She wakes. Unusually, she doesn't open her eyes straight away; this morning she waits for consciousness to fully take hold. Quite quickly her mind warms up; the lumpy couch, that explains the discomfort she feels, that smell; sweat, food and god knows what, definitely home. Now she remembers; she had spent the night on the lounge room couch.
Taking a deep breath of that comforting, familiar smell she opens her eyes. The room is vast, with a vaulted stone ceiling of dark cobble. The light was dull and unnatural, there are no windows. This has always been her home; in fact she was born in this very room 19 years ago, that same night her mother had died.
She rubs the sleepiness from her eyes, the movement triggered pain in her knuckles. Examining them, for the first time she is aware of the open wounds, crusty with someone else's blood. She gives an unsympathetic chuckle as her thoughts dwell momentarily on the poor soul whose face had been the cause. She'd hate to be him right now, bruised and leaderless.
It had been a great fight. Though the whole night was not completely without flaws, she felt she had fought well. If it hadn't been for the years of discipline, and teaching herself to find honor in humbleness, she'd have been proud, though humbleness was always one of her weaker points.
On the table beside her she notices several empty bottles. A small celebration of victory, but it also explains the deep sleep from which she just woke. She wasn't celebrating alone, but she must have been first to sleep. Another explanation; the shabby, patched blanked covering her must have been placed there lovingly by one of the others.
It was a strange feeling that filled Jesse this morning, one she had never fully felt before; Aimlessness. Usually she'd be awake far earlier than this, and with purpose she would train. First; her body, with several hours of grueling martial arts exercises. Then she would work her mind, with meditation and study. This had been her mornings her as long as she could remember. But now, with her goals fulfilled, a new purpose had not yet shown its face.
So, as a reward for last night success, she would claim these next few hours of her own. The day was hers, to do with what she wished. Discipline was also not one of her strengths.
As she sat up, the extent of her discomfort dawned. Every muscle ached, every joint stung. She was suddenly and painfully aware of many fresh bruises covering her body, thankfully, no broken bones, and it seemed the only flesh of hers that had been opened was that on her knuckles.
Without revealing her pain in the slightest, she stretched her body before standing up. She wasn't tall, but then she wasn't notable short either; slightly below average height, roughly 5'5". Her body was athletic, but incredibly feminine, disguising well the strength it contained. Having slept fully dressed, she wore loose fitting cargo style pants that sat low on her round hips and a white singlet shirt that hugged her body closely, revealing a maturity in her curves.
The room looked like part of the New York sewer system, but on closer inspection, it was actually a hidden lair, a large common area with large hexagonal archways leading off on two levels. This underground phenomenon, accessed by the cities sewers, was well lived in, loved and filled with homely clutter; an eclectic mix of oriental and American nick-knacks, all dusty and pre-owned, but well loved.
Jesse slipped her feet into her shoes that sat beside the old couch and wandered silently across the common room to a large set of blast doors, installed by her father when he was younger than her. At the press of a button, the door way opened and she found herself in a sewer pipe.
She followed the same path through the sewer she always had, where, after a few hundred yards it faithfully led her to a manhole. She effortlessly scaled the ladder and she shifted the manhole cover above as silently and it would allow.
Sunlight poured into the sewer and showered the young woman's face. She was pretty, beautiful even, again well disguising her capabilities. She raised herself up into the New York alley way, the air was cold and crisp, and surprisingly fresh for this deep in the city. Perhaps, she thought, the city had felt this was a new chapter as well.
As quietly as she has moved it, she replaced the man-hole cover. She looked around as she stood up; a dead end rose for stories behind her, and equally high were the old apartment blocks that lined the alley, the path to the street was just wide enough to fit a garbage truck and was lined with bins, rubbish and the cardboard quarters of homeless men and women. Tying back her shoulder length blonde hair, Jesse headed out onto the street with the coffee shop on the corner in mind.
She joined the bustling street, thousands of New Yorkers in their early morning march to the office. Jesse stood out like a saw thumb, not only due to her lack of a masculine pant-suit that the passing women wore, but it was mid fall, in a cold city, and she wore nothing more than cargos and a singlet. The cold had never bothered her.
