Rain beating upon her wide-brimmed hat, Justice buttoned up her coat over her catsuit, covering the symbol in her suit, turning off the camera inhibitor in her mask as she walked up to her target – The Fox’s Den.
She’d done her research on the place in the photo – it was a popular masquerade venue, although its owner was unknown. All that was known was that he was colloquially referred to as ‘The Fox’ by those who frequented the place.
Before entering, the vigilante checked the pouches in her utility belt. She had the Spider utilities. In case of an emergency, she had the Spinneret, and the Devil’s Whisper, along with a few anecdotal trinkets. Batteries, a knife, and some smoke pellets. None of it would grow legs and walk off, she thought.
After that, Justice strode through the ivory double doors of the establishment, scrawling the name ‘Juana Pérez’ into a guest book, stopping in front of the counter, leaning on it. “I’d like to have a word with your manager.” she stated, staring into the eyes of the man at the counter.
The man stammered. “What reason, ma’am?”
“I’d like to have a word with him.” elaborated Justice. Pulling her coat slightly ajar, she discreetly revealed the logo on her chest to the receptionist, before setting her hands back on the counter. “That’s all the purpose you need to know.”
He paused, weighing out the options. “I… I’ll see what I can do, then.” said the receptionist. “E– Excuse me for a few minutes, I’ll have your meeting arranged.”
So, Justice did just that. Placing herself down in a chair, she finally relaxed. Image was something she needn’t bother with anyways. Leaning back, she pondered the ceiling. Nobody to confide in – after all, the only one who really had reason to had simply chosen to leave her.
Then, her thoughts were interrupted by the voice of a young man – most likely her age, not the type to be attending clubs like this – who spoke with just a hint of an Italian accent. “Where’d you blow in from?”
“Work,” replied Justice, craning her head to face the young man, “I’m not interested. I’m just trying to speak with a coworker.”
“You can say that about me, too, but you certainly haven’t dressed the type,” replied the young man. He was gaunt, thin, his somewhat worn military jacket providing for most of his bulk, a long-nosed mask on his face, glasses attached via chain to the mask. His mouth was exposed. “I hate to be rash, but you haven’t exactly dressed in the most conservative of manners.”
Justice made a face. It wasn’t as though whoever she was speaking to would know, though. “Nothing wrong with that, right?”
“Not at all. You think I’d even be here wearing this jacket if there was a dress code? It just looks like you’re here to solve some murder, or… provide services, instead of… ‘speak with a coworker’, as you phrased it.”
“Believe me, you’d never catch me with this coat open for a man.”
“You’re…” said the man, flamboyantly gesturing his hand, “queer?”
“Something wrong with that?”
“Oh, no, no. I have a lot of friends who kiss girls.” replied the man. “Just wanted to know if you’re one of them.” He smiled, as he commented “I knew somebody from Greece when I was in New York – if it was a good day, you could get her to make some killer baklava. She’s pretty. You’d like her. She’s from Lesvos, the island.”
The man paused, deliberating. Justice knew she wasn’t going to get her peace for a little bit.
“Still though, you aren’t gonna hit the rears of any of the dames here with… what were they called in ‘L’España’… chanclas, right?”
“Shut up.”
“Good! That’s good.” said the young man, smiling. His demeanour darkened as he muttered “I’ve always had an issue with those types.”
Justice thought she’d gotten a period of quiet, when – suddenly – the young man asked “Now, I know you really don’t wanna speak to me, but I just want to have a little bit of courtesy. What’s your name?”
The lady replied “Juana Pérez. You?”
“If you’ll be Plonith Almonith,” began the young man, “then I’ll be Rossi. Mario Rossi.”
“Alright, Mario,” replied Justice, “it’s been good talking with you.”
“Likewise.”
Finally, Mario shut up. The lady continued waiting.
A few minutes later, the receptionist walked in front of Justice just as the young man Mario seemed to get bored of standing around, waiting. The receptionist was flanked by two large men in suits, masked all the same as everyone else in the party. “C– Come with us, ma’am.” he stammered.
So, Justice walked behind the men. The other attendants had rather casual (yet still formal) outfits – cocktail dresses, white shirts, and other such formal wear – and it seemed like a nice show, with a rather mediocre selection of disco, pop, jazz and – oddly enough at times – some Italian and Jewish folk tracks, with added drum backing.
