Hey y'all!

The prologue to my new multi-chaptered fic - a Sin City/ Kingdom Hearts crossover of the second volume 'A Dame to Kill For' - an absolutely classic and amazing graphic novel, by the way, if you happen to like a good story, blood, violence, painful love, betrayal, sex and beautifully unique art.
And of course, KH is a classic on its own too. XD

This is my very first cross-over/project of this kind, and I am pretty excited about it, really XD

There's no prologue like this in the graphic novel, but I just wanted to write something in the female antagonist's point of view, as the story will be mostly from a different point of view XD

I'll leave the pairing to be a surprise – although you're most welcome to guess ^^

I really hope you like it ^^

Disclaimer

Characters - Kingdom Hearts, Square Enix
Concept/storyline - Sin City, Frank Miller
Idea/re-writing - selene-soulwar
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Prologue

Sometimes I wonder whether misogynists really were the ones who knew the truth.

Although a rather cruel interpretation of us, women, when I give our whole past a deeper thought, it is indeed the closest to the truth.

There are a million and one examples in finer and cruder literature that attempt to explore and define our cores, to concentrate out essences into a few words, into a few pictures, a few angles of view.

But they all produce limited shadows, single snapshots of the million and one faces of the 'fairer' sex.

Stainless angels, martyrs, warm sources of endless kindness, unrequited love and affection – seductive, manipulative leeches, greedy and driven by desire and lust.

Black and white. Two sides of a coin. A saint and a whore.

I suppose, for the two-dimensional brains of males in this city, that's about the most complex it gets before they are unable to comprehend.

You always tried to document all my sides, didn't you, darling? Camera in hand, ignoring my protests, from carefree to rather violent ways to deter you from using me as a model, you insisted that I made the perfect subject matter.

But alas, seems like you settled down on that particular angle too.

Not that I blame you, in a way. I suppose, after what I put you through, I do deserve it.

What's done is done, my love. But what happened in the past does not stay in the past.

And betrayal…oh, what a fickle little definition you give this term.

I left you as a broken, grovelling man, once bathing in the flashlight of success, embraced by all you believed to be elements of a perfect existence.

The artistic fulfilment, the pleasure of possession, my sweet, metallic taste mingling between our tongues.

The less-then-idyllic setting of our lives absorbing in the back of our minds, simply a soiled background, providing all its illegal, forbidden flavours for us to abuse.

But perfection is a myth.

However much strived for, its definition is controversial and twisted by reality into non-existence.

It's a dull bore.

Oh, darling.

If I had the heart, I would cry back those days, begging God to bring them back to me.

To free me from the confinements of my golden prison and lock my worries away in your embrace.

But I was the one who locked myself in the cage, who bound my frayed, taloned wings close to my body.

I am the one who threw you away and confounded myself behind the bars.

But I'm the one holding the key.

Or rather, the strings to my puppets, whom I will orchestrate to free me in the most spectacular performance known to date.

And you, darling, are the main star of my performance.

It was a dark, humid night once again.

The open windows let both the heat and the scents of the outer world curl inside the room, slow, heavy, neglected. They curl around her in a mock attempt at predator circling prey.

However, her low yet sharp laugh and simply flick of her hand over the ashtray sends both ashes and unseen intruders scattering and dispelling all illusions as to whom is in charge.

Her husband always kept everything under firm tight lock, wishing to shut out the existence of the abomination they were forced to call their home city out of knowledge.

She didn't share his disgust.

Or his habits, in fact.

She and the city share so much.

Charisma, Crooked, misunderstood beauty.

And they were both corrupted to their very cores.

Wryly amused olive eyes shifted from the book on her lap, the content of the pages having lost her interest long ago. The shadows stretching across her face toned the bright acid vibes of her irises into sultry, grey-tinted slits, outlined with slightly smudged barriers of kohl, the ever-present smirk hidden by the lack of light.

A thin white cigarette caught between slender fingers, raised to be caught by luscious, full lips, grip tightening slightly as an artificial breath of life is sucked from the centre, the spicy smoke sliding over her senses with familiar reassurance.

Even if it was just false emotion, created by carefully matched chemicals reacting upon the command of her lungs, it was reassurance nevertheless.

Not that she ever needed any reassurance.

It was merely like a faceless caress, an unsaid approval of her intentions – an unneeded, previously denied luxury she allowed herself.

As there was no one with a beating heart and a brain that she could confide any of her plans with.

Smoke billowed through the dark, lazily stretching its spiked talons. Like some oriental, ancient serpent, twisting its opaque scaled body around before fading, nothing but the spicy aroma left behind, a mere breath, a scrap of proof of existence.

A scrap of evidence all too easily severed.

It wasn't the usual expensive cigarettes that were snuggled across the borders simply on her order for promisingly thick wads of green printed paper.

No, these were ordinary, cheap ones from the depths of the Old City.

From under the counter, courtesy of a rare, reliable acquaintance.

They were his cigarettes.

His preliminary addiction.

No – no addiction. That's just what people immediately associated when first noticing his scent.

And ironically enough, a habit associated with him was the only way she had left to conjure up his presence, even to the briefest fraction.

His presence.

Fractions of his existence.

Fractions of memories, scattered all over the room.

A silk scarf, rich velour, its crimson sheen reflecting the candlelight, splattering the whitewashed walls with spots of his scarlet hair…a pendant with a drop of molten glass, its acid green sheen mocking her whenever her fingers closed around it…

With a sudden sneer, her fist closed around the ornament, the leather snapping as she tore it off with a vicious movement, flinging it against the mirror with the same infuriated moment.

The sharp crack as glass collided with the glass, along with the dull sound of the jewellery hitting the table snapped the trail of fury in half just as fast as it rose – billowing just like the smoke.

Sitting up, she slowly rose to stride over to the table, bare feet hitting the carpet soundlessly. Long manicured nails clasped around the frayed chord, skimming over previous mended tears with a wry smile before raising the necklace to fasten around her neck, tying the broken ends of leather into a messy knot.

Yet another day, yet another fray.

Yet another knot.

But the very last one.

The sudden trill from outside broke her out of her musings, fastening hands with the thin light along the horizon to signal daybreak.

It was time.

Running a hand through her short blonde lock, she reached for the telephone on the bedside drawer, fingers pressing the right combination with practiced ease.

The dull monotonous dial tone buzzed in her ear before the familiar deep voice answers at the end.

"Yes, Mrs Lord?"

"Get me the car." She orders in a hushed voice, tone leaving no room for speculation or argument.

"Right away."

A click and the line was dead. Smirking, the blonde let it fall from her hands before turning to the window again, raising the dying cigarette for one last drag.

The shadows are shortening, and so are the hours.

It may have been the biggest mistake of my life, but nothing is reversible.

And although my heart bleed…oh, my heart bleeds so much…, she chuckled aloud darkly, sadism tainting her smirk as she ground out the cigarette with a rough motion, flicking the scrunched up, smouldering pile in the depths of the scorched ashtray with a small, satisfied snort.

You'll soon have nowhere left to hide, my love.

The knock on the door came, and she quickly checked her reflection again, smirk just widening as she caught sight of the forbidden sparks in her eyes, reflecting the wicked gleam of the acid green pendant.

"Let the game begin."

Cookie for the one who guesses whom I chose to be Ava Lord (the blonde in this prolouge) and whom I chose to be Dwight...for those of you who have read the graphic novel.

I hope you like it, and stick around for more ^^
Comments/thoughts? Please?