware of things. All she knew was that cramped place that Father called home, a few glimpses outdoors from under foil lined windows, and whatever movies she had the luck of catching on the projector. Maybe it was more of a cage to her, and maybe some part of her yearned for the day when she was allowed out. Now that she was out, she was terrified.
Above her, there was a blue infinity that the movies she watched could never capture properly, with structures erupting from the far horizon like digits reaching for the ungraspable. What surrounded her was far less awe inspiring. Tiny sheds and houses that were much akin to where she just left.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Things weren’t as she envisioned them to be. Where were the smartly dressed smooth-talking heroes? She thought she’d step outside that door and be greeted by a tuxedo clad man with an impeccable accent. The longer she continued in the direction that her commlink commanded her, the further her illusion of reality cracked and shattered. The first person— beyond her father— that she laid eyes upon was wearing little more than rags, warming their hands over a burning oil barrel.
“Do not trust anyone.” Another oft repeated mantra from Father. He often left home, but forbade her from doing the same. Brigitte assumed that he left to hunt, as he would often bring back foodstuffs strangely covered in a transparent inedible substance. She did not understand why he would spend time making food more difficult to eat.
She had stopped long enough to take this sight in to catch his attention, the bearded man returning the stare she was giving him. A sense of strange instinctual dread overtook her, and she quickly returned to her route. A hand firmly gripping the Ultrakompakt she had in her hole-ridden hoodie pocket.
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Further and further she journeyed. What was a sidewalk gave way for what could barely be described as a gravel footpath; apparently the plascrete had been pounded into near dust after years of lacking maintenance. Every so often, she’d pause in her stride to take in some sight absolutely alien to her, barely giving herself time to comprehend whatever she was looking at before resuming her dogged march.
She wasn’t told to take in the sights, and she thought that her disobedience would be an unforgivable slight to Father. She was to arrive at this specified destination, and speak with a specific person. Father may have never yelled at her, or even raised his voice, but if there was anything that she absolutely abhorred, it was the slightest possibility of disappointing him.
Brigitte wasn’t in the business of doing that. She would’ve taken another step forwards if it wasn’t for the telltale crunch of gravel behind her. Someone must’ve been following her. Another crunch. Definitely more than one person.
“What do we got here, boys?” A voice called out, followed by the telltale sound of a switchblade.
“Looks like fresh meat, Col.”
Another series of crunches followed. Brigitte could guess there were four of them without looking. She’d seen this type of scene a million times before in the action movies she used to watch. The hero gets snuck up on by a few turtleneck-wearing baddies. A few quick quips ensue, and then a fight breaks out.
She tightened her hold on the handgrip of her Ultrakompakt as she swiveled to face her would be turtleneck-wearing assailants—
They weren’t wearing turtlenecks. They were wearing a menagerie of what looked like hand-me-down clothing at best and scrounged up scraps at worst. Wife beaters, torn jeans, mismatched sneakers with holes in them. The works. Brigitte was rightfully confused. She intended to say something witty, or even quip, but nothing came to her. The only thing she could do was stare at these four strange men approaching her.
“You think she’s got any creds on her?” One of them asked as they started to circle her. This one was holding an automatic rifle. Brigitte recognized it as the same model as one of the many that Father kept in his gun room. It was far more dinged up and used than the one that Father had, though.
This wasn’t playing out like she thought it would’ve in her head. Not at all. She took a deep breath in the brief moment she had before instincts took over.
Safety off. Draw. Bang, bang. One, two to her ten and one o’clock. Quick pivot in place. Bang, bang. Three, four to what would’ve been previously her seven and five o’clock.
As quickly as it started, it had ended with the drumline of four bodies simultaneously hitting the ground. Against all safety protocol, she didn’t check to see if her pistol was clear. Not that she needed to. Four shots in a magazine, four bodies. She could do basic math.
She checked over her would-be assailants, deciding that she would take the assault rifle for her own, now that the unnamed man didn’t need it. Though something hit her like a truck. A welling sensation that bore a hole in her guts. It wasn’t something she had felt in a long time.
She noticed that she struck near perfect center mass on three of her assailants, but was off by a few inches on the fourth. Disappointment. She felt nothing but disappointment. This called for further practice when she was done with her task—
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“Harridan?” Stiletto reverted to her upside down seating position on the couch.
“No, I am Brig—yes, I am Harridan.”
“You were just staring. How'd you end up in the Slag anyways?”
Harridan seemed to regain the laser focus in her gaze—at least, Stiletto assumed she did behind those sunglasses—and cocked her head to one side. “It is a boring story. How did you end up in the Slag?”
“Aren't you just answering my question with a question?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, well, I guess my story starts out the way you'd expect it—”
Scrambling footsteps interrupted her budding storytelling moment. Onigiri, with Blackjack in tow, both girls seeming out of breath. “—Not to interrupt you two or anythin’, but Hotrod’s sendin’ out an S.O.S. Somethin’ about gettin’ chased? Are you good to go and help?”
Stiletto twisted herself upright and leaped to her feet. “Where?”
Harridan swiveled her neck to look between Stiletto and the two newcomers. “I now remember that is why I came here.”