A Ninja's Dance
Chapter 38
Sara had finally received a copy of the video feeds from the café. It had taken longer than she would have liked, but she did have to applaud her luck. Of all the cafés the girl could have walked into, she tumbled into the one that had just had a robbery. A violent robbery even, one that had prompted the owner to install multiple High Definition CCTV cameras.
So useful.
Sara hit play on the feed, her fingers reaching out and closing over the handle of a short, stubby little blade that had been laid out on the silver table next to her. She developed a habit in the past week, finding that holding a knife when she was agitated helped to keep the words in her head and the heat in her chest at bay. It was a wonderful feeling, the cold steel clinking against the five pointed star on her ring.
Almost addictive.
The young Miss Judith Ann Carter entered the café on the screen, selecting a central table and fixing her eyes quickly to the glossy page of the magazine. The waitress brought her coffee, which she didn't drink, and she sat there for a long while doing nothing much of anything but check her watch, check her phone and stared out onto the street.
Sara began cleaning her nails with the tip of the blade. The poor little rabbit looked so scared, so afraid, so twitchy. But she was clothed and fresh faced, her hair brushed, her cheeks rosy.
So healthy looking.
Which revealed two things. Firstly, Hun was a worse shot than he thought, because there was no way that woman could heal the kind of wound Hun was sure he had inflicted in a matter of weeks even with medical aid.
Secondly, and more importantly, Miss Carter's protectors were well enough equipped to keep the girl cared for an hidden within the city, while having the technological knowhow to hack the Purple Dragon system and the physical prowess to investigate the Bayonne Head Docks and survive the mess.
If you believed the reports.
These 'turtles' were proving to be a greater concern that Sara had originally allowed for.
Especially because the delay they were causing in finding the girl was making Hun far less…manageable. She'd needed to lay the honey on thick to convince him not to take over the operation, something that she was not prepared to allow.
Because this girl was, well, interesting was perhaps a suitable word. A frustrating, hateful, tie her to a stake and watch her burn kind of interesting, but interesting none the less. There was nothing special about her. She wasn't spectacularly attractive; she had no priors, no history of interest to speak of. She was a dancer before some accident had put her out of commission.
And yet here she was, having been untraceable for weeks, sitting nervously in a café down town.
Why?
She had a bag with her, boots tied to the outside. Why would she need that? She had a place she was staying did she not? Were they moving her? But if they were moving her why would they make her wait out in the open? Why would they…
Sara frowned.
Maybe they weren't in control of this. What if she had been running? Running from her protectors.
But why would she do that? She didn't look abused; she didn't look like they had harmed her in any way. Then again there was no telling what lay below those layers of fabric. Bruises could be hidden very easily in winter.
What if they were keeping her?
That would make more sense. No one did anything for free, especially powerful men. The veteran Purple Dragons, the ones who had been part of the gang since before Hun assumed control of the city had assured her that the 'Turtles' were male. Hideous, powerful mutant men.
It would make the situation far more understandable if these creatures were keeping her as a toy, having her repay the debt that came with saving her life. Sara had never met man who would pass up the opportunity to control something as desirable as a woman in his debt, so perhaps she had been wrong and they did not specifically care for Judith. More they cared for their own comfort through her.
It was more likely.
Though, Hun was always sneering about the Turtles sense of 'honour'. It was not something Sara believed, but her boss's insistence that it would be a useful tool against them did lend some validity to the claim.
So then perhaps Judith wasn't running. But if she wasn't, then why the hell was she there.
Sara sighed, twirling the blade between her fingers as she watched the policemen enter the café and speak with the waitress. All of these questions could have been answered if Alastair Robinson had done his job. If he had succeeded the girl would be in one of the interview rooms right now, no doubt petrified as she sat under their fluorescent lights, waiting for whatever fate Sara though appropriate at the time.
Instead she was out there somewhere.
Free as a fucking bird.
The dark haired police officer on the screen moved forward to Judith's table, playing the bad cop as he loomed menacingly. Taking his que, Alastair Robinson stepped in to sooth her and it appeared that for a time they were succeeding. The girl's shoulders were slumping, her attention becoming more focused on them instead of whatever she was waiting for.
They had been so close. What had tipped her off that she was talking to the enemy? Why had she run?
Sara leaned forward as the moment approached, the moment she knew Judith would flee. Alistair Robinson reached out, touched her hand, his cuff lifting, Judith's eyes darting to his wrist….
