For a disclaimer, look at the chapter #1.
Don't mind my grammar too much, I'm doing my best, but I'm not
a native English speaker.
***
"What the hell! The battle is not always to the
strong, and nice guys tend to win because they're the ones
who get to write their memoirs." - Sir Roger, "Blood of Amber"
(Yeah, I knighted Roger Zelazny, so what?)
***
Is that so? I thought, as I rose slowly, looking straight into his eyes. With a corner of my eye, I saw people backing away. New Yorkers, I rolled my eyes mentally. If someone was to kill you on the street, in the broad daylight, they would turn their eyes in another direction. Run away a few steps, maybe, and than stop to watch. Entertainment for free. Oh well... I didn't expect any help whatsoever, and I sighed, annoyed.
"If I understand you right," I said coldly, "out of sheer perversity you want to seat on my place? Although there are other vacant seats around?"
He grinned at me - a nasty grin, that, almost as nasty as the knife in his hand. You know that kind of knives: the dirty, rusty ones, that would probably give you a blood-poisoning simply by your looking at them. If there is something that infuriates me more than arrogant bastards that enjoy showing their supposed strength on people unlikely to oppose them - that is people that don't take proper care of their weapons.
"And," I continued, taking control over my rage, and channeling it into even colder voice, "if I don't move away, I guess I'll be history, you'll change my physical description, send me to meat my maker, I'll be food for worms, and such?"
The guy began to realize that I was mocking the ass out of him, but wasn't creative enough to growl anything else but:
"Move, lady, or you'll be really sorry." (he said it without commas and apostrophes, though, and it pained my ear of a linguist)
In the last few years I had taken pride in my new-gained self control. When I was younger, I used to be annoyingly hot- tempered, exploding at a minor provocation, and being unable to implode again for hours. My body temperature would rise to 40 degrees Centigrade, my fists would clench, and the nostrils would go wide like lake Michigan. Good that I had never had a mirror handy, or I'd have got seriously depressed over my looks at such moments. It was Harriet that convinced me I needed an anger-management course, and it kind of helped. Now I needed the tricks I learned there, and needed them badly. Imagine a turmoiled lake, waves raging, cloudy sky of a storm... Than, suddenly, it goes completely calm. Concentrate on details. The willows at the bank slightly moving in the breeze. The quacking of the ducks diving for fish. An old man rowing in his boat. Glitter on the water. I inhaled slowly, feeling somewhat cooler.
Doug, my instructor at the course, would now tell me that I should simply go away, leaving the dumb bastard to his triumph. It was no use fighting stupid people, the people inferior to me in all ways. I would than say it was unfair, that I had my rights, that, being superior as he put it, I shouldn't have to leave the battlefield as a loser. But I could clearly hear Doug's words in my head: "Quarreling with him would get you down on his level, you would be the same animal as him. Not a human. Only by ignoring him you can be what you really are. Not a false ignoring, the one you would use to show him you are better. No, I mean real ignoring, not caring whatsoever. Not eating guts out of yourself about it afterwards. Just... not caring at all." Susan, my therapist, would probably tell me the same thing.
"Will you move your ugly little flat ass or not?" he snarled.
I could put up with a nasty guy trying to take my seat. I could forget about the people watching and having fun on my account. I could ignore most of the stuff that happened in this petty, unworthy world...
But an unintelligent, uneducated person, that hardly deserved being called a person at all, a guy that has probably never even heard of the third declination of Latin pronouns, the one that has never ever cleaned his own knife, not to mention his teeth, in his entire life - such a guy calling my ass little, ugly, and, worst of all, flat???
No way.
I felt my fists clench on their own inniciative, my nails cutting my palms, my jaw tightening, and the red hot point in my stomach exploding and taking over my body.
I had a blackout of a sort.
