Chapter Summary: Sweet dreams, little kit. The night reveals much.
Author Notes: This is a backstory/exposition of how Shrike managed to find a spot on Croc's ship. Sorry if she isn't as good of a person as you want her to be, there's a reason why he's so interested in her. Reviews/comments appreciated! Let me know what you think.
Shrike never was a graceful sleeper. Having an odd dream is the least she should've expected after a day like today.
The hunger is back.
How long has it been since it'd been properly satiated? How many years?
The emptiness coils itself through her gut, a poison so potent it threatens to wither away what meager strength she has left. It gnaws at what little meat still clings to her bones, warping her body into a gangling mess. It's the kind of hunger that brings on waves of nausea, pointless in their existence. The only thing left in her to vomit is her life essence itself, as dwindling as it is.
There's nothing else left.
Shrike has no choice. The time to act is now.
It's a cold night, one accompanied by a low, rolling fog. The mist snakes about her lower half, dancing around her bony knees and chilling her so deep the marrow in her bones would shiver if it could. Her ragged coat does little to stave off the biting chill. Body heat escapes through its threadbare fabric and poorly mended patches.
She pulls the hood down low, just above her pallid yellow eyes, and yanks her coarse scarf up to cover her frigid features. The numbness of her ears and nose has long since lost its worrying effect on her. She's just far too used to it now.
This is the type of cold that people die in. Their twisted, frozen corpses will only be found when the snow melts in the much too distant spring. Cold, alone, and forgotten.
Much like Shrike is.
But she won't be going cold tonight. The mansion will be warm.
Her target's estate is sprawling, easily able to house tens of families with plenty of room to spare. Rather than sheltering the cold and hungry, though, she knows its winding halls and massive rooms are no doubt filled to the brim with meaningless objects. Trite, tacky pieces whose sole purpose are to take up space in the absence of warm bodies.
It's a house, but not a home. A soulless building whose ample space is wasted on just one, single, wretched being: a monster poorly disguised in the flesh of a man.
Its kitchen is undoubtedly large and amply stocked, certifiably capable of feeding the island's poor a hundred times over. Heaven knows they need it. She needs it.
Wasted on just this one, insufferable creature.
And the wealth? The wealth wastefully sitting within the manor's vaults? Garishly decorating the walls in gaudy inlays crafted of tasteless jewels? It's more than enough to pay for the treatment of any lingering injury, any disease... to build homes and buy warm clothes... to save the very lives of those with no home but the alleys and sewers of this damnable city.
All of it... wasted on just this one man.
Wasted on waste.
There'll be a stop to it before the night is done.
The Butcher has come calling.
Shrike's stomach gurgles loudly at the thought of eating, tearing a pained hiss from her brutally dry throat. Her mouth somehow floods with saliva despite her thirst, excited at the prospect of food. Real food, and not the literal garbage she's been digging from the trash or whatever scraps people throw at her as they hurriedly pass by.
They can't ever bear to just look at her, always rushing by with their eyes downcast. How dare she ask for help. How dare she ask for what these people have in plenty. How dare she even exist.
Rage bubbles inside her, the low roar of it filling her ears. The pain of the hunger only adds fuel to the hatred burning in her chest. This city doesn't care about her, just like it doesn't care about any of the other undesirables.
No one will care when she dies. Shrike's death will only be another chore for them; yet another frozen corpse to pry off the street and dump into some hole to forget about. She's just an eyesore, not a living, breathing human being.
Not even the others on the streets care. They can't afford to, not in this life. People are lost too quickly. Why form bonds, why care, when there's the ever-present chance you'll wake up to a starved corpse next to you? Or having their back disappearing into the dark of a canal being the last you ever see of them?
Yet... in spite of it all... Shrike does care.
She cares about the injustice of all this. She cares that people let this type of suffering happen in the first place and then do absolutely nothing to stop it. It's barbaric and savage and wrong and justice needs to be brought to those that have the power to fix it all but don't.
If no one else is willing to get their hands dirty, then that duty falls to her: to play the monster that hunts the other monsters.
It's a duty she carries out judiciously.
A meager hum escapes from her throat, creating a warm cloud in the frozen night air. Simple as it is, the act of doing so makes her chest ache furiously. Her lungs hang like weights in her sunken chest, sorely weakened from famine and illness. Just taking too deep a breath sets something in them rattling, splashing a wet warmth into the bottom of her throat.
To say Shrike is tired is an understatement. Between the cold, the nightmares, and the hunger, sleep is a luxury in this kind of life. The urgency of her mission does little to stave off the feeling of pure exhaustion weighing down her limbs, but like hell it'll stop her now. She's come too far to stop over something like this.
Maybe she'll take enough tonight to visit a doctor.
No.
Too dangerous. Too risky.
As if a doctor would agree to see her anyway. Money or no, someone like her isn't worth their valuable time. The thought makes her snarl, a reaction she immediately regrets.
Tickling in the back of her throat sets her teeth on edge. That snarl kicked up something from the pits of her lungs. Try as she might to resist, a scratching, tearing cough bursts forth in an explosion of pain. It's like a cat's been loosed in her throat, shredding the sensitive flesh of her larynx as it claws itself free.
Each hacking cough threatens to send her crashing to her knees.
She must stand firm. She must. There's work that needs to be done, and she's the only one brave or foolish enough to do it.
So she wipes the back of her hand across her cracked lips, doing the best she can to ignore the ruddy streak left behind. She doesn't want to know what the inside of her scarf looks like. Just imagining it makes her feel even more exhausted.
This job might be her last. Might as well make it a good one.
The back perimeter of the estate comes into view as she rounds a bend in the alley. A high, wrought-iron fence tipped in harsh spears rings the edge of the property. Just one poorly judged leap would result in any would-be intruder being brutally impaled. It's impossible to tell if the browned flakes along the bars are rust or evidence of such failed attempts.
An unnerving effect to be sure, though it does little to dissuade her. Not like she'll be going over the fence, anyway.
Men patrol the grounds only half-looking for any signs of intrusion. They're all armed-their weapons glint in the moonlight-yet most appear checked out for the night. None seem to be expecting any sort of trouble, just as there hasn't been any for the past few weeks.
Shrike pities them somewhat. What's about to happen isn't their fault. Even had they been alert, she'd have slipped by them just as easily as she's about to right now.
