"Our masters have not heard the people's voice for generations and it is much, much louder than they care to remember."
- Alan Moore, V for Vendetta
The only things that filled the heart of the subway car were Fionna and a man in his early twenties. The eighteen year old blonde girl swayed to the rhythm of the underground train as it looped below the streets of New York City.
Fionna hadn't expected anyone to be on the train so late in the night. Her shift at work had ended around two in the morning and she was more than familiar with riding the cars by herself at that hour.
During the long, hot days, the car would normally be packed tightly with bodies heading to work. The mobsters never took the subways. Never had to. They owned the streets and everyone knew that. The subways were for business men. For prostitutes. For children on their way to school and mothers running errands. But at night, the subway was hers. And that's why she was more than shocked to find herself with company on the carriage that night.
The man was tall and thin. His hair was as dark as the tinted glass of a mobster's car and eyes as blue as the skies were in her photography books at home. His skin screamed Italian: dark with an olive-like tone. Fionna guessed he spent much of his time outside amongst the riots and beatings.
The stranger hunched over, resting his elbows on his knees. A long dark trench coat hugged him like a possessive blanket. His button up white shirt was tucked into his ripped jeans and a pair of polished dress shoes stuck out from under his pants, a red tie hung loosely around his neck and a guitar case sat loyally beside his leg.
It took Fionna a minute to realize he was staring at her. Averting eye contact, she raised her eyes to the advertisements and graffiti that were engraved above the carriage seats. She analyzed the colors and each product the ads were trying to sell. It ranged from local food joints to adult entertainment, warning against the use of violence.
Peeking back at the man, Fionna was horrified to find him still staring at her from his seat. A smirk slowly spread across his handsome face and the blonde shifted her eyes to find something else to preoccupy herself with.
Fionna checked her watch. The sudden urge to get to her stop and go home overwhelmed her. She didn't have to look up to know that the man was still staring at her. The blonde could feel his gaze slide over her face, arms, legs, mentally undressing her to the point where she couldn't feel any more vulnerable than she already was.
The carriage jerked to a stop and Fionna stuck out her arm to keep herself from falling over. The man slid his fingers into the handle of his guitar case, stood up, and walked through the sliding doors. A sigh of relief escaped the blonde's lips as the doors slid closed and the subway car resumed.
Fionna stared at the empty seat in front of her. The blonde's body swayed to and fro until finally the train pulled into her stop. Hoisting up her green back pack, the teen exited through the sliding doors and up the grimy cement steps.
The night air was cool and the lights of the city blinked like a thousand eyes. Fionna wished she had grabbed her jacket on her way out that evening. Her knit bunny hat, light blue t-shirt and dark blue shorts weren't helping to keep her warm now that fall was ending fast and winter was on its way.
The blonde picked up her feet and stuck close to the walls of the skyscrapers. Even though the moon was high in the sky, the cars sped by in the streets and crowds wandered the side walks. It really was a city that never slept.
Turning a corner, the Tree Fort nightclub came into view. Dashing across the crosswalk, Fionna approached the green painted building with neon lights. Making her way down an alley beside the building, the blonde slipped through a beaten up brown door.
Despite being in the back room, the club's atmosphere reeked of beer and cigarettes. Smoke crowded the air and Fionna's head throbbed lightly. She made her way into the club, sliding past drunks and druggies.
The club's DJ scratched away at his record player, a beat pulsing through the club and vibrating off of the walls and into the marrow of Fionna's bones. The teen inched her way to the corner and hoisted herself up next to the DJ.
Lorn Chrome, a thirty-two year old Latino man with long grey hair tied into a ponytail and light brown eyes, raised an eye brow at her but nodded upon recognizing his visitor. Fionna licked her dry lips and scanned the club. Turning back, she made eye contact with the man. "Where's my sister?"
Lorn brought his free hand up and signed to the girl. Nodding, Fionna inched her way back to the dance floor. Lorn had been born deaf and had been able to submerge himself into a world of lip reading. Most customers at the club would never have guessed that he couldn't hear the music he produced, but he didn't have to. Basing the music of the vibrations and people's reactions, Lorn was able to figure out the right beats and rhythms to produce to make the crowd happy. He never disappointed them for as long as he had worked there.
A flash of white hair caught Fionna's eye and she shoved through the crowd. Cathleen Venture, famously known as Cake, slid into the bar, filled one drink up after another. Fionna slid onto one of the bar stools.
Packed with curves and tanned skin, it wasn't hard for Fionna to understand why Cake was considered so beautiful amongst the regulars that came to the club. The woman had short, spiked white hair with strands of blonde highlights.
Cake glanced over her shoulder and proceeded to do a double take. A smile escaped her lips. She wiped off her hands with a towel and leaned up against the counter. "Hey, sugar. How was work?"