She moved through the crowd like no one else in this huge city. No one made eye-contact with her, yet the crowd seemed to part to allow her through. No one so much as brushed past her shoulder yet they seem considerably unaware that she was even there. She had practiced this subtle manipulation of the crowd's energy most of her life; when she was much younger and still a student of her Aunt, she found that it was the safest way for a small girl to travel on a busy street.
She stopped at a newsstand and, without a word, bought the days paper.
Surely they would know by now, she thought while hoping that this time the police got the story straight. She new she left all the evidence proving her enemy's illegal activities right under their nose. They couldn't possible get it wrong.
Saving the day's news to enjoy with her coffee she folded the paper and carried it under her arm as she crossed the road and entered the coffee shop.
She found the smell both sweet and suffocating as she crossed the shop to the counter and ordered a latte. While she waited she watched the other customers as they, sleepy-eyed, sipped their mugs and paper cups. She was fascinated by them, how they hated what they did every day, and dragged themselves from home to a job they were convinced was important. Quite often she admired their discipline.
She knew that her charge in life was, however painful and dangerous, important; she had even accepted that the anonymous New Yorkers would never know, let alone thank her. She had been raised to appreciate her life as a gift as no science she or her father could find said her conception was possible. The family remained eternally grateful for their little girl and raised her as they were raised, as a protector and guardian.
Once her coffee was served, she sat in a corner booth and opened the newspaper. She quietly smiled as her eyes passed over the headline:
Tycoon Murdered, Corruption Revealed
They had gotten it right. They had found the evidence she left available to them. Though killing was not what she did, and she hated that she had to do it in order to save her own life, she reasoned that, in doing so she saved many others. She had been trained her whole life to make decisions like the one she made the night before, though that hadn't made it any easier for her to live with it.
As she read through the article, she found a lot was missing as there was no mention of her vigilante justice or details of the killing. She knew the police would know a lot more than they would release to the media and, as she expected, there was no mention of what she found beneath the mask of man she killed.
She finished the article and continued through the newspaper. There wasn't any other mention of the battle she fought the previous night, though she was happy to read that peace talks were being considered in the Middle East.
Finishing her coffee she stood and folded the paper as she left the shop. The crowd had thinned as the working day had started and contentedly, she headed back to the alleyway.
As Jesse crossed the road, a mobile phone in her hip pocket began to ring.
As a means of feeding her family, she offered her services as personal security, tailored for those too arrogant or famous to admit they were feeling threatened enough to require personal protection. She was a body guard that looked nothing like a bodyguard, able to blend in as a guest at a red carpet gala. She resented this menial work, but it paid very well and her family ate.
She answered the phone.
"This is Vixen, how may I help you?" She worked under an alias.
"Are you the body guard, you know, the Fox?" asked a nervous, hushed voice from the other end.
Jesse stifled a smile.
"It's all a matter of opinion, but I guess, on a good day, I can fit that description." Making people feel awkward was a game of hers.
"I am wanting to procure your services," the voice continued, sounding slightly shaken. "You see, an associate of mine was..." there was a pause and the caller struggled to find his words, "... murdered last night. The event had prompted me to step up my own security, and I hear you are the best"
"Murdered, you say?" Jesse asked, with an idea as to whom the caller may be referring to.
"Yes, most unfortunate. I am told it was gruesome. Decapitated, they said." The caller was sounding somewhat flustered now.
The description of the murder had confirmed the identity of his associate. The unfortunate decapitation had resulted from a gun being drawn as Jesse was armed with a katana blade. It was her or him, and her impeccable reflexes decided it would be him that night. She regretted having to do it, but it had to be done.
It appeared that purpose has just come knocking... or calling, as it were.
"I can help you, but with such an imminent threat that has proven a willingness to kill, you must understand that my services will cost more." This was a variation on a standard statement she used as it easily exposed callers that had no intention of paying her. A hazard of her work, people thought it would be easier to kill her after she had completed services; she now, however, insisted on payment upfront.