Despite what his security seems to think, the owner of this estate does have good cause for such extreme measures. Three of this city's elite-two men and a woman-have been found dead in their mansions over the past three weeks. Their physical assets had been barely touched; only about as much as a single person could carry had gone missing from their vaults. Nothing ever heavy was taken, and certainly nothing ever traceable.
Food had been stolen as well. All of it being nonperishables, nothing too rich; things like loaves of bread, potatoes, and mysteriously enough, jars of peanut butter.
Mysterious of all, though, is that in each grisly murder, there's been absolutely zero sign of struggle. The bodies have been found with their throats grimly slashed all the way across, and inches deep, too. Yet, the looks on their faces had been frozen with expressions one could almost call placid. They looked as if they'd been caught unaware, no idea as to the death creeping up behind them.
That's not the most disturbing part.
What strikes the most fear into the heart of these high-society elites is not the state of the bodies themselves, but the message left behind. It's a simple, yet powerful trio of words lovingly scrawled across the wall. A warning; painted bold and proud up on the wall above where the killer props up the victim almost as if on display.
"EAT THE RICH."
So simple. So short. So terrifyingly effective at robbing those who fear they might be next of any sleep. Little do they realize that a tired mark is an easy mark.
Those are just the high-profile murders, too. Numerous rumors have shaken the island of mysterious killings spanning the past several years. Killings where the victims appeared not to have struggled in the slightest. Whose glassy eyes and faces had frozen not in horror, but in confusion.
No one knows who, or maybe what has been responsible. The only hint has been that witnesses have reported seeing yellow eyes lurking in the dark, so bright as to almost be glowing.
Eyes filled to the brim with pure malice.
They've come to be known as the Gilded Butcher, and it strikes fear into the heart of every greedy businessman, noble, pirate, corrupt marine, and crime boss the whole island over.
Many suspect it to be a vengeful ghost given how effortlessly it seems to slip past any defense. Not to mention how frugally it steals, almost as if it takes mementos rather than loot. Others think the Butcher may simply be a professional assassin, so skilled as to be supernatural.
It's all wrong, of course. How could they ever guess the reality of the situation? That the Gilded Butcher is but a sickly, malnourished waif? That she's one of the many nameless and faceless they trod underfoot every day? They'd first have to admit that one of the undesirables is capable of possessing such agency, and that's just unconscionable.
Yet, this Butcher, their bogeyman, is nothing more than just hungry, sickly little ol' Shrike.
She doesn't feel bad for killing these people, if she can even call them that. All those she's killed were known to be wasteful or cruel, nothing but sadists or the unforgivably greedy. Those who hoard their wealth, who beat their servants, who contribute to the rampant crime throughout this city... all are fair game in Shrike's hunt.
Hell, she feels more guilt about stealing from them than she does about killing them. As hungry and desperate as she is, others need the food and money more than she does. What little she takes, she does her best to discreetly distribute about the slums. Even if the others wouldn't have done the same, she'd never be able to live with herself if she didn't at least try.
This crusade of hers may not be justice in the eyes of the law, but it's the only justice she can afford to give when no one else is willing to do what needs to be done. Since when have the marines last cared for her, anyway? Not since the night she had to leave her childhood home...
Another cough tears itself from her lungs, searingly hot and disturbingly wet. A frown tugs at her chapped lips as the taste of iron fills her mouth. She sighs and sinks to the ground to catch her breath. Just how long has she been at this now? Years...
The way she felt after her first kill... she still remembers it clear as day. The feeling of his blood streaming down her face, the panic in his eyes as it sprayed from his throat... He'd pushed her too far that night, breaking something in her that had released a beast desperate for blood. His blood, specifically. It'd broken loose at the same time her ribs had, snapping as he rained down blows shouting every obscenity under the moon.
Shrike had broken the glass by accident, but slashing the broken shard across his throat had not been. She'd brought it down on him just as purposefully as when she swept the floors and polished the tables, ever the dutiful serving girl.
That night had been the last straw that finally made her snap. Having suffered his abuse both physical and physical, she gladly sacrificed both his life and her humanity to pay for her freedom. It was the least he could do after putting her through such a living hell when she was just trying to eke out a living. She'd so naively trusted him, accepted food and lodging for working at his inn. He threw it all in her face just like he did the stale beer patrons left on the bar come closing time.
The only regret she has over the whole thing is that she didn't kill him sooner, preventing her from wasting years of her life with that abusive pig. The rage he'd instilled in her that night has remained a part of her as much as the memory of his dying face has.
But she can wax poetic about it some other time. Right now, it's time to get to work.
She takes the deepest breath she can muster, tuning out the rattling in her lungs. Her mantra fills her head: 'I am nothing. I am nobody.'
The magic words to activate her special talent, the one thing that's allowed her to be so successful in her crusade thus far: hiding in plain sight.
She'd discovered this talent some many, many years ago. Before she'd even made that first kill, even. She'd been just a terrified little girl at the time, hiding in an alleyway praying the slaver wouldn't find her. He'd chased her for hours to the point she'd been too tired to run anymore, and she'd resorted to prayers in some last-ditch effort to keep from being taken.
It was then that her Shroud first settled over her body, almost as if a gentle breeze had danced upon her skin. By some miracle, the man's eyes passed right over her as he walked past. He'd gotten so close she'd felt the heat radiating off his skin, yet turned away all the same.
The man never saw that little girl ever again.
It wasn't until recently, when the hunger and injustice drove her to kill, that Shrike realized the true utility of her power. It's the only thing that's gotten her as far as she has. Killing is far easier when her prey has no idea what's about to strike.
And the meaning of the words? 'I am nothing. I am nobody'? That's just what the island wants her to be, to which she decided to do them the favor. If it meant bringing righteous vengeance down upon the people that perpetuate this cycle of misery, then she'd gladly become their nobody and more: their Gilded Butcher.
She repeats the words in her head, smiling as her Shroud settles upon her skin. The familiar feeling of safety quiets any of her lingering unease. 'It's time to get moving.'
Shrike slips through the iron bars of the fence with ease. It's obvious they're intended to stop healthier bodies than hers. The jutting bones of her pelvis catch slightly, but it only takes a few adjustments before she's free.
It's but a short stroll across the yard, one that takes her right past several patrols. Each remains completely unaware of her presence as she walks right before their eyes. Her Shroud keeps her safely hidden.
Two guards lean against the wall next to the back door, blissfully unaware as she casually approaches. One of them prattles on and on, a bit too quickly for her to pick up on the topic at hand. The other seems to be only half listening.
