A/N : Hello! I'm sorry this chapter took this long to write. I faced a writer's block, knowing what i wanted to do, but not know. Then I did a lot of rewrites because I didn't like it (more about it after the chapter). Still, I think I now have something good enough to know just before the holidays ! This is a dark chapter. No Christmas spirit here. But i hope you will like it nonetheless.
New friends
Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
Vi's breathing was loud, heavy. Sweat was running down her back, wetting her shirt, and on her forehead.
- Haaan, she moaned, as she gave all she had in her last movement.
The rush of satisfaction ran through her entire body, she could not repress the shiver that tensed every single one of her muscles. She lifted her head and smiled, eyes closed.
- Nice job, Pink! Two hundreds and fifty push-ups!
Although she appreciated the congratulation, she stared at her work-out partner like she wanted to murder him.
- Euhm, sorry. Vi! Good job, Vi!
She extended her hand, which he grabbed to help her up.
- I think I can still do better, she said, wiping her forehead with her dirty shirt. I should be able to reach three hundreds !
- Aiming for the record, are you?
- Record?
- Yeah, a few years ago, a dude from the Lanes, parked on the 28th floor, hit nine hundred and twenty eight push-ups. Or so they say.
- Nine... What? Holy shit!
- Well some people have nothing else to do in here, am I right?
Something dropped in Vi's heart. She actually might have all the time in the world to beat that record...
She had lost the track of time already. She had been locked in here at least five months, maybe already six? Or barely three and every single day seemed to have forty hours? She couldn't tell.
All she could measure was her push-ups and crunches progress, and the length of her hair. They were now longer than they had ever been, falling to her shoulders. She didn't like that feeling, it tickled, itched.
She reached for the bars of her cell, and used them as clutches to stretch her back. Her muscles were aching, especially in the shoulders, but it was a good pain. Good enough to feel like something was happening, in here.
Down the block, the voice of J69 rose, echoing in the hallway. His nickname came from the number embroiled on his prisoner's uniform, 069, and his habit tointroduce himself as "J". His voice was the one of an angel. A sad, depressed angel. Deep, low, crystalline, like a river flowing underground, carrying this undying impression that the world was dark and dying.
Let me hang alone, in misery...
- Gosh, does he have anything more depressing? she muttered.
- Yeah, i know, smiled her cellmate.
Kick the chair right down under me, let me hang alone, in misery.
The lyrics, straight out of the mind of the old long-haired man, were piercing a hole in her chest. It felt destined to her, accurate description of her story. Life had swept the chair she was standing on, and left her hanging, choking and dying, alone and forgotten in a pit of stone.
Well, not completely alone. Since she had been moved to the 11th floor, four weeks prior, she had to share a cell with this guy, Max. The man, hiding half his face underneath his dirty blond hair, was at least forty years old, and in here for a quarter of it. He was one of the few inmates not straight out of the Lanes, or anywhere in Zaun, but an actual topsider, born and raised. He was not born privileged, but not poor either. His crimes were not out of need, nor anger, nor even a twisted need to hurt and cause suffering. They were born of his love for fire.
No one was ever hurt in the arsons he had set, but he had made the mistake of burning down one of the warehouse of the House Ferros. They had unleashed their own agent, far more dangerous than any enforcers, and next thing he knew, he was thrown into Stillwater for twenty years.
- Trust me, he had said to Vi on their first day together. I'm a patient man, but as soon as I get out of here, I'll burn that place to the ground. It will be the highlight of my career!
Other than this unhealthy obsession, Max was a nice guy. Friendly, funny, respectful, but shredded and violent enough when needed to keep most problems away. The kind of guy with a lot of friends and few ennemies. The rare kind.
Although, calling Max a friend would be a big leap. He was dangerous, and Vi always had that feeling that he was hiding his game. Still, for the time being, he had been nothing but respectful, as much as one can be in the hellhole. And a half-acceptable sparring partner. That made her time in the cell more bearable.
- Tell me, Max. What does a girl have to do get something to draw in here?
Max rose an eyebrow.
Getting paper and pen, not to mention crayons, were impossible, at least not without bribing wardens, and she didn't have anything to trade. Even if she did, keeping those away from thieves would be a hell in itself.
However, after a couple of days and a favored owned and quickly repaid to some old guy who still thought of himself as a kingpin, she managed to get her hands on a piece of chalk. Not a big one, but, with a bit of hope and care, just big enough for what she wanted to do.