The next thing I knew, I was holding the guy by the collar, his feet hanging five or six inches above the floor in a desperate attempt to kick me. He aimed a nasty blow at my face with his knife, but I was faster, gripping his wrist with all the strength of the fury boiling inside me. He yelped and dropped the weapon, but I lost my concentration for a moment then, and he punched me in the kidney with his left fist. I dropped him then, bending over from instant pain, but in a moment I stood straight again. He was trying to regain his balance, and I used the moment to turn sideways and plant an elbow in his chest. Then I made a mistake and tried to think of a next movement I should make. I used to take classes in self defense when I was sixteen, and didn't remember too much of it. In fights like this it is always better to listen to your instinct than to engage in rational thinking. One's body tends to remember things one's mind has forgotten long ago. Anyway, he regained his breath and kicked me in the stomach with his right knee. It came somewhat unexpectedly, so I was unable to avoid the blow. I stumbled backwards, desperately trying to breathe, and he used the moment to grab my left hand and twist it backwards, as I growled. I was bent over, in pain, unable to move and wondering if my arm was broken. He was bending over me, clutching my left arm now as well. The logical move for me would be to try to kick him in the balls with a heel. He knew it, and I knew he knew it. So, no. I bent my head down, and then raised it backwards in a violent motion. He released me instantly, and I jumped away, turning as I did it, only to see blood all over his face, his nose probably broken. We regarded each other for a moment. He was significantly bigger than me; he was a man, after all, probably used to street fights. I was an academic woman, fit but basically small, and unskilled at any sports beside swimming and swordplay. Figure out for yourself.
"You are dead," he snarled, most creatively.
I was thinking about an answer like: "We are all at long term," and then realized that it was more creative than his threat only for an inch or so. I didn't have time to say anything, though.
It was easy to predict his next movement, but not that easy to prevent it, having in mind that we were on a train, fighting between the rows of seats (now all vacant). He crushed on top of me than, throwing all of his weight against me. Expecting this, I was able to kick the knife away (it was still laying on the floor beside me), to grab both of his wrists, and to clip his left calf with my right shoe (thank God for the heavy shoes I wore, though it didn't help much). Now he was laying on top of me, and I tried to kick him in the groin, but was too slow, and he avoided it. Both of his wrists were still in my grip and he couldn't pull them free. Using the last strength, for which I had no clue where it came from, I held him that way, and he was unable of punching me. I couldn't hold on that way much longer, though, I already felt his hands pushing mine down. If I released his wrists in order to hit him in the nose (already broken; God, it would have been a hell of a pain - I feasted in the thought for a moment, bur it was impossible), anyway, if I released his wrist, I wouldn't have a chance of pushing him away whatsoever. And he would probably beat the hell of me...
A sudden movement of the train came in handy, than. He was out of the balance for a moment, and I used it to roll on the side, pulling him with me. Now I was on top of him, without a clear idea what to do. My position was better than his, of course, but it couldn't last long, having in mind his superior weight. I planted a knee in his groin; the movement lacked the momentum of a normal kick, but it was still painful - I could say buy the look of his widened eyes and open mouth. It hurt. Good!
I felt a bit like a bitch, but this was not a moment for thinking about honorable fight and such. The people that talked about honorable fights were usually big, strong, and skilled guys, and they had no need to worry whatsoever - they won anyway. They could afford the luxury of fighting honorably.
I used his moment of pain and twisted his hand outward with all my strength (that still came out of an unknown source). The crack of the bone was audible in the silence that ruled over the train, and I could feel numerous eyes watching me. Good. Let them see I didn't need their bloody help! Bastards!
I released his left arm, that was now out of use for a time, and aimed a nasty blow on his nose. An irrational feeling of guilt stabbed me: beating fallen enemies and such...but I stubbornly defended myself. Mentally. Honorable fight my ass, the guy was twice as big as me. And I had to win this one. I had to. If I let go of him now he would attack again. Or, even worse, he would come back later, when I least expected him... Waiting for me in a dark street, with a couple of his buddies, all armed. No, no way!
I kicked him in the balls again, than used my fist on his face several times. His left hand, still in my grip, went all slack, and I could say by the glassy look in his eyes that he was drifting away. I used the last few seconds of his consciousness to smack his head on the floor a couple of times, and then I felt a gentle touch on my left shoulder.
