Title: Get Tough, Get Even

Author: zmdr

Fandom: Veronica Mars

Rating: T for language, disturbing imagery, violence

Characters: Veronica

Summary: Post 3x20, Veronica takes it personally. Waaay personally.

Spoilers: All of VM is spoiled. Warning: Major character death. Possible OoC.

Disclaimer: Veronica Mars is one of the greatest shows. Ever. Pity I don't own it. Actually, if I own it I'll probably ruin it, as can be seen in the following fic. Rob Thomas owns all, CW owns rights.

A/N: This chapter took a little longer to write as I had to find a way to bridge the events which I've put in the plot. I hope this bridges the events well enough. I'm also out of town on holiday so I'm typing on a netbook with a crappy keyboard. I miss home.

A/N2: I tried to be as detailed as possible about the Russian Orthodox confession, but most of the details I've used are from . . I apologise to anyone who may be offended by the use of a sacrament in this fashion. No disrespect is intended.

A/N3: Thanks for the kind reviews and subs! You guys have been extremely encouraging and motivating. Also, please try to leave signed reviews so I can reply by PM! Thanks again!

The sky will weep for whoever drinks Kyle's coffee.

FBI Field office, San Diego, undisclosed time, undisclosed location.

It is raining when the mail comes in. The letter arrives in the mail. Just as before, this letter is short of a return address. Just as before, this letter is devoid if fingerprints and any discernable DNA. Just as before, this letter is sealed with double-side tape. Just as before, this particular letter was posted outside the Sac-and-Pac. The management has not followed the FBI's recommendations to install a security camera to cover the mailbox, as the FBI was not as kind as to provide the funds for one. Budget constraints and all. Just as before, this letter contains information concerning the Sorokin crime family, information which is of paramount interest to the Organised Crime Division.

"To whom it may concern,

It has come to my attention that the Organised Crime Division has run into no small amount of trouble locating Lev and Boris Sorokin. It has also been clear that the Neptune Sheriff's department has been less than useful in the manhunt. To the unbiased observer, the solution to this problem would be clear: remove the current Sheriff from office, and start recall elections. Preferably in three months time. But this citizen digresses.

This citizen considers it the epitome of the fulfilment of ones civic duty to aid law enforcement in making the country a safer, cleaner place to live in. Thus, this citizen feels a tremendous sense of fulfilment in disclosing that Lev and Boris will soon be making their presences felt.

Regards,

A concerned citizen."

The letter is moved up the chain of command. The modus operandi of the anonymous tipoff, together with the similarities between this letter and the one before leads the analysts to conclude that the same person has sent this letter. The same person whom has proven to be relatively trustworthy and a possessor of accurate and up-to-date information. The letter lands on the desk of Special-Agent-in-Charge Adrian Trent, the head agent of the Organised Crime Division for the San Diego Branch Office.

SAC Trent has had a good day. No one turned up late for work today. The coffee machine works. The air conditioning is working well enough to turn a desert to tundra. It's a busy day. Most of the agents are at work, following cases, in the field, liaising with police departments across the state… He has never liked slow days. Work keeps his agents sharp and focused. Constant work prevents the life of an FBI agent from getting boring. A bored agent tasked with the monitoring and eventual eradication of organised crime is a bad agent. SOC Trent has most of his agents on the Fighting Fitzpatricks. Somehow, in the past few weeks, the Fitzpatricks have become elusive. Trying to grab one is like trying to trap smoke in a sieve. Busts have failed to net even a single member. SOC Trent has most of his agents on the Fitzpatrick case. As it turns out, in the battle of the proverbs, 'too many cooks spoil the broth' has proven victorious over 'many hands make light work'. His men have next to nothing to show for their efforts and SOC Trent is quickly getting pissed off.

This is why when the mysterious informant sends another tell-all letter regarding another thorn in the department's side, the Sorokin crime family, he sits up and takes notice. And when the SOC takes notice, so does the rest of his department.

"Do we have anyone undercover in the Sorokin family?"

"Yes, sir. According to his file, he's quite high up in the organisation. However, he can't give us Lev and Boris. They're hidden even from many of their own men."

