#it's the fact that he was slowly closing his badge like its a metaphor for hesitation or something

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OPINION: The Madness of Hunter x Hunter's Hero

  Hello everyone, and welcome back to Why It Works. If you’ve watched anime long enough, I’m sure you’ve heard some young protagonist pledge to “do their best” before a big battle. It feels like an anime truism, common to stories of young heroes who train hard, make precious friends, and then struggle to overcome their nemeses — ie, most of the most popular anime. It’s such a common sentiment that we’ve come to take it for granted; and like many narrative choices we take for granted, Hunter x Hunter chooses to examine it a bit more closely, and wonder precisely what sort of person might grow from such a philosophy. The results are worrying and undeniable: by the time Hunter x Hunter reaches Greed Island, it’s clear that there’s something deeply wrong with Gon.

    Hunter x Hunter plays its hand slowly, relying on our built-in assumptions about its genre to conceal the character study it’s actually building. Early on, it doesn’t seem strange that Gon is utterly obsessed with physical self-improvement, and becoming a Hunter as soon as possible; after all, that’s just the sort of wild, starry-eyed quest these sorts of protagonists always have. Wild ambition, fanatical training methods, and reckless self-destruction are all par for the course, so what’s so unusual about Gon displaying all these tendencies? Because of our genre expectations, Gon’s initial pursuit of the Hunter’s badge seems boyish and sweet, rather than dangerous and obsessive — and with the show’s own tone supporting this interpretation, the audience has no reason to suspect anything is wrong.

  Cracks only begin to show when the true nature of hunters becomes clearer. Most people would not spend their lives dedicated entirely to becoming killing machines; that pursuit takes a kind of mania, as well as a clear disregard for conventional social advancement. But most action shows are not specific about the kind of single-mindedness that would inspire such a pursuit, so rather than populating themselves with maniacs, they set themselves inside “fight worlds.”

    In these fight worlds, becoming an action hero is actually the standard path of maturation, be it via ninja exams or any other route. Additionally, the idea of single-mindedly dedicating yourself to becoming better at fighting is actually applauded and considered admirable by all your peers. The fighting is ultimately a metaphor, after all; the lesson truly being taught here is “commit yourself to things, and you’ll discover you’re far stronger than you expected.” Metaphor aside, the base plot of these narratives is the process of raising a generation of killing machines.

  In contrast, while Hunter x Hunter is filled with similarly monomaniacal killers, it does not exist within a fight world, where such behavior is the norm. Hunters choose to become such single-minded instruments, to be people who can handle violent deaths without blinking, and who readily push their bodies to the point of breaking. Hunter x Hunter fully understands that hunters are maniacs; and Gon is one of the most terrifying maniacs of all.

    At first, assessing Gon’s strangeness requires distancing yourself somewhat from the assumptions of his genre. Gon greets death and dismemberment with a smile, but that’s just sort of what young heroes do, right? In fact, his friends actually praise him for his level-headed composure, so it must be good that he’s not freaking out, right? Of course, Killua and Kurapika have both experienced such extreme trauma that it makes sense they’re unfazed by the exam; ultimately, our only example of “normal” reactions is Leorio, who’s framed as a clown for being rightly alarmed by continuous murders.

  But from the start, there is one giveaway that Gon might not be the most level-headed of heroes. Even in the show’s very first episode, he leaps off a boat in the midst of a storm, assuming others will catch him before he actually drowns. At the time, it’s framed as a brave act that brings Kurapika and Leorio together; but as time passes, Gon demonstrates again and again that his signature talent, his “ace in the hole,” is his ability to take his life in his hands without a second thought. All warriors must be prepared to die, but Gon actually seems to flaunt death, driven by an urge that sees his body as of no value whatsoever.

    In fact, Gon is so ready to die that he frequently uses that very instinct as a weapon against his enemies. When faced with a much stronger foe, Gon will readily wager his own life, forcing his opponents into a strange game of violence chicken. When Netero challenges Gon and Killua to make him fight using both arms, Killua fails — but Gon succeeds, by throwing his body at Netero in such a way that the only two choices are “let me win or destroy my skull.” When Gon is matched up against a far stronger opponent during the Hunter Exam finals, he remains undeterred in the face of permanent body mutilation and eventually forces his opponent to stand down. Again and again, Gon asks his opponents, “will you surrender to me, or you will destroy me utterly?” Even those with no compunctions against murder, like Hisoka, hesitate in the face of that - if only to see how far his madness can grow.

  In Greed Island, both the effectiveness and the danger of Gon’s philosophy are made abundantly clear. Gon’s training sessions with Killua and Bisky are dangerous yet efficient, as Gon demonstrates no hesitation in embracing training like “spar with this serial killer for a week.” Through Gon’s behavior, we see that his early friendship with Killua wasn’t a fluke, or just a result of their similar age; Gon has a madness inside him that told Killua they were alike, along with the light inside him that Killua finds inspiring. Killua’s brutal childhood made him strong, but also killed his inner child; that Gon possesses all that strength and rage, but also a light and gentle heart, raises serious questions about his ultimate nature.

    Gon’s self-destructive instincts at last take a toll in Greed Island’s climax. Though Gon has taken his life in his hands many times, he’s never suffered lasting consequences for it, and thus never learned to act otherwise. In Greed Island, his growing confidence and inner fire lead him to gamble his own body, treating his very limbs as “ammunition” to be expended, so long as the fight is won. His friends’ plan didn’t even involve such a sacrifice — but because Gon is Gon, he’s willing to lose a limb just to test whether he can beat some new enemy. Gon doesn’t flinch at violence or pain, even when it’s his own; these qualities make him a terrifying hunter, but also a wildly self-destructive one.

  “Greed Island” is an appropriate name for a game specifically designed for hunters to fight, steal, and kill from each other. There is a hunger in hunters, something that sets them aside from the normal world. And while Hunter x Hunter celebrates that drive, it also emphasizes that people who embody it tend to be selfish, dangerous, or somewhere in between, and all blessed with a dash of madness. It’s no surprise that Ging abandoned his son, and no surprise Gon rushed off to chase him; for hunters, such dangerous, obsessive pursuits are the only ones worth attempting.

    Gon’s monomania, his fanatical devotion to his friends, his willingness to make any sacrifice, and his slanted view of morality are all key elements of his personality, some of the core things that make Gon Gon. But just as these qualities make him strong, they can also betray him, or lead him to stray from his best possible self. In Chimera Ant, Gon’s weaknesses will consume him entirely, leading to one of the greatest reversals in anime history. In Greed Island, the fires that will rage through its follow-up are already set to smolder.

  Who is your favorite anime protagonist? Let us know in the comments!

      Nick Creamer has been writing about cartoons for too many years now and is always ready to cry about Madoka. You can find more of his work at his blog Wrong Every Time, or follow him on Twitter.

  Do you love writing? Do you love anime? If you have an idea for a features story, pitch it to Crunchyroll Features!

By: Nick Creamer

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Deliverance [2]

Careful when you’re swimming in the holy water.

SERIES: Far Cry 5 WORD COUNT: 7,557 SHIP: Quinn/John Seed CHARACTERS: quinn leonis, john seed, eli palmer, wheaty, jacob seed

HERE TAKE THIS IM SICK OF LOOKING AT IT

It had never been apparent to her just how debilitating losing her sense of time’s passage could be until now.

She imagines it’s been weeks since she’d fled the Whitetail Mountains, but between the lack of sunlight and the hours that crept by so slowly they felt like days instead she had no idea how much time she’d been stuck here in the cell she’d been thrown in after the baptism John had performed on her.

Part of her still found that amusing. She’d been raised Catholic (her mother’s insistence, not her father’s), and that meant she’d effectively been baptized twice. It’s not technically unusual and she knows people sometimes chose to have another, but it wasn’t something she would have ever chosen herself—she hadn’t been any semblance of religious since her pre-teens.

A breath is huffed out as she lowers herself on bent arms, chest almost brushing the ground before she pushes herself back up again.

For the first time since escaping Jacob’s clutches Quinn can feel herself regaining the strength and good health she’d had before her initial capture in the mountains. Being stuck in a cage once again was hardly a great feeling (dehumanizing, at best) but unlike his older brother John seemed to actually give somewhat of a damn about keeping her healthy. It was probably some kind of manipulation tactic, but she could hardly complain about not starving and having a cot to sleep on rather than the ground.

Whether or not that applied to his other prisoners, she wasn’t sure.

It was slow going and she knows she won’t be back to peak health for a while, but she was on her way and that was good enough for her. The degrading health had been the worst aspect of her time with Jacob—not the starvation itself or the deplorable conditions they were all kept in or even the mind-fuckery, but the fact that she could feel herself weakening with every day that passed.