I turned around violently, ready to jump up and fight with another bastard, if need be...
But it was only an old-ish man - a priest, judging by his robes, his hands instantly raised in front of his face, as in defense.
"It's OK. It's OK." he said almost inaudibly. "Let go, now. It's over. No need for that now. He's unconscious. You won. Let go. Don't kill the man without need. Let go. It's OK. It's over."
"Oh, shut up," I muttered, but I stood up, slowly, the bruises on my body beginning to burn. I looked around, at the tensed, stunned faces around me, and grinned evilly. It was easy to read their minds at the moment: a thin lady, dressed in a (previously) elegant dress, the one that actually reads on the train (and a thick book, at that)... so, such a lady, beating a crap out of a big, nasty guy with a knife. Unbelievable! I grinned even wider, and took the handkerchief that the priest offered me. I wiped the sweat and blood from my face (blood, thankfully, not being my own), and heard the murmur that was finally begin to rise. Old women with large bags (old women somehow always carry large bags), businessmen with dyed hair, eternally-frowning teenagers... all talking at the same time, as if someone had turned them from stone back to life.
I looked at the guy lying on the ground, unconscious, and a sudden fear gripped my stomach. I crouched beside him and checked his pulse. Beating slowly, but still beating. Thank God!
"Thanks," I turned to the priest, not referring to the handkerchief, but to his preventing me from killing the guy. In the rage of fight, I could have done it. I knew I could have... And now, I was immensely happy that I didn't. Hell, fighting is ok when you have to do it, when you are defending yourself and such. But I hated hurting people.
"I guess someone will be so kind as to call the police?" I said to no one in particular, as I walked back to my seat, packed LOTR that was laying on the ground, the poor thing, and picked up my purse. My enormous bag, that is...
The thought occurred to several people at the same time, and I could see some of them taking their mobile phones. I turned to the priest, a bit apologetically: "I have to go, I'm afraid. I'm already late for the job, and I've missed my stop. I'll leave you my phone number, so that you can give it to the police..."
He simply nodded. It seemed that no one was in mood to try to stop me from leaving.
***
I walked the streets, still in the state of shock. I was aware of the stares of passer-byes (A/N: or is it "passers-by"? I can never remember that...), and so didn't care. My right hand was hurting, probably from being twisted so violently, and I didn't dare imagine how I looked... My dress torn, my hair a mess, cheeks probably still burning... Why was this never mentioned in the stories? Eowyn, for example. She was nastily hurt, almost dead, after the Battle of Pelenor Fields, and still she looked pale and beautiful. Than, the Aes Sedai. Disturbed, stilled, crying... but Jordan never mentioned that their hair was a mess. Heh...
I entered the first pub I saw, and wolfed down a whiskey. I needed it badly, after everything that happened, and for that matter, I needed another one too. I never carry a mirror with me, it would probably break in my purse, among all the books, so I borrowed one from the stunned waitress.
"What happened?" she asked, but I shrugged her away, frowning.
She probably thought I was a whore, beat up by a nasty customer or something. I smiled at the thought, but it hurt even to smile. I inspected my face in the mirror, noticing a long scratch over my left cheek and a big blue bruise that was beginning to take form on my left eye. Hell!
After the whiskey number two (excellent Irish Mist), I walked out, deciding that I couldn't go to work looking like this. I didn't dare check the time, as I was probably terribly late, but it took only a few minutes to run in a shop, try on a dress, and buy it. Rather expensive one, at that, but what the hell... It was orange and olive green, and I wanted it!
Taking a cab in crowded New York would be of no use whatsoever, so I walked back to my job, and contemplated on the way. Fighting. Me fighting. Even worse, me winning a fight. With a big, corpulent guy who carried a knife! What the hell...
The last time I was in a fight, I was sixteen, and a guy has tried to rape me. Ended up in a hospital after that (he, not myself). Coming to think of it, that one wasn't much probable, either... I was taking my self defense lessons at the time, but still... I was a slender girl, and he a muscly bastard. But - I had won that fight, as well as this one... Most improbably.