- What the hell are you drawing? asked Max.
- None of your business. It's my side of the cell.
- I know I know, but you gotta admit, this is a weird decoration, right? And they will probably change our cells again in what, three or four months? Maybe less?
- It's not decorations.
- Then what are you doing? You're not even coloring! What are you striking inside?
- To save the chalk. Stop asking question. You'll understand.
So she spent the next two weeks working on the wall of her cell. Bits by bits, she colored the dark stone in white, forming shapes.
Once she was done, she admired her work. It was ready.
The next day, during her time in the yard, she looked for the woman she had heard of. She was not that hard to find, sitting far from the crowd against the wall, a contraband cigarette lit in her mouth. She was tall, slim and fit, her dark skin highlighted by the darker, curly hair she had tied above her skull in a messy bun. Her skin was decorated with white marks, going from her fingers all the way to her elbows, revealed by the tank top of her uniform. Her face was sharp, as carved with a knife, a chin a bit prominent, and her nose still crooked from an old fight which didn't go her way. She looked vicious, dangerous.
The woman looked at Vi, her eyes shining with a disturbing green color.
- Yeah?
- You're Miryam?
The woman didn't answer, just tilting her head to the side.
- I want a tattoo, insisted Vi.
Miryam puffed some smoke. It felt weird, unusual. Still, she stayed silent.
- I heard you were the one to ask in this bloc. The best.
Finally the woman reacted with a bitter chuckle.
- More like the only one, yeah.
She looked at Vi again, studying her.
- Why wouldya need me? she asked pointing at her face and the letters tattooed on it.
- Because who the fuck can tattoo their own back, uh?
- Alright, fair enough. How big?
- Big.
- The whole back?! Where the fuck dyou think we are?
- No, not the whole back. But a good part of it, yes. Don't give me that speech. I know you have your hands on a supply of ink.
- I do, but it ain't cheap! Ink ain't raining from the sky!
Vi scoffed, and try to move to the offensive.
- Can you do it or not?
Miryam hesitated for a second and sighed.
- Maybe. What dyou want?
- I got the model in my cell.
She rose an eyebrow, hesitating whether she would take the risk.
- Alright. Do you know my price?
Vi bit her lips. Yes she did, and she was still trying to make her peace with it. She kept telling herself that she wanted that stupid tattoo enough to pay it.
- Yeah. I know.
- One per session!
- I know.
- I need to see the model to know how many sessions.
- I fucking know! Do we have a deal or not?
Miryam still took a few extra seconds to decide.
- Alright, we got a deal. You're lucky that I find you hot, Pink. Even for a kid.
She extended her arm so Vi would help her up. Once standing, she was taller than the young woman by a full head, if not two.
- I ain't no kid no more. I turned eighteen last month. I think. I don't know what day we are. And call me Pink once again and I'll break your legs. Cause I still need your hands.
The woman laughed, genuinely.
- Aha ! Right! Sure you will! Okay kid, enough chitchat, show me this model of yours.
She led her through the yard, down the corridors, all the way to her opened cell. Max was obviously out with the other inmates, giving her the privacy to discuss the project, and also ease Miryam's suspicions of a trap, away from everyone's attention...
- I see, she said, looking at the chalk outlines on the walls. That's a nice idea you got there. Yeah sure I can do that. But there's a lot of filling in here... A lot of ink.
- I figured. How much?
- At least four sessions. Maybe five.
Vi winced.
- You better not be fucking with me.
- Fuck off kid! You're the one who came to me! "The best", as you said. You want it, that's the price.
- Tsss... Okay, when can we start?
- Gotta get my hands on some ink first. I'm all out. Gimme a month, maybe three weeks . I'll find out in the yard. You'll have to make sure your cellmate is out when I work.
- Not a problem.
Twenty five days later, Vi was disturbed during a discussion with Scrapping Dev.
- Almost didn't recognize you, kid, said the tattoo artist.
Vi had found a razor blade lying on the ground, a few days earlier. Dirty, rusty, but sharp. Someone had probably planned to use it to cut open another inmate, and had stupidly lost it... She had usedthe blade t to cut a bit of her longer hair, and shaved a side of her skull.
The young woman's heart skipped a beat, and she paled, both exited by her project finally starting and scared by what she'd had to do for it.
- You ready?
- Euhm... Yeah.. Yes!
- Let's go then.
Back to her cell, topless, lying on her bed, the cold stone against her breasts, she waited for the bite of the needle in her flesh.
