Prodigal Daughter

Part Twelve: Overdose

[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

The aforementioned "bar on—fuck!" turned out to be a much more prosaic bar on Seventh, near the corner with Main. I was obscurely disappointed; part of me had been busy laying imaginary bets that the street actually sounded something like 'fuck'. Fucqua, or Fuchsia, or maybe even Phuket. But it was plain, boring old Seventh. Not that I would've laughed if it had turned out that way, but my faith in the absurdity of the world took a distinct hit.

Frankie stopped the car down the block a ways, and we got out to survey the target. I had my trusty Anaconda in its cross-body holster, while Frankie had his shotgun slung over his shoulder, under his coat. I'd found the wig hanging jauntily on a radio antenna, but no matter how much I looked for the hat, it had apparently soared off to wherever it was that odd socks and New Years' resolutions went to. It didn't matter; I'd get another hat.

The city, on the other hand, was going to shortly find itself bereft of any Skidmarks. Not that I thought anyone would complain. Some police precincts may even celebrate. Discreetly, of course. It wouldn't do to be caught being happy that one psychotic lunatic had disposed of another. The differences between myself and Skidmark, of course, were numerous. Hygiene, lack of a drug habit, teeth that weren't green, more than three working brain cells, a sense of villainous style, my choice in companions, and of course the fact that I hadn't used my powers to accidentally murder someone's mother.

If I'd had to use my powers to deliberately murder someone's mother, then sure. I'd put my hand right up for that. But as it happened, I hadn't. In fact, I hadn't murdered anyone (as yet) which meant I was far in advance of Skidmark as far as morality went. An unbiased observer might decide that the very act of planning his murder might cause a slump in my theoretical morality rating, but I honestly couldn't give a diseased sewer rat's left testicle about whether or not my actions were moral. I'd already been through the whole 'morality is a zero sum game' thing in my head, and decided I wanted nothing to do with it.

If someone fucks with me or mine, I kill them. That's the beginning and end of my morality.

Frankie and I skulked up the street, keeping to the shadows. Halfway there, I decided 'fuck it' and strode up the pavement like I owned it. My brief stint being hunted by the Nine notwithstanding, I had no special skills at being stealthy, and with Frankie at my side, trying to sneak actually drew more attention than just walking normally.

Besides, this was Merchants territory. If some drug-fucked loser looked out the window and saw a white-skinned green-haired girl and a big bald guy with a clown nose, there was a strong chance that he'd give his drug of choice an extremely dubious look instead of hauling out his phone and dropping a dime on us to Skidmark.

With that in mind, I marched along the sidewalk to get to the front of the bar, then cupped my hands around my eyes to peer in through the glass of the window. This was where the powder Riley Grace gave me came in handy. With my eyes treated by it, I could see the room in far more detail than if I'd been straining to make details out of the darkness at any other time.

"Looks shut," I said in a conversational tone to Frankie. Interesting trivia: whispering actually carries farther at night than ordinary voices, and is more noticeable. It's the hissing aspect. "Which puts him in the back or upstairs."

Frankie was a stolid, steady guy who probably hadn't even thought about leaving the Empire until I showed up, but he was taking to being my Number One Minion like a large, ugly well-armed duck to water. I wasn't quite sure if it was my habit of throwing money at him, the fact that I didn't fuck around, or his exalted placement in my two-person organisation. Whichever it was, he seemed positively eager to maintain our situation. "Upstairs, I'd say," he rumbled. "There'd be an office at the back, but no place to shoot up or sleep in any comfort."

Which was yet another point in favour of keeping Frankie on. That was something I wouldn't have known. "Okay, fine." I threw in a little giggle, just to ensure he hadn't forgotten he was working for me. "How'd you know that, anyway?"

With my enhanced vision, his shudder was easy to see, but his voice was steady when he replied. "Robbed the place once, back in the day. Might be a guard out the back, but Skidmark and his people will be upstairs." He paused thoughtfully. "We burning the drugs here, too?"

"Nope. We want people to be absolutely sure it's him." I waited until he turned his head questioningly toward me. "I'm gonna be in and out, five minutes. Then we go."

His brow wrinkled slightly, but he didn't question my statement. "Need a hand with the guard?"

"No, I—actually, yeah, why not?" While I could no doubt deal with anyone left on guard duty, it occurred to me that Frankie's talent for applied violence could be put to use making sure that nobody was going to raise the alarm if they had two guards. I'd still kill Skidmark either way, but the way I wanted to do it was ten times as creepy and horrifying—and thus that much more appealing to me—than just murdering him face to face.

We eased down the alley to the back of the bar. I took point, because I could see in the dark far better than Frankie could. I had my trusty iron bar out, instead of the knife. Bruises and broken bones were easier to survive than accidentally slashed arteries, after all.