His methods hadn’t made any sense to her while there; what was the point of trying to train soldiers when you were keeping them too weak to so much as throw a halfway decent punch?

She’d gotten John to clarify it a bit after she’d discovered that once he’d found out she gave as good as she got in wordplay he could be sufficiently distracted from pulling her metaphorical—hopefully metaphorical—teeth.

(maybe she’d batted her eyelashes a few times and maybe Jacob’s demeaning question of if she abused flirting to get her way all the time drifted into her head whenever she did, maybe Jacob Seed could go fuck himself)

Jacob’s game was deprivation of sustenance and rest, keeping the ‘trainees’ weak and demoralized until they were physically and mentally pliable enough to push and twist in the direction he wanted. Classical conditioning. Pure psychological warfare confirmed.

There wasn’t any comfort in having her suspicions validated; it had almost made her less comforted when she again heard a faint echo of come home, kitten whisper through her mind like a passing breeze.

The cat and mouse games her and John had started up from the moment he first strapped her to the chair in his workshop was something she hadn’t expected to get away with, but he’d actually seemed to enjoy it—at least in the beginning. His patience for it had begun to wear thin, if his increased threats and agitation as the days passed were anything to go by.

Though she managed to dig a few more things out of him during their ‘sessions’, he was talented at swerving around questions and idle comments that would have given her something to actually work with; in itself, that was telling. He’d probably been in a white-collar profession judging by the well-kempt appearance and intelligence, but that assumption had a wrench thrown in it every time he slipped and let the monster of Wrath loose.

Jacob had been easier to read even considering the cool and distant demeanor. Posture and vernacular said military career, careful speech patterns spoke of both intelligence and pointed restraint, and Darwinian beliefs combined with the classical conditioning he was employing meant he was well-read and clever.

John, on the other hand, switched gears so frequently and with such ease that whenever she thought she had a grasp on him it slipped through her fingers. All she knew about him was that she didn’t know a Goddamn thing about him. One minute he played the calm, considerate man of God and the next he was the embodiment of rage and hate, another he was charismatic and likeable, and the next he was a grotesque caricature of a human being.

They had to have been masks, but the question of which one was the true John Seed remained. Were they just techniques to bend people the way he wanted them to bend, simply more subtle than the closed-fist punch of Jacob’s? A way to drag out the answers he wanted to hear from the people he brought into what amounted to a torture room?

Whatever it was, it was effective—some days she’d seen him pry a confession out of a begging victim before he’d even begun to cut and carve into them.

If she thought about it long enough those confessions actually seemed to aggravate him and she couldn’t put a finger on why, since it was confessions he was after in the first place.

The sadism combined with the chameleon nature of his personality made it easy to ignore the stories of his childhood that she overheard him impart to his victims (and to her, once) as well as the sympathy they dredged up in her, but there was something raw to his anger every time the people he interrogated refused to play by his rules. He would insist that he was trying to help them, that he could free them from the bonds of lies and sin, and why were they fighting that freedom?

Psychotic behavior at its finest, but how much of that was true disposition, and how much of it was a direct result of upbringing, provided those horrific stories were true?

A grunt of exertion leaves her mouth with another push-up; she needs to stop psychoanalyzing the bastard, she knew, but there wasn’t really much else for her to do while she was stuck here waiting for her turns in that chair.

Humming and singing tunes when she was left alone with the rusty smell of blood and phantom screams seeping from the walls around her was her only other pastime aside from trying to pick apart the brain of a madman like she’d been trained to do back at Quantico. Sleeping too much just gave her headaches, and though exercising to the best of her ability gave her something to do it really didn’t do much to stop her from thinking and thinking and overthinking.

Maybe the Rolling Stones had it right, she muses, a strained hum of a familiar tune about sympathizing with the devil leaving her mouth as she continues her routine.

At least she was getting practical experience she could boast about if—when—she got the chance to appeal for her badge.

She wonders if Stevie was having any more luck with figuring out how to stop the Seeds while she counted out her repetitions; so far, she’d had no luck staying away from the bastards long enough to even breathe.

Pausing with her body flat to the ground as the unmistakable, skin-prickling sensation of being watched hits her, she purses her lips.

Wordlessly she resumes, not happy with the burn she was beginning to feel telling her she wasn’t going to be able to do much more. Her captivity with Jacob had taken more out of her than she had realized. “What is it with you boys and staring? It’s fucking rude.”

Sure enough, the voice that responds is exactly the one she expects, preceded first by a disapproving tsk. “That Pride of yours again. Hadn’t you thought that, maybe, I was just waiting for you to finish?”

“I know the feeling of eyes on my back, John.” She replies, her next push-up more strained and slow than the rest; she was shaking with the effort now. “I also know the feeling of eyes on my ass.” With a heavy sigh she pushes herself up to her feet to stretch, lamenting that she’d barely counted half of what she’d been capable of before coming to Hope County.

Baby steps.

John scoffs at the accusation as he crosses the floor towards her. “Every day you make me more certain of the sin my brother suggested you suffered from.”

“Oh, I’m not suffering from it.” Her back pops nicely when she stretches upward as best as she can with the low ceiling of her cell. “You seem to be taking a hell of a lot longer to commit to mine than any of the other victims of your insanity here. Why the delay in mutilating me?”

Not that she wants it—fuck, it’s the last thing she wants.

“Because you have to willingly acknowledge it. You have to want to atone for your sin. You have to say yes.” He says, and she lifts an eyebrow at his failure to deny the mutilation comment. Considering his convictions—otherwise decent—she’d have expected him to defend his methods.

Her shoulder begins to ache, aggravated by her exercising in spite of the injury he’d given her by tipping the chair she’d been bound to over in a rage. She rolls it, folds her arms over her chest, and then in a completely deadpan voice says: “No.”

The change is immediate; he steps closer to her cell, fury in every hard line of his body.

She goes rigid. It’s a miracle she manages to not step away in reflex, but her knuckles go white where they grip her upper arms and she has to swallow the sudden stone in her throat.

John was nowhere near as physically imposing as Jacob was but his unpredictability made him every bit as dangerous—not that her constant and conscious attempts to provoke him were doing her any favors in that regard. Stop playing with fire, Quinn.

Their tense staring contest is broken by him first, and she watches as he storms over to the workbench she’d grown painfully familiar with in the last few days as he lost patience for her glib attitude and games. With an angry roar he places his hands on the edge of the bench and shoves, tipping it over and sending it crashing to the floor. All the tools stacked and lined up on its surface clatter to the ground and either roll or bounce away.

Her eyes are wide as she stares at the workbench. Silently she scratches out her previous mental assessment of his physical capability; clearly, his lean frame was deceptive.

Then a quiet ting near her feet catches her attention and she looks down, blinking at the sight of a thin screwdriver that had rolled from the bench and bumped into the bars of her cell. Adrenaline pulses through her veins at the sight and she quickly lifts her eyes back to John, schooling her features and praying he wouldn’t notice it lying there. Please, for once, let my luck turn out in my favor.

He doesn’t turn away from the workbench immediately, but once he’s apparently collected himself he returns to her, smile all teeth. “This could be so much easier if you just bared your Pride and let me free you from it.” He hisses.

“I already told you,” she says carefully, licking her lips and not missing the way his expression flickers and eyes follow the motion, “I’m not interested in being saved and I’m definitely not interested in baring myself to you.”

Wait—fuck.

She wastes half a second hoping he didn’t notice the accidental entendre, but the way his fury is fully doused and replaced by a heat of a different kind has her swearing a blue streak internally. He leans forward, hands on the bars of her cell and expression now an open leer. “My, my, Agent, where did your mind go just now?”

Oh, no, he was not going to stick her with the Scarlet fucking Letter. “Get bent you son of a bitch.”

“And Wrath makes an appearance as well! My dear, you must have a lot to own up to that’s just aching to come out.” He laughs, and her skin prickles. “I could help you with that. You just. Have to. Say. Yes.”

Christ, he’d circled through about half a dozen personalities and attitudes within the span of just five minutes—whether she’d been napping in the dirt and starving or not, she was starting to miss Jacob. At least he was consistent.

Her mouth opens, scathing comment ready to go, but before she can get the words out there’s a hiss of loud static from the two-way attached to his belt. “John. You there?” Gooseflesh ripples over her skin and she shivers, recognizing Jacob’s voice and trying not to wonder what the odds were that he’d contact John right after she’d thought about him.

The smile on John’s face drops and his jaw ticks; without breaking eye contact he reaches for the radio and clicks the receiver. “I’m busy, brother.”

“Stop being busy.” Jacob says, and Quinn has to chew on her lip to keep the mild laughter that bubbles in her throat from the flat disregard in his voice. “You’ve got a problem heading in your direction.”