- Let's get started, announced her tormentor.
For the full length of the afternoon, until inmates were to be forced back in their cages, she let the artist do what she did best, closing her eyes through the pain. It was in a way not worst than what she had expected, but it was long, so long, that every second seemed to be worst than the previous one, her skin on fire, and begging for rest. Still, she said nothing, didn't let a sound out, and tried to appreciate the feeling instead. Not an easy thing.
- Alright, we're done for the day! Good progress girl, I'm impressed! At this rate we might finish it all in just three sessions!
Vi rose from the bench and covered her chest with her rolled t-shirt.
- Don't put it back just yet, said Miryam. Let it breathe for a few minutes.
Her whole back felt painful, scratched, bloody. She was not looking forward to the second session, but at the same time, the adrenaline in her blood felt good and satisfying, like an intense workout. She tried to wipe a bit of the blood down her shoulder.
Blood which, in that second, froze in her veins.
Myriam in front of her was pulling her pants off, and sat on Max's bunk, legs spread wide, dismissing Vi' uncomfortableness. Vi had learned very soon that sex, consensual or not, was a common thing in there, especially in a mixed prison. She had managed to avoid the issue so far, by her strength and grit, and she thought she could have kept it that way for longer. Until she had realized that in this place, the price for something trivial was always something important. In the end, deciding when and why to give that up was her way to keep the control.
- You know how to do it? asked Miryam.
Vi shook her head from side to side slowly and gulped.
- It's alright, I'll teach you. After all you have a few sessions to get better. What are you waiting for? We don't have all day! Get in here!
Vi knelt between the legs, and stuck her tongue out. She closed her eyes and try to turn her mind into a blank void, while she made contact with the warm flesh, ignoring the whisper of pleasure and relief above her.
Shimmer.
The word shined through the mud of whispers and conversations all around, like the full moon in a starless night. She didn't know who spoke it, where, how, nor why, but someone had said it.
She pushed the weights above her head one last time, and laid them to rest on their supports. She recovered up from the bench, wiping her sweat with a swift passage of her arm on her forehead, and looked around, trying to determine where it might have been coming from. She stretched her back, her skin still itching from the healing tattoo, but at least the piece was finished, and so was her payment. It had taken eight weeks from the first to the last session.
The yard was as full as ever, and six men were waiting for their turn to use the bench press. She technically still had two minutes, but decided some things were more important than her daily turn on the machine. As usual, people were gathered in groups of four or five, rarely more. The few women following their male protectors around, or standing alone in a corner, defiance and challenge in their eyes. Two young men were arguing, loudly, to the point where it might turn into a fight, but no one were paying attention to them.
She walked around, her shoulders heavy from the workout, trying to identify the voice. In the corner of her eye, she noticed someone, different, that she hadn't noticed before.
It was a man, in his thirties, but in a way, looking almost double. He was riddled with wrinkles and the scars of a plague. His back was bent forward, as if he had spent a life carrying the world on his shoulders. His hair, at least the few he had left, were long and dirty, scattered on his skull. In a word, or five actually, : pathetic shell of a man.
He seemed lost, looking around, asking questions to a group, moving on to the next when he was rudely rejected. Like a beggar in the street, asking for coins or scraps. Vi followed him from afar, suspicious.
She was still too far to hear what he was saying or asking to people, so she got closer, ignoring the risk of being spotted. The man looked too desperate to care.
Then she finally heard him, loud and clear, as he asked a tattooed man who looked like a snake turned human.
- Are you Zuma? Are heard you could get some Shimmer.
The snake looked at him in disgust and turned away, without taking the time to answer.
- Come on! Are you Zuma? Dammit!
As he resumed his desperate walk of shame, Vi noticed a couple of purple streaks on his skin, a shade she remembered very clearly. A bubble of rage started fill her stomach and throat.
She knew Zuma. He had arrived a few weeks prior and tried to make the bench-press his own little property, with a couple of inmates who arrived with him. After being "kindly" reminded the rules of the house by some old timers, he still spent all his time working-out with his gang. He was not the strongest, not the most powerful, but still quite dangerous.
She moved faster and got to the man, grabbing him by the shoulder. She was taller than him, she noticed.
- Why you searching for Zuma? she asked, aggressive.
He looked spooked for a second, until the light of understanding showed up in his eyes.
- You know him? Oh thanks, thanks! I arrived yesterday, and... and...
