She used to dance.
The greatest joy she can remember were those cold winter's nights where she and her siblings used to sing and dance together in the hearth room. The warmth, the mirth, the connectedness.
How rare, how fleeting.
Her eldest brother had been the first to shatter her dream.
"Victoria doesn't need artists and dancers." he sneered down at her. His littlest sister, wreathed in a flowery dress, cowering in his shadow.
She probably sickened him.
"She needs the strong."
He had thrown a sword at her feet– demanded that she pick it up. When she couldn't, he said nothing, but his eyes spoke tenfold.
Shae was five when she first touched a blade, or rather, when a blade first touched her. She can't remember when it all began, but by Primary school she was no longer afraid of them. The person behind the blade, certainly, but the blade itself? She knew the steel, what it was capable of, what she could accomplish with it.
She loathed the fact she had her eldest brother to thank for anything.
She loathed that she learned to survive through his cruel tutelage.
She loathed the hatred instilled into her so young.
She loathed him.
—Misanthrope—
Full-tilt sprint, ignoring the aches in her feet and the pangs of her stomach. She skids under the security barrier before slipping into the open manhole. The shouts get louder, start to echo down the concrete of the shaft, but by then she's already in the dark. Unless they had Arts to light up the way or seek her out, she'd be lost in the Underground before they even reached the bottom of the ladder.
Not that Shae went all the way down to the catwalks. No, she slipped herself into a crawlspace between the maintenance layer and the Underground proper. She could make it to Westminster this way, but has to head streetside at some point. Jessel House was neutral turf, so as long as she made it to the Vaux overpass, she would be in the clear.
Ironically she always emerged from the shafts feeling cleaner than when she entered. Probably had something to do with how tight the fit is– the occasional weld or piping joint helping scrape some of the grime off her skin, or just take some of the skin altogether. Pops out the other end at the abandoned stretch of the old Red Line. Still pitch black, still going largely by feel as she drags her worn, chewed up fingertips across the smoothest bit of the concrete; where the line had been painted on. Follows it to the junction, then she has to hop rails, leaving the familiar comfort of that single smooth touch to step blind in the dark.
She used to fear the dark, too.
She used to fear a great many things.
Her heart punches in her chest as she takes those unknown steps with an outstretched hand. Unknown, but not uncertain- she knows that there will be a wall eventually, the only question being what sort of things lurk around her feet. No chittering, no scraping or dragging, not even the movements of stale air as she shuffles her way forward until her hand touches cold concrete. She feels around until fingertips catch smooth paint. Halfway up the chest- the Blue Line tunnel.
Making her way in the dark is all mechanical by this point, the only thing that'd stop her navigation would be if she stumbled over something… or someone. The tunnels were still in use, and never by the most upstanding citizens. If others were an occasional danger, the more constant one would be the steam lines. Pipes that ran all through Londinium's guts; some ancient, some new, all having the potential to scald or burn if one were to run into a leaking vein. The tell-tale sign was the subtle hiss, a raise in the temperature, a moisture to the air. Originium too, could always tell if there was Originium in the air by the smell, but also by the sense of wrongness that tended to linger.
No unseen perils today though, as far as she was aware. Ignorance truly is a bliss when your only real concerns are where your next meal is coming from. She checks the pouch on her hip, ensuring that the goods are still there. Still has the weight, nothing lost during the run or the squeeze. She'd take the Blue Line all the way to the light– specifically to the part of the line that is still in use. Crawling through a gap in the fence that normally cordoned off the area, she quickly slips through a busted door and into the maintenance halls. The part she hated came next, having to cross the actual populated areas, where regular folk marched day-in-day-out to ride the Tubes. Always felt like there were eyes on her, probably because there was, but looking and smelling like a vagrant would keep most people away.
Get streetside, get to Jessel's, get paid. Simple as.
Should be, at least. She gets to about Vaux Underpass, the "under development" tracts of lots. Been "under development" for quite a bit of time, those have. Abandoned construction projects, concrete, rocks and dirt, anything and everything of value torn out long ago. Places that were close to the Underground, places where people like her could stay out of the light.
Tents, refuse, camps of others just like her, and because they are just like her, she knows to be on edge the entire time she passes through. No gang controlled it, yet; not profitable, just a good place to pick up gullible ash and trash for quick burner jobs.
Like nicking a few Arts units, for example.
Also a place to find… less scrupulous means of entertainment. In this case, a Forte she's seen frequenting the place, comes slumming once more. Big guy, wearing black leathers of a street gang from the East End, but she doesn't know their name. Doing the rounds probably, looking for a quick and easy lay.