A lightness settles in her chest at Jacob’s words that she fights to keep from showing; the only real problem the Cult had been dealing with in recent events, so far as what she’d heard from Eli and the Whitetails, was one determined as hell and very pissed off Stevie Brewin, who had in just two months managed to light a fire under the local Resistance’s ass.

John stares at her for a long moment before finally stepping back, pointing at her with the antenna of the radio and smiling easily. “I have business to take care of, it seems—don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

She says nothing, watching him with sharp eyes while he leers at her and hoping that karma would smack him in the face in the form of tripping over one of the tools he’d sent scattered across the floor while walking backwards. When he finally turns away, unfortunately skipping the delightful opportunity for schadenfreude, she listens to his footsteps fade away as he disappears down a stairwell beyond a grated dividing wall.

There was no way for her to tell if he’d just been fucking with her by saying he’d return, but either way she was going to be balancing a fine line here. If she waited too long, she risked running into him on his way back, and if she didn’t wait long enough she risked running into him before he’d even really left.

She won’t let herself consider he wasn’t planning on going far at all and she’d have nowhere to slip past him anyway.

Tense as a board she counts out two minutes before scrambling for the fallen screwdriver at the foot of her cell and then setting to work on forcing the lock on the door open. It’s a long shot, but in a relieving upturn of her luck it works.

Resisting the urge to toss the tool away and just book it, she instead slowly slides the door open and gently sets it aside. There’s a knife on the floor ahead of her, tossed along with all of John’s other tools, and she quickly snatches it up. There was one other door in the room opposite the direction he’d left in, but it’s locked fast and requires some kind of key—one that John probably kept on his person rather than floating around.

Unhappy about it, she turns and follows after John.

The landing at the bottom of the stairs leads to an industrial room like his workshop, this one packed with crates and shelves of stored tools and supplies. All of it was stark and military in appearance, an orderly form of chaos, adding to her confusion as to where in the hell she was; this hardly seemed like the kind of place a man like John with his fancy shirts and designer shades would willingly spend time in.

It sort of made sense considering his clear and disturbing fondness for torture, but that left the supplies—she doubted he needed so many just for getting his rocks off by cutting a few people open. Her gut feeling said that, no, this place had nothing to do with John’s extracurricular activities.

There’s an open door up ahead, blocked by a cultist looking out into the hall beyond; she waits, watching and hoping she didn’t plan on standing there until John returned. Luckily, she turns around and Quinn quickly doubles back, ducking under a shelf at a near-crawl and bypassing the unaware cultist entirely.

Exposed pipes, stark metal, and solid concrete walls that almost reminded her of manufacturing facilities and laboratories, hoses and power wires crisscrossing the floors, and a few open pipes large enough for her to crouch and move through to dodge more cultists all became familiar sights to her as she moves through the facility quietly and unseen.

A lot of the Peggies were working, packing away boxes and taking inventory of their contents, moving equipment into different rooms and occasionally stopping to gossip about their boss. Much as she’d like to stop and snoop, she wasn’t about to risk her chance at getting free. Learning about the Seeds wasn’t at all worth getting found out and either shot full of holes or dragged back to John’s workshop. She’d already pushed him far enough, and that would just give him an excuse to get even more aggressive in forcing a confession out of her.

What gives her heavy pause and leaves her with an ill feeling in her stomach is the sight of repurposed sections of hallways, blocked by metal gates, with groups of shaking people huddled with in. If she weren’t a lone woman armed with nothing but a knife and her wits and had some idea of where she was going, she could take the time to try and free them.

Her stomach twists as she does, but she ignores them all and continues moving, careful to stick to the shadows as she moves up a flight of stairs and filing away a growing suspicion that whatever this place was, it had something to do with the Collapse the Cult seemed so obsessed with.

Sneaking around Jacob’s operations up in the mountains with Jess had served her well—save for a few close calls where one of the cultists catch a glimpse of something skulking around she manages to avoid confrontation through a dozen rooms and up another flight of stairs without much struggle.

Any of them that did happen to spot her moving around in the shadows just mumble something about too much Bliss before simply returning to work. Apparently the Cult’s best brainwashing weapon was also a double-edged sword.

As she passes another doorway a familiar voice catches her attention and she pauses; ultimately it’s the sight of the bow and quiver she’d nicked from one of Jacob’s hunters in the room beyond that alters her path into the room. It’s empty save for a few pipes stretching from the floor to the ceiling in one corner and a workbench up against the wall, next to which sat her recurve and quiver.

Her radio is nowhere to be found, but that doesn’t surprise her.

She carefully slinks past an open doorway with a soft glow lighting the floor from within and quietly slings both her bow and quiver over her back.

The she refocuses on the voice, John’s smooth tone coming from the room she’d just passed by and now returns to, hiding just beyond the frame and peeking inside. His back is to her as he leans over a desk in the center of the room, a single desk lamp illuminating whatever it was he was staring at and throwing enough ambient light for her to see what looked like a facility map taped up between the rows of obsolete screens and computers lining the walls.

Some kind of security hub, maybe, but all she cares about is the map and it’s what she focuses on with intent as she listens in on him.

“—is why Joseph is so insistent these two need to be converted to our cause, or why they should be important to us at all. We’re expending a lot of effort and people trying and all the while they’re helping the Resistance undermine our efforts.” She’d missed the first half of his statement, but she frowns at the half she does hear.

Joseph wanted her and Stevie to be part of the Project? Well that had a snowball’s chance in hell of happening—Quinn would sooner stab herself in the eye, and she knows Stevie well enough to know they’d be in agreement on that front.

“It doesn’t matter. You know how he gets when the Voice is involved.” Jacob says, clear disinterest in his voice even through the wash of static that distorts it. That catches her interest, however—did Jacob not actually believe in Joseph’s overarching goal for the Project?

It was far beyond a long shot, but she wonders what the possibility was they could convert him.

John lets out a scoff. “Your lack of faith in Joseph’s gift never ceases to astound me, Jacob.”

“You’re the one asking why.” Ever the dutiful soldier, it seemed, if Joseph gave the order and Jacob followed whether he believed or not. “The Deputy’ll reach the south gatehouse in the next few hours unless she deviates.”

“Hours? I thought you said your hunters last saw her by the ranger station?”

“Apparently she knows how to hotwire.”

Damn. Quinn makes a note to ask Stevie to teach her that trick; spending three days dodging Jacob’s hunters on foot just to reach another section of the County had been the exact opposite of fun.

Speaking of—

She stands from where she’d been crouched by the doorway and lets out a sharp whistle just as John presses the receiver on the radio. He whirls around and she grins at the look of bewilderment on his face. “Hey, you mind pointing me in the direction of the restroom? I think I’m a bit lost.”

This was so fucking stupid, but totally, one-hundred-percent worth watching the gears in his head struggle to get back up to speed.

The second his expression turns some mixture of impressed and wickedly amused she shoots him a cheeky two-fingered salute and then turns and bolts, a wild smile on her face as she goes. He gives chase immediately, heavy footfalls following after her as the industrial architecture of the facility blurs around her.

She jukes around cultists on her way through, following the map to the best of her memory and hoping she’d gotten a long enough look to be heading for the entrance; they all shout in alarm as she passes, silenced shortly after by loud thumps and crashing that tells her John wasn’t bothering to be nearly as careful as he followed her.

He was taller than her and had longer strides, but even with her diminished health and knowing she was on an endurance clock that would’ve made her instructors cry, she was faster and had freerunning—one of her hobbies—on her side.

The distance between them begins to grow, and he seems to realize he was losing ground. “You’re only making this more difficult, my dear!”

“Difficult for who? You sound out of breath!” She calls back, darting through a doorway and nearly running over another Peggie; they were starting to look more urgent, and that meant the ones they’d already passed had radioed ahead. Things were about to get more difficult.

Without slowing she jumps directly for the solid wall that greets her past the open doorway and plants a foot on it, pushing off at an angle and taking the sharp turn without losing speed.

“I will catch you!” He yells. She’d expected him to sound angry or frustrated, but instead he just sounded invigorated. He was having fun.

Her intent had been to piss him off and the fact she’d misjudged and failed spectacularly should have frustrated her.

It didn’t. She was having fun, too.

A doorway halfway down the hall up ahead would take her to the facility exit if her memory served her well, but she’s forced to skid to a complete halt to make the turn with no wall to bounce off of. Even with the immediate push forward she still feels a rush of air just behind her as John misses her by inches.

Alright, so he was bad at cornering but really good at open sprints. Noted.

Through the doorway she sees a large room littered with stacks of more crates and boxes, and the sheer size of whatever operation this was suddenly occurs to her; they were really digging in for something, and Quinn wonders where the line blurred between paranoia and preparation.