She was guided into an office room, which she entered without bothering to look inside. Justice knew something was amiss, however – a lock was present on that door, and in the hand of one of the men was a skeleton key. They planned on locking her in. Justice wasn’t willing to stay, to find out what that was, however. She closed her eyes, as the door was shut behind her, in an attempt to increase her ears’ sensitivity.
Click. The door was locked. Two of the men – the receptionist and one of the burly thugs that had escorted her into the room – had departed. One stood outside, probably some sort of formality. The fact that the door was locked had been proved by the fact that as she rattled the doorknob, pushing and pulling, Justice had no success.
Fate was sealed. But Justice wasn’t.
Opening her coat, the vigilante took out the Devil’s Whisper glove. Holding her fingers, ready to snap, close to the lock, she steeled herself.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
One. Two. Three.
With a snap of her fingers, there was a small explosion. The chemicals at the tips reacted, and this explosion entered through the keyhole. There was the sound of the little mechanisms being busted.
After shaking some smoke off of the glove, Justice tried the knob again. This time, there was a much more comforting click as the door, now unrestricted by the lock, opened. Slamming the door open to confuse the thug who stood at the hinges, where the door could easily turn onto him, Justice quickly bolted around, punching him in the face, the thug crumpling to the ground. Naturally, in a populated setting, this caught some ire. But still, Justice continued wandering, unbuttoning her coat and revealing her sigil.
“Oh, God…” muttered a partygoer, “it’s the Redcliff Warrior…”
Justice didn’t care. Pushing past the gawking crowds, it was almost as though she was searching for battle. Attempting to ambush her from behind, an enforcer for the venue held a baseball bat in his hands. With the man’s swing, she grabbed the bat, socking him in the jaw and snapping her fingers, producing a small explosion – enough to concuss – with her punch along with the sound that comes with an explosion. Almost immediately, the partygoers began to panic once this gunshot-like sound rang out in the venue. Still, she grabbed the bat off the ground.
“Split up,” shouted a thug, “and get that bitch!”
Justice walked onto the mezzanine balcony. With the bat, she swung and concussed an enforcer. The ceiling was fairly high up – high enough, for a shot with the Spinneret not ending in her flying out of a skylight.
Out of nowhere, the vigilante heard the rattling of guns being aimed at her. “Don’t make a move!”
She paused, glaring at the various thugs around her. Some adjusted their aim.
Then she aimed her arm up and shot the rope, priming and throwing a few smoke pellets to the ground. Flying onto the ceiling, she stuck to it through her boots and gloves, leaving the man confused. After a few seconds, she dropped the bat onto a thug, knocking him out with a loud clanging noise.
Dropping to the ground onto the felled thug’s backup – at least three men, all armed with submachine guns – Justice grabbed a man by the brow, slamming down him into the tile as she fell, before rising to her feet and kicking down the other thugs, she was shocked by the sound of applause behind her.
Her fist looped back around, ready to meet the heckler, when she was suddenly face to face with the young man she met only hours ago – Mario Russo.
“My boy Abel told me you were looking for me,” he said. “Whaddya need?”
He paused. She glared back.
“Jesus. You ain’t a fan of masquerades, Pérez?”
Mario’s true office was luxurious, to say the least. Fine china and other trinkets – there was even an antique flintlock pistol – were stored inside of a cabinet. Additionally, he had a bearskin rug and other trinkets there. Mario himself looked out of place – he looked like a man of the street, not one who would afford such novelties.
He sat down at his desk, and rang a bell, inviting Justice to do the same as she walked into the room. “Want some tea?” asked the man.
“I’ll be fine.” replied Justice, putting her hand into her breast pocket, taking out the photo of the young woman dropped and setting it onto Mario’s desk. “Who is this woman?”
Mario set the bell down to ponder this photo, mounting his glasses on the nose of his mask. After a few silent seconds, he replied “I have no idea. You think I know about everyone who passes through my business?”
“You have a guest book at the entrance of your bar.”
“Sure we do, but that– That’s just a formality, I don’t keep tabs on every name to come into this place, alright?”