So why the fuck does he notice her of all people? She's not flaunting anything under a tattered gray poncho, and with her hood up, anyone would be hard pressed to tell she was even a woman. Leave it to some bull-head hopped up on his own machismo to sniff a lady out. He's in her way the moment he makes eye contact with her.
"Hey you, sheila." He sleazily sidles up with a Rim Bilton accent, motioning with a finger for her to come closer. "You'll make a good penny for an hour. Easy money- just gotta lie there."
"Fuck off, prick. Ain't got the time or patience." She shoves past, trying to make for the gate out to Buck street, but the Forte pushes back. Even if she were in her prime back at school, she'd have a hard time moving the brick-shithouse, but a half-starved shadow of her former self? No, not a chance, but at least she's gaunt and quick, can try and slip by…
But he grabs her tattered poncho as she tries to duck by again, rips it from her as he whips her around and sends her to the ground.
"Seen you before, knew you got fight in ya. And wouldn't you lookit, ain't you a piece?" The Rim Bilton vagabond whistles, looking her up and down as if she were just another bit of meat. Poor fitting clothes aside, she's dirty, scraped up, nowhere the rugged beauty she always thought herself to have been- but this sure as hell wasn't the kind of compliment she was looking for.
Fingers digging into the dirt as that bit of her whispers its virulent influence. Her hands tremble as she pushes herself up from the ground. The Forte's licking his lips, maybe thinking that her shuddering is out of fear– of supplication, but Shae brushes her oily, dirty ashen bangs from her eyes, glaring ice-cold daggers, letting this shitheel know she's no meek street girl.
"Fuckin' nobhead. Don't make yourself regret what you're about to do." She growls, but it's a warning that's met with a cruel laugh.
His fucking funeral.
"C'mere, slag-" The Forte man grabs her by the arm, tries to wrench her over to him. Bastard even has the gall to try and grope her tits like she's just going to let him.
And he gets an eyeful of dirt and broken glass for his troubles.
"Bitch!" He roars, using his hold on her to try and throw Shae to the ground, but the joke is on him, because she's got his arm now. Swift as in her prime, she's using that momentum he's given up to get behind him, ready to lock it up at the joint. Git knows what she's up to, tries to pivot out while swinging back at her, and that's when she stomps out the back of his ankle. A howl of pain, a bit of the leg buckling from the shock and pain-
"I'll fuck you up." Shae snarls. Deep, guttural, filled with something that she's always tried to keep a lid on; but right here, right now, she needs it. It drives her to attack his ankles, his knees, to bring him to the ground in a flurry of furious punches and elbows to the back of the head. He catches her with one or two good face-shots, makes her see stars, brings forth the warm crimson from her nose… but she just cackles through it, her fists answering his skull blow-for-blow as she straddles him to the ground. Her blood splatters the leathers on his back, but there's way more of his soaking in the dirt.
"I'll make you a fucken deader, mate!"
Her howl echoes through the underpass, and the cracking of bone impacting bone punctuates each heaving breath she takes. This thrashing grows weaker, the attempts to throw her off of his massive frame coming to a rumbling stop, and his fury peters out when brought before hers.
"Ghh… P-pleez… st-st-st…hhhhhh-"
Please?
Please?
PLEASE?
Shae grabs the git by his shit-greased attempt at a hairdo, yanking his head back so that his dirt-laden gasps rasp out.
"Maybe I should have said please, and you'd have stopped?" She hisses venomously.
And the gits sobs.
The moment when she reaches for the chunk of concrete, he fucking sobs for his mother. She almost stops. Almost hesitates when her fingers close around the cold, rough-hewn edges of man-made stone. But he hurt her- probably hurt plenty of people, probably would keep hurting people. So she makes damn sure he wouldn't ever again.
When she brings the brick down, no one gives a shit.
When the body spasms and goes limp, there's not a single damn person who turns to look.
It's a moment of intimacy that this deader wanted, just not the way he imagined it.
Now neither of them is feeling pleasure right now.
The crimson painted concrete slips from her hand, but she sits there atop the body, panting as that loathing inside her subsides with each gulp of air. Adrenaline's still pumping though, gives her the strength to stand up despite the coming aches. Spits the blood from her mouth, checks her jaw, her teeth– nothing missing, nothing broken.