"Isn't she just the cutest?" From the man's exuberance, and the photograph he's eagerly trying to show his more disinterested companion, Shrike can only assume he must be talking about a darling family member. His daughter, perhaps?
"For the last time, Erik, I don't want to hear about your damn dog anymore."
She stops, fingers freezing just as they brush against the frigid metal of the doorknob.
"Oh come on, look at her! Mimi is precious, you just don't want to admit it."
A warm smile tugs at the corner of her lips. She can't help but lean over and get a look at the photograph grasped so firmly beneath the man's calloused thumb. The edges of the paper are well-worn, clearly loved. Sure enough, she has to agree with him: Mimi is, indeed, quite precious. She's a tiny spitz of some kind, snow white and as fluffy as a cloud.
Shrike never could resist a cute face.
As much as she's always wanted a sweet lil' critter to call her own, trying to care for one in this kind of life would just be cruel. This is no way to live, and she'd never forgive herself for putting some innocent creature through this hell along with her. Still, that doesn't stop her from sharing what scraps she finds with the strays about the streets.
The men continue their back and forth, and she takes the cue to quietly open the door and slip inside.
She finds herself in what appears to be the servants' quarters, given the more banal appearance of the decor. It's dimly lit, the only light being the moonbeams streaming through the open doorways to her left and right. She peeks her head into each one, finding rows of beds each perfectly made and curiously empty. Nor are they any personal effects. The rooms are so sparse and lifeless as to make her shiver.
There's not a single soul to be seen or heard.
'As it should be.' She muses.
The reason she's here is to kill the man that beat one of them so severely that she stumbled down the front steps and promptly died in the street. It only makes sense the other servants have long since fled for their lives.
Shrike returns to the short hallway she'd entered from, continuing down until she comes to a common area. A ghastly splash of blood mars the fall wall, obviously sprayed from a rough impact. She knows it to be from a meat tenderizer, given the details she's heard about the murder.
Sure enough, the doorway immediately adjacent to the splatter of red leads to the kitchen. A rack of various cooking tools hangs from the wall just on the other side of the archway, and there's a conspicuously empty spot where a tool appears to be absent.
Shame. She'd kind of wanted to kill him with the same tenderizer.
She lips off her hood and scarf to better bask in the warmth of the indoors. The air in here is nothing short of toasty, definitely warmed by more than just the barely glowing coals still smoldering in the hearth. This bastard is rich enough to afford powered heating! Thinking of all the people this warmth could keep from dying in the frozen air tonight...
If this is going to be Shrike's last hit, she's at least glad it's this greedy son of a bitch.
She makes a point not to approach the kitchen. In her current state, the leftover smells from dinner would set her rabid; a lesson she's learned the hard way. The scents of roasted meat, warmly toasted bread-nostalgic and bittersweet-and aromatic, roasted veggies would be irresistible to her right now. A flood of saliva fills her mouth, almost running down her chin just thinking about it.
'Pathetic. Reduced to a slavering mongrel at the thought of some breadcrumbs.'
There'll be time to feast after she's done the deed and sent this monster back from whence he came. Even if it means she'll be joining him shortly after...
Guess she'll be eating well tonight.
She takes the hallway opposite the kitchen, sure it'll lead her to the main foyer. From there, she'll head to the master bedroom where, given the hour, her target should be sound asleep. That, or he's positively restless with the fear that the Gilded Butcher may be coming.
Which she is.
Movement out the corner of her eye immediately snatches Shrike's attention. She's leaping backward on instinct alone, readily dropping to a defensive position. Before the balls of her feet even touch the floor, she's deftly flipped a shiv out from the ragged sleeve of her coat, full well ready to snap it towards the source of movement.
Which happens to be nothing more than a mirror, the movement having only been her reflection.
What a ghastly thing it is, too, this reflection of hers. With such a gaunt face, marked by the sallow pockets of her cheeks and the bruised-black bags beneath her eerie yellow eyes, there's simply no one else it could be but her.
It's no wonder the rumors have her pegged as a ghost. She certainly doesn't look fully humor.
The wan-yellowness of her irises does little to dispel the haunting effect. They're still sharp somehow, despite the hunger. They're not quite those of a mindless beast but closer to those of a starved predator calculating every chance to strike. These are the type of eyes that are the last thing one sees in the shadows before having their throat torn out; eyes found lurking in the dark of lost and forgotten places.
Lost and forgotten, just like she is.
Her ragged clothing barely clings to her frame. They give her a formless appearance in the darkness as if she's nothing more than a sentient gathering of shadows. The way they drape so loosely over her body only barely disguises the jutting bones of her half-starved state. She's always been a tall, gangling thing, but now the hunger has twisted her form into a hunched a skulking ghoul.
It certainly doesn't help that with the sorry state of her short, ash-colored hair, that she looks rather androgynous. Nor does she have the body mass to fill out any typical feminine features aside from her naturally wide pelvis. Though, in this state, all that feature does is serve to make her look frighteningly insect-like.
*CRASH*
The sudden sound of shattering glass makes her jump. Distant as it was-echoing from further down the hall-it immediately puts her right back on edge. A single voice, shouting something she can't quite interpret, chases the noise.
A sour frown splits across her face. 'Does he know...?'
No, he can't. That'd be impossible.
She snaps her hood and scarf back into place before padding down the hall, careful to maintain her Shroud all the while. As expected, it leads out to the main foyer. The front door lies directly before her, its doorknob and baseboard stained with splashes of crimson. 'Blood... From the servant girl.'
The spacious area is bathed in a dim, golden light, cast from a slightly ajar door to her right. Through it streams not just light, but voices.
Voices.
The bastard isn't alone, and from the frantic, pleading tone of the sniveling voice coming from the room, it's not exactly his security detail accompanying him.
'Shit. Shit! Who the hell keeps guests at this time of night?!'
Shrike grips the handle of her knife so tight she hears the bones in her knuckles creak. This hit just got a whole lot more complicated. She frantically thinks over whether she should postpone the deed for a few days. Would she even make it that long?
No. It has to be tonight. This is her last chance.
The whining voice she'd heard suddenly escalates, now shouting. Something is clearly wrong given the tone. The golden light cast upon the far wall wavers, now partially obscured by the shadow of someone quickly rising from a seated position. It begins gesticulating wildly, the panicked mannerisms now matching the tone the voice has taken on.
