#﹛―⇢ malachi connley ┊001 ―﹜

[curlsncynefin]

closed starter for ➤ @theimpalpable. plot ➤ Years after the failed rescue, Amelia is now an underground fighter — hiding from ReGen — when she gets into trouble with a gang. She defeated one of their fighters, and they lost quite a lot of money. So, they ambush her outside. Helps come in the shape of a masked vigilante. 

For how long can a person live an aimless life? Living comfortably off of your inheritance, trying to find meaning at the bottom of the bottle. It was that kind of life that the woman hated. She felt like a ghost residing in someone else’s body, living someone else’s life. Her other option, though, was to give up her miserable existence, and Amelia wasn’t ready for that quite yet.

She hoped that one day she’d be able to go back to her old life, accomplish something, further her dreams, pursue her ambitions, and make her deceased family proud. Clinging to that hope, she trudged through this dreary existence. When it got too much, she tended to venture out to the bowels of the city, mind numbed on scotch, seeking some way to feel again. Even if it was pain.

And there was no dearth of pain in the underground fight clubs. 

Usually, after two or three fights, she has made enough money to go home with a good bottle of scotch, and not have to worry about the next week’s expenses such as food or clothing. Sometimes, her only gain was the pain that made the coming week a little difficult to manage, but gave solace to her soul that she wasn’t dead yet.

However, sometimes, things don’t go as planned.

This was one such night where Amelia had made an unknown error in defeating a fighter with ties to one of the more intolerant gangs. Apparently, they lost quite a lot of money that night, and the fighter lost their credibility in the fighting circles. None of that the ex-lawyer was aware of, as she walked down the abandoned alley behind the entrance to the basement where she had fought.

The air shifted, a small shuffle carried on the later summer wind reached the brunette’s ears. She stopped in her tracks. Bruised knuckles curled to fists inside the pockets of her leather jacket, as she waited. Four figures emerged from the shadows. “I’m not looking for a fight,” she announced in a low voice, her stance disagreeing with her words.

“Then you should’ve been more careful,” was the only warning she received before the four men pounced on her. And the fight began.