- And you heard that this guy Zuma could help you, right?
- Yes! Yes exactly. He's the one who used to own the Shimmer in my neighborhood, down in the Lanes. But when he got arrested, we lost our supply. I always bought from a friend, never seen him, so I don't know him direcly. I got caught and sentenced here when I tried to go topside to get some money so I could... find another supply.
Fast as lightning, Vi grabbed him by the neck and pushed him for a good hundred meters, all the way to the wall. A few inmates rose an eyebrow, but none really cared.
She smashed his body against the stone, hearing the crack of his bones and his groan of pain.
- Tell me everything you know about this Shimmer! Now!
She couldn't believe it. That poison had been destroyed! It had all burnt down with Vander and her friends... Exploded, reduced to atoms by Powder's little toy. The man was terrified, lost, but aware enough to understand that his life could depend on his answer.
- It's purple! It's a purple liquid, some drink it, some inject it, but it makes you feel very very good ! Very powerful!
- How do you get it?
- I told you! From people who knew Zuma!
- When?
- Once... Once a week!
- I mean when did you start using it?
- I dunno! Like four months ago!
Vi dropped him and grabbed her hair, hard enough to pull them out,
- They're producing again! Fuck! Fuck!
She grabbed the poor man again and threatened him with her fist.
- How's Silco making it?
- Silco? I don't know no Silco! What are you talking about?
- How do they make it?!
- I don't know! I don't know I swear.
He was almost crying.
- I just buy it to feel good... My friend Tuk brought it and I was buying it from Zuma that's all! You don't understand, I need it! I need it! It's burning me inside, only the Shimmer can help! I don't know! Ask Zuma! Maybe he knows!
Well that was a good idea. Maybe he did!
She turned and left the guy alone. She knew where to find the guy. Back to where she came from, at the weights, waiting for his turn with his four goons.
Actually by the time she reached them, one was already lifting the weights above his heard while the others looked. That would make things easier.
The rage and hate in her vein was such that she felt like she had been drinking Shimmer herself. She saw red, or maybe, purple, and all she wanted, was to do to those guys what she wanted to do to Silco.
She rushed to them, and before any could react, she could have jumped in the air, and landed both feet on the bar with all her weights. The young man training would not withstand the combined weight of the metal and the girl, in a single second, he would have been gone, forever, the throat crushed, destroyed, his neck bending in an unnatural weight. She couldn't tell what was strong enough to stop her in her blind rage Maybe the idea of becoming a coward assassin, murdering a young man unaware, was more disgusting than the hate was appealing.
Instead, at the last second, she changed her mind and kicked his head hard, while he was still lying on the bend, defenseless. He was knocked out without understand what had happened to him.
Zuma and his three remaining allies took a second to react, but barely more. Compact, guard up high, Vi moved in, ready, dodged a left hook by passing under the arm, and countered by a double right hook herself, one to the side, breaking a rib, one to the jaw, knocking him cold. The second foe was bigger, closer, too close, and kicked her in the ribs before she could recover. Thrown to the side, she almost fell on the bench. In her unbalance, she managed to grab one of the metal disks on the floor, ten kilos heavy, which was not used but the young man training. She raised it with both hands, like a shield, using all the strength her shoulders could provide, and blocked a heavy punch coming. The fist broke against the steel with a disgusting sound, and Vi cut short the cry of pain by throwing her improvised weapon into his face.
Three down, two to go.
She was surprised for a second when she noticed Zuma, watching the scene instead of intervening, arms crossed, a smile on his face.
Her reaction was slowed down and she didn't the punch coming. It caught her in her back of her head, not hard enough to knock her out, but her whole skull resonated with pain. Then a knee hit her nose, cracking it, filling her mouth and throat with the salty taste of blood.
- Ugh.
She managed not to fall over, and when the jab went straight for her face, her body, her muscle memory, took over. Just by reflex, she pivoted her hips to the side, the arm passing so close to her face she could have licked it, and delivered a powerful uppercut from under who picked the man's chin like a ripe fruit. He fell backward, out before touching the ground.
She rose up again, head between her shoulder, chin to her chest, and brought her fists back to her cheeks, challenging Zuma with her gaze.
- Well, where is that coming from, Pink? Thought you could make yourself a name by taking it on me?
- Name's Vi. Or should I teach you to read?
Zuma scoffed.
- Shimmer, resumed Vi.
- What of it?
- Who does it? How?
- Why do you care?