Shrike creeps closer, sure not to make a single noise. The wall creaks slightly as she presses herself flat against it, and she struggles not to hiss in frustration. Any noise right now could tip whoever's in there off to her presence. That's the last thing she needs right now.
Luckily, judging from the continued prattling of the man inside the room, it seems she remains undiscovered.
She sidles along the wall to get closer, and the specific words forming the man's maddened raving begin to take shape.
"I have money! Ships! All that you want! Just give me protection, please!" His weaselly voice sounds nothing short of desperate, the tone and substance of his words both indicating a plea for his life. Whoever he is, he's clearly terrified. Of what-or worse, who-Shrike can only imagine. She kind of hopes it's her.
'But what if it's not? Who's in there with him?'
Her skin tingles as she pauses to reinforce her Shroud. Only when her safety seems secure does she finally peek inside.
A man, skin flushed stark red, paces about the space before the room's hearth. He wrings his hands like he's trying to squeeze the very blood from them. All the while his mouth runs with various pleas and offerings. She recognizes him to be none other than her intended target, the owner of this mansion and an utterly depraved worm. She'd recognize that deep-blue head of hair anywhere, even done up in a top knot as it is now.
He's not the most interesting in the room, though. Something-or rather someone-else has her rapt attention.
'Oh. Oh, holy fuck.'
A very, very large man sits reclined in a plush chair, opposite from where her mark struts about like a panicked chicken. Even sitting the way he is, Shrike can tell he's a frighteningly large human being, if he even is one. Not just large either, but built. He's muscular and fit, but not in the overly bulky kind of way. Svelte muscle.
This is the kind of beast she's heard tales of from the grand line.
Surely, with his dark, slicked-back hair and warm, tanned skin, there's no way he can be from this dreary place. The sun rarely shines on this island without its rays having to punch through dense cloud cover. Most people here are pale and fair-haired because of it. His appearance strikes her as hailing from a warmer, sunnier place. Somewhere with deserts of sand rather than fields of snow.
He's dressed quite well for the cold climate, despite his foreign appearance. A coat so thick it could keep her warm even through the most bitter of nights lies slung over the back of the chair. The fur collar flows so invitingly behind him that she can't help but imagine how comfortable it'd be hung about her shoulders. He wears an expertly fitted suit of charcoal grey, and though the mustard yellow shirt he's chosen clashes, it does so in an almost tasteful kind of way.
She can just tell he's the kind of rich bastard she despises more than anything else.
What draws Shrike's eye most of all is the long, jagged scar streaking across his face. It runs all the way across, the peaks and divots roughly hewn into the flesh about the bridge of his nose. Though the initial injury has long since closed, it's obvious it'd done so poorly. It's a permanent scar that'll never fully heal, and it only serves to make him all the more intimidating. As if his stature alone isn't enough.
It sits directly beneath his eyes, which themselves are impossibly dark and deep set. Though they look on her panicked mark with an almost lazy expression, Shrike can practically feel the malicious intelligence lying beneath. These are the eyes of a cold and patient predator. One playing with its food, at that.
But it's not just his appearance alone that screams 'danger!'. Just looking at him sets all her senses ablaze. Every bell in her head rings in alarm. The very presence he maintains tells her that he's nothing short of an accomplished killer, but in a way that's entirely different from herself. This is a monster tempered in the flames of battle, someone whose lethality has her far more than just outclassed.
Shrike knows not a single thing about this man and yet she has no doubt he'd destroy her as easily as snapping his fingers.
Dread settles into her stomach like a dead weight. This is... this situation is... this monster is... she can't even think straight. Against this man, she wouldn't stand a chance. Every instinct screams at her to flee. Flee and never look back lest he notice her and turn those predatory eyes her way instead.
A beast like this is the exact kind of person she makes a point to avoid; the kind that's truly dangerous. Others can call her a coward for it, but she only sees it as playing smart. There's no point in taking on a fight she can't ever hope to win.
But she can't run. Her body won't let her. Something keeps her rooted to the doorway. Fear? Morbid curiosity?
All she can do is stand frozen in place and watch the scene unfold.
The scarred man lazily braces his cheek upon his right hand, left arm dangling over the other side of the chair. From the look in his eyes, he seems to be waiting for a chance to strike. Whether that be with words or action, Shrike can only imagine.
"You don't know what this Butcher is capable of! They say it's not even human!" Her mark all but squeals, his shrill tone making her wince as it assails her ears. Scar's eyes, too, narrow slightly, annoyance now growing plain on his face. His lip twitches trying to contain it.
Despite the anxiety she can only describe as existential instilled in her by this man, her target's pleas bring her a certain glee. Knowing she's struck such fear into this worm's heart so as to drive him to seek out a monster like this for protection? It brings her an almost manic joy. Especially as it seems the beast he's summoned is far more interested in devouring him than giving him aid.
"Vigo," the dangerous-looking man purrs with a voice as deep as his predatory eyes. The rich tone spills from his lips, smooth as golden honey yet venomous all the same. It's a tone that dances down her spine a trail of blazing ice. "You seem to have mistaken my presence for sympathy."
Vigo-her victim's name apparently-attempts to stutter a response. "Wh-What?! You came all this way just to see me d-die? To see me slaughtered in my own home?!"
Scar coolly closes his eyes, lips curling slightly into an amused smirk. "So you're not such an idiot after all."
His words have an immediate effect on Vigo. He pales, mouth flapping open and shut uselessly. "S-Sir Crocodile?! You-! You-!"
'Crocodile...? What a bizarre name.' But she has to admit: it's more than fitting. The scar on his face looks strikingly similar to the jagged maw of his namesake. 'His birth name? Or maybe a chosen name like mine...' The more she muses over it, the more it seems familiar. Surely she would've heard of someone with such a strange name before?
A low, amused hum from this Crocodile pulls her out of her head.
"You see, Vigo... I don't give a damn about what happens to you. Honestly, I was hoping you'd already be dead by the time I got here." He purrs, that richly venomous voice rumbling out almost playfully.
It's only now, as he casually leans forward, does Shrike notice the menacingly large hook adorning what used to be his left hand. It'd been obscured by the chair previously, but now that she's seen it, she can hardly tear her eyes from it. Crocodile makes a point to draw attention to it, bringing his left arm across his lap so as to rest his hand upon it. She would've thought it hilariously melodramatic if she weren't so rooted in fear.
