Everything hurt.
From the uncomfortable tautness of my skin, deep down to the aching of my bones, nothing was whole or undisturbed. My eyes burned furiously, and when I attempted to open them, sharp pain spread across my forehead. Plump maroon droplets slid down my face, several collecting in the indents of my tear ducts, irritating the tender area further. My sudden facial movement must've opened up a cut.
It took me several precious seconds to get my bearings- my head was spinning, and the edge of my vision was dark. I waited until my sight had cleared and the room had ceased spinning; what I saw made my chest jump irregularly, as if my heartbeat had been briefly interrupted.
I was in a bar of some sort, one that was high end by Gotham standards. At happy hour, it probably was a bustling establishment, with the luxurious booths occupied by wealthy men in tailored suits, showing off their trophy wives, and drinking champagne at seventy dollars a bottle. Right now, however, the building was almost empty. The lights were dimmed, the bar was empty, and the stage was hidden behind dark curtains. I would have been completely alone, if it wasn't for the four other people standing a few paces away.
A sexy, dangerous looking women glared down at me from underneath the bangs of a jagged pixie cut, the rich tone of her hair contrasting the violent pink of its tips. She was dressed in a tight fitting golden dress, that shimmered, even in the poor lighting. Thin golden hoops hung from her ears, and there was a slight silver sheen to her eyelids, which sprouted thick black lashes.
To her right, standing only a hairs breadth or two behind the women, was a relatively tall, stocky man, with a square face, wide nose, and small, ovular eyes. His plain brown hair was receding, and a thick neck attached his head to straight, broad shoulders. The man's features were vaguely piggish, but something in his expression made me think he was smarter then he looked. While his hands were behind his back, the outline of a gun could be seen protruding from his pocket.
On the women's other side stood a taller, slimmer, black man, with a thin layer of light, fuzzy, brown hair covering the top of his head, along with his jowls, chin, and upper lip. His expression was blank, and he had a vague, angry glint to his eyes, that seemed to be directed at everything at once.
I took them in within a few moments of unabashed staring, but I only had a split second to notice the last character- a short, skinny man, with flesh so pale it almost seemed grey. He reminded me of a raccoon- the dark rings encircling his eyes resembling a dark mask. The Mab's long, somewhat hooked nose did not distract from the sharp, uneven positions of his yellow teeth, and greasy black hair sprouted at random from his scalp. There was a certain nervous energy to the man, who didn't resemble anyone else in the room. Despite being dressed in a fine suit, he looked out of place- with an awkward stance, and a loose expression.
"Wake up darling, we don't have all night," My attention slipped back to the dark skinned women, who's voice was a dangerous drawl. She looked... familiar. As this thought occurred, a name began to spell itself out in my pounding head.
Fish Mooney.
On the inside, I cringed, the throbbing in my temples adopting a tribal beat at this revelation. Mooney was crime boss Falcone's favorite toy: a tiger with a human body, who'd lately started nipping at the hand that feeds. Violent, unpredictable, and a queen-pin mobstress with sex appeal to boot, word on the street was she'd give anyone a job- so long as you've got talent.
Her bar was also a virtual bee hive of every color in crime. Drug dealers could share drinks with anyone from a smuggler to a petty thief, and the alley outback had a mortality rate higher than lung cancer. It was like sin city central.
Blinking away the dark spots tap dancing across my vision, I began struggling to my feet, arms shaking unsteadily. Before I knew what was happening, I was pushed down roughly, a silver bat pressed into my chest that pinned me on my back. My mind should've been racing, but it was eeking along at a snails pace; I couldn't remember what happened before I woke up. Panic slowly began to sink in. This was bad, bad, bad. I'd been in some tight situations, but this? This was fucking clastrophobic. I looked up at the gangsters, eyes flitting fearfully between them.
"Don't worry doll, I think there's been a big misunderstanding," Mooney simmered, offering what might be considered a sympathetic smile. It sounded like a threat, but I nodded stupidly, trying to get my mouth to work properly. It wasn't doing a very efficient job at cooperating.
"I.. I agree.. def.. definitely been a.. a misunderstandin. . ." My words were slurred, and halting, and dimly, I knew something was off... I couldn't remember how I got here..
I tried to stand again, but the man to Mooney's right (I think his name was Bruce... Or was it Butch...?) kicked me in the chest, causing me to fall back, and knocking the air out of my lungs. Distantly, I knew Mooney was talking, but I was too busy gasping for air to pay attention. When I saw Brunch (close enough) aiming another kick at me, I flinched out of the way, much to his displeasure, but Fish had him back off before he could try again. He stepped away, content to sneer at me from behind Mooney's shoulder, and I felt a pulse of heat in my stomach. Pain and confusion were slowly evolving into anger. Only fear kept me from saying something I surely would've regret.
"Listen, I dunno why I'm here, so could I just go? I won't be back, cross my heart.." Even to my ears it sounded pathetic, but I couldn't find the energy to care right now. Fish could be reasoned with, I'm sure of it...
As if eavesdropping on my thoughts, the handsome women laughed, a cold, cruel sort of noise that quelled some of my fury. Her tone was soft, but predatory when she replied.
"I didn't get to be where I am by being generous, dollface. Nor by being a fool. Tell me your name," I wanted to refuse, because giving Fish Mooney my contact info seemed about as sane as sleeping in an oven, but I suspected saying 'I'd rather gargle battery acid' wouldn't go over well.
"Kylar." It came out louder then I'd meant to, but she paid no heed to this, simply raising an eyebrow.
"No last name?" I shook my head, keeping my eyes locked on her.
"What do your friends call you, dear?" Without a beat, I replied, trying my best not to sound as deeply suspicious as I felt.
"I don't have any friends." She laughed again, and there was ripple of murmuring from her henchmen, as they joined in. The noise was distressingly unpleasant, and I felt a trickle of dread in my chest. I froze when she fixed me with her black eyed gaze, something I couldn't read playing around her mouth. Without warning, her lips parted, revealing a brilliant, white toothed smile, that filled me with alarm. I felt sick.
"That's alright; we'll be your friends now."