Ah.
Sara heaved a sigh and relaxed back into her chair, placing the tip of the knife between her lips and running her tongue gently over the sharp point.
So that was it then.
The tattoo. The stupid, useless, pointless, foolish tattoo that Hun insisted all of his followers brand themselves with.
Why did people always insist on marking their people? It was such a ridiculous idea. It made identifying them so easy and hiding their allegiance nearly impossible.
How many times was she going to have to clean up a mess like this because of Hun's ridiculous requirements? How many times was everything she wanted going to slip through her fingers because her boss was too busy stroking his own ego to see the big picture? How much incompetence was she going to have to suffer? She was going to change the world and stupid shit like this was going to-
No.
No, breathe. In, out. In, out.
This was fine. This was ok. The girl was a nuisance, a frustration, nothing more. Losing her didn't change anything. The Turtles were a different story, but one she would deal with.
Sara went to close the video, having found the immediate answer she was after. She would have the tech boys analyse the film for anything else of importance. Her eyes traced the girl's face one more time as her mouse hovered of the 'X' in the top corner of the screen.
She stopped short.
Her brow furrowed. Her fingers twitched. There was something…odd, about Judith's expression just the moment before she ran from the café. Something familiar, something…
Sara scrolled back, changing to a different camera so she had a direct view of the girls face and watched, carefully, as Alastair Robinson reached for her hand.
Judith's eyes flicked down, her face registered shock, her body stiffened, then…
Sara stopped the video, pulled it back. Watched again.
Then again. Then once more.
She tilted her head, staring at the girls face on the screen and contemplating the world behind Judith's eyes.
Contemplating the nothingness.
The flatness. Emptiness.
Blank, almost disinterested neutrality as she flicked the coffee into Alastair Robinsons face, tossed the cup at the other cop, the honest one, the one they hadn't been able to buy.
Then Judith stood, movements calculated, fluid, easy as she scooped up her backpack and made for the exit.
Sara selected another camera, the one over the door, watching the girls face as she ducked low for the handle and disappeared onto the street.
Could it be that…was it possible?
It was like Judith had flicked a switch. Like she had turned off her fear. Like she had turned off all of the emotions that people should have, did have, had to have to be normal.
Sara's set the knife down on the table and leaned forward to the screen, her eyes locked on Judith as she replayed the video again and paused it just as the change happened.
No. It couldn't be.
But somehow it was. Right there, in front of her.
Her fingers reached for the monitor, tracing Judiths face.
That face. That familiar blank face.
She'd seen it before, seen the eyes, the expression, the curve of the lips. Not the same physically, not in shape, no, but the same none the less.
She saw that face every day when she looked in the mirror.
It was the way she knew she looked when she forgot to try. When she wasn't focused and the carefully arranged facial features slipped away.
The face that came before she selected her skin in the morning, before she perfected the act that was needed for each situation, before she put on her mask and pretended.
Her face.
Sara stared at Judith, feeling the pull somewhere inside her as she looked into what was almost a reflection. Her mind reeled, bouncing in too many directions at once at what this meant.
No. Wait. No.
What this could mean.
She had to look into this. She had to investigate this. She had to know if this was truth before she considered the ramifications a reflection of herself would bring.
A low moan shook Sara out of her head and she looked up, turning in her chair to eye the pretty blonde man strapped down to the laboratory table behind her.
"Good morning Mr Robinson." She said with a sigh, standing from the desk and taking off her glasses.
Pinching the bridge of her nose to try and fend off the burning noises amplifying in her mind, Sara took her time selecting a long, thin knife from her table before turning on her heel and walking slowly into the brightness of the surgical lights hanging from the roof.
"Did you sleep well?"
Alastair Robinson peered up at her with his big blue eyes, blinking in that confused, unsure kind of way that recently conscious people seemed to have when they came too. It didn't tend to last very long, and it was always interesting watching as their brain caught up with reality.
Sure enough, a moment later realisation dawned on his face and he started struggling, whimpering as the bonds around his limbs cut deeper into his skin.
Sara curled her lip in disgust as his fear bled into the air. God it was a rancid smell.
All over a few bruises and a some missing fingernails.
Weak, pathetic, useless, foolish-
She sucked in a breath, forcing the heat back into the box in her gut. Now was not the time. She had things to do. She had just discovered something interesting.
Judith Ann Carter.
