Poor, Broke and Off The Radar
Chapter 11: Shedding Skin
Back to the present day, Los Santos.
VIX looked at the mirror across the room next to the flatscreen and stared at her own reflection, which held together nothing short of a wide-eyed, almost shellshocked expression as continuous sobbing seeped in from the bed next to her.
In a glimpse of the different world she witnessed a faint, lengthly blur of disturbing proportions. Vignettes of torture, death and sexual violence flashed across the corners of her vision like a camera shutter as soft cries for help and mercy crossed her ears.
She was no believer of reincarnations but somehow a past life that she could vaguely remember was unmasking slowly.
She knew something malignant was slowly taking control of her, and the revelation that made it all worse was that she had no recollection of what just happened in the room.
Snapping out of a nightmarish trance Vix looked down and noticed that she was bareskinned and covered in scratches and a small stain of blood near the tips of her right index and middle fingers. A nauseating, metallic taste was present inside her mouth as she tilted her head to face the escort, likewise unclothed, huddled in the corner of the room, covering her face.
A moment soon passed and Vix, comatose, took her clothes to the bathroom and stepped into the shower, pulling the lever as the sound of water rushing drowned out the sobbing.
A faint trail of red water circled the drain while locks of sickly light brown hair weighed downwards as she squeezed the water out from the tips.
Standing under the shower head for a moment she soon realised that her hair was not covered in ash.
In the midst of all the incomprehensible madness Vix found herself in the same situation as she was the day she rang J up, and was now at loggerheads with herself with regards the underlying question which started all this.
Is this what you wanted?
She wanted the action back into her life, and she got it, and somehow in a strange, cosmic sense there was a cost to it.
The right to unveil the hidden depths within her.
Wiping herself clean with a nearby towel, Vix dressed up in her denim jacket and jeans, took all the necessary documents she needed for the heist and made straight for the exit, slamming the door behind her.
Stepping a few paces down the stairs, the criminal felt her phone buzz again. Standing against the front door Vix pressed her phone against her left ear, as she watched Bishop slowly pick himself up from the carpet, pushing away broken glass aimlessly.
The voice came through, and Vix was ready to vent.
"She was great, wasn't she? A woman's touch can feel a lot different, if you ask me."
"Go and royally fuck yourself, whoever you are! What the fuck did you just make me do to her, you insufferable bitch?"
"You're getting a little mouthy, Vix. I don't appreciate that gesture."
"Well, I don't appreciate getting screwed in the head. I know you had something to do with it, you goddamned psychopath. "
"What makes you think you're not responsible for it?"
Pausing momentarily in slight shock, Vix continued.
"I know for a fact that it ain't a fucking coincidence that my hair was suddenly getting dyed up when you phoned me. Just tell me where you are so we can settle this the American way."
"I'll assure you that that day will come soon enough. Meanwhile, I suggest sticking to the plan, Vix, and not let this growing rift between you and my voice cloud your judgement."
Leaning back, Vix took a breath, and out of Dutch courage, a loud, yet noticeably nervous laughter escaped from her vocal cords.
"Whatever you say, Lady MacBeth. What's stopping me from grilling these docs up in smoke?"
"Because, and you may not realise it now, somewhere inside you, you've always wanted something like this to happen."
The phone line gave pause as Vix watched Bishop writhe in pain in front of her, muttering expletives from under his breath as the pain from the back of his head grew.
"Time to wake up and smell the coffee, Vix. Phase B is already underway and you're still stuck in some whorehouse in the hills."
"...So where do I go now?"
"Try using your imagination. You aren't a follower like the rest of the sheep in this hovel of a city. This is the last phone call you're going to get from me. We'll meet face-to-face real soon."
And with that, the voice was gone, seemingly replaced by the tormented curses of a certain Vinewood producer.
"You fuckin' bitch... Call me a goddamned doctor already!" Cried Bishop, wiping the blood of his eyes and nose. "I can't see nothing but fuckin' red, for Christ's sake!"
Walking over to a table, Vix tossed the man a set of towels before heading out of the door, as Bishop continued to shout frantically from inside, berating the woman who maimed him with outspoken passion.
Sunset was creeping up, and Vix noticed that the gunman from earlier was gone for good, and her Rhapsody was conveniently parked on the lot, as other more expensive cars rolled down the hill, their white lights shining in all their glory.
Stepping inside the vehicle and running the engine the Rhapsody backed up and drove away down to Vinewood itself.
Narrowly passing through one way roads, palm trees and people the hatchback swerved to the right lane and up the I-1, and Vix watched the sky slowly shift from a dark orange hue to a navy palette in one fell swoop as the Los Santos traffic relented brutally even in nightfall.
Tape Loop by Morcheeba filled the air inside the vehicle, filling it with a haunting atmosphere as the trip hop beat soldiered on along with the Rhapsody across the red lights, as commuters of the road exchanged fingers over tailgates and road cuts.
Nothing filled the mind of the career criminal, her emotions were all but numb or suppressed after today, and it was likely that it would remain that way for moments to come. An aura of stoicism was growing around her, and yet, Vix did not care. She only had one goal in mind right now, and that was to go to J's.
Perhaps this was her calling after all.
Stopping in front of the house it became clear to her that something was out of the ordinary. The Buccaneer and Huntley were nowhere to be seen, and instead, a pitch black Washington was in its place, recently parked in.
Cautiously, Vix opened the glovebox and gripped around the handle of her Glock, while stuffing the document inside her jacket. With her gun in her pocket Vix made her way across the East Los Santos street and inside the house, front door unlocked.
Creeping up with a pistol in hand, Vix peeked around the corner and eyeballed the intruder of the house, yet another middle-aged man, this time dressed in black, sit on the couch with his legs crossed. Next to him lay the limp body of Blanca, who showed signs of decay as the pool of dark blood around her began to dry.
The man was smiling, and this gave Vix all the more reason to just shoot him.
Emerging out of the shadows, the criminal raised her weapon at the man, almost ready to pull the trigger with one squeeze if not for what she saw on the table in front of her.
The revelation soon became just as clear as the photographs on the tables were. Several pictures of her were laid across the table, ranging from polaroids, sepia-toned films to vague black-and-white stills, some circled with marker and labelled with seemingly random words unintelligable without proper context.
A briefcase with the same logo as the documents from Frost Drive was placed next to the assortment of photographs and newspaper clippings.
This was enough for Vix to holster her weapon. This all seemed so unreal, and yet, she had many questions that have yet to be answered.
Sitting down on a nearby armchair, Vix made eye contact with the man.
"You and I need to talk."