Justice quickly leaned over the desk, grabbing Mario by his collar, tearing him out of the chair and casting him to the floor. “Tell me who she is, now!” Kneeling down above the mafioso, Justice pressed her foot down into Mario’s stomach, relishing in his groans.
“I– I’ll tell you!” hoarsely groaned Mario. “I was bluffing…”
She pressed her foot down harder. “Really?”
“Y– Yes! Yes, I mean it, just–” stammered the mobster, cutting himself off as Justice lifted her foot. Gaining his composure, breathing, Mario sighed. “Her name is Vladimira Giovanni-Godunov. Briscoe Apartment Complex, 323. Look, I don’t know what you plan to do with the girl, but she’s just a kid. Like me. Like you. Don’t rough her up, capiche?”
Justice raised her leg, taking her photo from her desk. “And only family would keep such a sentimental photo on them… Who would that be?”
“Her father.” replied Mario, dusting off his suit. “A killer. A contract killer.”
Justice sighed. “So would that mean the killings of Alan Moldoff and the commanding officer at CERBERUS weren’t politically motivated?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
Justice adjusted the mask on her face as she scouted out the tower that was – apparently – the so-called Briscoe Apartment Complex. Cold night wind in her hair, her frame impossible to pick out from the city streets below, she looked the building up and down.
“Jailbird, I’m g–”
No.
Aiming her arm out, she used the Spinneret to shoot out a rope, which went taut against a balcony. Jumping down, she yanked, initiating for the rope to begin reeling in – still stuck to that balcony – as she fell, a motion not too dissimilar to a yo-yo.
Then she crashed through the window.
Gaining her footing, she then checked the blueprint of the building. This should’ve been room 323. It was a somewhat luxurious apartment, she thought. Clean, polished, and nice. To her right was a door, and ahead was an opening into a wider room.
Before she could advance, this door suddenly opened, and a mousy young woman – the same one from the photo left on scene by the arsonist. Her eyes were level with Justice’s chest, but she followed the woman’s body up, to stare face-to-face with her. Naturally, the two shared an awkward silence.
“Who are you, and why did you–”
Justice sighed. “Calm down, Vladimira. Call me Juana. I’m… a private eye looking for your father. Someone told me he’s… affiliated with a business partner of mine.”
Making a face, and calming down, the young woman began to walk into the wider room. “I prefer Mira. Want a drink?”
As in Jonas’ crush?
“I’ll be fine.”
“Suit yourself.” said Mira, taking out a mug, putting a tea bag inside, flicking on a kettle. “Now, Ms. Private Eye, what’d my Dad do?”
“Are you familiar with Alan Moldoff?”
“I’ve… heard the name from… a friend,” began Mira, “but I’m not familiar with him myself. I heard he–”
“That’s right. And I’ve followed the paper trail to your dad.”
Mira paused. “No.”
“What do you mean, ‘No.’?”
“There’s no way he’d kill anyone– he’s my dad, he just wouldn’t!”
“Well, the paper trail, and his friend says otherwise. Just tell me where he is, and I’ll be on my way.”
The brown-haired young lady looked down, defeated. “He’s out. Work. I don’t know what for, but he said he’s out for work. He always is.”
“And where does your father normally work?”
“It’s blurry, but I remember the name, ‘NASHTON RAKERS LTD’.”
Justice navigated her HUD, almost sharing the information with the nothing that was Irina. Somehow, the line they talked on had been blocked – something that Justice discovered on a bad, drunken day. She lingered on the menu.
No.
Tabbing out of that window, Justice simply stored this information in her notes. The vigilante had no other options, nowhere else to confide in. And it was all because nobody ever wanted to be friends with a prick.
Isn’t that just tragic?
“Thank you. You’re a good woman, Ms. Godunov.” replied Sandra.
Mira turned away to wash her mug. “My name is Mira.”
There was no response. Mira hesitantly turned around. Justice was gone. Save for the broken window, it was as though the vigilante wasn’t there.
However, in this silence, the mousier young women let out a sigh of relief. Pulling a phone out of her pocket, she tabbed through windows, before recording an audio message. Into her microphone, Mira whispered “Jonas, Bethel, Aki! You wouldn’t believe who just… broke into my apartment…”