"Fuckin' told him." She seethes, looking upon her handiwork with a growing disdain. Who is she even talking to, though? Who is she trying to justify it to? She wipes her hands on the back of his jacket before rummaging through his pockets. A few pound notes, some condoms, receipts, a pack of hankies, pleasure pills, a boot-shiv…
She's not incredibly thorough about it, knows anything of value will be picked clean and the poor fuck hucked into an incinerator by sun-up. Loots what she needs before taking the tissues, hissing in pain as she shoves them into her tenderized nose for the bleeding. Looking at her handiwork though, the chunky paint stain in the dirt… and doesn't feel a damn thing about it. Probably something broken in her noggin, some fucking knife twisted in the brain, but it's kept her alive so far, right?
She's got a damn job to finish.
Jessel's isn't that far away, and as long as she covers up again, jams her hands in her pockets, no one on the street notices the blood on her. Those that did wouldn't have the stones to call the Bobbies 'til she was long gone, anyways. Slipping into the side alley, she makes her way to the back of the apartment complex. It's a tight little passage, and yet there's two bruisers sitting at a small ratty table playing cards. First one notices her, reaching for a cudgel dangling from his hip.
"Turnin' in. Nicking job." Shae grunts through the aches and pains, holding up the bag of ill-gotten goods. Pulls the hood of her poncho down more though, hides herself in the shadows of this tenebrous place.
"What room?" One of the bruisers, a Vouivre woman, questions with that telltale growl. Wrong answer meant concussion at best.
"A-zero-nine-three. Red's."
The guard clicks her tongue before motioning for Shae to stand up straight for a pat down before mumbling something into a boxy little handheld communicator. She does them a favour by tossing her new boot knife on their card game before opening up her poncho enough to show she's nothing much but rags and bones. Neither seems to notice that the dark, cracking layer on her skin is blood when they wave her through.
When she gets into Red's though, that's the first thing the Vulpo woman notices. The fence looks at Shae's hands when she drops the bag onto the kitchen table.
"Thought you was told to keep it clean, wazzock."
"Wasn't the job." Shae growls, feeling that bit come back up to the surface. Manages to keep down the urge to lunge across the table and slam the mingebag's face into the wood. "A nutter tried to jump me on my way back. Made him regret it."
The Vulpo regards her words before motioning for her to take her hood off. Again, Shae has to bite back the urge to snap the hand that's about to feed her– that had to come after she got the silver. The hood drops though, and Red whistles appreciatively.
"Damn, they got a piece of you." The Vulpo woman grins a mouth full of daggers at Shae.
"And paid for it. Speaking of-" Shae slams her bloodied fist on the table, letting that tension show through how white-knuckled she is… before relaxing it. Open palm, the ask clear as she slides the Arts units across the table.
Red thankfully doesn't say anything else, settling for inspecting the units that Shae had nicked. Each one would be worth a couple hundred– some of the gangs had been dipping into Arts lately, a new fad fueling the recent crime wave in Central and Westminster.
"These are a little hot." Red offhandedly mentions, and Shae knows the game the damn grifter is playing.
"Where else you gonna get an Arts unit 'sides from a Bobbie or an Institute student, eh?" Shae says, containing the growl. Silvers still weren't in her hand yet, still had to play nice.
"Pawn shop? Ganger? I hear the Dead Rabbits been playing with magic." Red offers up in an attempt to downsell.
"Shit second rate units, Originium ready to burst maybe. Institute kids have noble money, get the finer things."
The shade slides her the bounty- a handful of sterling. Barely enough to survive the next week or two. A fucking tiny fraction of what those things were worth. She doesn't go for the silver on the table yet; she touches it, the deal's done, no chance to play hard.
"I should just start stealing food if this is all you're gonna pay me." Shae lets her frustrations rumble up.
"Then why don't you?" comes the callous response.
Shae grits her teeth, fingernails drumming against the wood. Red leans back in her chair, quite obviously near the same handheld the ones out front had.
"If you're going to pay like sheit on these kinda jobs–"
"Go to the gangers if you want higher pay. I've got a business to run here, and part of that business is giving the hands the appropriate cut."
Just the mention of selling what was left of her honour out to one of the many street gangs of Londinium… had Shae on her feet at once, chair falling back behind her. Fangs bared, a snarl in her throat, knuckles pressed into the table so hard it creaks beneath Shae's . Red reaches for the communicator, holding her finger over the button as a dare.
"No better than the fucking scavs." she hisses, but Red doesn't even blink.
"Take the silver and walk out." The Vulpo fence warns. The two stare at one another, but only one has their fangs bared in the open.
Shae… blinks first, grabbing the mix of coin and paper and shoving it into her boot.
