It was a nightclub. Of course it was a goddamn nightclub.

Ophilia had known from the second her father had given her the address, but knowing that fact hadn’t made this situation any less aggravating. She despised these sorts of establishments; they dug up all kinds of memories that she’d worked extremely hard to bury. Her father knew this well enough.

The club took up the bottom two stories of a four-story building – dressed in neon lights and looming over the street like some kind of earthbound sun. Even from here, all the way across the street, Ophilia could feel the thrum of the bass, setting her teeth on edge.

To distract herself, Ophilia locked her eyes onto the glowing neon sign, which brightly proclaimed the club’s name as “Vortex.” The night was still young – in its infancy even – and the club was just now starting to thump itself to life.

Without letting herself think of anything in particular, Ophilia started across the street with a determined stride. Cars skidded to a stop and horns honked at her, but she ignored them all; she owned these streets. She strolled defiantly past the growing line of partygoers, ravers, and fiends as if she owned this club too. She didn’t listen to the muttered complaints, knowing no one had the guts to step up and say anything straight to her face. One look told them that anyone dumb enough to step up to her would discover new definitions of pain. Ophilia was in a foul mood; she was looking for a scrap.

The bouncer at the door took one look at her and knew. Ophilia guessed that either he’d been warned she was coming – her father had doubtless sent word ahead – or he was a long-time local who had heard the rumors about her. Much more than likely, though, was that he just wasn’t blind.

Ophilia’s bad mood had reached her eyes by now and had set them ablaze. She saw the thoughts in his eyes and the expressions on his face, guarded though they were: curiosity, glossed over with a layer of defensiveness, and lightly seasoned with a dusting of fear.

From several feet away, the muted thump of the music made her blood boil. It was a sensation that she’d rather not feel, and it only served to make her surlier.

Once she reached the bouncer, she stopped – her hands in her pockets – and waited. The man continued to stare at her, and she continued to wait until he spoke, caved, or got out of her way. Evidently, he caved, looking away from her stare, aiming his eyes somewhere over her shoulder. Oh yes, she thought with a mental grin, certainly more than a dusting.

“Is your boss here?” Ophilia asked, beginning to grow tired of this cat-and-mouse game. She noted a tightening of the man’s jaw before he stepped aside for her. It was a silent ‘yes.’

Ophilia tipped her hat to him as she strode into the Vortex.

The music struck her like a jackhammer to the skull. The fast rhythm of E.D.M. and the bass-drops of dubstep gave Ophilia an instant headache. The strobe lights didn’t exactly improve matters.

Despite the relative freshness of the night, the dance floor was already teeming with bodies that broiled and churned like the ocean’s waves. The air smelled of the sweat, smoke, and the lingering scent of alcohol.

At least, Ophilia considered ruefully. I smell the part. Minus the alcohol, of course.

The alluring scent of smoke, coupled with her own lack of cigarettes, only served to amplify her headache. She had decided, against her better judgement, to not stop and buy a lighter on the way here. She’d reasoned that the quicker she finished this stupid job, the quicker she could get home, get a shower, and find a lighter there. Now, she was regretting that decision immensely.

She waded into the crush of dancers, soaking in her surroundings. After only a moment, she turned and slunk off towards the bar. Most of the stools were empty, as the people here this early were either already roaring drunk or were more concerned flailing their arms around to the music. In some rare cases, it was both; those ones were the most entertaining to watch.

The bartender was several stools away, industriously scrubbing a glass – already clean, of course – with the kind of unthinking devotion of every bartender, ever. Ophilia didn’t bother closing the distance, sliding into a stool where she was, far away from the few other patrons sharing the bar. The lot of them were either flirting shamelessly, laughably drunk, flirting shamelessly while laughably drunk, or were currently poisoning their livers with this club’s swill in an attempt to reach one of these other higher states of mind.

The bartender’s eyes caught her as she hailed him over. He set down the glass, looking bored but friendly, as he walked over to her. He was an older man, somewhere between forty and fifty, Ophilia guessed, with small streaks of grey in his otherwise short, black hair. He had a kind of rugged handsomeness that people often looked for in male bartenders.

