The line was perfect. A young bleached blond man, scrawny from drug addiction and malnutrition, giggled excitedly. Three strips of pure snow were waiting on the table. His hands ran through his hard spikes of hair before picking up a straw. He bent over to start his first row but the straw was knocked out of his hand.
He jumped up, ready to assault whoever had gotten in the way. When he saw who it was he realized that revenge wasn't possible. "Aw, Boss. What'd you do that for?"
Still enraged, the gang leader screamed. His massive arms grabbed the shaky card table and flipped it over. Flakes of cocaine sprinkled the air between them. The druggie whimpered as the snow fell to the ground. He put himself in the middle of the cocaine shower and began sniffing in vain.
"I said save the festivities for after, Strife," he growled to the blond who was now weeping and hiccupping over the loss of his fix.
Strife bent down and tried gathering the cocaine back together. His gloved hands began brushing it into a pile, but the pure snow was now tainted with dirt. "Did you see that, Arian? Snow. That's the closest we'll get to Christmas here."
"Shut up," Arian kicked Strife in the face, sending him to his back. "We have a lot of preparation to do before the day comes." He scratched his coarse black goatee in thought. A grin crossed his face. "There are many more sacrifices to be captured…"
"If Strife wasn't high when you attacked that reporter, I bet you'd have her now," a scratchy female voice called. "Xena's lucky I wasn't there. I'd have given her a run for her money."
Strife groaned and Arian turned to look at Discord. She shifted, putting her weight on her left leg, and gave a malicious grin. "Oh yes, I heard what happened this morning."
Arian watched Discord twirl a mess of wild black hair around her index finger. Her hair, frayed and dark, was the perfect representation of her personality. She was the only female in the entire gang. She was also Arian's pet, despite the fact that she slept with whomever she wished and talked back to Arian more often than not. Their constant game of cat and mouse gave them something to look forward to. At the end of the day she always went back to him… but it was fun to keep him on his toes. For being a homicidal, sacrificial maniac, he was surprisingly co-dependent. Discord loved being the only person knowing it, too.
Upon seeing Discord in her leather corset and matching mini-skirt with her raw legs, flesh turned goose bumps in response to the cold, exposed, desire welled up in his groin. Years of hardness taught him how to conceal the way certain women made him feel. Discord was one of these women. She was cunning, energetic, and twisted. Most importantly, she was dependent.
"We were foolish. Caught off guard," Arian glared at Discord. "Xena isn't an urban myth."
Discord crossed her arms over her chest. "Ran away like frightened little kittens."
"She killed almost half of my men, and put the rest off of their feet for at least a week." Frustration crossed his face. Arian's red eyes filmed over into musty scarlet then black. He paced the filthy floor of the hideout. Discord watched him with her big eyes and exposed her unattractive smile.
Strife was back on his feet. "Still didn't need to ruin my cocaine…" he mumbled.
Discord was as annoyed with his drug habit as Arian. She turned around and pelted him across the face. "Shut up! You'd fucking snort anything anyone put in front of you."
Strife touched his swollen lip ring and moaned. "Hey, what are those white pills you take everyday? I'd like to mash one of those up and see what it does."
"My Calcium pills? If you touch those you won't life to snort one."
"Indeed," Arian chuckled. Her daily pill wasn't calcium, by any means. His crimson eyes peered at her. "Once the men are back on their feet, we'll make our comeback. One that this Xena won't expect."
Discord sauntered towards him hips first. "That's exciting," her cunning voice curled with a promise of seduction. Her big lips, coated in cheap mocha lipstick, puckered and left smudges on her teeth. Arian remained stoic. He faked indifference to her advances as she pressed herself against him. Strife brushed the remains of white dust on his gloves and turned away. He wouldn't miss the scent of her cheap perfume or smeared lipstick on Arian's skin.
"How unfair."
"Xena? I'm sorry Tiffany, but you're delusional." Gabrielle had risen to her feet and was pacing the length of the reporter's bedside.
For being assaulted by over a dozen men and beaten to bruises, Ms. Atazon was in a cheery disposition. "Oh? Why do you say that?" Gabrielle's skepticism amused her.
"How can you even ask?" Gabrielle ruffled fingers through her short hair. "Xena is an urban myth, that's why! There is no proof of her existence whatsoever."
"What if I told you that I have conclusive evidence? Then what would you say?"
Gabrielle paused. Behind the bruises that looked like fleshy amethysts surrounding Tiffany's eyes, she was serious. Her facial expression was as if she stood before a news camera. "Then I would ask why. Why me? I'm not a real journalist, investigator, or a reporter. I…" her voice faltered with the reflection of what her hopes were reduced to. "I'm just a secretary."
"You're more qualified to take this story than I am. And you know it."
"Excuse me?"
Tiffany extended a hand to invite Gabrielle closer. She heeded, standing over Tiffany's frail form, wondering what forces brought her here and to what intent? There was nothing intimate about their relationship. Still, Gabrielle couldn't stop herself from gently placing her hand over her co-worker's in a gesture of sympathy. "Tiffany, why did you call me here?"