"Fucking piker." Shae snarls before slamming the door shut behind her. She stands there seething for a moment, stewing in the rancor and anger, the adrenaline spike hitting her in the gut hard enough that the world stops for an instant. The thump of her heart in her ears followed by an electric hiss.
She can hear Red talking into the communicator, hears what the slag is saying to her muscle at the door. Wants them to send a warning to Shae, rough her up, make her grateful for the pittance she earned from Red's philanthropy.
Each step she takes to the backdoor is more charged than the last to the point where when she reaches the door, she's wound up like an industrial spring. Both the bruisers are standing when she walks back into the alley, one on either side.
"Problem, puppets?" she says through clenched teeth and pursed lips. If they knew what was good for them, they'd heed the warning signs. Hackles raised, fists clenched tight, body buzzing with an unsettling energy, all the hallmarks of a cornered beast ready to fight.
"Should be a little more grateful next time, scav." The Vouivre cracks her knuckles, stepping in.
First mistake, not being ready to fucking brawl when threatening.
The tension in Shae explodes outward, fist catching the Vouivre in the side of the jaw and sending her reeling into the bricks. Other git jumps her then, tries to grab her, but Shae throws herself back into them, takes them off balance. He gets the honour of kissing the back of her tremendously thick skull.
A savagery bursts out of her then. A thrashing, gnashing, misanthropic thing exploding free from her skin. Every bit of blood she spills –both theirs and hers– enervates it, the adrenaline fueling the madness as she goes right and proper feral there in the alley. The scuffle attracts attention though, has more muscle-heads from the other ne'er-do-wells pouring out to contain the wild beast loose in their alleyway.
She gets five of them before she's brought to the ground. Tackled to the piss-stained concrete, fists battering at her head and boots to her sides, she roars in defiance as they beat the fight out of her. Things break inside her, but then again, things have been broken inside her for longer than she's ever cared to admit. At least it'll be over soon with a knife-point or bolt in the back– the shit of Londinium doing what Wellington's men couldn't ever accomplish.
And she laughs.
She fucking cackles.
The last thing Shae Thera Wesslan will accomplish with her life was to haunt these poor fucking sods, to be that little fear in the backs of their minds whenever they thought that they were hard. Plant the doubt that there's always someone out there that's harder, that's a right fucking nutter to laugh all the way to their death.
Or, at least that's what she demanded of them.
But Shae's never gotten what she's wanted in life so far, so why would the damn Gods let her have that now? Broken, bloodied, bested, she's dragged up by both arms, hair yanked back so that she's forced to raise her head. The world's tinted crimson– blood in her eyes or a burst vessel, but not blurred enough that she can't make out Red and a well-dressed man beside her.
They say something to each other– to her, but she can't hear past the keening from deep inside her rattled skull. She grins at them though, licking the warm iron from her lips. The suit reaches into the breast pocket of his coat and dexterously flicks out a blade.
Shae's not afraid though, hasn't been afraid of a blade since she was a little girl.
Suit's a Feline, not quite a noble from how he presents himself, but it makes Shae want to spit at him all the same. Can't muster the breaths though, the numbness is gone and left only pain to run havoc in her nerves. He steps in close, intimately close, his face beside Shae's. Must be a nutter too if he's gonna hug the one he's about to stick a knife between the ribs of. She tries to say as much, but the suit grabs her by the hair, put his lips to her ears so that she can fucking hear through the concussion.
"A beast like you has got value. Red's told me you're looking for money, yeah?"
Shae musters a snarl, lays into the "beast" bit of her when all other fires are fading fast. That bit of defiance though, that display of genuine malice makes the suit chuckle as he pulls back to look Shae up and down, tapping the tip of his blade against her breast.
It's that look that she's always loathed.
Appraisal, like Shae's worth something.
She bares her fangs at him, lunging for his knife-point, wanting to feel it sink in as she gets her fingers around his throat-
Except her legs are like gelatine, unable to hold the weight of her hatred. Her struggles amuse him, has him turning to Red with a smirk on his lips and a glint in his eyes.
"She's a good find, Red. I think we'll call her… hmm…"
That look again, that dehumanising look.
Stop looking at her like that.
Stop looking at it like that.
Stop. Looking.
It tries to lunge again, snarling through the pain. Makes the two holding her up have to pull back and put her into a restraint. The suit claps his hands just then though, an epiphany striking him right there in the face of the beast that is trying to kill him.
"There! There it is." He points, voice clear enough for even it to comprehend, "Her ring name should be Fangs."