- I want to know who I need to kill once I'm out.
- Is that right? Guess you'll have to beat it out of me first.
She smiled, her teeth stained with blood. She liked that idea.
But she never could. The shrieking sound of whistles pierced the air, and coming out of nowhere, she was tackled to the ground. She tried to resist, in vain, her hands pinned in her back, and the full weight of two men holding her down. She could only witness Zuma, stepping back, his hands raised as a peaceful surrender, smiling that he had done nothing wrong.
The enforcers lifted her violently from the ground and dragged her out.
- Fucking hell, Pink! You can't stay put can you? You love the pit so much? Guess another week or two down there will please you then. Say goodbye to this floor, kid. After that, you'll be staying with another crew. The kind that can handle you.
Despite her curses and insults, she was dragged down, again.
She never saw the 11th floor again. After not two, but three weeks down in the pit, she was moved to the 19th floor. There were few women there, and ever fewer possible friends. After a month, she got in a bad fight, one she thought she could have won, and ended up in the infirmary, three bones broken, and the arcade cut, leaving a permanent scar.
After three more months, Miryam appeared on that floor too. The 11th had been flooded, and all prisoners were stored in other floors until repairs. The tattoo master didn't have here the reputation she had above. She got preyed on, and only owed her life to the intervention of the pink haired fighter. She paid her debt by offering a new tattoo on Vi's neck and elbows with the last bits of ink she had managed to save.
They could even have been good friends, if not for the sexual predator the woman could be, but after two weeks, she was back to her floor, and Vi was alone again.
Worst, soon after she was also moved, but not in the right direction : down to the 23th floor. She was supposed to get closer to the exit, not further away. Often, she would think of Powder, still out there, and that would break her heart. Then she would think of Vander, and through the grief would come the self hatred. His last words, his dying wish, was to take care of her little sister. And what had she done ? She had left her alone not 3 minutes later.
Weeks passed by, months, covered in blood and boredom. And soon, Despair settled. Her new and only friend. The more time passed, the more she would see new inmates with purple stains on their skins. Words of the Shimmer were and more present, but no one could provide any. Some died of the withdrawal. She would get into fights, trying to get answers, anything to get closer to the Top and the exit. She would get hurt. Scarred. She would get thrown into the Pit, again, and being moved between floors. Sometimes up, sometimes down, never out.
She would crush a man's skull with a metal platter in the cantina.
And finally, she would have her first visitor.
- Ah!
She threw her punch by reflex and her fist brushed the target, connecting only with a single knuckle.
- Aoutch! Vi! What the hell?
- Oh shit shit shit! Sorry Cupcake! Damn it, are you alright?
- Yeah yeah I am, don't worry.
Cait's shape was just a blur in the darkness of the bedroom.
- Nightmare? she asked with gentler voice, softly rubbing her cheek.
- Yeah... Not sure which one... Damit!
Cait's hand approached through the night to touch her hair.
- It's your first one in two weeks. You know it's getting better.
- Thanks to you, she answered, leaning forward for a kiss.
She missed the lips by a bit, kissed the nose. Cait chuckled.
- I don't know about that. You're the one doing the work. I'm just here to help you up when you're down.
- Funny you'd say that, because I'm usually the one on top!
- Oh is that right?
She rolled in the bed, over Vi, kneeling on top of her, as tall as she could.
- What now? Do you need me to help you up?
Vi smiled in the night, and tried to raise her bust, but Caitlyn moved and blocked her hands with her knees, on each side of her head. Her eyes started to get used to the darkness, and she could see the glimpse of the pink hair beneath.
Vi looked up and wished those silky pajamas on her girlfriend would be out of the way. Wished it so much she remained still when Cait moved to take them off, so she could be back in the same position, skin against skin, her thighs so close to her cheeks.
For a brief flash, the memory of Miryam and the cell imposed itself to Vi's mind. She pushed it back far down her soul. This was different. This was with pleasure. For pleasure.
A/N 2 : In the Lore, it says Vi's tattoos are self-inked, but who the hell tattoos its own spine ^^. Anyway, I hesitated a long time about this chapter, specially about the scene between Miryam and Vi. But I also wanted to give more depths to Vi and her time in prison. Not just violence and blood, but also loneliness and the sacrifice of things important in exchange for simple things. Please feel free to give your feedbacks on this!
Next chapter will probably be after Christmas, so I wish you all happy holidays !
A/N 3 : World records of non-stop pushups are several thousands =)