Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated or hold ownership of Orange Is The New Black and anything you may recognize from the show is not my own.
Prologue
The dingy, second-rate television cut out with a static crackling that sent the room into a fury of shouts.
A slender, wiry woman scrambled up to fuss with it.
"This shit's busted!" She cried out to the group of women crammed into the small, cinder-block room and they roared in outrage.
"Come on!" One of them yelled. "They were just about to give the sentence!"
The woman shook the television, unplugged it and then plugged it in again but to no avail.
"Fuck this, man!" She shouted in anger, slamming a hand against it.
With a faint hiss, it flickered back to life - the image bouncing around on the screen before settling on a dark-haired reporter with a bob cut and red lipstick.
"-reporting live from the New York Supreme Court Building, moments away from hearing the final ruling on Finley Kensington-Clare, convicted of eight charges including fraud, embezzlement and first-degree murder."
The assembled women let out a clamor of whoops and cheers, only to be abruptly shushed by those leaning closer to hear.
The reporter on the screen reached for something off screen - a paper.
"Fuck! This is it! I'm telling you - this has to be it," Someone yelled only to be elbowed by the woman beside her.
"And the verdict is in -,"
Titters of excited commotion roared through the room.
"Man, shut up!"
"On the charges of first-degree murder, arson, vandalism and burglary the defendant has been found innocent and acquitted of all indictments -,"
A collective groan escaped from the room as the disappointed women cried out in outrage.
"Bitch was acquitted? This is some bullshit, I'm telling you!" One cried as she leapt to her seat, her chair falling behind her and clattering on the linoleum tiles.
"Bet she bought the damn jury out," Another muttered. "Damn, fuck the system!"
"Bet? Fucking rich types like her? She probably gave 'em each a million and a Volvo."
"For Christ's sake, shut up!" The slender, wiry woman yelled. "She ain't done yet!"
On the charges of fraud, embezzlement, drug trafficking and money laundering," The reporter paused to look at the camera, prolonging the eagerly-awaited verdict. "The defendant has been found guilty on all counts."
The room exploded in a frenzy of hollers and applause. The women sitting around the tables leapt to their feet while the rest cried out with shouts of "Amen!" and threw their fists in the air.
"What's her sentence?" One yelled, a wide grin stretching across her face as she let out an excited whoop. "Oh, come on, man!"
"No word yet on the sentence but -," Another paper was thrust at the reporter and as her eyes flicked over it, even she could not hide the outraged expression on her face.
"I've just received the official statement of the sentence on the Finley Kensington-Clare trial and the defendant has been sentenced to three to seven years in prison with parole after two."
The exhilaration in the room was short-lived because the news was met with outcries of rage and anger.
"Parole after two?" One spat with the indignation of a pit bull. "That's some fucked-up crap!"
"Bullshit!" Another yelled, fists slamming the air in front go her with in fury. "My sentence is longer than that for less and I didn't get no damn parole after two!"
"Privileged bitches, man!"
Their attention was pulled back to the television as the crowd around the reporter began to rush around in a cluttered mess, hurrying toward a commotion on the courthouse steps.
The reporter glanced off camera for a moment, nodded at someone off-screen and then was hurrying toward the crowd, the cameraman on her heels and they approached the figures descending the white stone steps.
A girl with light, ashy brown hair that fell down her shoulders in loose waves and a short-sleeved, clean-cut white romper with an almost-appallingly deep neckline where nothing but a simple, gold body chain rested walked briskly down the steps, eyes shielded by a pair of dark sunglasses and accompanied by a circle of bodyguards.
"Girl, it's forty-one degrees out!" One of the woman hollered at the screen at the sight of her long legs exposed by girl's short hem and stilettos. "Put on some pants!"
"Bitch is crazy," Another whistled to the hooting and laughter of the others.
"Be quiet!" The wiry girl reprimanded them as the camera was shoved as close to the girl's face as it could get. "This is my favorite part."
Cameras flashed and microphones were thrust at her face as questions were screamed at her.
"How did you get away with it?" Some yelled while others went for a less-accusatory stance with exclamations of "Do you think your sentence is too light?" and "What future do you see for yourself after prison?"
Rather predictably, she did not even look at them - only stared straight ahead with a raised chin and straightened back and hard, expressionless face.
Her bodyguards shielded her from the hound of reporters and journalists edging to get a statement, photo - anything - but the girl did not flinch.
Her lawyer, beside her, tried to wave them off as politely as possible as he escorted her down the steps and toward the sleek, black car waiting at the curb.
A man in a suit opened the backseat for her and she had just put one high-heeled foot in when a question seemed to stick out to her.
"Finley!" A young reported called out, casting his microphone out in her direction. "Although it was ruled as a justifiable homicide, do you regret your actions in the murder of Landon Markinswell?"
She froze, one manicured hand still curled over the top of the door, before turning to face the reporter, who stared at her, startled.
She took her sunglasses off, letting them dangle at her side as she eyed the man with her eerily pale, blue eyes and cold stare.