I didn't know what the hell was going on... It was practically impossible for me to be that strong, for the strength it was, to be sure... Skill could help you, of course, and I remembered a few neat tricks from my course, but... What the hell, I had been laying under the guy, and he was unable to push my hands down. With all his strength and weight, he was unable to do it. That, I was sure, didn't have anything to do with skill...
But where did it come from? The strength, I mean. I used to go swimming sometimes all right... I practiced swordplay with Harriet once a week ever since the first year of the Uni. OK, we were not using stupid rapiers, but real, heavy, two-handed swords (ones for practice, of course, with numb edges). That did give you strong arms. Yes. That must have been that. Thank you, sword.
On the other hand, neither Harriet nor I had had particular problems with the swords' weight even the first time we took them in hands. Other girls did. Even some guys did. Not Harriet and I, though...
"OK, we are super-humans," I muttered to myself, smirking. "Hitler would be proud of us."
***
I can just imagine what I looked like when I entered the office. Donna, boss's secretary, stared up and down my body, counting the bruises on my arms, avoiding to look at my messed- up face, and silently criticizing my brand-new dress, that was too low-cut by her standards (she thought such dresses should be forbidden by law for anyone but herself). I knew the woman hated me for being slim without keeping a diet (ever!), but she seemed furious at me lately for some other reason as well. I did have a clue about what that might be, but it was so ridiculous, that I didn't even bother to think about it...
I smiled at her, enchantingly and evilly, and she didn't have guts not to smile. Good. Yet another battle won.
"Er... Jacqueline?" she muttered.
"Yes?"
"The boss said he wanted to see you. If you show up, that is."
"Okie-day," I said in a singing voice, not showing my embarrassment a bit. Hell, now he is going to scold me for being late again! I hated when he did that! Yet, this time, I had a good excuse. I grinned, entering his office. I even had witnesses!
***
"You are aware of the time, aren't you, Jacqueline?" Mr. Carpenter asked, raising his eyes from his keyboard, and trying to look strict.
And than: "What the hell happened to you?"
I told him, and he stared at me in disbelief.
"A fight? You being in a fight?"
My looks vouched for me, I guess, so I didn't have to explain further, and hoped he won't push further. I just smiled. Enchantingly.
It didn't work, of course.
"Still, if you left on time, you would have been here earlier, no matter the fight and all. I can not tolerate this longer, Jacqueline. You are doing a good work for us, I must admit that, but you come when it pleases you, and..."
I smiled wider.
"What?"
"Donna is behaving a bit strange towards me, of late," I said.
"What does it have to do with...?"
"I used quite a long time to explain you about the fight. It strikes me, suddenly, that she wouldn't like to see me stay this long in your office. With the closed door, that is."
"What are you trying to say?"
"And Mrs. Carpenter wouldn't, either, I guess."
He stared at me for a moment, and then exploded in righteous fury.
"Are you threatening me?"
OK, I had been bluffing, and if I were wrong, it would be a terrible mess. But he had just admitted. I winked at him, like at a fellow conspirator, and felt like the worst bitch in the world.
"Sort of," I said.
***
It had gone well, if you choose to call it that, and I was finally in my office, sitting in the safest place in the whole world - in front my computer. Had I been able to stare at myself, I would have done it in utter disbelief. I had just blackmailed my boss, threatening to tell his wife about his lover. What is even worse, it worked.
I hated doing things like this. It was the thing a bitch would do. And all that after kicking a guy in the balls and all. Hell, what a day!
I began to sink in depths of self-pity, and stopped myself. Hell, I had to do it. I needed this job. The job itself was a crap, of course, especially for someone with education like mine. Doing dumb business translations from Icelandic for the Corporation; crap! Sometimes I wondered why the hell I had bothered with the master degree in sigil... ('sigil' by the way, is a professional slang for CGIEL, Compared Grammar of Indo-European Languages). But, with all my knowledge of Ancient Greek and Old Norse and stuff, I couldn't find a better job. So, that was it. And I needed this one...
I connected online, and began doing stupid personality tests. The work could wait, and I desperately needed little piece...
