"You piece of shit!"

Rebecca Lee fell backwards out the front door of her apartment building. Like all apartment buildings in a ghetto it was run down, smelled terrible, and had a drunk man raging inside them.

"Come back when you've got some actual booze brat!" Rebecca then received a beer bottle to the head which pinged unceremoniously off her head and bounced into the street. A door was slammed and once again Rebecca was alone on the streets of New York. She laid there in the cigarette bud laiden street contemplating life for almost a minute before slowly rising to her feet.

She reached for her belt, pulling out a gun and staring at it with cold strained eyes. Rebecca had gotten it off a dealer for cheap yesterday. Some sort of revolver. The model didn't matter too much, just that it worked.

For the briefest moment she considered running back in there with the thing, but as soon as the thought crossed her mind an immense fear rocked through her body. Rebecca shook, her revolver jittering slightly. There was no way it would work, and if she didn't get her father more alcohol then she was screwed. A night being used as a punching bag was all but assured, not to mention the lack of food and water. Not that such a thing wasn't going to happen anyways. Her father had just lost his job. They had no money. The man had decided to drink it all away again.

Rebbeca pocketed her revolver and started moving down the sidewalk. She sobbed silently and with enough practice not to attract attention from the residents of Chinatown. No one here would help her. Not even the police. And because of that and the money shortage Rebecca only had one option left.

There was a bar not too far down the street. She knew the name once but had forgotten and didn't bother with names now. It was a cheap place full of scum like her. There was no plan on how Rebecca would rob it, only that she would.

Resigning to the fact there was no other choice Rebecca entered the alleyway bordering the targeted establishment and surveyed it. Just trash, polluted air, a few rats, and most importantly no people. Luckily a backdoor did exist and she pushed herself up against it to listen. Laughter, a bit of shouting, the place was open alright, and from the sound of it probably full of patrons. Rebecca grasped the handle of the doorway and turned it. Unlocked.

She froze and stood, unable to pull on the grimy handle and enter. Something in the back of her mind was screaming at her about cops, about laws, about what a gun could do. It was normally dull, but right at that moment it became as loud as a thunderstorm. There was no return, however. Rebecca swung the door open and thrust her gun into the room beyond.

It was some sort of storage room stacked with crates of bottles containing several dozen varieties of drink, the only thing lighting it a dim flickering lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. There was a clear throughway leading up to a door on the other end, probably for taking out trash. Rebecca didn't give it much thought. All she really knew right now was that she might get away with this without using her gun.

Grabbing one of the empty crates Rebecca got to work throwing as much bottled liquid as she could carry into it. Small, large, brown, red, square, round, she resolved to carry a little of everything. Perhaps that would please her father more and keep his hand away a bit longer. Or maybe it would piss him off more not having enough of what he wanted.

Her anxiety built as she moved towards the far end of the room towards the door. Just as she set the crate down Rebecca heard shouting coming from the next room. A bottle was dropped and shattered on the ground, then there was a gunshot followed by several more. Rebecca lept back as the door was blown open by several gunshots to the body and handle. Seering bright yellow light flooded her vision, but as her eyes quickly adjusted, Rebecca Lee saw clearly for the first time in a long long decade.

Infront of her beyond a shot up bar counter riddled with glass and spilt alcohol, several men wearing custom tailored suits were fighting to the death. One man, bald with a large Eagle tattoo on his neck, slid to a stop on top of the counter and rolled to stand on the opposite side of it. Taking a moment to recover from whatever blow had befallen him the man then pulled out a pistol, only to be beset upon by his enemy.

Another man jumped into view and grabbed the bald man's forearm, forcing it away from him as the pistol took a few shots. The newcomer used his other hand to grab a #2 pencil from the counter and quickly lodged the pointy end into the bald man's neck. The pencil made an audible pop as it was ripped from the man's flesh. It must have hit something vital because the bald man collapsed to his knees, his neck spewing large amounts of blood in time with the pumps of his slowing heart, then fell to the ground out of sight.

The one who murdered him didn't take the time to see that, however, and quickly batted away another pistol that had just been thrust into his face from the other direction. It was a blur of motion, but Rebecca was pretty sure the pencil was then thrust into the next man's arm, jabbed through his cheek, then speared through his chest. The second man barely had time to cry out before the pencil was dislodged and blood spurted out of the wound in his heart.

A third man ran up behind the pencil wielder holding a wooden chair above his head. The chair was brought down but missed it's nimble target and shattered against the counter, spraying wooden chunks and dust all over it's once crystal clear surface. The chair man was dispatched with shocking efficiency as the momentum of his swing was used by his opponent to smash his head against the counter. Waiting for him on that counter was the deadly point of the #2 pencil which embedded it's full length into his skull. The man responsible for three deaths at the hands of a pencil stopped, still holding the back of his most recent victim's head. Then, in a move that made her flinch, his eyes snapped to look up at Rebecca.

All he must have seen was a small purple-haired kid dressed in torn and dirty clothing cowering in a doorway. But what she saw petrified her.