"Veni vidi vici," She said, the words sliding from her lips like velvet, before winking at him with a sly half-grin and disappearing into the car, the door shut behind her and the blacked-out window concealing any sight of her.
"That bitch," and "Oh shit," Were heard throughout the chorus of hollering women.
"What does that even mean?" One demanded.
"It's Latin, you fool," A woman said, before mumbling something about illiterate morons.
The car peeled away from the edge and the crowd's attention was thrust upon the lawyer clambering for more information.
He waved down the attention as best he could, trying to calm the flood of questions and shouts.
One of the women yelled for silence as they collectively leaned closer to the television, watching with bated breath as the man cleared his throat.
"All I will disclose at this time is that Miss Kensington-Clare will be carrying out her sentence at the minimum security federal prison Litchfield Penitentiary in Litchfield, New York."
The room exploded with a tumultuous roar of noise that sent even the guards running to see what was going on.
Chapter One
"I don't know why you're wearing that," Declan said as he picked at the black fur vest that she was wearing over a black leather jacket. "You'll probably never get it back."
She raised her brows at him for a moment before gesturing to her equally-somber outfit which featured the color black from her heeled-boots to her tight-fitting pants and shirt. "I'm in mourning, as it is."
"It's prison, Fin," He scoffed, opening the door for her. "Not a grave."
She shrugged, pushing her sunglasses up on her head as she surveyed the waiting room around her with narrowed eyes.
"Litchfield Penitentiary" a sign read, plastered to the wall above the reception desk.
"I'm not so sure," She said. "Whenever I envision death, it's always in the form of tacky, subway-seat plastic chairs and decolorized brick walls that smell like stale urine and - wait, is that vomit? That looks like vomit."
Declan rolled his eyes with an irritated sigh before placing a hand on each of her shoulders.
"Two years, Fin," He said. "You only have to last two years."
"Maybe two years," She reminded him dryly.
"I can get you out in two," He promised. "Two years and then you'll walk straight out through those doors. Hey, maybe you'll be a really badass biker chic by then, too. I'll even get you a motorcycle to ride off on."
She only regarded him with raised brows for a moment before turning away.
Her brother tried not to grin as he burrowed his hands in his pockets and followed behind his sister as she approached the hard-faced middle-aged guard with strawberry-blonde hair pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck.
The guard looked up as she approached, wearing an irritated expression.
Finley sighed. "I'm here to self-surrender."
"Name?" The woman barked out in a raspy voice.
"Kensington-Clare," Came Finley's response. "Finley Kensington-Clare."
The woman paused for a moment as she appraised Finley with raised brows before jerking her head toward the chairs in the center of the room, currently only occupied by a man asleep in the corner, a boy fussing with the zipper of his hoodie and the mother scolding him.
"Take a seat over there," She said before turning back to the forms in front of her.
"There's a waiting line for prison?" Finley muttered under her breath as she sauntered toward the nearest chair and carefully sat down. "I didn't realize how lucky I got. This correctional facility must instill some premium fucking corrections."
"You could stand to be a little more positive," Declan said. "After all, this is the first day of the next probably-two years of your life."
"Probably?"
"Definitely," He said, stretching his legs out and leaning back against the chair as he stared at the ceiling, blowing air from between his lips - the epitome of boredom. "Positively. Absolutely. Undoubtedly. Pick your synonym, kid."
When she didn't pick a synonym, he turned to her with furrowed brows. "So, how long do you think this is going to take? I'm taking this girl to Masa tonight and - what? Why are you looking at me like that?"
Finley, staring at her brother with a repulsed, yet not unexpected, expression, scowled.
"Sorry," She said. "Next time I have to go to prison, I'll try to work around your schedule."
She'd started to turn away when she jerked her head back to look at him. "And sushi? Really?"
"What's wrong with sushi?"
She scoffed, focusing on the magazine rack with only an edition of a Home Improvement magazine and half of a Marie Claire. "You hate sushi."
"Well, yeah," He said, as if it was obvious. "But Madeleine loves fish and expensive restaurants."
"Ah," Finley exclaimed, as if that made it all clear. "So you'll pay a lot of money for food you hate and she probably won't even eat in front of you and for what? To take her to your house for a night and then never call her again?"
"Exactly," He said with a grin, nudging her elbow. "You're catching on, Fin. Man, prison's really changing you."
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes, not even bothering to respond, much less spare him a glance.
A silence which consisted of Declan tapping his foot and Finley staring at the ceiling in irritation spanned a few minutes before Finley muttered, "She likes French, actually. If it were me, I'd take her to Per Se."
At the sight of his irritated expression, she looked pointedly away from him, whistling quietly to herself. "But that's just me."
"Why?" He finally asked, looking as if the effort killed him.
"Madeline Pierce, right?" Finley said, a coy expression on her face even as she sighed in annoyance. "We've been friends since seventh grade - she traded her yogurt with me. It was peach. Disgusting. Anyway, she loves seafood but hates Japanese restaurants - says they make her uncomfortable or something. She's actually racist but whatever. And if you order the right thing for her, she'll probably fall in love with you. She has this weird agenda where she rates the guys she's with by what they order for her. Go for the Tsar Imperial Ossetra Caviar, she'll go crazy for the salmon. Avoid the duck - she's a carnivore with morals. Obviously. Oh and don't bring her to your apartment - rent a room somewhere fancy. She'll only be trashy when she feels classy."