Two Peggies are startled at her sudden appearance, both standing on opposite sides of a stack of crates half her height.

John yells for them to grab her and the two step forward to intercept, ready for her to try and dodge around—instead, she leaps directly for the stack of crates, slapping her hands down onto the surface and expertly vaulting right between them.

Maneuvering around the rest of the room slows her down, but when she breaks through the organized chaos into the open landing, only one cultist between her and a stairwell that would lead her to freedom, she’s still moving fast.

Fast enough for her to drop her shoulder and body slam the cultist into the wall near the stairs. He collapses, wheezing and nearly dragging her down with a desperate grab for her shoulders but she skips back, spinning and taking the stairs two at a time.

Her lungs were starting to burn uncomfortably. Just a bit further, she reminds herself.

Footsteps echo after her up the stairs, and those four simple words become a mantra.

When she reaches the final landing of the absurdly tall stairwell—no windows, industrial, tons of bulkheads, were they underground?—she sequesters the bud of victory that starts to form in her chest. A false sense of security would be her worst enemy when this would be the most dangerous stretch of her escape.

Brilliant sunlight nearly blinds her as she bursts through a final bulkhead, thick metal door ahead of her ajar and beckoning her forward.

She nearly tumbles right over the edge of the raised landing outside the door, forced to quickly redirect and move for a ramp that led down to the flat, open ground of the yard in front of her. It’s a loading bay, littered with even more scattered supplies and a semi-trailer parked back up against the raised landing. A trio of white pickups were lined up ahead with their sides facing her.

She could risk checking for keys in the trucks, but she’d already gone beyond pushing her luck by taunting John rather than fleeing silently and without attracting attention. If her dad were here, he’d definitely be giving her one hell of a disappointed stare for the impulsive decision.

“There! She’s there!”

“Don’t shoot her, the Father wants her alive!”

“Aim for her legs!”

Not only did that sound hellishly unpleasant, one good shot to her legs would put her right back at square one, incapacitated and ready to be dragged back down into the depths and right back into John’s hands.

She glances around, noting the wire fence penning in the area, the opening flanked by gatehouses up ahead, and the trio of heavily-armored cultists blocking the exit—and her eyes settle on the line of trucks.

Alright, so this wasn’t her most brilliant of ideas, ever, but it was better than making a fool of herself by getting all the way to the end of the line only to have nowhere to run.

The first shot rings out across the yard and spurs her forward.

A stack of crates unloaded next to the nearest truck is used as a springboard to launch her up onto the wall of the truckbed, and from there she hops up onto the cab and then across each of the trucks with the thought in her head that Frogger was a hell of a lot less fun than she remembered.

“What the fuck is she doing?”

“Go! Go around!”

When she reaches the third truck she braces herself and then leaps, clearing the barbed wire topping the yard fence by scant inches. Her heart drifts into her throat as the freefall grips at her, the sound of more gunfire breaking the silence of the surrounding forest and sending nearby flocks of birds into panicked flight.

Pain flares up her leg as she lands, the force of her fall sending her sprawling; a noise of pain leaves her, but she forces herself back to her feet and keeps running, pouring every ounce of speed into her burning limbs and ignoring her tiring lungs.

One of the cultist’s bullets finds its mark and she stumbles as fire erupts in her arm, more pain that through sheer force of will is ignored in favor of running. It’s not a bliss bullet, or she wouldn’t have made it to the trees—the only dizziness she feels is purely the result of a tiring body begging her to slow down and stop.

She’s pursued into the woods, frantic shouts and barked orders and gunfire that causes her to instinctively duck as she runs as quickly as she dares down a slope following after her. The forest thickens as she goes, giving her more cover as she ducks in and around trees and bushes as often as possible.

After what felt like an eternity the sounds of pursuit leave her behind, fading farther and farther back until she feels comfortable enough to duck and hide under a rocky outcropping in the sloped landscape; the shade does little to ease the inferno in her blood from so much exertion and sweat drips down the side of her face.

It’s a struggle to calm her breathing as she waits, hating the way her tired limbs start to shake.

Five minutes pass. Distant but still too-close-for-comfort shouts from John’s followers reach her ears. Their hair raising calls of “come out, little girl!” and “play nice and we will!” do nothing to assist in calming her.

Ten minutes. Footsteps crunch in the underbrush on sticks and dry leaves nearby. None approach.

Fifteen.

“She’s gone.”

“Damnit. I’m not telling him.”

“Quit complaining. All of you head back, I’m checking ahead.”

The other voices drift off along with the groups of footsteps she’d been hearing until only one is left; her body is starting to shake more with the adrenaline fading and it’s a struggle to keep upright as she listens with bated breath.

The steps drift towards her hiding spot. Her eyes narrow.

With her body so unsteady she has no idea if she’ll be able to accomplish what she needs to if she’s found, but she steels herself for it anyway. The bow would make too much noise if she tried to slide it off her back in the quiet woods, so she instead reaches for the knife she’d tucked under her belt back in the bunker.

She holds completely still, keeping her breathing as even and quiet as she possibly can when a pair of booted feet enter her vision to the left of the rocky outcropping.

What she assumes is one of John’s Chosen steps fully into her sight, passing her completely without even bothering to check behind the outcropping. Fucking idiot. He stands there scanning the area; her knuckles are white where they grip the knife.

When he does finally turn around his gaze settles on her with a startled expression; she springs forward with a snarl, jamming her knife into his throat before he can lift the gun in his hands, surprising both him and herself for two very different reasons. His eyes widen and the gun drops from his hands, clattering to the loose dirt and leaves between them, one of his hands fisting in her hair in dying fury and yanking.

A yelp of pain leaves her and her fingers slip from the knife when his other hand snaps around her throat—a single painful squeeze is all he can manage before his grip on her slackens and gaze goes distant, her hair and her throat both released as he collapses to the ground on his back in a twitching heap.

She stumbles back on unsteady feet, falling back onto her ass and watching with something she can only describe in the moment as horror while he grasps furiously at the blade in his throat until his movements slow and eventually stop, blood still leaking around the sharp edge of the weapon and bubbling in his throat.

Nausea rises in her own and she sucks in a sharp breath, pressing her lips together tightly to keep herself from retching at the sight of the still body and glassy eyes laid out in front of her.

She’d wanted to be an FBI agent since she was a teenager—still did. She’d known from the beginning that there was a more than high possibility that her choice of field would lead to her having to kill someone at some point, but she hadn’t ever expected it to be like this. Not even when the stories Eli had told her gave her an idea of what Jacob might have been trying to do with her, not even when she’d been up in the mountains helping the Whitetails—that had been at a distance, cold and impersonal. It still made her sick at first, but it had been getting easier to deal with.

Suddenly, that decent ease she’d begun to grow with killing meant absolutely nothing, and she felt like she’d just made her first kill again. This was up close, she’d been near enough to see the life leave the man’s eyes, and she decides immediately that she does not fucking like it.

Worse was knowing that, sooner or later, she was going to have to get used to this as well. She’d been lucky up in the mountains and had a partner watching her back, both of them taking enemies down at a distance.

This wasn’t going to be the only time she was going to be on her own and at risk.

Swallowing, she gathers her wits and stands, moving forward with palpable hesitation and reaching down to grasp the handle; her shoulder flares with pain as she pulls it out with a sickening, wet noise. More bile rises in her throat at the immediate gush of more blood from the wound without something blocking it.

Pulling arrows from corpses was no different. It wasn’t, but no matter how many times it runs through her head her skin still crawls.

It’s only knowing that the longer she sticks around the likelier it is she’ll be found and that she was up shit creek without the metaphorical paddle—paddle being supplies—that gives her the constitution to search the body for anything she can use. She has to avoid looking at the man’s face in order to do so.

A pair of throwing knives are both tucked into her boots. Nothing in the way of food or water are on his person, but she’s not surprised considering she’d caught them all of guard.

It was still worrying. She was who knew how many miles from any semblance of civilization, and between the marathon she’d just run and the bullet wound on her arm she risked dehydration at least.

Hell, she’d be lucky if she could make it anywhere between the wound and the ache in her ankle that was more prominent in her mind without the adrenaline and urgency keeping her focus elsewhere, and that wasn’t taking into account the exhaustion that was going to settle over her quickly now.

There’s a radio clipped to his belt, and having decided that she’s not going to find anything else truly useful, she snatches it off him with quick fingers and steps away. Her eyes drift around as she tries to get her bearings and decide a direction to go; if she keeps lingering, it was tantamount to her just turning around and walking right back into John’s hands.

And she didn’t go through all this for nothing.