The implement catches the glow of the low flames still licking about the fireplace, and it glints with a light that can only be described as sinister. There's not a single doubt in her mind that he's killed tens of dozens of people with the thing. Her imagination readily supplies an image of the metallic gold dripping red with blood.
Vigo starts to back up, retreating from the man he now realizes is nothing short of hostile towards him. He raises his palms in a show of submission, inching ever closer to the door Shrike is eavesdropping from. Even from here, she can spy how his legs have begun to tremble. "This is... you can't...why? Sir, I have never wronged you! Why-"
Crocodile cuts him off with an arrogant bark of laughter. That scathing, derisive sound cuts as deep as any blade. The way it drips with undisguised malice chills her straight to the bone, setting her even more on edge.
Then, as quickly as it began, the noise stops dead in his throat. His eyes narrow, a sinister smirk twisting his lips. "Wronged? No, Vigo. Your very existence is a slight to me."
He suddenly snaps his fingers, and Shrike damn near jumps out of her skin as a new body struts across the room. He must've been up against the same wall as the door, completely hidden from her current viewpoint. She still can't really get a good look at him, save for the fact that he is also freakishly huge.
'Does something about the Grand Line just do this to people?! Make them into these monsters?!'
"Sir?" This new man's voice is somehow even lower than this Crocodile guy's, though with an inflection far less refined.
"Daz, our host seems to be trying to end our meeting early." Vigo bristles at Crocodile's words, spine stiffening as he freezes during what he must've thought to have been a sneaky retreat to the door. "We still have much to discuss. Please-" The word rolls from his lips, mockingly warm. He gestures with his hand to the couch opposite him. "-help him get comfortable."
The new man-'Daz, is it?'-gives a single nod. "Of course, sir."
He moves into the glowing light of the fire, and from here Shrike can finally make out his features. His short, buzzed hair shines with a silvery glint much like hers used to, and his skin appears to be even more toned than the man she can only assume to be his boss of sorts. 'Definitely not from here.'
Unlike Crocodile, this guy really is all bulky muscle. It's the kind of muscle useful not just for intimidation, but for beating the absolute paste out of anyone unfortunate enough to warrant it. They're just barely contained by his well-tailored suit, an expensive looking one at that. The black fabric looks practically shrink-wrapped to the muscles rippling along his limbs. A tie hanging loosely from his neck suggests a hint of apathy about his appearance.
She has a feeling he hadn't chosen to dress this way so much as he was ordered to.
The thought would've made her laugh in any other situation.
Daz saunters across the room over to Vigo, now standing stock-still in fear. He squeaks in fright as Daz clamps an intimidatingly massive hand down on his shoulder. "Let's get you comfortable."
Vigo has no choice but to acquiesce, letting himself be pushed at the shoulder over to the couch Crocodile gestured at. He's not-so-gently pushed down into the center cushion, a pathetic yelp fleeing his throat as he falls. "P-please! Don't hurt me! I'll do whatever you want, please!"
The muscle-man rounds the couch, coming to a stop at the spot right behind Shrike's cowering, pleading mark. He lurks behind him, a menacing figure, before patting down on his shoulder again. Even from here, she sees the poorly contained smirk on his face as the action makes Vigo jump and tremble.
"Whatever I want?" Crocodile hums, leaning back in the chair with a self-satisfied grin. He casually reaches into the coat behind him and rummages about in a pocket. "Well then."
He pulls forth a cigar and a lighter along with it.
"You see, Vigo. I don't care about you. All those things you mentioned earlier, though? Gold... Information...? Let's talk about those." He pauses to slide the cigar between his lips. His hand brings the lighter up, and he expertly lights it with but a single click of the wheel. Clearly, he's done this enough to get it down to an exact science.
He takes a long inhale before breathing out a cloud into the air above him. It settles around him nebulously, calling to mind the image of a predator lurking in the mists.
Ephemeral as it is, Shrike's throat immediately constricts itself in caution, completely halting the movement of air in her lungs. Even the slightest breath of the stuff would send her into a coughing fit in her current state. Then they'd surely find her.
"I care about your assets, and how they can become my assets. So, you have two options." He pauses to take another long puff, deliberately drawing out the tension despite already having full control over the scene.
She can tell he's played this game far too many times. 'What an insufferable prick.'
Regardless, the melodrama seems to be working its magic on Vigo. The twit's trembling so hard she can hear the couch legs rumbling against the floor from all the way over here.
"One, you can surrender all that you own to me right now, then scurry off this wretched island as fast as you can before this..." He takes a moment to swish the cigar in the air, letting the smoke trail about for effect. Even as scared as she is, Shrike struggles not to roll her eyes at his theatrics. "...Butcher... ends your pathetic little life."
Rage sparks through her chest.
'WHAT?! How DARE you!' She grits her teeth, a bout of fury quickly beginning to broil in her core. That this... this... this ass thought he could use her?! This worm's death was intended to be an act of justice, not for some bastard like him to use it-her-as a power play!
Crocodile continues as nonchalantly as though he were discussing dinner plans. "Or, two... I can just relax on my ship. Wait this out. This Butcher will make an example of you sooner rather than later, given the way you've drawn their eye with that spot of cruelty on that poor servant girl." He rests the cigar between his fingers, his arm now cockily propped up on the arm of the chair. "You wouldn't have called me otherwise if you didn't think the same."
Shrike wants nothing more than to slap the arrogant sneer off his face, mouth and all. The fear has just about drained out of her, now replaced with bubbling rage. 'I am not your tool! I'm not anyone's tool!'
He suddenly rises, pulling himself from the chair. It's only now that he's standing that she's forced to truly interpret just how impossibly tall the guy is. Even as wilted as the hunger has made her, she isn't exactly short herself at 6'2. Yet, somehow, this beast definitely has at least two additional feet on her height.
Just like that, the fear comes creeping back in.
He saunters across the room, moving with a surprising amount of grace for someone of his size. The firelight strikes across his features just right as he approaches the hearth, somehow making him look handsome in the low light. He comes to a stop right in front of Vigo, but rather than leaning down to speak into his face, he cockily rocks backward to rest on a heel. His hook crosses over his midsection, other arm holding the cigar aloft to the side.
"Just as you've asked, I'll come swooping in to save you. But it'll be just slightly too late. You'll already be dead. Tragic." He lifts the cigar back to his lips, taking another self-satisfied inhale of the sweetened smoke before puffing it down into Vigo's paled face. The sneer that twists his face is insufferable. "And before your blood can dry on the walls, I'll take ev-e-ry-last-thing you own."