(Yeah … 'accidentally'. We'll go with that.)

When I stuck my head around the corner, it turned out my caution had been warranted. Two Merchant goons (well, I might have been doing them a disservice by making a broad assumption that two guys wearing raggy clothing, smoking weed and drinking from a cheap bottle of booze were Merchants. But I don't think so) were slumped on the back steps of the bar.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed out the blue bubble as far as it would go. In this case, it covered them both nicely. Then I stepped around the corner of the bar. "Oh, hey, guys," I said with a cutesy little finger-wave that I'd copied off Emma. "Nice night, isn't it?"

They stared at me blearily, probably more affected by the booze and the weed than by my attitude-altering bubble. I just strolled right past the first one and approached the second one before they began to react.

My green hair and white skin weren't totally unusual; these were the Merchants, after all. Some of them had tattoos and piercings that I wouldn't have inflicted on my worst enemy. But the sight of my eyes, all the wrong colour and glowing to boot, must have finally tipped them off that something was seriously wrong on Planet Wasted.

"Hey," slurred the first one, starting up off his seat on the steps. He began to raise his arm to point at me. "You aren't—"

He didn't get any farther, because he was looking at me, which meant he wasn't looking at Frankie. Or rather, he wasn't looking in the right direction when Frankie came around the corner and picked him up, then pile-drove him into the ground. There was a distinct crack, and his neck took on a bend which made sure it didn't matter which way he was looking.

While the other guard was still goggling at me and Frankie, I swung the iron bar in a short arc which terminated on the side of his jaw. This time, the crack was from the guy's jawbone ceasing to be a single contiguous item; he flopped onto his side and took no further interest in the proceedings.

I paused, waiting to see if the scuffle had aroused any attention from upstairs. Nothing of any note happened; not even a neighbour yelling out to keep the noise down. Gotta love Brockton Bay. Nobody hears nothin'.

"Okay," I said quietly. "Wait here. I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Want me to come up?" he asked, purely as a matter of form. He didn't sound overly worried for my well-being. If I had to guess, he was more interested in seeing exactly what I had intended for Skidmark.

"Nope, stay here." Once I gave the order, I knew he'd comply. He was dependable like that. It might've helped that he was the single most well-paid minion in Brockton Bay.

"Sure thing." He moved into the shadows and settled down to wait, shotgun in his capable hands. I knew full-well that he was going to guard those steps far better than the Merchants ever had.

The door was locked, but a quick check through pockets got me a key. I slid it into the lock, and it turned; albeit reluctantly. Rolling my eyes, I tut-tutted in mild exasperation. Would it kill them to oil this thing occasionally?

Once I had the door unlocked, I carefully opened it, then prowled inside, iron bar at the ready. It didn't take long to locate the stairs and I went up them, pausing at each creak to listen for movement above.

No such movement happened. Halfway up the stairs, I glanced around, then retrieved two items from my pockets and tipped a little of the contents of one into the other. Then I put the first item back in my pocket and shook the second one up so that it was well and truly mixed together.

Once I was ready in that regard, I went the rest of the way up the stairs and started looking for Skidmark. This was harder than it would originally have seemed, even with my enhanced night vision, because I was constantly distracted by the smell. It seemed to consist partly of the rank odour of a place that was never cleaned, overlaid by the stench of unwashed humanity, with an extra added edge of drugs exuding from their pores.

By the time I found the person I figured was Skidmark—big black guy lying tangled on the only mattress in the place with a white girl—I was about ready to kill him just for making me endure the smell for so long. But I didn't beat him to death and I didn't shove every drug in the room down his throat, much as he richly deserved either fate. No, I had something more fitting in mind for him.

Using a random plastic bag I found on the floor, I went around methodically picking up everything on the small table beside the mattress, except for the grimy mirror. It, and the razor blade lying next to it, I left exactly where they were. Beside it, I put down the eight-ball I'd gotten from the Merchant dealer, complete with the little tiny extra I'd added to it. The bag full of drugs, I stashed behind a busted chair so he wouldn't see it immediately. The eight-ounce baggie, on the other hand, would be immediately visible when he woke up.

With that out of the way, I prowled around, looking for any money they had on hand. Frankie had definitely earned himself a bonus tonight, and I didn't want him thinking I was a stingy boss. There were a couple of rolls of cash in Skidmark's discarded clothing, so I took those. Each of them was easily worth a few hundred, maybe a thousand. If Frankie had any sense, he'd disinfect the money before using it; I had no doubt the ambient aroma had impressed itself on the cash. As it was, I was going to have to thoroughly launder the coat and the wig before I used them again.