She lingers long enough to rip a strip of fabric from the bottom of her shirt and tie a makeshift tourniquet around her bicep just above the bullet wound, and ultimately she decides to simply follow the ravine she’s in downhill. Ravines meant water erosion, and if she was lucky she would wander across a body of water at some point. The question was whether or not she’d get to one before passing out.

After an hour of walking, her ankle slowly paining her more and more, she was struggling to motivate herself to keep going rather than finding a bush to just lay down and rest. Despite the tourniquet there’s a slow trickle of blood that’s doing her no favors, either.

Come home. Come home. Come home.

She hesitates, staring with blurry, blinking eyes up at the bridge spanning the gap of the ravine fifty feet above her. The sun was starting to set and more than the exhaustion itself—or maybe a direct result of it—the thought kept creeping into her head. Come home. Jacob’s voice was like a ghostly whisper in her ear and she sways with indecision.

She sure as fuck wouldn’t be able to make it back to the Veteran’s Center from here, but maybe if she went back to John—

Holy fucking shit.

Her head shakes rapidly to break the thoughts in her head, a shaky breathe leaving her and the motion making her even dizzier. Jesus, Tammy had been right. He gets into your head, she had told her, venomous and warning, there’s no avoiding it. No matter how long you’re with him. He gets into your head.

The knowledge that within three weeks he’d been able to plant control into her brain leaves her disturbed. What would he have been able to accomplish if she’d been there longer?

She’s too tired to be ashamed of the startled yelp that leaves her when a voice crackles through static on the radio clipped to her belt. “Brayden, do you copy?” It’s not John, just another of the Peggies.

Her fingers grasp the radio and unclip it, and she wars with the same thoughts—come home come home come home—as she stares at it and debates on responding. She could be a petty little shit and taunt them, but she has no idea how far she’d actually managed to get away from John’s bunker and she didn’t want to give them the idea that she was still nearby.

The voice that wasn’t her own told her that was exactly what she wanted to do.

“Brayden, do you copy? We need an update. Are you tracking her?”

Definitely the guy she’d killed. With him not responding they were probably going to suspect foul play and send a group out to look for him—and, by extension, her. Ignoring the voice that sounded suspiciously like a red-haired, blue-eyed wolf of a man, she decides she needs to get oriented and find somewhere safe that wasn’t with John.

With the sun setting she’d be at one hell of a disadvantage if they were still out looking for her. She’d never been taught to navigate by stars, and she was alone with no supplies and no idea if there was any shelter nearby.

It was looking more and more like her luck had been used up by managing to dodge Jacob’s hunters for nearly a week after this nightmare had begun, and Lady Luck had wiggled a glimmer of it in front of her nose with this escape only to take it away again.

Blinking down at the radio, she switches the frequency to one she hopes wasn’t too far out of range. “Eli, this is Quinn. Are you there?”

Only her footsteps as she resumes her unsteady and slowed walking pace answer her at first, and she starts to doubt that she could still reach the Militia out here. She’s about to press the button to try again when she finally gets a response. “Shit, Quinn, is that really you? Jess told us what happened, we’ve been trying to get in contact with you for weeks!”

His voice is slightly garbled, likely a result of the distance, but it’s unmistakably Wheaty on the other end. She sighs in relief. “It’s me, Wheaty. Good to hear you.” Then what he said gives her pause. “How long was I dark?”

“A little over two weeks, after that ambush. Hey, you’re breaking up real bad—where are you?”

It couldn’t hurt to share the wildly general area, considering she truly had no idea. “Somewhere in Holland Valley, I think.”

“You don’t know?”

“I just spent two weeks held captive underground, so no. That’s why I’m contacting you guys. I need help getting my bearings.”

There’s a longer pause and she assumes that Wheaty was processing what she’d told him or looking for a map, but the next voice that speaks is the one that she’d called for in the first place. “John got hold of you?” Eli must have been listening in and had chosen then to cut in. She feels a momentary pang of regret for interrupting whatever he might’ve been working on, but the concern in his voice soothes it somewhat.

“He did. I’m okay, Eli, just exhausted. I gave him a swift metaphorical kick in the nuts on my way out, so it was worth it.”

“You and the Deputy are something special, Quinn. Been at this resistance thing for years but none of us have been able to kick over the Cult’s sandcastles the way both of you have in just a few months.” Eli says, amused and relieved in equal measure. “Can you give me some landmarks to work with? Get to high ground if you can.”

She’d already anticipated the request and had—with difficulty thanks to both her leg and arm—begun to scale the hillside of the ravine she’d been traversing, wary of the open road and bridge she’d just bypassed. Once at the top she squints at the mountainside to her right and the waning colors of sunset. “I’m facing south right now, been traveling through a ravine down the mountain I think.”

She’ll need to get moving as soon as Eli gives her a direction to go in, now. This was an unsecured frequency the Whitetails monitored, and anyone could’ve been listening in.

Scanning her environment, she lists off anything noteworthy she can see; a lone church down by a small lake, spire just barely peeking up over the top of the trees, what looked like an airfield somewhere to her southeast, plus the bridge she’d just passed, and—

She blinks, having turned around to see if there was anything behind her and suddenly wondering if the blood loss was causing her to hallucinate visually as well as audibly. There above the trees was a massive Hollywood-style billboard featuring exactly three letters: YES.

What. The. Fuck.

When she realizes she’s keeping Eli waiting she clicks the receiver down, unable to tear her eyes away from the sign. “I—there’s a big ‘Yes’ sign up in the mountain northeast of me.” Really, John?

Eli doesn’t comment on the billboard and she almost wishes he would—it’d make the surreality of what she was looking at make her feel just a bit more grounded. “Can’t tell exactly where you’re at, kid, but in a general sense keep heading southeast. I remember right, Grace Armstrong is holed up somewhere near the foot of the hill you’re on.”

She winces, heading carefully back down into the ravine. “Thanks, Eli. Hey, I’m on a stolen radio right now ‘cause John took mine, so I don’t have the encryption channels anymore. Until you can swap out the keys, avoid details on the radio.”

“Got it. Damn miracle they haven’t intercepted us yet.”

“Yeah.” She says. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. Put a bullet in John and help your friend put a few in Jacob and we’ll call it even.”

She laughs, feeling light in her chest and unsettled by the fact she can’t tell if it’s from the blood loss or exhaustion or she was just happy to hear from someone friendly. “Will do, Eli. Quinn out.”

[artificialqueens]

London Is Burning (2/?) - Trixya - petrichor

AN: Hello! Welcome to Chapter 2 of London Is Burning! Thank you so much for the positive response to the last chapter! It definitely means the world! Anyhow, with no further ado, here’s the next part!

Part One

Maybe it was the fact that Alaska Thundefuck had a gaze that could melt steel, or that the private room definitely did not have air conditioning, but her palms were clammy and uncomfortable.

Trixie didn’t often feel nervous and when she did, she would die before admitting it. She had nerves were she deemed appropriate: doing tasks like dry shaving her legs when she didn’t have time to be overly-hygienic, walking down steel hills in equally steep heels and going through TSA despite the fact that she literally held a job higher than the people who swabbed her luggage. She’d always been a girl who held her head high and swallowed her anxiety (or heavily medicated it, either worked) and got on with it. However, there was something about this particular scenario that seemed to have her on the edge of the metaphorical void.

Possibly, it had something to do with this being her big break, the one case that would launch herself into this career that she’d been chasing for so long. The woman sat in front of her was her one way ticket past all of the obstacles that were glaring her down back in Virginia. But, as it turned out, said ticket was an unhinged and slightly catty LA girl in lingerie.

“Are you single?”

The three words that were first drawled between them in a private conversation was enough for Trixie Mattel to realise that maybe this whole operation was going to be a lot more complicated than she’d first anticipated. The criminal had taken a seat on a clean couch and was hunched over, head lolling on her shoulder as if she wanted nothing more than to fall asleep. Trixie, who was stood at the door and was hyper-sensitive to the fact that she was alone in a room with a criminal (even though she was only convicted of petty crimes, it was all the same to Trixie), just blinked slowly and shot her an odd look.

“Excuse me?”

“I asked if you were single.”

Trixie had heard Alaska perfectly the first time, but struggled to find a reason why Alaska could bring up her personal life in this scenario. After all, Alaska had just agreed to be a part in a eighteen-month undercover operation to avoid being deported back to the US- and presumably to her death from what intel Trixie had gathered on her. Even so, a light blush danced under the lights of the holding cell and Alaska’s wide lips twitched.

“Because, you would have to be single to dress like that…” There was a cruel edge to her voice and Trixie pursed her lips; the light danced in Alaska’s eyes, illuminating the dark, tired amusement. “You look like a senior executive Barbie doll.”