Tiffany's smile no longer held the suggestion of knowing secret information that she knew would drive Gabrielle mad. Her features softened and she became the older sister Gabrielle never had. "Because I remember when I first began training you. You told me all about your passion for classical mythology and literature. You recited gods and goddesses from ancient civilizations that I never knew existed. You know more about ancient civilizations and beliefs than everyone in the office put together."
"Yeah, so? What does that have to do with a modern day freedom fighter who names herself after a legendary Greek warrior? It's just a cunning alias."
"Get my purse. It's next to the television."
Gabrielle frowned. Knowing better than to threaten an injured person, she fetched the purse.
"Now get my office key."
She fetched it out. The key was easy to detect because it bore the Channel 7 News logo. Tiffany managed a grin. "You're lucky I've done all the research for you. In my desk you'll find a folder marked 'Confidential' in the bottom drawer. It contains information on Xena the street warrior and the gang that attacked me this morning. Once you've read the files, you'll understand why only you can follow this case."
Gabrielle's head pounded as she stared at the copper key. Tiffany's instructions registered but the words remained vacant as they settled. "Don't I get a choice?"
Tiffany's smile stuck to her face as she closed her eyes. "You could. But I know you won't. Not after you read the files, anyway."
The dirty key remained still, but her fingers around it shook. It mocked her. Dared her to pursue the excitement she always longed for. Only cowards profess their desire for change and back away when the opportunity arises.
Gabrielle shoved the key deep into her pocket. "In that case, I hope you're right." She rushed around in a whirl of anticipation. "I hope you feel better soon."
Her steps from Tiffany's room were full of purpose. A part of Gabrielle wished that the reporter was wrong. Maybe Tiffany was mistaken. Maybe she wouldn't find the information worth pursuing. Maybe the damned key wouldn't fit the lock to her office.
She was more aware of her surroundings while exiting the hospital. Moans of sick elders reached her ears. Doctors and nurses walked past her with clipboards containing the decisions of God. White walls. White carpets. White lab coats. The white lights of the maternity ward beckoned her, but she kept her eyes from the looking glass and continued to the main exit.
Instead of heading directly to the office and bearing to explain to everyone why star reporter Tiffany Atazon granted full access to her office, she decided the more prudent course of action would be going later in the evening. She stopped at a local deli, picked up a sandwich, and walked to her apartment. The busy crowds on the streets during lunch hour went unnoticed to her occupied senses. Her mind raced with conflicting ideas and perspectives that nothing but a hot bath could dissolve.
She entered her apartment, disposed of the half eaten sandwich at the door, and headed towards her bathroom. She stripped on the way and was down to her simple white bra and panties before shutting the door behind her. Gabrielle let the tub fill with the hottest water she could afford. When the porcelain tub was almost full she quickly discarded her remaining articles of clothing and hopped in. The water was pure; untainted by oils or bubble baths. She hated the feel of anything that wasn't clothing against her skin. Past boyfriends found her boring because she didn't appreciate full body massages.
The tub was too short for her legs. She propped them up and closed her eyes to block the sight of her widespread legs. Water licked the skin where it met her upper chest. Its heat penetrated her skin and relaxed her muscles. With her eyes still closed, she reflected on the day's preceding events. The battle between the logical and adventurous sides of her brain raged on. Gabrielle knew she would prove to be a sorry excuse for a journalist. Her experience equated to a few minor reports that real journalists were too busy to bother with. However, if this case revolved around mythology of any kind, then she was better suited to cover it than anyone at the office.
The dangerous aspect of the case both frightened and excited her. She was tired. Thinking about the gang that assaulted Tiffany surfaced the inevitable surge of pain in her chest. Sharp memories cut into her naked body. She dunked her head and held her breath under the water until the painful thoughts vanished.
After changing into a comfortable pair of jeans and a halter top and doing some simple yoga stances to clear her mind, she aroused the courage to go to Tiffany's office. Skipping a taxi ride once again, she walked to the news building. The evening sky was settling in. The bright blue in the sky was replaced by musky gray. The sun still peeked through the clouds but that didn't stop her from wishing she grabbed a heavier jacket on the way out.
Gabrielle took the usual route to the third floor via the elevator. Her fingers explored the tips of her shortened blond hair. She strolled down the hallway, staring at the marble tiles below her feet. Her face stared back up at her. The janitor must have been around. Her reflection was clear atop the black swirls in the white blocks. Gabrielle wasn't accustomed to being inside the building late in the evening. Her footsteps resonated and with their echo she fooled herself into believing it was the emptiness and not her worries that were exploding the noise.
The main office was the quietest Gabrielle ever experienced. The only hint to the presence of the workaholics that hadn't gone home was the muffled typing slipping through the door cracks. Gabrielle fished her pocket for the key while heading to Tiffany's room. When the key slid into the hole and turned a pulse of panic hit her. She swallowed the annoying fear and entered the room.
