Charm doesn't travel. Like spontaneous wit, it tends to need the full surround of being there. And sexual allure seems even more problematic. Especially when the photographic evidence seems to reveal an audacious wonder.
She was described by a contemporary as a marvel splendor with a blue-white complexion, scarlet red lips, a single silver eye with a deep blue to match, black straight hair and the body of a certified sex bomb.
Jane was a thrill seeker, and toying with the lives of others was her ultimate thrill. She loved the hunt, the scent of fear, the element of chaos, and adrenaline rush of a life-or-death struggle. It was always a toss up whether Jane would come out ahead, or so it seemed, but really, she would win at the end of the day. Because let's face it, she was just that good. If her prey couldn't beat her, they didn't deserve to live anyway, and Jane Sykes would take them to their death with a smirk and a flirtatious final gaze. Jane was effortlessly sarcastic and incredibly gorgeous. She had her own style and never would she allow herself to become dull like so many others who did the work she did.
Jane had quickly grown sick of the people around her. She didn't see humans for humans. She just saw them as targets, as useless pieces of shit. A waste of good oxygen. She started to understand how Vampires felt and why they were able to kill the human species without a blink.
Jane was in it for the money, human life had value to her only in dollar signs.
Her face looked empty. Her eyes didn't tell a story, they just held pain and a world full of torment. She was twenty-two and had been to the world's end and back. Her lips were slightly agape and her skin seemed more insipid than ever. She was slouched in the large chair that was made to look like a throne. It was about six feet away from the long dining table, and her hair stuck to the red velvet of the back of the chair.
She was wearing a black bullet proof vest, on top of her black wife beater. She wore some dark blue skinny jeans and some black and white converse. Her black straight hair was tied up in a pony tail to keep her hair out of her face.
Her black M1911 colts hung loosely in both her hands, fingering the cool metal, she quickly turned the silencer's off her gun, slowly bringing her head up to see all the dead bodies in the large dining room. Blood seemed to soak every inch of the room. She had used her guns to kill the man that had, as to simply put it, fucked over her client, so she was hired to take care of him. And it was pure bad luck that she had to kill twenty more men to get to her target. Bad luck on their part.
The only sound that could be heard was the sound of the great grandfather clock behind her at the end of the room, and she hated it. She hated clocks, and the fact that the mechanical device pointed and laughed at her aging body. She was getting older every second of every day.
Her time was limited on this planet and you could say that she was trying to make the most of it. She was making dubious amounts of money in a matter of years.