Trixie gave Alaska a strained smile, lightly running her eyes down Alaska’s outfit choice. The nightwear Alaska had on (which Alaska didn’t even own, admittedly, if she’d been the sharing type she’d had mentioned that it belonged to her friend, Violet) looked as if it’d seen better days. It also looked like some sort of burlesque dominatrix nightmare. Trixie wasn’t a fan.

“Yeah, unfortunately, this is what having a high-paying government job does to you.” Trixie raised her arms, gesturing down at her corporate uniform, emphasising the leather badge she had strapped to the belt of her pencil skirt. Alaska didn’t react to the not-so-subtle dig at her lifestyle, rather smirked, enjoying the response.

She was rather enamoured by Trixie’s company, although she’d never admit it. Although Trixie was squeaky clean there was a shadiness behind her plastic exterior and it was so much more exciting than Coady’s ‘tomfoolery’ as another one of Alaska’s acquaintances had described it. Nevertheless, as soon as Trixie’s moxie had appeared, it disappeared behind her wide, country girl hospitable smile.

“So, I’m sure Detective Coady has spoken to you about my investigation,” Alaska looked down at her nails as Trixie adopted a lighter and more peppy tone. She just about managed to avoid yawning because she didn’t feel like sharing something else about her that they could exploit to get her to do their bidding. “I’m very excited to get started on this, it’s been a long time coming! I’ll just need to get you to sign a few things alongside your lawyer to make sure that you’re fully aware of the rules here—“

“I don’t have a lawyer.” Alaska murmured, her voice strong but almost a vibration in the air; her eyes swooped up to meet Trixies’ and she sighed. “I don’t have money for shit, plus I don’t think Coady would let me have shit either.”

“We’ll find you one, then.” Trixie replied, the smile never slipping from her lips; her disdained prisoner just looked over at her bleakly and wondered whether the sun shined from her asshole. “It’s no problem, we just need a legal representative to help you go through everything and make sure that everything is crystal clear—“

And so they did. It was almost five hours later and in the same boringly modest room that Alaska Thunderfuck was handed her contract. At her side was some government-assigned balding lawyer-man who was only there because he was forced to be, and in front of her was Trixie Mattel, America’s shiniest living nightmare. Her intrigue with Trixie’s complicated character had quickly wavered into distaste. The more Trixie spoke, the more irritating she became- so much so that Alaska had actually hesitated before signing on the dotted line. It wasn’t like Alaska even had a choice, however.

It was this or inevitable death. And she, Alaska Thunderfuck, was a survivor. The contents of the next eighteen months glared her in the face. There were terms that Alaska didn’t even believe were even possible, but it all grilled down to the end product.

This time in a year and a half, Brian McCook would be behind bars. That was what the investigation was in pursuit of: an international drug supplier who was feeding stock to hundreds of dealers over the world. A man who’d been off the map until his name had popped up in the shadows, whispered on the backstreets of London and somehow into the ear of Interpol. Trixie had been studying and tracking him for years and had been brought into work alongside a concoction of local representatives and international representatives—but there was one issue.

There was no face to his name.

Alaska had had a hard time digesting this information. She’d just supposed that the investigation would be targeting someone like Katya, her boss and friend. To think of it, Alaska hadn’t really given the whole situation behind how Katya sourced her product much thought. Meanwhile, Trixie seemed adamant on insisting that McCook was involved in their drug ring and was equally determined to prove it. So that’s how Alaska found herself faced with an impossible challenge.

***

A week after Trixie Mattel began her undercover investigation, Alaska found herself walking down a cold side street in Soho, with a wire pressed in between her breasts and a heavy drag to her step.

Her hair was dishevelled, her lips were puffy and her eyes were slightly bloodshot as her heeled shoes dragged along the pavement. She kept her chin tilted downwards and dragged in a long, pained breath as she thought about what she was about to do. Her hands were stuffed in her pockets and she had an old jacket- brought to her by a reluctant Violet, whom had visited her while she was in a holding cell and “under investigation”- wrapped around her small, thin body.

On the other side of the street, sat a transit van, its doors firmly shut and front cabin empty. But in its body, sat three individuals, watching closely on monitors as Alaska approached a large, closed nightclub at the end of the street. They were sat, shoulder-to-shoulder, their eyes fixed on the pictures of the blonde; Trixie, whom was sat towards the front, tapped her foot up and down on the floor of the vehicle, her molars gritted. Rubbing her clammy palms together, she looked over at her companions and checked her watch.

To her right, Detective Coady, the man who seemed to linger in the shadows and smirk widely at all moments, was serenely staring at his phone, as if waiting for a message to come through.

“Are you sure that Alaska’s the right person to use in this operation?” The last person in the vehicle was a tall and slender man, his features soft as he looked between the display and the two blondes. His lips were curved downwards, a look of clear indecision on his face.

“I’m positive.” Coady murmured lowly in the background, beside him, Trixie to nodded along and gave them a smile. They’d been in conversation with Alaska over the past week, making sure that they could make quick preparations. Ideally, they’d wanted a longer period to make sure that this would go smoothly, but time was running out.

They’d been given intel that McCook was planning something big and it would be happening soon. Thus, they needed to get someone in on the inside as soon as possible.

“She’s desperate.” He continued, leaning forwards in his chair and following Alaska’s movements along the curb. Trixie looked back at him and could see the reflection of Alaska approaching the nightclub in the depths of his pupils. “I know this girl and she doesn’t want to go back to whatever hell hole it was that she crawled out of—she’s terrified. I’ve spent a lot of time with her and she’s bitchy, she’s loud and she doesn’t usually like being told what to do—“ He paused, before giving the other man a wide smirk. “We’ve got her.”

Pursing her lips, Trixie turned her head back to the monitor, her hair bouncing slightly as her eyebrows bowed. She’d spent various periods with Alaska over the past week and she’d been able to see it, the terror in Alaska’s eyes at the prospect of being shipped back into America and away from the life she’d built here. It’d been clear enough for Trixie’s heart to twang and twist, and almost made Trixie feel guilty for using her in such a make-or-break operation; but, as Coady kept saying, Alaska was a criminal, petty or not, still a criminal and someone who had no respect for the law.

Trixie would have an active role in the investigation as it was her own operation; it was her chance to lead and direct and call the shots and she’d been extremely lucky to be given it. She’d organised all of it, everything from the individual who had been recruited to go undercover and work alongside Alaska to the time frame that they would be given. Trixie had personally asked a close friend and seasoned pro, Kim Chi, to be the inside source and would be meeting with her later that day to introduce her with Alaska for the first time. For Trixie, this was a dream come true, she felt as though this was what she was destined to do. And it was all, so far, running better than she could have ever imagined.

Meanwhile, Alaska had never felt more stressed in her life. The centre of the gang’s activity was a nightclub that had been opened by Katya. Glamazon was not the most glamorous of place (despite its name) but it still was one of the cartel’s most prominent sources of income. It was highly popular by night, but in mid-morning it was dormant, its heavy doors shut and locked as the main staff and bouncers had left hours ago.

Standing in front of it, the large, four floor building that was nestled in between a smashed ATM and a adult toy shop, Alaska had never felt so small. She’d also never felt so disgusting, vulnerable or foolish, but Alaska figured that that was what went along with the drive to survive. She hesitated at the door, feeling the impulse to glance over her shoulder. She knew that they were sat out there, watching and studying her every movement.

They’d given her strict instructions; she was to walk in, greet all of her fellow members and act as if there was nothing out of the ordinary. Then, she would locate Katya and mention in passing that she’d found someone who was interested in joining their gang. From there onward, she’d be a traitor.

Alaska bit down on her tongue, hard, shoving open the door that would have otherwise been locked if the building hadn’t of been a centre of gang-based activity. As soon as the door opened and she was out of the agents sight, Alaska could feel her tense muscles relax and the familiarity of the nightclub somewhat ease away some of her stress. Some, even—she still felt as though she’d concave inwards or fall apart at the seams.

“Lasky!”

A voice called across the abandoned nightclub as she entered into the main body of the club. Alaska’s dark eyes trailed around, passing the empty booths, the haunting, vampire decor and the derelict neon lining on the mirror walls. Her head raised and she looked towards the bar, spotting a pale face that was leant against a barstool, accompanied by three other familiar faces.

Alaska was lucky she was good at acting, otherwise she would have turned on her heel and ran.

“We thought you were dead, you bitch!”

The person who’d called her name gave her a wicked smile as she trudged towards the four of–them, drawing her hands out of her pockets. The woman had tousled electric hair and a prominent nose, her sharp eyes softening as Alaska almost collapsed against the bar and slid onto a stool.

Tiredly, Alaska mumbled, “I’m alive, Detox” before running her fingers through her knotted hair.