He finishes with a shrug, the movement of his hand drawing more trails of swirling smoke through the air. "It's your choice, Vigo. Either way, I leave this dump with what I want. The only variable here is your life."
The very air around him oozes a narcissistic malice that very nearly makes Shrike retch. The only thing she despises more than corrupt bastards are smug corrupt bastards, the ones that think they're such hot shit. And boy, does this pompous fuck bask in the musk of his own ego.
In the few minutes she's been observing him, she knows two things: that she both utterly despises him... and that she's in complete awe of him. This man is shrewd, clearly cunning. He commands the kind of presence she can only dream of, able to make a sniveling worm like Vigo grovel before him with nothing but melodrama. And yet, she has no doubt about killing prowess.
Without having even seen him in action, she is absolutely terrified of what he's capable of.
Everything tells her to run. Get the hell out of here.
Her prey thus far have been weak, simpering mites like Vigo, not lethal killing machines like this Crocodile guy. With a body as sick and malnourished as hers, there's no way she can ever hope to fight back against someone of any real strength. Amonster like him would tear her apart himself if he didn't order his manservant to do it for him so he could watch over a nice glass of wine.
'NO! No, this has to end tonight!' There's no promise she'll make it long enough to scout out another target, and like hell she'll let herself drop dead without taking someone else with her. This calls for a change in plans.
Shrike may have come here to kill Vigo, but this Crocodile guy... Without even knowing who exactly he is or what he's done, she knows he's as bad as any other monster she's slain.
"...P-please. Please no." Vigo is beyond pale, paler than the moon hanging in the window across the room. He looks about to fall from the couch entirely, ready to sink to his knees in a terrified grovel.
She kind of hopes he'll cry.
The hulking manservant lingering behind the couch suddenly clears his throat, seeking permission to speak.
"Do you have something to add, Daz?" Crocodile addresses him. A hint of excitement eats away at the arrogance on his face.
"Sir, we could just kill him now. Slit his throat, write that message on the wall. There's no need for the Butcher themselves to come and do it when we can do it ourselves. No one would ever know." Daz replies coolly. Too coolly, like he's talking about a nice date and not the brutal murder of some man in his own home.
Vigo squeaks as he jerks upwards, spine straight and stiff with terror. Shrike can see lines of sweat rolling down his forehead, the way his entire body quivers in fear.
Crocodile has the exact opposite reaction, almost melting into himself as he leans back even more. He takes a long draft of his cigar before releasing a grey stream of the smoke upwards towards the ceiling. His grin is almost warm when he returns his companion's gaze.
"This is exactly why I keep you around."
Daz returns that grin as he begins cracking his knuckles. "Would you like me to do the honors, Sir?"
Vigo falls off the couch with a panicked scream. There's a loud crack as his knees meet the floor, but it deters him not. He begins crawling towards the door, sobbing all the while in pure terror.
"By all means." Crocodile turns at that, heading to recline against the wall next to the hearth. A lovely space to watch the brutality about to unfold.
Without another word, Daz begins to advance on her target. Only, he's now their target too... and that pisses her right the hell off.
All the work she's done has been intended for the greater good, like scraping an infection from a rotting wound. It's ugly, painful, and gruesome, but it's necessary before the damage caused by her victims can begin to heal. Now, these men intend to benefit off her hard work; turn the blood she's spilled into their own gain.
Seeing her virtuous mission twisted into just another means of profit by the very type of people she reviles fills her with indescribable fury. Shrike's blood boils, turning into nothing but pure venom that burns her from the inside out.
The handle of her shiv digs roughly into her calloused palm, while the other two strapped to her arm almost vibrate in excitement. With a few well-aimed throws, she can end this before they even know what's happened. She has surprise on her side, just like she always does.
"N-NNO NO NO NO PLEASE WAIT!" Vigo flips onto his back, now scrambling backward against the wall to the right of the room. His eyes shoot to the doorway where she hides in the shadows. He's looking for an escape where she knows there isn't one. Lucky for her, the position he's crawled to has made him a clear shot.
Daz advances on him with the intent to kill.
'What are you doing!? You need to move NOW before this guy steals your kill!'
Right as she's about to throw her blade, something weird happens. Where Daz's arm was once a normal, if not absurdly muscular, arm... it suddenly takes on a metallic sheen before transforming entirely. From the edge of his right forearm spawns a blade, as if he's grown a sword from wrist to elbow. Its edge glints in the low light of the fire, a warning as to how gruesomely sharp it is.
The suddenness with which it happens-mind not able to process what she's seeing-makes Shrike gasp.
Audibly.
Three sets of eyes whip to the doorway, now very aware this is no longer a private affair.
"H-help! Whoever you are, please! They're going to kill me!" Vigo cries out, his pleas desperate. Tears stream down his puffy face.
Crocodile's eyes narrow and his brow furrows, body language immediately tense. He tosses the cigar onto the lintel of the fireplace and glares intensely into the darkness of the doorway where Shrike prays he can't see her.
"It seems one of your servants hasn't fled yet, Vigo. How unfortunate for them." He jerks his head over to where Daz stands with his bladed arm still poised over Vigo and barks an order. "Deal with the eavesdropper first."
'FUCK. FUCK. SHIT FUCK.' Shrike's far too rattled for her Shroud to take effect. She bet this entire plan on being able to strike while undetected, killing them from the shadows before they have a chance to react. There's no way she'll be able to outrun them in her current condition, and running away to re-hide herself isn't an option. He'd probably catch up at barely a jog.
No, there's only one option left.
She grasps her blade so tightly it feels like the skin of her palm might split open about the handle. She has three of them on her, each lovingly sharpened to slice through flesh and bone even when thrown from a distance.
She'll at least take out Vigo: complete what she came here to do. If the last thing she ever sees is his dying face, then that's mission accomplished. Once Vigo goes down, she'll use both the remaining knives on Crocodile. The manservant, Daz, doesn't give her nearly the same vibes as his boss does. Not to mention with his size, even should the first strike true, Crocodile will probably need both knives to fully take him down anyways.
Yet, something in her tells her what a fool's errand this is. As much as she wants it, as much as she needs it... she knows there's no way she'll be able to kill this man. But damn if she isn't going to try.
She'll throw her blades and pray to at least scratch him. They'll undoubtedly catch her. Hurt her. If they do decide to interrogate-torture her-at least there's the solace that her poor body will give out before too long.