"I don't care. Get me his handler."

One day ago

Veronica

"Will the defendant please step forward?"

The voice booms in the enormous room.

I look around. There's no one next to me. I look down. I'm wearing a bright orange jumpsuit. Manacles surround my wrists and ankles. A chain loops around my waist. Four lengths of chain branch from the belt to each of the manacles. I hear a growl behind me. I turn, and see a guard wearing a brown uniform. His features are obscured by a blindfold which covers more than half his face. He brandishes a baton and shoves me forward. I stumble, the leg irons preventing me from regaining my balance. I sprawl on the floor.

It's me. I'm the defendant. They've got me. I was careless.

I look up. A judge's panel is in front of me. On the left is a jury box. On the right, a court reporter and the bailiff look down at me with scorn and resentment.

The judge's panel towers over me, rising up into the sky. It is so tall that the panel appear to curve toward me as my eyes travel higher. It is so tall that the judge's face is in the clouds.

The jury box is filled with familiar faces. Aaron Echolls. Cassidy Casablancas. Jake Kane. Woody Goodman. Celeste Kane. Mercer Hayes. Liam Fitzpatrick. All of them point and laugh at my clumsiness.

The court reporter sits in the shadows. His large spectacles are the only part of him which is visible, reflecting the glare of the lights far, far above. The reflection is broken by cracks which spider-web across their surface. It's almost as if they were made of shattered glass fragments hastily glued back together. His fingers move across the typewriter keyboard in a blur. The sound of the keys being pressed is akin to a machine gun, albeit one that will never run out of ammunition.

They are discussing my transgressions. All the things which could possibly be used against me, it's all being recorded in that typewriter. How could they know about those things? How can I face the world again when this is over? If this is over?

I struggle to my feet. The rapidly shortening chains make it difficult to do so, but somehow I manage. The least I can do is to look defiantly into the face of adversity. The foreman steps forward with a sheet of paper in his hand. He steps into a spotlight.

Gory.

His face is radiant. Light spills out of his eyes, flashing when he blinks, and his mouth, flashing when he talks. His gaze pins me to the floor. I'm illuminated as if by twin spotlights. The temperature rises. Smoke starts to rise from my jumpsuit. The sweat I've generated from my struggles against my restraints starts to dry out. It's quickly becoming unbearable.

He speaks. It is a chorus of myriad voices.

"On the count of murder of the first degree of Mr Gorya Sorokin, we find the defendant, Ms Veronica Mars, guilty."

The room fills with jubilant cheers. The people in the jury box hug each other and give each other high-fives and fist bumps. Applause sounds from behind me, together lots of booing.

It's getting really hot now. My skin is papery dry. My jumpsuit is starting to blacken and char. The manacles are starting to glow a dull red color.

The judge slams his gavel twice. The room shakes with the sound. The cheering gradually stops. Silence reigns.

"On account of the guilty verdict, I hereby sentence the defendant, Veronica Mars, to death! The sentence shall be carried out immediately."

He doesn't use his gavel to interrupt the cheering which follows that statement.

I try to protest. I try to demand an appeal. Gory still stares at me. The light blinds me; I'm unable to look him in the eye. I'm distracted as my smouldering jumpsuit catches fire. I bat frantically at the dancing flames, trying to put them out. I spot a blanket lying on a nearby chair. I leap for it, but I find myself held in a painful headlock, courtesy of the guard behind me.

"The prisoner shall not escape." He hisses.

The fire spreads. It destroys my jumpsuit, but leaves the guard completely unscathed. I'm stark naked, exposed to the crowd. They laugh and jeer as the guards grab my arms and drag me away. My face burns as I try to hide from their gazes. I close my eyes in shame.

Not before I see Dad, Logan, Duncan, Lily, Meg, Piz, Wallace and Weevil in the crowd. A gamut of emotions is spread across their faces. Disgust, pity, sorrow, accusation, rage, disappointment. Logan's eyes are downcast. He doesn't look at me, and something deep inside me breaks. Dad is yelling something at me, his face twisted in anger, tears running down his cheeks.

His words are swallowed up by the rowdy crowd.