Declan stared at her for a long moment before raising his brows. "You're really counseling me on how to fuck and dump your friend?"
Finley shrugged, flicking a piece of lint off of her jacket. "She told everyone I had chlamydia last year."
He considered this for a moment, grinned and then frowned, confused. "Wait, so do you actually -,"
"No, I don't actually have chlamydia," She snapped before muttering toward the flickering fluorescent lights above her, "I can't believe that I have to be stuck with you right now."
"Yeah, well, me neither," He said. "But there was a limited number of volunteers - I mean, mom and dad got on a plane to Belgium as soon as the trial ended and we both know that they just wanted to avoid dealing with it - and by it, I mean you, of course - while everyone else suddenly had very important and demanding things to do so here I am. Your savior." He glanced at her, letting out a deep breath. "Christ, Fin, you really fucked up this time."
"No," She mumbled under her breath. "I just got caught this time."
If he heard her, she'd never find out because the guard, standing in front of the gated hallway, called, "Alright, Kensington. Let's go."
"It's Kensington-Clare," Finley corrected with a scowl as she reluctantly rose to her feet, her brother lumbering to his feet beside her.
"Yeah, kid, whatever," The guard snapped. "And hurry up, I don't have all day."
As Finley took the steps toward the gated hall and the guard waiting in front of it, a feeling of dread began to build up inside her chest to the point where she thought she might not be able to breathe and the onslaught of panic hit her so hard that she froze mid-step.
She was good at masking her expressions by now but her brother knew her well enough to recognize the anxiety she wore on her face, despite how much of a dick he was.
"Fin," He said as softly as she'd ever heard him, placing a hand on her back. "Woah, Fin, take a deep breath. It'll be okay. I promise."
"When I was seven, you promised me that you wouldn't touch my hamster and what did you do to my hamster, Declan?" She asked, words strained and tense as she struggled to control her breathing.
He hung his head. "I killed your hamster."
"Yes, you killed my hamster," She said, turning to give him a sharp glare. "Your promises don't mean shit."
"Come on, Fin," He said sheepishly. "I didn't mean to step on him -,"
"Let's go, Kensington," The guard barked out. "Now."
A shock of alarm gripped her so abruptly that her hand flew to clutch onto her brother's arm.
"I don't want to go," She whispered.
"Move it along, Kensington," The guard pressed.
Finley threw her arms around her brother - something she couldn't remember ever doing in the past eighteen years of her entire life.
Her brother pulled her closely to him and in an attempt at a light-hearted tone said, "Veni vidi vici, remember?"
She was so startled that she laughed - an actual laugh. After she'd uttered those words in the minutes following the final ruling in her trial, she'd seen them make the headlines of about a dozen newspapers the next day. Nobody quite knew what she meant by them - was it even an answer to the reporter's question or just an observation about the trial in general? Did she mean she got away with murder? Or did she mean killing him was an accomplishment? She'd laughed as she read the speculation online. One person was convinced she was speaking in code to a drug lord from Rome and had deciphered it to mean 'kill cleveland,' insinuating that she was now a terrorist, too.
The story of Finley's trial had made national headlines and dominated the news for weeks - the story of the disgraced daughter from one of the wealthiest families in the United States charged with multiple counts of eight different crimes. Eight different crimes and she had committed every one of them - despite what the ruling said.
"Let's go, Kensington," The guard snapped again and Finley reluctantly pulled away from her brother.
He gave her a hand a final squeeze.
"Catch ya later, kid," He said and then he was gone - just like that.
She stared after his retreating back for a moment, watching as he pulled out a cell phone to answer a call.
"Hey," He said to the person on the other end. "No, I'm not doing anything. Are you doing anything? I mean, I just dropped my sister off at prison and now I have to - yeah, prison. I'm like a fucking babysitter now, apparently. Anyway -,"
She scowled as the door closed behind him and his words fell out of earshot.
She turned back to the guard, who'd been watching her brother with raised brows.
When she noticed Finley watching her, she frowned at her and barked, "Alright, come on, Kensington."
The guard opened the gated hall and Finley paused a moment before entering.
Veni vidi vici, indeed.
She took a step forward into the probably-two next years of her life.
Author's Note:
I feel that it is important to note that I don't usually write from the narrative of characters like this - and by this, I mean characters who are genuinely bad people. Not to say that Finley is the worst human around or anything and it's definitely difficult to tell without her backstory but she's certainly not exactly a "good person." What I love about this show is the way it introduces flawed characters and gives them layers of complexity and depth that I have been trying to experiment with lately and figured that this platform would be the best practice for me so please bear with me while I develop her character in a way reflective of that - I mean, she's actually pretty fun to write. Also, this is set sometime in season one or early two...I'm still working that one out. Please let me know what you think! (And if you believe that first or third person is the way to go because I was swapping back and forth when writing and can't decide)