Tiffany Atazon's office was organized. The bookcases were smaller than average but tightly packed with dozens of hardcover books. The only sign of clutter was the paperwork scattered about her moderately sized computer desk. The sudden softness beneath her feet inspired guilt. She removed her sneakers and approached the desk. Gabrielle lit the desk lamp.
She forgot what Tiffany's office looked like in the light. Next to the computer was a framed family portrait. Tiffany, her late husband, and their son smiled back. Gabrielle picked up the photograph and sighed. The picture was dated a couple years. Tiffany had less worry lines and lighter shoulders. Her husband had wide shoulders and a broad grin. All three of them had golden curls for hair and matching eyes forged from sapphires deeper than Gabrielle had ever seen.
When Tiffany first began training Gabrielle, the young blonde asked about the gorgeous picture. Tiffany didn't reveal the pain dwelling in her chest as she retold the tragic tale. Her family criticized her for being a young bride and a young widow. Her parents only met their son-in-law once. Their grandson, never. When Gabrielle was her trainee, Tiffany entertained her by sharing tales of their mischievous youth. Trashing graveyards together, feeling confused and alienated during puberty, and marrying before graduating high school.
Gabrielle never heard his name or how he died. She couldn't ask.
She set the picture down and got to work. With her back to the unclosed office door, she opened the appropriate drawer and pulled out a manila folder hidden beneath stacks of useless papers. A forbidding word in bold text glared from the top right corner.
Confidential.
She forced the shaking out of her muscles before opening the folder. She didn't bother getting off of her knees. The first sheet of paper slid out of the folder and into the open air. Gabrielle held it straight. Her eyes quivered.
"Gabey, what are ya doing here!"
The sudden voice made Gabrielle jump out of her skin. She lost her balance and tumbled to the carpet floor. Without a moment's hesitation, her frantic heartbeat leapt her onto her feet and towards the intruder.
Gabrielle released a sigh. A very annoyed sigh. "Roger?" her fists clenched. "You scared the hell out of me. What are you doing here?"
"Well, Gabey," he grinned and stepped into Tiffany's office. "Mr. Perkins asked me to do some, uh, you know…"
"Crap work?"
"Crap work? No! This is very delicate paperwork that he trusts me -and only me- to complete with expert precision and--"
"Sorry Roger, I'm not in the mood tonight."
Roger's eyes wandered to the foreboding folder in her left hand. The thick text interested him like any gossipy journalist. "Gabey!" His nasal voice echoed in the quiet office. "You snuck into Tiffany's office and are searching through her Confidential reports? What are you thinking? I mean, I know that you're jealous 'cause she's a lot more popular with the boss and the media, but-"
Gabrielle rolled her eyes and interrupted him. Her voice was a whisper but it carried a raspy edge that showed she wasn't kidding around. "Don't be stupid! I'm here because Tiffany asked me to come here. That's why I left the office earlier today. She requested my presence so she could give me her office key and read these." Gabrielle held up the folder.
Roger was a dense man. Clueless without a doubt, but even he wouldn't buy her story. One of his thick eyebrows arched from behind the rim of his glasses.
Gabrielle did her best to ignore the gesture. "If you won't go away, would you at least shut the door behind you?"
Not one to turn down an opportunity to be in a closed room late at night with the unreceptive object of his affection, Roger obeyed.
Driven by a sudden sense of eagerness, Gabrielle skimmed the first page she extracted from the file. One word spoke volumes of the situation's intensity.
Gabrielle's wide eyes, followed by long silence, left Roger uncomfortable. "Uh… Gabey, what is it?"
The muttering of keyboards in the distance faded into nonexistence. Gabrielle clenched the page. It's full whiteness enveloped her as if she were surrounded by four white-padded walls. When her voice revived, it was shaking from the conflicting emotions battling in her brain.
"The leader of the gang. His name is… Arian."
"Arian?" Roger scratched the back of his head. "Isn't an Arian someone who's star sign is Aries?"
"No, that's not… Well, yes. But it means more than that…" Gabrielle's eyes stayed glued to the paper. Her pupils followed the same lines back and forth. Left to right, right to left, hoping that she was misreading the information before her.
"Well, what else does it mean?"
"They belong to a cult historians have ignored for hundreds of years. They see themselves as the chosen ones. The descendants."
"Descendants?"
"Yes. The displaced children of Ares: the Greek God of war."
The lone warrior stood atop the complex in the midst of New York city. Despite the high altitude, the cold night air was calm. The dark aura surrounding her form blended into the starless sky surrounding her. Hundreds of city lights burned below her. Citizens going about their night routines. Without care. Without notice.
Sitting beside her was a golden feline. Its short hair radiated light that the moon was unable to provide. She knelt down and slid her hard hands down the length of its spine. The cat curled upward in response. She scratched the underside of her companion's chin and returned her gaze to the busy streets below.
"Come, Argo. We have a long week ahead of us."