Shrike's going to die here, but at the very least she'll take someone down with her.
Daz crosses the room at a cautious pace, bladed arm held warily in front of him. She can tell now that he's far smarter than he initially appeared. His hulking frame belied a certain intelligence she hadn't expected, now only revealed by his undue caution.
She waits for him to get closer. Adrenaline pumps through her system, giving her a clarity she's never before experienced. This is the first time she's ever needed it. The first time her prey has ever been actively aware of her presence.
'This is it.'
He kicks the door fully open as he reaches the frame. The light of the room spills out into the once pitch hallway, and Shrike moves before he can get a good look at her. He moves to grab her as she springs forward, but she's faster than expected. She slips right through his fingers, the digits only finding loose fabric and air instead of the fuller body he'd expected.
A frustrated snarl sounds over her shoulder as she rolls beneath his outstretched leg. She flips two of the knives between her fingers mid-roll, one per hand. The way they lightly cut into the skin, nerves stinging in warning, tells her they're more than sharp enough to kill.
Vigo shrieks just as she completes her roll. She lands on the balls of her feet only a few feet before him, but her balance goes off-kilter. Her body doesn't respond with the agility she needs it to.
'No time to correct!'
The first of the blades leaves Shrike's fingers with a snap of her wrist, sent flying towards the quivering man. It shoots across the gap between her and Vigo, and a sickening crunch fills the room as it buries itself in her mark.
His agonized cry echoes about the room, and Shrike's heart drops into her stomach.
Dead men don't scream like that.
Her aim had been off, the knife sinking deep into his right eye instead of between them as intended. Nor had it gone deep enough to cause more serious damage, as several inches of the blade remain between the hilt and his face.
He could easily survive this.
But she doesn't have time to change plans.
Shrike pivots her body with a frustrated hiss, angling herself to face her new prey. Crocodile has barely moved, save to use the lintel as a prop to rest his cheek on his fist again. The expression on his face is nothing short of bored.
The casualness of his demeanor only pisses her off even more.
'I'll wipe that dumb expression off your face!'
She channels that rage into her next throw, aiming straight for between the eyes again.
The blade slides from her fingers, straight and true. It's a perfect throw, and the realization rapidly fills her with glee. Has she done it? Really succeeded in killing this bastard? Killing Vigo may have been a failure, but he's small fry compared to this monster. She can't think of a more perfect final ki-
The knife passes right through him.
It thuds into the wall behind his head, and he stands there entirely unfazed.
"Wha-what?" Shrike barely gasps out, utterly frozen in shock. He merely looks at her with that lazy expression, not even having flinched.
She doesn't get any time to process what in the hell's just happened as Daz finally catches up to her. He's not gentle about it.
His hand clamps down on her right wrist. He stretches her arm outwards before punching straight upwards into the elbow joint. Shrike hears the snap before her senses process it, a sickening sound that makes her stomach flip.
And then it comes.
Shooting, agonizing pain radiates all up and down her arm. It tears from her throat a ragged scream as she begins falling to her knees. Her other arm desperately tries to cradle its brutalized sibling. A sudden, hard blow across her back sends her thudding downwards. It rips another cry from her, this one sounding strangled as the air vacates her lungs from the force of the blow.
Her face roughly skids across the floor on impact. It stops only when the force of her assailant's hand presses her head roughly down against the ground. His other hand, now adorned with bladed fingers, presses against her throat, ready to slit her open with but a single word from his boss.
She kind of hopes he does. If only to put her out of this agony.
This pain is way behind anything she's felt in decades.
Each breath feels forcefully stolen from the air around her. A god-awful rattling fills the air with each gasping inhale, the noise wet and sickening. Her chest is unbelievably tight, and an acrid, metallic tang has rapidly begun spilling into her mouth. Everything is hot and cold somehow all at once, as though she's suffering from freezing chills and burning fever both.
Her arm lies twisted uselessly to the side, bent at a disturbing angle. It hurts so bad she feels it everywhere, too much pain for just one limb to contain. Her chest begins to shudder as her body tries to find the energy to cough. Anything to stave off the drowning death filling her lungs. The hacking cough that comes is anything but relieving. It brings a searing pain that turns her vision white with stars as congealed globs of black and crimson spill onto the floor before her.
The existential pain sets in as she sees the gruesome splatter. That blow had been far more lethal than probably intended, her assailant not knowing the condition she's in. A sense of wrongness permeates her entire being as her conscious mind realizes what her body has already been aware of...
Shrike is dying.
The realization makes her want to sob. Sob in fear, in anger, in despair... Death is something she's been longing after for years, why is she suddenly so afraid of it now?
The event's lasted only but a few seconds, but it feels as though the world itself has slowed to make it feel like hours. A few more of those agonizingly long seconds pass. The only sounds to be heard are her wet, ragged breaths and Vigo's pained whimpers.
Crocodile's dry voice suddenly fills the air, breaking the almost silence. "Hrm. I think you broke it. Whatever it is."
His words echo in a way they should not be. Shrike's senses are already faltering.
In one fluid movement, Daz temporarily relieves the pressure from her skull as his hand moves to forcibly tear the hood and scarf from her face. He roughly grabs her chin and tilts her face upwards to make sure his boss can get a good look at her.
And so she can get a good look at him.
At some point in the scuffle, Crocodile picked the cigar back up. He casually puffs on it as he stares down at her. His dark eyes examine her unblinking, unwavering, not betraying a single motion save maybe amusement.
"Judging by your eyes, you must be this Gilded Butcher. Not a ghost, but a half-starved human being all along... and judging by your cries, a woman at that." He muses, eyes scanning over Shrike's battered frame where Daz has her pinned to the floor. "Vigo, you were scared of this?"
She spits a glob of disease onto the floor, trying to make room in her throat to just breathe dammit! 'Not yet... not yet...! I need... to know...!'
The air rattles through her lungs as she struggles to take a breath deep enough to form words.
"H-how...the knife...through you..." Her voice is shaky, only just barely audible. It's laden heavily with pain and choking blood.
He drops the cigar for good this time, stamping it out with his heel before closing the gap with a few casual strides. He sinks to his haunches before her to get a better look at her face, using the blunt curve of his hook to hold her chin up higher. Whatever he sees makes him grimace. A look mixed between disgust and pity crosses his features.
It fills her with indignant rage.
"Don't... don't... pity me... jackass!" Shrike tries to shout, but what comes out is nothing more than tired panting.