My toes drag on the floor. The guards have me firmly by each arm; my shoulders scream for relief as they force them to support my entire body weight, and the handcuffs bite into the skin of my wrists, drawing blood. The blood drips onto the floor and is smeared into lines by my toes.

A guillotine stands before me. As tall as it is, it's only half as tall as the judge's panel. Blood from hundreds of murderers it has claimed before me stains its wood. The slanted blade gleams in the room's light.

Oddly enough, in contrast to the gore on the frame, the blade is clean. Surgical, even. The shiny surface reflects my face. I'm gaunt, scrawny and pale. I look as if the last vestiges of hope and life have been taken from me.

I can imagine the executioner polishing, oiling and sharpening it to perfection before presenting to court today.

Everything's moving so fast. I can't even remember why I'm here anymore. I try to think past the fog in my mind.

Who was I supposed to have murdered? And who was the foreman? What's missing from the picture?

I'm slammed onto the ground. My head is forced downward, my neck into the lunette. All I can see is a bag in front of me, opened. The interior is dark; the lip of the bag is lined with teeth.

I know what's wrong with the picture. I open my mouth and start to speak.

I'm interrupted for the last time. The cheers are ear-splitting. Something cool licks me around the neck. I feel my head start to fall; my view tumbles. The bag snarls.

There is no pain.

There is only darkness.

"Woof!"

I shake myself. Backup's licking me on the neck. He must have sensed my distress and tried to wake me.

I sit up and realise I'm sleeping in a pool of sunlight. I must have left the curtains open and overslept enough for there to be daylight. I'm sweating.

Damn, these nightmares are becoming quite the problem.

I start the kettle. I need some coffee to completely awaken. While waiting for the water to boil, I open the door and take in the morning newspaper.

Nothing unexpected has happened in the past day. Crime rates are rising – who knew? The rich in Neptune are getting richer – who cares? I flip past a small article with the headline "Security guard drinks contaminated coffee: admitted to UCSD Medical Centre for food poisoning"…

Wait… what's this? Next to the obituary of one Charles Rock is an obituary for Gorya Sorokin. On the other side, there is a public service announcement on the dangers of mixing drugs and alcohol. This is in response to a death in Hearst College due to heroin overdosing combined with alcohol. Take home message? Don't do drugs. Use clean needles if you do. Brush and floss everyday for clean and healthy teeth and gums.

Well, at the very least, I know I've kept my trail clean. The Neptune police, bumbling fools that they are, have classified Gory's death as misadventure. Now I also know that Gory's body has been discovered. I can assume that his father has learnt of his death. Somehow, this can be turned into something useful.

I never expected that dealing with your own mistakes, reversing the consequences, and keeping your loved ones safe would be so hard. I've successfully taken care of Dad's legal issues, by threatening to destroy Duncan's life. The next thing on the agenda would be to remove the Russian mafia's power; the power, manpower and influence which made it possible for Gory Sorokin to kill Logan.

The only way I can stay sane, the only way I can prevent myself from going mad with guilt and self-loathing, is to strategise. The most efficient way to cripple, and hopefully destroy, the Russia mob in California is to cut it off at the head. Lev and Boris Sorokin need to be taken out of the picture.

After the unpleasant business with Jake Kane half a week ago, I don't feel like hanging someone else's life on the line on my quest for vengeance. I don't think I'm wired that way. Favors are one thing to expect from others; sacrifices are another.

I decide to sacrifice something else. First, I send an anonymous letter to the FBI branch office in San Diego. Just as before, I handle the letter with gloves. I seal it with double-sided tape instead of licking it. I post it outside the Sack-n-Pac, which still doesn't have a security camera covering it.

The next part requires significantly more derring-do and serendipity. I send more anonymous letters to Eastern Orthodox churches in San Diego. I know members of the Russian mob worship there. Strangely, for people who murder, smuggle and enslave for a living, they're actually pretty religious. They are much simpler and shorter than the ones I've sent to the FBI.

To Whom It May Concern:

Gorya's death was not an accident. Vicky Maine killed him and made it look that way.

I leave it unsigned. There are no Vicky Maines in San Diego or Balboa County.