The man was somewhere in his early twenties. White skin, clean shaven, and slicked back black hair. His black suit was unbuttoned revealing a white shirt and shiny obsidian tie stained with blood that was not his own. But his eyes. His eyes were like glass, cold and calculating. There was no tiredness, no strain, no weakness in them. Only the past and future deaths of a thousand people. He looked as if he was considering killing Rebecca as well, and she was certain the revolver in her hand wasn't helping her case. She could only keep still for in her very being she knew that if she made a move this murderer would end her without a second thought.

"John!" The shocked voice of some russian mobster called out. The gunshots had stopped. "We're leaving!"

"Right…" The man spoke flatly, betraying no emotion. He pulled a set of vaguely triangular Ray Ban sunglasses from his suit and slid them over his eyes without breaking eye contact. Then he turned and was gone.

Rebecca finally breathed, her trance broken. The sound of police sirens drawing close finally met her ears. The smell of blood and gunpowder registered in her nose. The sight of the body filled room in front of her came into focus. She bolted.

Leaving the crate behind Rebecca ran as fast as her legs could carry her, which turned out to be too fast. She slammed into the far end of the room then tripped through the doorway, hitting the wet pavement hard. It was raining. She hadn't noticed before.

The sound of her revolver clattering to the ground could be heard and Rebecca caught a glimpse of it sliding under a dumpster. Red and blue lights reflected off the puddles around her and she looked up to see two police officers rushing towards her. Rebecca tried to run but by the time she was on her feet they had already descended, tackling her to the ground.

"Get off me shitlord!" She screamed.

"What's that? I think I hear the sound of resisting arrest!" One of them said with a disgusting slimy tone.

"We ain't about to cross the mob. Let's just take her instead. Keep up appearances. Make it look like we did something." The other smiled.

"Yeah… I got some ideas. Let's have a bit of fun back at the station." The first one smiled wider, his eyes full of lust.

Rebecca's eyes widened in horror. "No! Stop!" She started screaming and kicking but the familiar feeling of a fist in her face stopped her. Rebecca went limp out of instinct, then continued struggling until both cops kicked her in the gut and tossed her against the wall, laughing as they slid cuffs around her wrists. The police officers dragged her off to their car and what came next Rebecca attempted to block from her memory for the rest of her life.

The police car drove back to Chinatown the next morning and dumped Rebecca out. She cried, curled up into a ball on the curb. Many people passed, but no one said anything or even stopped. After what could have been anywhere from five minutes to an hour Rebecca finally rose.

She was right next to the bar, a familiar alleyway looming before her. On the other end of the alley the sun was rising shining a brilliant light between the buildings and casting a hue of reds, oranges, and purples through the dispersing clouds. Illuminated by this were two rats in the seemingly darker alley, one eating the weaker rat's twitching lifeless body.

Rebecca walked over, the alive rat scurrying away, and looked under the dumpster. Sure enough the revolver was still there. Retrieving it she began the long march home, her head filled with thoughts of the beating she was going to receive for failing her task. At this point, however, she would rather accept the beating than try to steal again.

She solemnly opened the door to her apartment, walked up a flight up stairs, and arrived in the living room. It was a tiny living space full of garbage and dirt. A refrigerator, a TV, and two beds at the far end consisted of the first room. The bathroom was the second. There was no third.

To Rebecca's surprise there was a fresh crate of beer sitting near the fridge, lazily thrown there in a drunken haze. Her father had gotten drunk without her help. Where had he even found the money to get it?

The man himself was laying in his bed which was bordered by several empty bottles. An open window next to him blew in a gentle breeze.

"Reb. That you?" He asked in a deep gravelly voice.

She paused for a moment, then stepped forward. "Yeah…"

"Fucking cunt. Where were you last night?!" He growled, raising his voice.

"I… I was arrested." Rebecca started to cry again. "They didn't even know I did anything. They just… Took me. B-back to their station. Into a cell… And just… Raped me. Over and over…"

Her father exhaled loudly. "Stupid. Well while you're here, get me another drink."

"What?" Rebecca looked up, a lightning bolt jolting through her body.

"I said get me another beer!" Her father yelled.

Rebecca stared. She knew the man was terrible and unloving, but not even that got an ounce of sympathy from him?

Slowly, carefully, Rebecca Lee came to a realization. The man she called her father, a man she had feared above all, didn't scare her anymore. He was just lying there, shielding his tired hungover eyes from the sun. Compared to the man back in the bar, John, her father was pathetic. Sad. Vulnerable. All she felt now was anger. Seething relentless anger. All this time… Why did he even keep her around? Just to torture her? Beat her for hours on end over the smallest things because he could? Control every moment of her life for beer?

Rebecca walked up to her bed, grabbing her pillow.

"Reb… Get me a drink you little bi-" Rebecca slammed the pillow down onto her father's face then rammed the end of her revolver down onto it. Feathers exploded from the pillow as she pulled the trigger, some flying into the room, others out the open window.

"GO TO HELL!" She yelled at the top of her lungs.

Then, after watching blood seep onto the bed, Revy backed up and let go of the revolver. She stared at her handiwork regretting that she hadn't done this sooner. As the feathers from her makeshift silencer tumbled through the wind into the sky, Revy reflected. For the first time in her life she felt free.