Don't mind my grammar too much, I'm doing my best, but I'm not
a native English speaker.
***
"What the hell! The battle is not always to the
strong, and nice guys tend to win because they're the ones
who get to write their memoirs." - Sir Roger, "Blood of Amber"
(Yeah, I knighted Roger Zelazny, so what?)
***
Is that so? I thought, as I rose slowly, looking straight into his eyes. With a corner of my eye, I saw people backing away. New Yorkers, I rolled my eyes mentally. If someone was to kill you on the street, in the broad daylight, they would turn their eyes in another direction. Run away a few steps, maybe, and than stop to watch. Entertainment for free. Oh well... I didn't expect any help whatsoever, and I sighed, annoyed.
"If I understand you right," I said coldly, "out of sheer perversity you want to seat on my place? Although there are other vacant seats around?"
He grinned at me - a nasty grin, that, almost as nasty as the knife in his hand. You know that kind of knives: the dirty, rusty ones, that would probably give you a blood-poisoning simply by your looking at them. If there is something that infuriates me more than arrogant bastards that enjoy showing their supposed strength on people unlikely to oppose them - that is people that don't take proper care of their weapons.
"And," I continued, taking control over my rage, and channeling it into even colder voice, "if I don't move away, I guess I'll be history, you'll change my physical description, send me to meat my maker, I'll be food for worms, and such?"
The guy began to realize that I was mocking the ass out of him, but wasn't creative enough to growl anything else but:
"Move, lady, or you'll be really sorry." (he said it without commas and apostrophes, though, and it pained my ear of a linguist)
In the last few years I had taken pride in my new-gained self control. When I was younger, I used to be annoyingly hot- tempered, exploding at a minor provocation, and being unable to implode again for hours. My body temperature would rise to 40 degrees Centigrade, my fists would clench, and the nostrils would go wide like lake Michigan. Good that I had never had a mirror handy, or I'd have got seriously depressed over my looks at such moments. It was Harriet that convinced me I needed an anger-management course, and it kind of helped. Now I needed the tricks I learned there, and needed them badly. Imagine a turmoiled lake, waves raging, cloudy sky of a storm... Than, suddenly, it goes completely calm. Concentrate on details. The willows at the bank slightly moving in the breeze. The quacking of the ducks diving for fish. An old man rowing in his boat. Glitter on the water. I inhaled slowly, feeling somewhat cooler.
Doug, my instructor at the course, would now tell me that I should simply go away, leaving the dumb bastard to his triumph. It was no use fighting stupid people, the people inferior to me in all ways. I would than say it was unfair, that I had my rights, that, being superior as he put it, I shouldn't have to leave the battlefield as a loser. But I could clearly hear Doug's words in my head: "Quarreling with him would get you down on his level, you would be the same animal as him. Not a human. Only by ignoring him you can be what you really are. Not a false ignoring, the one you would use to show him you are better. No, I mean real ignoring, not caring whatsoever. Not eating guts out of yourself about it afterwards. Just... not caring at all." Susan, my therapist, would probably tell me the same thing.
"Will you move your ugly little flat ass or not?" he snarled.
I could put up with a nasty guy trying to take my seat. I could forget about the people watching and having fun on my account. I could ignore most of the stuff that happened in this petty, unworthy world...
But an unintelligent, uneducated person, that hardly deserved being called a person at all, a guy that has probably never even heard of the third declination of Latin pronouns, the one that has never ever cleaned his own knife, not to mention his teeth, in his entire life - such a guy calling my ass little, ugly, and, worst of all, flat???
No way.
I felt my fists clench on their own inniciative, my nails cutting my palms, my jaw tightening, and the red hot point in my stomach exploding and taking over my body.
I had a blackout of a sort.
