Disclaimer - I own nothing you recognise.
Challenges listed at the bottom.
Word Count: 1005
Warning: Murder, Blood, Post-Apocalyptic themes
Lone Ranger
The wind ruffled her wild hair, blowing errant curls around her head like a dark halo. It was as if she was some kind of warped fallen angel.
She liked the thought, and she was certainly dressed the part.
She wore leather like a second skin, long bands of it wrapped around her like a corset, small shorts that gripped her thighs like they were trying to cut off the circulation to her feet.
Her boots were a thing of beauty, and the silver laces that travelled up her calves stood out against the black beautifully.
To complete the picture, her full, plush lips were painted red and her eyes darkened with coal, a sultry picture if ever there was one.
She drew the eyes of everyone she walked near and she knew it. She revelled in it, loving the attention on her. It was always that much more satisfying when she let her daggers fly to hear the gasps of fear and amazement that her appearance garnered from the crowds.
The 'apocalypse' hadn't been kind to most people, she knew, but she found herself flourishing in the new world, where only the strongest survived. She killed for food, for territory, and sometimes just because the mood took her.
Some would call it luck, and she supposed in some ways she had been lucky, though it was luck of her own making. It just turned out that she was made for this life.
If nothing else, it had allowed her to be as bloodthirsty as she'd always been but had been forced to hide.
It thrilled her to see her daggers sailing through the air towards her victims, lodging deep in their chests unerringly. Her aim was perfect. She loved to pull the daggers out slowly, watch the red coat the blades until it slid off to leave gleaming silver behind.
She was powerful now in ways she'd never have been allowed before the apocalypse; and that power was only just beginning.
Bellatrix continued on her path, her eyes on the brightly lit structure in the distance.
The world was slowly coming back alive, and she was going to make sure she was at the top of the pecking order.
…
The building was imposing, but Bellatrix was unbothered by the strong structure. She strutted through the walkway like she owned the place—one day, she undoubtedly would—ignoring the few people that dared to tell her she had to stop.
Inside, there was a large, open space, filled with teams of people huddled together.
They even wore uniforms of sorts. It was… well, quite frankly, it was a little disappointing.
"Who are you?"
A voice came from her left, and when she caught a glimpse of the speaker, she knew this was the man she'd come for.
"Bellatrix Lestrange," she replied, her tone strong, her eyes narrowed when he looked her up and down. "And you are?"
He tilted his head curiously. "Tom Riddle. Though my friends know me as—"
"Lord Voldemort," she finished along with him. "I've heard of you. They speak of you for miles, most of them trembling with fear. What's so scary about you?"
He grinned at her, but it was his eyes that captivated her. They were a startling ruby colour, one that could surely only be possible with contacts, and yet… they suited him.
"So they trembled when they told you of me, and yet, here you are," he mused. "You heard about my… festivities?"
"I want in," she demanded, shifting her stance just slightly. She was ready to fight her way in if she had to; she'd killed more than were in this stadium alone, and it wouldn't phase her in the slightest to slaughter the lot of them.
"Where is your team?" he asked, glancing behind her, as though expecting more people to walk into the arena.
Bellatrix scoffed. "I don't need a team. Only fools rely on others."
"Is that right?"
She arched her eyebrow at him, almost daring him to tell her otherwise. He nodded once.
"Very well, Bellatrix. The floor is yours. Show me your work."
"Anyone that I shouldn't kill?" she asked, almost sweetly if it wasn't for the wicked smile playing on the edges of her lips.
He smirked. "Probably don't kill everyone. We need at least a few participants, after all."
She nodded, and in the smoothest motion, slipped a dagger from her thigh holster and threw it over her shoulder without looking. The groan behind her told her that she'd met her mark, and she slipped out another two daggers—one from her other thigh, one from inside her boot—and threw them simultaneously in two separate directions.
Again, the accompanying moans told her that she'd been on target.
"Bullseye," she murmured.
Her actions were drawing the eyes of the teams scattered around, and she could see them all drawing their weapons.
With a running leap, she wrapped her thighs around the neck of a short man in the closest team and used her body weight to spin him around, snapping his neck in the process.
When she landed on her feet, he lay sprawled, unmoving on the dusty ground. Bellatrix took her time reclaiming her daggers, wiping the blood off onto the victims' clothing.
She had to look her best, after all.
When she returned to her starting spot, she arched an eyebrow in question at Tom Riddle and waited for his judgement.
"Interesting," he murmured, stepping closer. "You're skilled, certainly, though whether you belong here… that's the question, isn't it?"
Her daggers hung limp in her hands, waiting for her to either reholster them or use them again.
It would all depend on Tom Riddle's next words, whether they'd see more blood that evening.
He walked away from her to the middle of the arena, drawing the attention of the teams from her to him. Bellatrix tracked him with her eyes, hardly daring to blink.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a twist. Welcome Bellatrix Lestrange, our Lone Ranger, to the Murder Olympics!"
Written for:
Scamander's Case: 2. Bloodthirsty
Film Festival: 3. Angel
Marvel Appreciation: 14. Red
Forecast: 11. Thrilled
Geek Pride: Fallout: Prompt 2: Post apocalypse
Brand Wars: 25. Domino: Lucky / Grinning / Powerful
365: 39. Limp
Fantastic Beasts: 117. Lamia: Bellatrix Lestrange