Fionna hopped off of the stool and entered the bar. She slid on an apron, tying it around her back. "It was okay. How's the club?" The blonde glanced at the sea of people. The stench of drugs and sweat overpowered her senses but she found the will to smile. Cake mixed another drink. "As much as I love managing this place, I can't wait for morning. No matter how hard Lorn and I try to keep the drugs out, they always manage to worn their way in." The tanned woman shook her head, hands on her hips. "But it comes with the apartment and brings in the cash. So I can't honestly complain."
The blonde nodded, sighing. She worked on drinks by the order until the sun peeked through the tinted windows of the club. Lorn cut the music as he and Fionna's sister worked on getting the clubbers out, dragging the drunks and drugged onto the sidewalk for the gangsters to take care of.
Locking the door, Cake rubbed at her brow and sighed. Fionna numbly cleaned the tables and bar. The smell had given her a horrible migraine and her vision blurred. Cake placed a gentle hand on her sister's shoulder, smiling. "Go on upstairs, sugar lumps. You've worked hard."
Fionna nodded, slipped her apron off and let it fall onto the counter for Cake to fold and put away. Her feet led her to a door in the back room. Opening it, cement steps greeted her. The blonde wanted to groan, but she just sucked in air and climbed the stairs.
The apartment wasn't the most extravagant thing in all of New York, but it wasn't run down. When Cake had bought the night club, the space was trashed with no hope of ever becoming something more than a dump. But now, the apartment was painted a beige colour with tree branch silhouettes and pictures of her, Cake, and Lorn throughout the years. The furniture was taken from dumps and pawn shops throughout NYC and cleaned up to be safe and clean for the small family.
Fionna's room was small but cozy. It was a place she could call home easily. The walls were yellow with cork boards and cut outs of far away places from magazines she had found over the years, pages from adventure books and numerous photographs taken with the camera Fionna had received for her birthday years ago when her parents were still alive.
The bed was just a mattress on the floor with sheets tossed everywhere. A single lamp sat beside the head of her bed and all of her books were piled in a corner of the room. One window sat on one of the four walls, giving Fionna a good view of the busy city. The shades were broken, allowing sun light and the light of the city to peek through at any time of the day, whether she liked it or not.
Slipping off her combat boots, Fionna plopped down onto the mattress and let the familiar smell of home wash over her. The sound of horns and cars bounced off of the city walls in a hypnotic lullaby. It didn't take long for her to fall into a deep slumber.
Her dreams came to her in wisps of smoke. It led her by the nose through a door where a beat echoed in her ears and formed the interior of her sister's nightclub. Prostitutes and pimps huddled along the walls, drunks and druggies scanned the crowds to find the life they had lost so long ago or for someone to spend the night with.
The bodies that seemed to melt together in lustful dancing hypnotized her as she walked through the dance floor. The beat seemed to tug at the revealing black dress she wore and the smoke beckoned to her like a familiar hand waving her over with its index finger. Her skin felt as if thousands of hands slid over her skin, stroking her hair and playing at the knitted bunny ears on her head.
She looked for Lorn, but the DJ was replaced with a mobster. He wore the typical white shirt and dress pants hung up by suspenders. His fedora blocked out his face, only revealing a hidden smirk. The faces of the people blurred and Fionna's head throbbed.
The smoke pulled her into the darkness of the back room. However, where the familiarity of dimmed lights used to be, broken light bulbs in abandoned sockets appeared instead. Fionna drank in the air like alcoholics consumed booze. Fionna heard her name. It came out as a faint whisper, a crackle of a leaf in autumn. She wanted to say Cake's name. To ask for Lorn. But her lips barely parted let alone trembled with the beginning vibrations of words.
Her world grew darker the more she walked. The smoke disappeared and the music faded. She turned, feeling as though someone was watching. The gaze seemed to undo the zipper in the back of her dress and tugged at the ponytail holder keeping her blonde locks up.
A light tapping sound emerged from the darkness. No, not tapping. It was the metallic ring of a coin being flipped. Once. Twice. Three times.
Fionna stepped in the direction of the sound. Click. Click. Flip. A dark figure sitting in an arm chair pierced her view: a silhouette of a man outlined by faint, non existent light. He brought his hand up, sticking what appeared to be a joint into his mouth. The echo of the coin flipping ceased as the man dug around in his pocket.
Taking out a lighter: the initials MLA were carved onto the lighter's side in careful cursive. Flipping the cap off, Fionna's eyes met with the hauntingly beautiful blue orbs of the man she had the pleasure of sitting across from in the subway carriage. Light chuckles haunted her ears as the eyes burned into the memory of her dream; her lungs filled with silent screams.