It won't do for some innocent person to be attacked by a group of Russian thugs because of my randomly generated name. No one is going to be hurt by my mistakes ever again, if I can help it.

I will become Vicky Maine. I'll meet with the Russian mob. I'll drag Lev and Boris Sorokin out of hiding. The possible murderer of the son of one and the nephew of the other? They wouldn't miss the chance to see her for anything. They might even want to take a little revenge of their own. If I die in their hands? So be it. As my dreams have shown me, death is the only way I'll be able to assuage my guilt. Just as long as the Organised Crime Division isn't a total bunch of idiots and takes both Lev and Boris Sorokin down. I can live with that.

And if I fail, if I underestimate the competence of the FBI, a pseudonym ensures no one close to me will be killed in reprisal.

I prepare, and steel myself for what's likely to be my last ever operation.

Now, what does one wear to confession?

San Diego, Friday

Veronica

The St. Barlaam of Kiev Russian Orthodox Church is a small church in a seedy suburb of San Diego. It's surrounded by myriad strip clubs, bars, convenience stores, and nightclubs. The sombre lighting of the church is disrupted by the neon lights reflecting off its whitewashed façade. Heavily tattooed men with Slavic features loiter around the entrance, smoking, drinking and joking loudly. The graffiti adorning every surface of the street, including storefronts and streetlamps, stops at the borders of the church, as if it is a beacon of cleanliness. A small white sign hanging underneath the church name proudly declares: "American also spoken".

This must be a good place to start. At least I'll be able to be understood, if only a marginally.

I've parked in a long-term car park in downtown San Diego. I've left Backup in the care of Mandy. I've hidden my ID, most of my cash and all my valuables inside my car. It's almost 8pm as I reach the St. Barlaam of Kiev, having had to take public transportation.

I'll just have to stow my cell with my parking ticket. That way, if anything goes wrong, Dad'll be able to trace my cell, find the ticket and locate my car. And with my car, he'll find the note I left for him. The note which contains all the apologies and all the confessions which I'll never be able to tell him face-to-face.

I'm busy circumventing a puddle in a pothole in the middle of the pedestrian walkway when my cell rings. I wince as the cold water soaks through my old sneakers and into my socks. I answer.

"Hi, honey, how was your day?"

"Oh, just the usual: murder, cover-ups, dicing with death. But don't worry, Dad, you're sure to like these organised crime guys."

What the fuck did I just say?

"That's my girl. I'm just calling to check in on you. Sacramento's beautiful at this time of year. Wish you were here."

That was close. Too close.

"Sure, Dad. You're going to be great in court, you know that? And no matter what, I'll always love you."

"I know. See you soon, honey. And when you go after accused murderers, you always have a backup plan."

He hangs up.

I didn't almost slip up. I did slip up. It's only due to my tendency to joke with Dad that he hasn't gone all Inquisition-like on me.

I shudder and keep my phone. I cannot make any more mistakes from this moment on. The fate of the people I love, as well as the success of this operation, depends on how well I hold myself together.

I double back when I pass a row of lockers. I choose a locker in the middle of the middle row, as non-descript as possible. I place my car park ticket inside. I connect an external battery charger to my cell. I switch the phone to silent. I put both inside the locker, weighing down the flimsy parking ticket. The external battery charger should keep the cell operational for a few more days. If the phone dies, Dad will still be able to track my car down. There were security cameras covering the car park entrances. My license plate has definitely been captured.

I'm now unencumbered by anything which could link me back to my true identity. As I leave the locker area, throwing the locker key into a nearby trash can, I catch a glance of my reflection in the reflective sides of a nearby escalator.

I've cut my hair short again. I've dyed it dark brown. The hairstylist promised that the dye would come off in twenty washes, quicker if I use a special chemical. I've liberally applied lipstick and eyeliner. I'm wearing a t-shirt and jeans which are a few sizes too large for me. I couldn't find clothes that fit me at the thrift store. A cloth belt prevents my jeans from slipping down my waist. I no longer look like Veronica Mars.

I'd probably even fool myself.

My name is Vicky Maine.

The interior of the St. Barlaam of Kiev is small but tidy. Icons hang from the clean walls and the hint of incense permeates through the still air.