The next thing I knew, I was holding the guy by the collar, his feet hanging five or six inches above the floor in a desperate attempt to kick me. He aimed a nasty blow at my face with his knife, but I was faster, gripping his wrist with all the strength of the fury boiling inside me. He yelped and dropped the weapon, but I lost my concentration for a moment then, and he punched me in the kidney with his left fist. I dropped him then, bending over from instant pain, but in a moment I stood straight again. He was trying to regain his balance, and I used the moment to turn sideways and plant an elbow in his chest. Then I made a mistake and tried to think of a next movement I should make. I used to take classes in self defense when I was sixteen, and didn't remember too much of it. In fights like this it is always better to listen to your instinct than to engage in rational thinking. One's body tends to remember things one's mind has forgotten long ago. Anyway, he regained his breath and kicked me in the stomach with his right knee. It came somewhat unexpectedly, so I was unable to avoid the blow. I stumbled backwards, desperately trying to breathe, and he used the moment to grab my left hand and twist it backwards, as I growled. I was bent over, in pain, unable to move and wondering if my arm was broken. He was bending over me, clutching my left arm now as well. The logical move for me would be to try to kick him in the balls with a heel. He knew it, and I knew he knew it. So, no. I bent my head down, and then raised it backwards in a violent motion. He released me instantly, and I jumped away, turning as I did it, only to see blood all over his face, his nose probably broken. We regarded each other for a moment. He was significantly bigger than me; he was a man, after all, probably used to street fights. I was an academic woman, fit but basically small, and unskilled at any sports beside swimming and swordplay. Figure out for yourself.
"You are dead," he snarled, most creatively.
I was thinking about an answer like: "We are all at long term," and then realized that it was more creative than his threat only for an inch or so. I didn't have time to say anything, though.
It was easy to predict his next movement, but not that easy to prevent it, having in mind that we were on a train, fighting between the rows of seats (now all vacant). He crushed on top of me than, throwing all of his weight against me. Expecting this, I was able to kick the knife away (it was still laying on the floor beside me), to grab both of his wrists, and to clip his left calf with my right shoe (thank God for the heavy shoes I wore, though it didn't help much). Now he was laying on top of me, and I tried to kick him in the groin, but was too slow, and he avoided it. Both of his wrists were still in my grip and he couldn't pull them free. Using the last strength, for which I had no clue where it came from, I held him that way, and he was unable of punching me. I couldn't hold on that way much longer, though, I already felt his hands pushing mine down. If I released his wrists in order to hit him in the nose (already broken; God, it would have been a hell of a pain - I feasted in the thought for a moment, bur it was impossible), anyway, if I released his wrist, I wouldn't have a chance of pushing him away whatsoever. And he would probably beat the hell of me...
A sudden movement of the train came in handy, than. He was out of the balance for a moment, and I used it to roll on the side, pulling him with me. Now I was on top of him, without a clear idea what to do. My position was better than his, of course, but it couldn't last long, having in mind his superior weight. I planted a knee in his groin; the movement lacked the momentum of a normal kick, but it was still painful - I could say buy the look of his widened eyes and open mouth. It hurt. Good!
I felt a bit like a bitch, but this was not a moment for thinking about honorable fight and such. The people that talked about honorable fights were usually big, strong, and skilled guys, and they had no need to worry whatsoever - they won anyway. They could afford the luxury of fighting honorably.
I used his moment of pain and twisted his hand outward with all my strength (that still came out of an unknown source). The crack of the bone was audible in the silence that ruled over the train, and I could feel numerous eyes watching me. Good. Let them see I didn't need their bloody help! Bastards!
I released his left arm, that was now out of use for a time, and aimed a nasty blow on his nose. An irrational feeling of guilt stabbed me: beating fallen enemies and such...but I stubbornly defended myself. Mentally. Honorable fight my ass, the guy was twice as big as me. And I had to win this one. I had to. If I let go of him now he would attack again. Or, even worse, he would come back later, when I least expected him... Waiting for me in a dark street, with a couple of his buddies, all armed. No, no way!
I kicked him in the balls again, than used my fist on his face several times. His left hand, still in my grip, went all slack, and I could say by the glassy look in his eyes that he was drifting away. I used the last few seconds of his consciousness to smack his head on the floor a couple of times, and then I felt a gentle touch on my left shoulder.
