Chapter 2: Her Nine Lives.
Part 2.7: Battle Scars.
Hissing in pain, Leah gritted her teeth as she gingerly lowered herself down the manhole. Her entire body felt broken beyond repair, and though the human body worked miracles, she knew she'd bare horrific scars from the inflicted wounds. But she didn't worry entirely too much about those- there'd be plenty more where they came from, she felt.
Limping heavily, she made her way over to the water's edge where the dim light from the streets above trickled down. She could vaguely make out a reflection of presumably herself- only it looked nothing like her. Swollen cheeks, a black eye and a horrific cut from chin to earlobe. The only thing that was the same as yesterday was her rat's nest hair. But she swore even a chunk of that was missing.
As gently as she could, she plonked herself on the ground, trying not to make a sound as her bruised hipbone hit the cold cement. Lowering her hands into the canal water, she scooped out a frigid handful and didn't even blink or think twice as she put the sewer water on her face to clean up the bloody mess that caked her eyes and nose and… well… face.
The wounds stung as open sores met cold, filthy water. Any normal person would have contracted- at best- cholera, but years of living in the shadows of civilization had made her immune. Not just disease, but other aspects of life as well. Feelings for one. She didn't give a stitch about anything anymore. No longer felt pain- emotional pain. Happiness. Sadness. Envy. Despair. Nothing.
But there was one thread anchoring her to the realm of humanity.
Elaine.
Her… friend. She was the one, since Wendy all those years ago, who brought an upward twitch of Leah's lips that passed nowadays as a smile. Gave her… dare she say it… hope. Hope of making it out of this hellhole. Finding a better life for herself, away from the people hunting her… hunting them.
The sole reason she was washing off the blood was for Elaine. She didn't want to scare her, or make her worry. Else, she'd walk around looking like an extra from a horror movie, no problem. Elaine was the only reason there was still a flicker of light in her dark, endlessly deep eyes.
It was in the hope of a better life for the two of them that she had done this. To leave, they needed money. Elaine- it turned out had a bit saved up. Though it had no value in this necropolis, where who got what was determined by who had the biggest gun and fear factor, it would be invaluable in the outside world.
They didn't yet have enough. Which was why Leah signed up for a fight club.
Run by a shady drug cartel that operated within the city, they gathered together women and pitted them against each other for cash. And the bosses enjoyed both the view of two females grappling each other, and the thrill of them battling it out for a little petty cash that they tossed into the ring. Less than a penny's worth to them, but life changing to the fighters. The power they had over the women intoxicated them. That was the biggest turn on.
She wasn't one of the current favorites. Being scrawny and worse-for-wear, she was a write-off. They just enjoyed the spectacle of her getting pummeled into the ground for no reward. Sometimes, she won. But today, being paired with a woman almost twice her height and weight, she had stood no chance. In an enclosed ring the size of a chicken's coop, there wasn't much room for maneuvering and evasion tactics.
A bloody face and no reward. The injustice made her spit a wad of blood in what vaguely resembled anger.
But she had won a few and racked up forty dollars worth. At ten a fight, it was a struggle to get to her target of six hundred. Struggle was nothing new. But, even harder was keeping it a secret from mothering Elaine. She'd flip shit of Biblical proportions.
She'd sooner become a prostitute than let Leah get clobbered half to death every two days.
Leah wouldn't let Elaine do that. It was worse than selling her soul. The scars from her past- Wendy and how and why she died- determined that prostitution was more than selling your body- it was selling your soul.
She could get the money they need. Tonight was just not her lucky night. She'd just have to suck it up. Fight harder.
Seeing her reflection show a more human face, Leah slowly stood up, shifting her weight to the leg that hurt the least. Covering her face with the slightly bloodstained hoodie, she tried to walk as normally as possible towards their new hidden home in the sewers. It wasn't prime real estate- hell the smell sometimes she swore could kill.
But amongst the myriad of things that could kill her on the surface, she'd take the sewer pits- it was safer by leaps and bounds.
After all, they needed to live- to survive. That was all.
Crouching in the shadows, hands painted in strawberry jam of a particularly ghastly shade of red, B stared owlishly at nothing, deep in thought.
The only sound in the warehouse in which he currently resided in was the soft plink of blood dripping onto the linoleum, off the wrist of his newest victim. This one barely interested him. She had screamed, begged for her life, sworn not to tell the cops- the whole nine. He'd been through too many of those.
Of course, he'd killed her anyway- seeing the light leave their eyes was always a great, mesmerizing experience. A life… vanishing. Traceless. It was almost mystic.
But the excitement was short lived. Currently, twenty minutes later, the adrenaline had worn off and he was left, wanting and craving more. More. He needed more. He needed intrigue- someone who didn't die so predictably and wastefully. Someone who challenged him. But boy were those ones rare. If not rare, non-existent.
B shifted in his crouch and half crawled onto a crate. Brow furrowed, he thought.
The only human who had remotely interested him was that girl from all those years ago. The promise in her eyes- he'd never forget. Leah. He wouldn't kill her- of course he wouldn't. She was far too valuable. Potentially one of a kind. But he still needed her- he needed her to follow in his footsteps and succeed him.
Again, for the umpteenth time, he wished he didn't leave her to an almost certain death. Although something in him told him that she was alive- she was a survivor.
He licked his palms and muttered gutturally in frustration.
It was all so boring. So very boring.
He'd kept tabs on Misora. She wasn't any closer to solving the 'impossible case.' Which means neither was him. L. And that meant he was winning. B was one up over L.
But the victory wasn't yet complete. And he wouldn't get to see the crowning moment himself. Which is why he needed another him. A successor, who could carry on his legacy. Watch L as he crumbled and broke with the first case he could not solve. Laugh for him when he could not as L did.
She maybe dead. Leah maybe dead. But if she wasn't?
It was a chance he decided to take.
If she was still alive, she truly was worthy to be his next-in-line.
The next Beyond Birthday.
Lit cigarettes winked in the dim light and smoke clouded up the already stuffy, stale room.
'So. Who's on the cards for tonight?'
A faceless, nondescript burly man in a suit bearing far too many rings on his fingers spoke. Lacing his fingers together, he rested his chin upon the back of his hands and waited expectantly for his question to be answered.
A ruffling of a few papers was heard and a voice from a shadow emanated.
'Current favorites are Sunkirst and Rhea-Donna. Bets on them are six hundred thousand.'
Grunts echoed around the table. Each and every one of them had stakes on either of the women. Weighing in at over 190 pounds, they were almost impossible to knock down. For them, betting on the two women was easy money and seemed to have no plausible disadvantage. In fact, by their cartel making such sure fire bets, it was a pretty good way of punching some holes in the finances of the cartel running the fight club.
They just needed to make absolutely sure that they win.
'Alright. Giuseppe, pair Rhea-Donna with Amhurst and Sunkirst with Madeleine. That should do it.'
A small man in the far left corner nodded silently. One curt bounce of the head. He was the inside man- it had taken years for them to weasel him into the inner ranks of the fight club, but now he was their mole. He fixed the matches.
Not all of them- just the ones that had the biggest stakes for them. Their cartel had about six hundred thousand dollars on the two burly women. He couldn't afford to mess up.
Although he saw no chance really. Their opponents were puny in comparison. One was a bit of a wimp and the other, though tougher, was quite limited in fighting technique.
Neither of them stood a chance.
At least he sure hoped so.
Because with every bet, his life was on the line too.