"That's fine, whatever price you set. When can you start?" The answer threw her slightly, as his disregard for cost suggested that she wasn't to get paid, but the caller indeed feared for his life. Of course it was always possible that this was a trap, but in her experience traps always left a trail, and when followed, always answered questions.
"Where are you?" She asked.
"Chicago." The answer followed hushed and quickly.
"I can be there tonight. Where in Chicago can I find you?"
"Limburger Plaza, I have an office on the top floor of the tower. I am Lawrence Limburger" The latter part was brushed over and barely audible. This was quite common for her clients seeking her services, forever ashamed of their fear.
"I'll see you there at 9pm tonight, Mr. Limburger." She hung up and picked up her pace to get home. In all her research over the last year, she had never linked the man she killed last night to the business tycoon of the nearby city, but it did make perfect sense.
The blast doors closed solidly behind Jesse as she entered the Lair. She walked across the vast common room and was greeted by her father and uncles who had clearly just woken up and were having the same reward of a lazy day she had planned.
"Where'd you go? We were worried," asked her concerned father. He, like his bothers was not anything you would expect to see, knowing they were related to Jesse. The result of a genetic mutation, the four brothers could best be described as humanoid turtles, though muscle bound and strongly built, they were far more noticeable by the fact they were green and sporting shells. To a stranger's eye, the brothers could be most easily distinguished from one another by the colours that they donned. Jesse's father, Donatello, wore a purple mask across his eyes.
"I went out the get the paper." She lied, as she felt a stab of guilt for not bringing coffees for each of them. She walked past the old couch and into an alcove that functioned as a makeshift kitchen, where the four turtles were rummaging for breakfast. She passed the newspaper to her Uncle Leonardo, who wore blue. He unfolded it and read the headline.
"Good to see they didn't focus on us again, they seem to have gotten the point." His voice trailed of as he read the article that followed.
While Leonardo read, Jesse and the others sat down at the table quietly, and served up cereal for breakfast. Her father gave her a one armed hug.
"I am proud of you, you know, you did so well last night." He said quietly.
"We're all proud of ya', Wild Child. You were amazin'." Her uncle in red, Raphael, added. Wild Child was what her family had always called her; it came from a song of the same name by a band that her mother had introduced the family to, The Doors. The song told of a child savior of the human race. They all found it fitting and her spicy childhood temper hadn't helped.
Michelangelo, the turtle donning orange, grunted in enthusiastic agreement, as his mouth was full of fruit loops.
"Thanks," she blushed. "But last night wasn't the half of it; I have just got a call from Lawrence Limburger in Chicago, wanting me as his personal bodyguard. Apparently an associate of his was decapitated last night."
She told them the details of the phone call and a long discussion followed. The family discussed every aspect of the job offer, from the possibility of a trap, the risks involved and the advantages that could be gained. By lunch time it was decided that, trap or not, it was an opportunity that couldn't be missed and, as the four brothers couldn't leave the city, Jesse was to travel to Chicago alone.
She had never really left the city, let alone been separated from her family for more then a few days. She had never had to as she had always considered herself, like her uncles and father, a protector of New York, but the snippets of information they came across in their long running saga with Milton Maredsous, it had become clear that they were dealing with something bigger than just New York City.
By early afternoon Jesse was packed and ready. The plan was to hitchhike to Chicago, book into a motel and be ready to meet Limburger at his tower at the agreed time, but not before scoping out the plaza, planning an exit strategy and checking for traps.
It was only just passed 3pm when she was saying her last good byes. In each hand she carried a medium rucksack. One filled with weaponry and the paraphernalia of her trade, a bo staff and two sheathed katana swords which protruded from each end. The other bag contained clothing and personal items. Slung on her shoulder was a loosely woven, hemp guitar case, the guitar it held was old and beaten, but she insisted on bringing it with her, as a reminder of home.
Convincing her worried family that she would look after herself and keep in touch, she climbed the ladder, passed her luggage up through the man hole the lifted herself out into the familiar alley way and headed out onto the New York street to find the first bus to the highway.