I turned around violently, ready to jump up and fight with another bastard, if need be...
But it was only an old-ish man - a priest, judging by his robes, his hands instantly raised in front of his face, as in defense.
"It's OK. It's OK." he said almost inaudibly. "Let go, now. It's over. No need for that now. He's unconscious. You won. Let go. Don't kill the man without need. Let go. It's OK. It's over."
"Oh, shut up," I muttered, but I stood up, slowly, the bruises on my body beginning to burn. I looked around, at the tensed, stunned faces around me, and grinned evilly. It was easy to read their minds at the moment: a thin lady, dressed in a (previously) elegant dress, the one that actually reads on the train (and a thick book, at that)... so, such a lady, beating a crap out of a big, nasty guy with a knife. Unbelievable! I grinned even wider, and took the handkerchief that the priest offered me. I wiped the sweat and blood from my face (blood, thankfully, not being my own), and heard the murmur that was finally begin to rise. Old women with large bags (old women somehow always carry large bags), businessmen with dyed hair, eternally-frowning teenagers... all talking at the same time, as if someone had turned them from stone back to life.
I looked at the guy lying on the ground, unconscious, and a sudden fear gripped my stomach. I crouched beside him and checked his pulse. Beating slowly, but still beating. Thank God!
"Thanks," I turned to the priest, not referring to the handkerchief, but to his preventing me from killing the guy. In the rage of fight, I could have done it. I knew I could have... And now, I was immensely happy that I didn't. Hell, fighting is ok when you have to do it, when you are defending yourself and such. But I hated hurting people.
"I guess someone will be so kind as to call the police?" I said to no one in particular, as I walked back to my seat, packed LOTR that was laying on the ground, the poor thing, and picked up my purse. My enormous bag, that is...
The thought occurred to several people at the same time, and I could see some of them taking their mobile phones. I turned to the priest, a bit apologetically: "I have to go, I'm afraid. I'm already late for the job, and I've missed my stop. I'll leave you my phone number, so that you can give it to the police..."
He simply nodded. It seemed that no one was in mood to try to stop me from leaving.
***
I walked the streets, still in the state of shock. I was aware of the stares of passer-byes (A/N: or is it "passers-by"? I can never remember that...), and so didn't care. My right hand was hurting, probably from being twisted so violently, and I didn't dare imagine how I looked... My dress torn, my hair a mess, cheeks probably still burning... Why was this never mentioned in the stories? Eowyn, for example. She was nastily hurt, almost dead, after the Battle of Pelenor Fields, and still she looked pale and beautiful. Than, the Aes Sedai. Disturbed, stilled, crying... but Jordan never mentioned that their hair was a mess. Heh...
I entered the first pub I saw, and wolfed down a whiskey. I needed it badly, after everything that happened, and for that matter, I needed another one too. I never carry a mirror with me, it would probably break in my purse, among all the books, so I borrowed one from the stunned waitress.
"What happened?" she asked, but I shrugged her away, frowning.
She probably thought I was a whore, beat up by a nasty customer or something. I smiled at the thought, but it hurt even to smile. I inspected my face in the mirror, noticing a long scratch over my left cheek and a big blue bruise that was beginning to take form on my left eye. Hell!
After the whiskey number two (excellent Irish Mist), I walked out, deciding that I couldn't go to work looking like this. I didn't dare check the time, as I was probably terribly late, but it took only a few minutes to run in a shop, try on a dress, and buy it. Rather expensive one, at that, but what the hell... It was orange and olive green, and I wanted it!
Taking a cab in crowded New York would be of no use whatsoever, so I walked back to my job, and contemplated on the way. Fighting. Me fighting. Even worse, me winning a fight. With a big, corpulent guy who carried a knife! What the hell...
The last time I was in a fight, I was sixteen, and a guy has tried to rape me. Ended up in a hospital after that (he, not myself). Coming to think of it, that one wasn't much probable, either... I was taking my self defense lessons at the time, but still... I was a slender girl, and he a muscly bastard. But - I had won that fight, as well as this one... Most improbably.