Sara considered the girl in a new light, thinking about what she needed to do to be sure. There were calls to make, people to talk to, records to be scrutinised…
And it all could have been avoided if Alastair Robinson hadn't had that tattoo.
Because if Alastair Robinson hadn't had his tattoo, Judith Ann Carter would have been brought in. She would have been forced into a police car and taken to the station, put into a holding cell then collected and brought to an interview room at the PD Pharmaceutical tower when the NYPD made a 'clerical error' and released her into their custody.
Sara wondered what it would be like to sit across from Judith.
If it was true, if the reflection was real, would she keep the act? Would Judith try to convince Sara that she was like everyone else? Which of them would stumble first and reveal the truth of what lay beneath the smiles and pretty eyes?
Sara sighed and swept to Alastair Robinson's side, rolling his sleeve up and humming in appreciation as she eyed the intricate Purple Dragon clawing up his skin.
Despite the stupidity of the tattoo, she couldn't fault the craftsmanship. It was a beautiful piece.
The body of the dragon had not been coloured completely as so many other PD goons seemed fond of. Instead the artist had painstakingly tattooed scale after scale along the curving bulk of the mythical beast, using a vast selection of purple inks to shade and form the image. Alastair Robinson had also selected a more oriental dragon in lieu of Hun's preferred stylised version, its long pointed claws and twirling facial tendrils a seemingly good match to whomever he had paid to complete the work.
"I found the reason you failed. It was your tattoo, she saw it." Sara said simply after a moment, tracing her fingers along the lines of ink and leaning in to get a better look. Alastair Robinson flinched, trying to tug himself away from her and failing against the tight leather straps across his shoulders, elbows and wrists. Sara's breath ghosted out over his skin and she watched as the hair stood on end along his forearm.
"We're going to have to remove it." She informed him simply, leaning back and setting the edge of her knife just above the wrist bindings, the fingers of her free hand holding his arm tightly in place.
With a slow, careful movement she drew the blade across the top of the joint, making sure the cut was only skin deep.
Alastair Robinson screamed as blood rose from the severed veins and pooled onto the table, staining the dark fabric of his pants near his hand.
Sara pushed the point of her knife into the corners of the incision she had just made and slipped it down towards the underside of his wrist. She made sure not to cut into the muscle, agile fingers working with practiced pressure to avoid slicing any of the real meat of his forearm. It was good that the tattoo was only on the top of his arm; otherwise this would have been far more difficult.
Alastair Robinson bucked and twitched and thrashed, screaming and moaning and wailing like a child until Sara had to stop her work to avoid leaving ragged edges.
"This is so you don't make the same mistake twice." She explained calmly to him, setting the knife aside and reaching for the strap holding his shoulders down. She tightened it with a sharp tug that stilled his arm enough for her to continue. "I have found it is always better to remove the temptation to make the same mistake again, so it will have to go. You understand, of course."
She reclaimed her knife, tracing a path up the side of his arm with her finger before following it with the point of her blade. More blood welled from the new incision and she clicked her tongue, fetching a stack of gauze from the glistening silver table near her knives before returning and wiping the dripping red liquid away so she could better see what she was doing.
She always took pride in her work, no matter what it was, and she needed her subject still and her lines visible to reach the level of perfection she desired for this particular task. It was a little more difficult to get to the other side of Alastair Robinsons arm and copy the line she had carved to the junction of his elbow, but she succeeded. Stepping back to examine her work, Sara nodded her approval at the ruler straight edges she had achieved.
Alastair Robinsons screaming changed, became more heightened as blood shivered and dripped from his twitching limb.
It made the air vibrate and ring almost enough to drown out the wretched stench of his fear.
Sara started humming through the noise, tracing back to the initial incision the top of Alastair Robinson's wrist and examining it. Pressing her fingers into the line, she slipped the edge of her blade under the cut, running the knife in careful sweeps as she sliced away at the stings and ties of sinew holding the skin to the muscle underneath.
It peeled back and away and Alastair Robinson kept screaming.
And screaming.
And screaming.
And screaming.
Authors Notes: Short chapter. This was originally attached to a longer chapter, but I just couldn't get it feeling right. Sara has this darkness to her that is just saturating for me. I was writing her and when I'd finished, anything else that I included felt like its light and floaty and meaningless.
What do you think everyone? Is Sara earning her title of nominated 'Best Villain' for sneaky stories?
Read and Review, it makes me smile…sometimes that smile is a little...wrong shaped.