The last thing she wants as she drowns in her own lungs is to be pitied. Daz's fingers tighten about her throat in warning, blades lightly cutting into her skin. The sensation practically tickles in comparison to the pain radiating from her broken arm and the swelling in her lungs.
He merely raises his brow in amusement. "Precious. Still a little fight left in you yet, Butcher."
His good hand suddenly comes up before her face, palm outstretched to face the ceiling. She looks on blankly, rage making way for confusion.
"You wanted to know how?" He almost hums the words, each one suffused with his own smugness. The flesh of his hand ripples, and at first she wonders if it's just her senses now fading away completely. Then the appendage vanishes entirely.
She blinks her eyes, struggling to process what's happened. Lazy streams of particulate matter pass before her face. They dance through the air almost as if on their own accord.
'This color... sand!?'
His honeyed voice cuts through the confusion and pain. "I'm a logia, sweetheart. Nice try though, you do have good aim."
'...Logia...devil fruit...?'
He collects the particles back together, reforming his hand. It changes from coarsely textured tan back to his natural skin tone right before her eyes. Even then, she can still hardly believe it. Shrike's no stranger to devil fruits, but the time since she'd last seen one in action could be measured not in years, but decades.
He uses the reformed hand to pat her head before standing back up to full height. The condescension forces from her a wet, rippling snarl. So many words, so many insults and obscenities flit through her head, but she doesn't trust herself to speak them with the energy and vitriol this bastard deserves.
Shrike spits at his feet instead, hocking a wet glob of disease onto the floor in the space between them.
Crocodile merely looks down at her, his face initially blank before a hint of amusement flicks at his lips. He makes no other response before walking past her, heading over to where Vigo still lies whimpering on the far side of the room. Daz lets her flop back to the floor, though he tilts her head so she can watch what's ab out to unfold.
Her face is turned just as Crocodile crouches down before Vigo. He clucks his tongue in mock pity. "Poor, poor Vigo. It seems the Butcher you've feared all along has come and done you in."
"P-Please. Help me. I'll give you everything. Please." He moans pleadingly, his voice weak and trembling as his hands paw at the knife still embedded in his eye. Blood runs down his face, a startling crimson in contrast to his pale complexion.
Crocodile only hums, cocking his head to the side. "Corpses don't speak, Vigo."
Vigo suddenly jerks and screams, Crocodile's fingers wrapping about the hilt of the blade lodged in his face. In one swift motion, he pulls it from the wounded man's eye socket before bringing it down across his throat.
The room fills with gurgling cries as Vigo chokes on the blood filling his throat and mouth, the sounds being somehow even more sickening than the ones she's been making thus far. He thrashes about for only a few moments, movements steadily dampening as the life oozes from his slit throat.
He lies still.
Dead.
Crocodile waits a few moments more. His eyes pore over the body, checking for any hints of lingering life. When none seem apparent, he finally stands with a satisfied grin on his face. He turns to face Shrike and Daz once more, the bloodied knife dangling in his hand.
He casually tosses it in their direction, where it skids across the floor before coming to a rest in front of her nose.
"I would've let you do the honors, Butcher, but in your current state I doubt you can even grip the blade."
Though her vision had been steadily graying, her rekindled fury makes her see red.
With a snarl, Shrike's unbroken arm darts forward to grab the bloodied knife. Her wrist is already snapping forward before Daz can stop her, and the blade is sent flying back Crocodile's way. It's more of a message than anything else, a release of this helpless frustration building up inside her. She doesn't exactly expect it to hit, knowing he can become incorporeal at will.
Yet it slashes him across his left forearm, right on the wrist where it connects to his hook.
He looks just as shocked as she does, eyes widening at the blood dripping down his arm, dying that golden hook red.
Shrike has little time to celebrate, though. Daz yanks her upwards, bending her back against his chest as his claws dig tightly into her throat.
But it doesn't matter. She no longer has the strength to keep herself lucid. The world around her steadily dims, the intricate details of things blurring into formless masses and grey shapes. Her body is freezing and burning all at once, and everything trembles in a mixture of terror and sickness.
With the last strength she has left, Shrike's body instinctively tries to save itself.
"H-hide... hide..." The whispers fall from her bloodied mouth with a mind of their own.
Useless as it is, the feeling of her Shroud settling over her feverish skin is comforting nonetheless; a blanket for the final sleep.
She manages to shoot Crocodile one more look, wanting to see him bleed a bit more before her body finally gives out. He's staring back, an expression on his face she hadn't expected.
Curiosity?
"Stand down Daz...this one is interesting..." He orders, eyes flicking between the blood running down his wrist and the bladed claw Daz has pressed to her throat. She barely feels the blades retract.
"It seems you have your own tricks up your sleeve..." Crocodile looks at Shrike quizzically, his expression tinged with a hint of awe. "How do you do that, I wonder? My eyes can't seem to focus on you."
He takes a few steps forward, moving to grab her chin. Those dark eyes pierce through the haze of hers as if searching for the answers she doesn't have the strength to vocalize.
Except she barely registers it, static buzzing in her ears as her senses fizzle out. Each breath feels impossible to take, chest tightening in a vice as the blood rattles in her throat. It grows fainter and fainter with each ragged inhale.
Her eyes slide shut for what she believed to be the last time, consciousness tumbling into the abyss.
Shrike awakes with a start, her body and sheets slick with sweat.
At some point, she'd fallen asleep while mulling over the events of the day, tumbling right into a nightmare.
'But why dream that of all things...'
It's possible that what happened this afternoon, what she'd learned, had sent her consciousness on a desperate quest to reason how she ended up in this position in the first place. So much so, that it tapped into the memories of where this all began. That one fateful evening over a full year ago...
Needless to say, they managed to save her. Crocodile dragged her broken, sickly body to his ship's doctor, a surprisingly warm and kind woman named Ellia. She somehow saved her, and she awoke a few days later strapped down in the medbay hooked up to IVs pumping her full of military-grade antibiotics and supplements.
Shrike groans and sits up. The bruises Daz dealt her earlier ache furiously, and she's sure her flesh is mottled grisly shades of purple and blue. The back of her legs where he swept them out from under her, her upper back and shoulders from how she landed, and, of course, the ragged mess of her knees... each site makes itself known as she stands and stretch.
'What time is it anyway?' She glances at the clock on her nightstand: 4 a.m.
'Great, might as well just stay up...'