I've timed my visit well. I've arrived at the tail end of the confessional. The line between the pews is short, about five people. At the head of the queue, an old man has his face buried inside a colourful cloth box. A colourful stole covers his head. A young, clean-shaven priest stands next to him, chanting a psalm of some sort. Behind the old man, in the queue, is an elderly Russian woman, her head in a shawl. She is followed by a young man. His hands are in his pockets and he's shifting nervously. I can see the beginning of a tattoo under his collar. The older man in front of me is large, heavily muscled, and tall. He's completely bald. Tattoos adorn his bare arms. He is as still as a viper, poised to strike, totally in contrast to the jumpier, younger man in front of him in the queue.

The priest says something in Russian. With the emphasis he places on the last words, I infer that he is saying the old man's name. Excellent.

The line rapidly shortens. From the research I've done about the Russian Orthodox faith, I've learnt that the worshipper is supposed to place his head under the stole, and utter their confession. The chanting of the priest is supposed to make it private.

Now that won't work for me.

I'm the last in the queue. The bald man before me removes his head from the stole and leaves the sanctuary. From the priest's proclamation, his name is Igor.

I'm next. The priest says something in what I assume is Russian.

"Sorry, do you speak English?" I'm tempted to say "Vy go-vo-reet-ye po-ang-liy-skee?" but I hold my tongue.

"How may I address you?" His English is perfectly functional, only slightly accented.

"I'm Vicky Maine." His eyes widen a little in surprise.

"Vicky, do you know how confession is conducted in this church?"

"I've seen what the people before me have done. I think I should be able to manage."

I slip my head under the stole. I'm confronted with an open Bible and a cross.

If God does exist, I really hope he won't mind me lying to the priest. There are some things which I'm not ready to tell anyone about. Not yet anyway.

"Erm… What do I do?"

"Just confess, Vicky. If you feel more comfortable I can give counsel instead of chanting the Psalms. You may be more used to this style of confession."

"I caused the death of a man. He was drunk and high on heroin. He was just lying on his bed. I could have saved him by calling an ambulance. But I thought he would be all right. I thought he would survive the night."

I allow my voice to break.

"I left him to die."

I start to sob. It's difficult. Guilt tears me up on the inside about what I have done to Gory; however, no matter how much I try to, I cannot shed a tear for him. The priest answers.

"Vicky. Honestly, in your situation, nine out of ten people would have done what you did. I know that calling for help, especially for trouble with drugs, is extremely hard to do. But your feeling guilt over your inaction and you being here today for your confession tells me that you have a conscience, that not all is lost within you. You still have compassion, and no matter what you have done, God will forgive."

He continues.

"The handmaiden of God, Vicky Maine."

I remove my head from the stole and give a small smile to the priest. Despite the severely edited sequence of events which I've given him, his reasoning and absolution gives me a sense of peace.

I have a conscience. I have compassion. Not all is lost.

It's exactly what I need. I needed to know that all my struggles are for something, results or no.

I thank the priest for his time. I leave the St Barlaam of Kiev. The wooden doors slam shut behind me with a finality which echoes off the opposite storefront like a gunshot. The thugs loitering outside the church leer at me but thankfully keep their distance. I walk off in the opposite direction from the lockers.

I spot my tail in about ten minutes.

It's the two people who were in front of me in the confession queue. They're in an old, beat up pickup truck. It has seen better days, much like the rest of the suburb. They're looking at me, staring intently.

Time to make it look realistic.

I turn off the main road into an alley.

They follow.

Five minutes ago

Igor hates Ivan. The young punk thinks he's such a big shot, getting a little promotion in the ranks. From gun-running to hits. But Ivan has a lot to learn. Strategy. Patience. Finesse. He's too jumpy, too flashy. On hits he would threaten and wave his weapon around. Igor will just shoot without warning. Meaningless theatrics will only result in a warning to the victim and a lower probability of a kill.

Igor's about to go off to his favourite bar when Nikolai, the priest, catches him before he enters his pickup.

"Igor! There's something that just happened. A girl called Vicky Maine just did a confession with me. Do you remember the girl behind you?"