I didn't know what the hell was going on... It was practically impossible for me to be that strong, for the strength it was, to be sure... Skill could help you, of course, and I remembered a few neat tricks from my course, but... What the hell, I had been laying under the guy, and he was unable to push my hands down. With all his strength and weight, he was unable to do it. That, I was sure, didn't have anything to do with skill...
But where did it come from? The strength, I mean. I used to go swimming sometimes all right... I practiced swordplay with Harriet once a week ever since the first year of the Uni. OK, we were not using stupid rapiers, but real, heavy, two-handed swords (ones for practice, of course, with numb edges). That did give you strong arms. Yes. That must have been that. Thank you, sword.
On the other hand, neither Harriet nor I had had particular problems with the swords' weight even the first time we took them in hands. Other girls did. Even some guys did. Not Harriet and I, though...
"OK, we are super-humans," I muttered to myself, smirking. "Hitler would be proud of us."
***
I can just imagine what I looked like when I entered the office. Donna, boss's secretary, stared up and down my body, counting the bruises on my arms, avoiding to look at my messed- up face, and silently criticizing my brand-new dress, that was too low-cut by her standards (she thought such dresses should be forbidden by law for anyone but herself). I knew the woman hated me for being slim without keeping a diet (ever!), but she seemed furious at me lately for some other reason as well. I did have a clue about what that might be, but it was so ridiculous, that I didn't even bother to think about it...
I smiled at her, enchantingly and evilly, and she didn't have guts not to smile. Good. Yet another battle won.
"Er... Jacqueline?" she muttered.
"Yes?"
"The boss said he wanted to see you. If you show up, that is."
"Okie-day," I said in a singing voice, not showing my embarrassment a bit. Hell, now he is going to scold me for being late again! I hated when he did that! Yet, this time, I had a good excuse. I grinned, entering his office. I even had witnesses!
***
"You are aware of the time, aren't you, Jacqueline?" Mr. Carpenter asked, raising his eyes from his keyboard, and trying to look strict.
And than: "What the hell happened to you?"
I told him, and he stared at me in disbelief.
"A fight? You being in a fight?"
My looks vouched for me, I guess, so I didn't have to explain further, and hoped he won't push further. I just smiled. Enchantingly.
It didn't work, of course.
"Still, if you left on time, you would have been here earlier, no matter the fight and all. I can not tolerate this longer, Jacqueline. You are doing a good work for us, I must admit that, but you come when it pleases you, and..."
I smiled wider.
"What?"
"Donna is behaving a bit strange towards me, of late," I said.
"What does it have to do with...?"
"I used quite a long time to explain you about the fight. It strikes me, suddenly, that she wouldn't like to see me stay this long in your office. With the closed door, that is."
"What are you trying to say?"
"And Mrs. Carpenter wouldn't, either, I guess."
He stared at me for a moment, and then exploded in righteous fury.
"Are you threatening me?"
OK, I had been bluffing, and if I were wrong, it would be a terrible mess. But he had just admitted. I winked at him, like at a fellow conspirator, and felt like the worst bitch in the world.
"Sort of," I said.
***
It had gone well, if you choose to call it that, and I was finally in my office, sitting in the safest place in the whole world - in front my computer. Had I been able to stare at myself, I would have done it in utter disbelief. I had just blackmailed my boss, threatening to tell his wife about his lover. What is even worse, it worked.
I hated doing things like this. It was the thing a bitch would do. And all that after kicking a guy in the balls and all. Hell, what a day!
I began to sink in depths of self-pity, and stopped myself. Hell, I had to do it. I needed this job. The job itself was a crap, of course, especially for someone with education like mine. Doing dumb business translations from Icelandic for the Corporation; crap! Sometimes I wondered why the hell I had bothered with the master degree in sigil... ('sigil' by the way, is a professional slang for CGIEL, Compared Grammar of Indo-European Languages). But, with all my knowledge of Ancient Greek and Old Norse and stuff, I couldn't find a better job. So, that was it. And I needed this one...
I connected online, and began doing stupid personality tests. The work could wait, and I desperately needed little piece...