The woman, Detox, just turned to the others and rolled her eyes. “See, Willam, I told you, she’s got Coady wrapped around her little fucking finger.”

At the end of the bar, a leggy blonde in six inch heels waved the middle finger in the air; Willam had her cell phone in one hand and gestured wildly with the other, her jaw moving as she chewed on a stick of gum. She looked disinterested, completely hooked on the conversation she was having on her cell phone; Alaska had half a mind to tell her to choke on her middle finger (for getting her into this mess with her inability to give good advice) but she didn’t quite have the energy. Instead, she turned her attention back to Detox, who was staring at her with a slight smile.

Opposite Alaska, one of the newer faces in the group was cleaning glasses with a cloth, she offered Alaska a drink but she declined. “No thanks, Shea, I actually came here to be sober…”

“That’s something new.” Willam snorted, her gaze not even shifting from the display as she spoke. The three girls all exchanged a look and Alaska sighed- “Love you, Willam,” She called down to her- while Detox seemed to mutter something under her breath. Willam barely missed a beat before replying. “Oh choke on a dick, Lasky. You’ve probably been gargling on Coady’s balls all week.”

“She was away for a rather long time.” The last girl, another one of the new girls that had the reputation of being a cold-hearted bitch, commented idly over what looked like a pina colada. The dark-haired brunette eyed Alaska with a look of innocent suspicion, her round eyes following the way the blonde tiredly ignored her. “If she had a leash around Coady’s neck than she would have been out of there faster than Willam at the tax office.”

Detox’s fat lips slid into a rather frog-like smile. “Maybe you’re right.” Her head turned, her short electric yellow hair bouncing as she looked over at Alaska. “What’s the verdict then, is Valentina and Willam right? Did you go on some escapade with that cop that probably has photos of you all over his bedroom wall.”

“No.” Alaska dismissed with a flippant wave of her hand. “I got stung.”

“Was it that time that blackmailed that police officer outside Tiger Tiger?” The bartender, Shea, questioned, her dark lips pulling upwards as she recounted that night. Alaska let out a breath, looking over at the dark beauty as she put down her rag and leant against the bar. “Did it finally catch up with you?”

“Fuck no,” Detox interjected, cutting of her and slapping a hand onto the counter-top. “It was that time she sold molly to that dodgy guy in Covent Garden—you know, the one that gave you the fake fifty and we had to rough him up.”

“I bet it was the time she got drunk in Trafalgar Square and flashed her breasts to the Nelson.” Valentina said, before sipping her drink loudly with the straw.

Alaska couldn’t help but want to tell them all to shut up; she was wired, therefore she knew that people of the law could hear every word that they said. Not only were they extremely loose-lipped, but they were further incriminating her. Most of the things they were talking about were all the results of her long struggle with sobriety; the more they spoke, the harder it became to avoid the alcohol that was sitting just a few steps away from her thirsty fingers. Willam was the one who spoke last.

“Y’all are on some crazy shit.” Finally, she looked up from her phone and shoved it in her pocket; she slid off of her stool and landed on the floor, barely wobbling as she stalked across the floor towards them. Willam injected herself in between Detox and Alaska, looking at her blonde friend intensely. “It was the acrylics, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Alaska breathed out, causing Willam to smirk widely. “One of the customers sold me out—apparently, they recognised me from the club and handed me into Johnny 5-O. But, they couldn’t find a charge to stick though, they just kept me cooped up and eventually Violet came and fished me out of there—I’ve been on their radar and I’ve just shaken them off.”

The lie had been fabricated by Trixie, not Alaska. The fact that Willam had been with Alaska while stealing all of the packs put them in a precarious position. Willam was extremely recognisable to the police force; she’d been arrested almost more than Alaska had been so telling the truth was out of the picture. Any police officer would have been able to ID Willam from a security tape—Alaska just supposed that they didn’t arrest her because they needed Alaska and Alaska alone. So she lied, with her heart twisting as she did so.

“Son of a bitch.” Willam cursed, shaking her head slowly, raising her fake manicure. The girls all reflected Willam’s reaction, showing looks of disgust and disdain. Here, cops were dirty and villainous; Alaska looked from Detox to Valentina, recognising the hatred for the lawful powers of the city deep-rooted in their eyes. “Useless snitches like that are why the world is a soulless cesspit.”

“Amen to that.” Detox exclaimed; but Alaska couldn’t quite pay attention. She swallowed thickly and leant backwards as Detox slammed a palm onto the counter. Her skin crawled eerily and she thought about what they would do to a snitch if they found them. “We need to celebrate—Shea, let’s have a round to celebrate Alaska sticking it to the queen and country-“

As Shea began taking the crescendo of orders, Alaska decided that maybe it was time for her to move along. She slipped off of her stool and moved out of the way of Detox and Valentina as they hurried to get their drinks; Willam watched her with sharp eyes and followed Alaska’s movements as she stepped backwards. Slowly, Alaska leant forwards and spoke in undertone.

“Actually, I was thinking that I could talk to Katya about this week… do you know where I can find her?”

Willam paused for a moment, her vivid eyes glittering in the dull light. Alaska could feel her pulse elevate slightly as Willam seemed to stare through her, as if she could see the wire that was taped to her chest. But, eventually, Willam let out a loud breath and gestured to a concealed set of stairs behind the bar.

“She’s up in the office handling the accounts,” Alaska nodded, thankful that she didn’t have to go on a wild goose chase to hunt her down. Willam accepted a vodka from Shea and tilted her head to the side, looking at Alaska through slatted eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay, ‘Laska.”

“I’m fine.” Alaska answered, almost too quickly; Willam raised a brow but she managed to recover quickly. “I’m just fucking frazzled, it’s not been an easy week.”

“I get it.” The blonde replied, still gnawing on her gum as she nursed her drink. “Coady’s a fucking sociopath and he probably doesn’t have a dick because it’s all in his personality.” If she hadn’t known that Coady was listening into their conversation, Alaska would have laughed. “He’ll get what’s coming to him one day, don’t worry—Katya’ll take care of him for you, you know that.”

Alaska did. She knew that Katya, in fact, everyone in this group was fiercely loyal. Well, everyone but her.

***

“They don’t seem to like you, do they, Aaron?”

The Detective shot him a glare as he leant back against his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. Each of them had donned a pair of earphones, and were currently listening to the voices of four individuals, all of whom Coady could name without even seeing their faces. Trixie, on the other hand, was taking notes, she was working hard to associate the names to the voices so she could gain some further information onto what was happening inside of the nightclub and the gang.

Detox, she assumed, was Detox Icunt, an individual who was infamous on the streets for being loud-mouthed and boisterous. Willam had been indentified by Coady, who had been quick to mention that Willam Belli was a failed actor turned prostitute that seemed to be constantly able to evade jail due to the fact she came from a rich family back in the US. The other individuals, Shea and Valentina didn’t have a lot of information or crime linked to them, so didn’t pique much interest, but Trixie was intent on remembering as much as she could.

“They’re all rats.” Coady commented venomously, causing Trixie to almost shiver at the emotion in his voice. She could have been wrong, but she would have thought that he had a personal vendetta against them from the way he spoke. “You’d do good to remember that, Sutan.”

The other man didn’t speak, but rather exchanged a look with Trixie when Coady was distracted. Sutan was the representative from Interpol, having moved from the FBI to the agency a few years back. Trixie had worked with him before and was familiar with his skills as a technology analyst and all-round hardworking asset to her new team. But with Coady, well, she was beginning to wonder whether he really was the best Scotland Yard had to offer.

“She’s going upstairs.” Trixie voiced suddenly, listening to the exchange between Alaska and Willam. Simultaneously, all three of them fell silent, listening intently to the sound of Alaska, presumably, making her way across the nightclub and towards the private offices. “This is it—this’ll be when this investigation gets into motion.”

“You’ve got Chi on board, right?” It was Coady’s sceptic voice that caused Trixie to falter. She looked over at him with her round, blue eyes, her brow quirking as she nodded. He glared back at her. “She’s the best of the best, it’s impressive that she’d come onto this investigation, with it being your first.”

“She’s a personal friend.” Trixie muttered, looking over at the computer screens in a bid to avoid Coady’s grilling gaze. “She’s flying in from Seoul tonight and I’m going to meet her off of her flight at Heathrow.”

“Great.” Coady sounded as if it was anything but great.

Trixie felt compelled to reply, but was cut short as the sound of her personal phone filled the vehicle. Sutan let out a low hiss at the disruption, as their earphones filled with the sound of a door opening and a momentary pause. She almost jumped at the sound of it, the Dolly Parton song that she’d forgotten to silence. Just as Coady turned to glare at her, she drew out the mobile, going to decline the call as quickly as she could.