"Short, brown hair, cute? Yeah I remember."

Igor motions to Ivan to get into his pickup. He does so with minimal grumbling, which Igor is grateful for. Igor himself gets behind the wheel and starts the engine. The pickup starts with no small amount of sputtering. Money has been short these days, and vehicle maintenance is not very high on Igor's list of priorities.

"Igor, from what she told me, I'm quite sure she didn't have anything to do with what Lev and Boris are trying to find her for."

"Not my problem, Nikolai. What the boss wants, the boss gets."

Igor pulls out of the lot, leaving Nikolai in the dust, looking on in despair.

"Ivan! We're doing a grab today. Prepare the cloth."

"And I thought we would be doing something fun."

"Shut the fuck up. Not all work is killing."

Ivan doesn't answer as he wets a towel with chloroform. He rolls the window down to get rid of the fumes.

Igor spots a short figure turning into a nearby alley. He recognises Vicky from the sanctuary. He follows.

Vicky has a twenty yards head start. Igor keeps his distance. No use alarming the prey.

Bollards prevent him from following any further.

"Fuck! Ivan! Go!"

Ivan exits the vehicle. He walks briskly toward Vicky, damp cloth in hand.

She doesn't seem to notice him. Her head is bowed, her hands in her pockets.

Ivan is close now. He grabs Vicky around the neck. He chokes her and shows her the cloth. Her legs flail in the air as he lifts her up.

He lets go and rolls on the floor, limbs twitching. Igor's eyes narrow in confusion and then widen in comprehension as he sees a taser in Vicky's hand.

Fucking idiot.

Vicky's running now. Igor slides his trusty sawn-off shotgun out from his glove compartment. He usually uses it for hits but since Vicky's about fifty yards away now, it probably won't kill her.

He aims low. He tries to aim for her legs. He doesn't care if the spread of the shot wings Ivan. He's screwed up once too many times today.

BANG!

She goes down; the soil around her left leg dotted with small puffs of dust as the small lead pellets impact the dry floor.

Igor drops the shotgun on the pickup's floor. He sprints over to Vicky, nicking the cloth Ivan dropped on the way. She's already struggling to get up. Igor doesn't waste time on intimidation. He just clamps the cloth down on her nose and mouth. He spots the taser on the floor and ignores it.

She stops struggling after about half a minute.

Igor lets her fall on the ground, struggling to catch his breath. He's not built for sprints; the last time he had to chase anyone down was half a decade ago. He searches the ground for anything he might have missed. He keeps the chloroform soaked rag and Vicky's taser. He's always wanted one, but never saw the necessity nor had the opportunity to test its efficacy.

"Fucking bitch! This'll show you!"

Ivan is treating the fallen girl like a soccer ball. He's kicking her body hard. Igor winces as Ivan's instep connects with Vicky's abdomen, the momentum rolling her body about.

"Ivan, stop now!"

Ivan ignores him. He gives Vicky, now on her back, a sharp kick in the ribs. A sickening crack can be heard from Igor's position. His eyes narrow. Lev and Boris want Vicky brought to them alive, not half or wholly dead. And from what he knows about their interrogation methods, she's going to need to be as healthy as possible.

He sticks the taser in Ivan's back as he's winding up for a stomp. He pulls the trigger. Ivan collapses instantly, like a puppet with its strings cut.

Excellent. Maybe I should get one of my own.

Igor drapes the unconscious Vicky over his broad shoulders. He grabs Ivan by the hair and drags him. He gets them to the pickup without much fuss though Ivan is starting to stir. Vicky goes into the pickup bed; a tarpaulin is thrown over her to hide her from prying eyes. Ivan is woken with a few tight slaps and curses. He goes into the passenger seat. Igor will have words with him later about his conduct this evening.

The pickup takes three tries to start. There's no hurry. Gunshots are as common as rats around here, and the alleys crawl with vermin. No police in their right mind will show in this neighbourhood.

When I deliver Vicky, her bounty's going to give the ride a tune-up. It's been far too long. Then maybe some drinks at the bar, maybe a hooker or two, maybe even a taser.

Life is good.

A/N: Please review!