Slipping downstairs again, I let myself out the back door, then relocked it. Frankie emerged from the shadows, shotgun ready in his hands but pointed at the ground. "Everything go okay?" he asked. "I didn't hear anything."

"Everything went fine," I said. "Here. Bonus." I tossed him the rolls of cash, and he caught them out of the air. "Let's go."

We started back down the alley alongside the bar. "So, you offed that druggie asshole?" asked Frankie quietly.

"Nope. Never laid a hand on him." Without turning my head, I kept talking. "He's alive right now, but he'll be dead in eight hours or less. By tomorrow night, everyone will know it was me."

"Damn, that's hardcore." His voice held deep respect. "How you gonna do that, boss?"

I giggled, just for fun. "Now, now. Girl's gotta keep some secrets." Lifting my arm, I sniffed myself. "Fun's over for tonight, though. I desperately need a shower."

"You got it, boss."

Late the Next Morning

Adam Mustain woke up with a typical post-binge migraine. Pushing Sherrel aside, he got to his feet and stumbled off to the bathroom where he pulled down his Y-fronts and let go in a noisy splash. The toilet refused to flush when he'd finished, but that didn't surprise him. It hadn't worked since Squealer had partially disassembled it to get parts for her latest … whatever the fuck it was.

When he left the bathroom, Sherrel was stirring. Looking around with her usual bleary-eyed lack of comprehension, she sat up when she saw the one baggie left on the drug table. Where the rest of the shit had gone, Adam had no idea. They'd gotten so fuckin' wasted last night, he wouldn't have been surprised if someone had shoved it up their ass.

That wasn't to say he was gonna give her dibs on the blow. He was the leader of the Merchants, which meant he had first claim on any nose candy by default. Flicking out a skid-field, he whipped the baggie off the table, just before she got her meat-hooks on it.

"Hey!" she yelled, looking upset and reaching for it again. "That was mine!"

"Suck my dick." He put out two fields next; one moved her back, and the other pulled the baggie toward him. With it came a crusty sock, two Fugly Bob's bags, a beer can and half a dozen rat turds. Brushing the rest of the shit aside, he plucked the eight-ball off the floor. "Mine now."

Heading over to the table, he squatted down and tipped the white powder out on to the mirror. Squinting, he wondered why it looked a little bit purple, then shrugged. Between the shit in his eyes and the crappy light in the room, it could've been green with red polka dots and he still wouldn't care.

With moves that had been perfected by years of practice, he used the razor to shape the powder into several lines. Throwing out a skid-field, he pulled his clothing to him and went through the pockets for his cash. Nothing turned up, which made him frown. "Okay, which knob-gobbler lifted my stash?"

"I didn't do it," Squealer whined, sniffling and wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "Come on, can I have some?"

"Need a straw," he said. "Where's my cash? Need something to roll up, here."

"I dunno." Sherrel dug into her bra and located a grimy, crumpled five. "Will this do?"

"Gimme that." Adam snatched it out of her hand and made a tube out of it. Fitting the makeshift straw into his right nostril, he blocked his left nostril and hoovered up the first line. The tingle as it hit the back of his nose made him roll his eyes up in sheer pleasure. "Fuck, this is amazing shit. Who'd we get this from?"

As he sat down, fireworks still going off in his brain, he felt Sherrel taking the five from him and kneeling beside the table. "Whoa, fuck, man," he burbled, a broad grin stretching his lips. "I have got to get more of this shit. It's a total headspin."

"Fuck, shit, yeah," Sherrel giggled. Adam was vaguely aware that she'd flopped over on to her back. "This is the best yet. We need to double the price on this shit. They'll be climbing over their grandmas to buy it."

The tingling continued, getting more and more intense. Adam couldn't stop smiling. He giggled a little. "Double? We'll fuckin' triple it. Quad … quad … fuckin' four times. Five times."

Sherrel started giggling too, sounding hysterical. Mush was chuckling wetly in the background. Adam found the high was so hard that he couldn't really see anymore. There was a coppery taste in the back of his throat. Something wet and warm was rolling down his face. The tingling was making his head pound. His smile was so wide it was starting to make his face hurt.

The first seizure caught him by surprise. He jolted, his muscles screaming and locked, but all he was able to do was gurgle through the blood in his throat, his cheeks aching from the unchanging smile.

His fingers clawed, he scrabbled at the filthy floorboards, gouging up splinters. Muscles tensed, his heels drummed against the floor.

He couldn't breathe. An incipient giggle couldn't get out of his throat.

As the consciousness faded from his brain, he still couldn't figure out what was happening.

Why the fuck am I smiling? It's not that fuckin' funny.

And then there was nothing.

End of Part Twelve