“I-I’m sorry.” She was mortified; she felt foolishly unprofessional and felt her cheeks heat up as Coady shook his head in disappointment. Her thumb lingered over the decline button, but she paused when she noticed who it was that was phoning her. Her skin crawled. “I-I have to take this.”

Sutan’s head swung around to look at her in pure, unadulterated shock. “What? No! Trixie we’re about to mark the beginning of this-“

But Trixie just held up her phone sheepishly. “It’s Kim—I gotta-“

She moved to open the side of the van, but Coady let out a loud sound of urgent disapproval.

“You cannot leave this van—this is not a good place to be seen if you’re a cop!” Trixie stared at him, her mouth falling open as he shook his head at her again, jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Go over there and take the phone call quietly, it’ll be better than being on this gang’s radar, you can thank me for that later…”

She nodded quickly, taking off the headphones just as the sound of a heavily accented voice filled the channel. Both Coady and Sutan looked away instantly, their attention drawn to the sound of the two conversing females on the audio channel. Trixie, meanwhile, trudged to the back of the van and accepted Kim’s call.

“…Kim, hey…”

“…Trixie, how are you?”

“I’m doing okay… Alaska’s in….”

“...That’s great… I’m in the airport… I…”

Sutan and Coady exchanged a glance, half-listening to the words of London’s most influential king pin and the FBI agent in the corner. They could only hear one half of Trixie’s conversation, but they could tell that something was off—Sutan turned in his chair, watching as Trixie’s facial expression suddenly contorted.

Something was wrong.

“Kim… I don’t-“ Trixie’s tone was strewed as she bit down a sudden flair of anger at her friends words. She held the phone tightly to her ear, as if she was terrified that the two males in the van would be able to hear the words that were passing from the speaker. Her cheeks burned brightly as she refused to accept what Kim Chi was saying. “No—it’s already began and I don’t—No—Kim, I get it… I…”

Again, Coady and Sutan exchanged a look, hyper-aware of the intel they were missing on both ends. There was a brief pause in which people didn’t quite know how to assess the situation. From the looks of Trixie, she was moments away from either leaving or hanging her head in shame. Finally, Trixie sighed, a look of defeat on her face. Sutan turned away, disinterested and all too aware of the task at hand. On the other hand, Coady kept his beady eyes on her, staring at the blonde as she robotically looked at the ground.

“I understand.” She said after a pause. “Thanks for everything.” And then she hung up.

If Coady had have had the ability to read human behaviour and know it like the back of his hand, he would have fallen for the faux normality Trixie adopted as soon as that call ended. She set her phone back into the pocket of her jacket and made her way back to them, sitting down and pursing her lips. Her hands hesitated on the earphones and she flinched when Sutan suddenly exclaimed.

“We did it!” He clapped his hands together in delight, spinning around in his chair and looking over at the duo. Coady, who hadn’t been paying as much attention as he should had to the conversation between Alaska and Katya, blinked, stupefied for a moment. The overjoyed Interpol agent looked between the pair, his good mood suspended for a moment once he’d realised that neither of them had been listening. “Katya’s agreed to let Alaska bring Kim into the group tomorrow evening at the club.”

At that, Trixie felt her heart clench; something that should have been a cause for celebration, instead, filled her with a bottomless void of dread. Beside her, Coady watched her behaviour closely, watching as she let out a tremendous sigh. Sutan, meanwhile, smiled to himself and turned back to the monitors and the audio equipment, silently praising himself.

“That’s great.” Trixie attempted to feign joy, but it was accompanied by a heavy heart. She bit down on her bottom lip, her chest tightening. “But Kim’s just pulled out.”

“What?” Aaron’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean Kim’s pulled out?”

She didn’t want to answer; she didn’t want to tell them that Kim Chi was going to be stuck in South Korea for another twelve months as part of an ongoing investigation. She didn’t want to tell them that something which had been going so brilliantly was suddenly over. Trixie let out a breath, looking between the two of them and letting her shoulders sag.

“She’s still undercover in her current assignment, she’s been signed into her contract for longer than she was supposed to be. She’s only just found out.” Her eyes dropped down to her abandoned headphones and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Coady pinch the bridge of his nose.

“This is it then?” He sighed, venom on his tongue.

With what little dignity Trixie had left, she shrugged, silently trying to think of someone else they could get in at such sort of a notice. The other leading agents that she could contact were all currently working, but she was sure that either Sutan or Aaron could contact someone.

“Do you guys have any contacts?” Trixie looked between them feverishly. Both of them appeared to sigh. Her blue eyes hardened. They all new that they didn’t have enough time to contact someone else; they had until 9pm tomorrow where Alaska would be now expected to bring a new member to the nightclub. “We can figure something out, I can talk to Ru-“

“Your boss’ll say exactly what we’re saying right now.” The hardness in Coady’s voice was no appreciated by Trixie; she gritted her teeth and disassociated herself from the conversation, instead trying to figure out what to do. “We don’t have enough time, it’d take at least another fortnight or so to brief the new agent… by then, Katya’ll caught wind of what’s going on. She’s smart. And then Alaska will be dead, they’ll kill her for her betrayal.”

But, Trixie wasn’t listening, she was far too deep in thought. As much as she wanted to disagree, Coady was right. They didn’t have enough time, they had under two days and that wasn’t enough time to bring someone new in. Plus, it would be hard to build a case, the person coming in wouldn’t know the structure of the case, wouldn’t have put in the studies like Kim had. They couldn’t use someone new.

But, Trixie realised, what if they used someone they already had?

Using just Alaska was too risky, she’d been reluctant to wear a wire for this brief period and Trixie had agreed with her. Wearing a wire was one of those things in movies that always got the snitch found out. She needed a companion, she needed someone beside her to stop her from messing the operation up and to actually guide her through this.

They couldn’t use Coady. That was too risky. And Sutan didn’t know how to go undercover, it wasn’t his speciality. Trixie, meanwhile, had sat through a speech by a leading worldwide expert on undercover operations and espionage.

“I’ll do it.”

Those three words caused the following reaction: Coady looked over at her so abruptly that he almost gave himself whiplash and Sutan’s skin paled. They exchanged a look and Trixie couldn’t help but feel her eyes narrow at the sight of it.

“What?” They didn’t reply. “I’ll do it—I’ll go undercover.”

“Trixie-“ Sutan began. “I don’t think that’s a good-“

“Think about it, Sutan.” She insisted with an edge of determination. “I know the case inside out, I’ve studied these people. I’ve worked on cutting them off in the US and I succeeded on helping Santino Rice shutting them down in Boston-“

“Helping.” Trixie glared at Coady as he emphasised the word. “Helping is so much different to actually do it all on your own.”

Again, Trixie looked between them, her heart falling as she noticed Sutan avoid her eye. “Wait… you don’t think I could do it, do you?”

The silence that followed caused Trixie to stand up suddenly. The two men were startled by her movements and watched as she furiously took out her phone, feverishly composing some sort of message.

“Look, don’t take this the wrong way….” Sutan attempted to approach this kindly, but Trixie felt the burn of determination and frustration burning through her. “You’re just too nice…”

“Nice?” She repeated incredulously, looking up from her phone to glare him down. “Are you kidding me? I’m not nice—I-I’m polite, I’m professional.”

“Mattel,” Coady sighed. “You’re not being very professional right now.” He folded his arms over his chest and barely flinched under her gaze. Instead, he looked mildly amused, leaning back in his chair. “You’re not intimidating and you don’t hold the sort of fire and power that an undercover operator needs.”

She stared at him, processing his words wildly. Lips parted, she glanced down at her phone, feeling her temper fade into the back of her mind. He was right, she wasn’t being professional, but neither were they. They were jeopardising the operation by pushing her aside. She doubted that it was just because she was too nice. It was because she was a girl.

Trixie came across sexism often in her job. She was always helping people because she wouldn’t be given head positions. She was never calling the shots, but rather receiving the shots. However, now she was the head, she’d been given the chance by her boss and she felt ready.

God, did she feel ready. Of course, she was no Kim Chi, but she was Trixie Mattel and if going undercover was what was going to save this operation and stop Alaska from receiving an unfortunate end.

“This is my operation.” She made sure to stare into the depths of his soul and made sure that he understood her every word. “I’m calling the shots. I’m your boss here, Detective Coady, you’ll do good to remember that. I’m calling the shots and I say that I’m taking Kim’s place and going undercover. I assure you, I’m as capable as anyone. I have experience and I have the knowledge. Now, are you in, or are you out?”

His silence said everything she wanted to hear.

“Good,” Trixie smiled at the pair of them, oblivious to the severity of the task she’d just taken on. “Now, let’s get Alaska in here.”