“Do you have any scotch?” Ophilia asked, giving her best fake smile.

“Of course. Several kinds,” the bartender replied. He paused, studying her intently, especially her suit, and raised an eyebrow. “Weird outfit, for a raver.”

“Maybe I just enjoy confusing people,” Ophilia rebutted, shrugging her shoulder and leaning more onto the bar. “Hey, you got a light?” She asked on a whim, filled with hope.

“I am the light,” the man replied with a stupid grin. “What you seek is fire, my daughter.” Ophilia responded with a level, no-nonsense stare, complete with angry scowl. He cleared his throat loudly. “Nope, sorry. I don’t smoke. It’ll kill you, sure as shit.”

Ophilia wanted to laugh and cry. Instead, she just sighed. “Surprise me on the scotch.” She closed her eyes for a second and propped her head up with her arm. When she opened them again, the man was pouring the scotch carefully into a glass. She passively noted the brand of the scotch, but had no clue what the quality was.

Again, Ophilia was struck with how tired of this song-and-dance she was; all the tip-toing and careful words. Caution and guile had their place, but so did a straight-forward confrontation, and right now, Ophilia was itching for a confrontation, even if it involved guns and knives. It was only a matter of time before some poor sap got unlucky.

“Are you a Misfit?” She asked, cutting through all the crap that coated this entire situation. Her headache was making her eyes throb in time with the music.

The bartender let out a phony laugh, obviously forced. “Well now, my mother always said I was special,” he quipped, sliding the glass of scotch over to her. “But that’s a new one.”

Ophilia laughed right along as she caught the glass, purposefully making her laugh sound fake and forced, like his. She lifted the glass, swirling it a few times, struggling to not wrinkle her nose at the foul scent of alcohol. “Stop playing these stupid games. You know exactly what I’m saying. I’m in a very bad mood, and you’re in my way, feeding me bullshit. I’m not in the mood for bullshit.”

Ophilia had been trained to read the cadence of a conversation and to follow the emotional and physical cues that went along with any common social interactions. She had been taught to learn when a situation was going sour or when someone was on the brink of cracking. She could turn a conversation to whatever she desired, could read people like a book, and had a knack with wordplay. She’d been a natural.

She saw very clearly as the man’s cheery demeanor crumbled for half-a-second, revealing a guarded, cautious stare. It was the stare of a man who knew he was traipsing across a mine-field, where one misstep could spell disaster. Swiftly, he threw the mask back up and the false camaraderie returned.

“Well, that depends on who’s asking, doesn’t it?” He leaned forward across the bar, his kind tone blending away to an intimidating one. “So tell me, sweetheart, who’s asking?”

Ophilia set the glass down slowly, struggling to not slam it into this man’s face. She plastered a fake smile on her face, but felt the corner of her mouth twitch slightly. “The Melody Family, that’s who.” Normally, she never would’ve let this situation go on like this – she would have laughed it off, played stupid, or outright disengaged from the conversation – but she was at her wits end with this fucking job in this fucking club with this fucking bartender. It was all making her physically ill. “And if you call me sweetheart again, your teeth will end up in the peanut bowl, capichê?”

The threat, however, was unnecessary. The bartender was nodding before she had even finished, leaning back behind his bar again. All at once, he relaxed, as if the world suddenly made sense. His smile looked far more genuine, now. “Yeah, I had a feeling you were the one we were looking for. You’ve got the right kind of fire. And outfit.” When Ophilia raised her eyebrow, the man continued. “The boss, she’s been expecting you.” He pointed over her shoulder. “She’s up there.”

Ophilia carefully slid back from the bar – she wasn’t dumb enough to keep within arm’s reach of the man – and looked in the direction he’d motioned to. She spotted it easily; a large tinted window set into the wall, overlooking the entire club. Without looking back, she slid the scotch back towards the bartender, her eyes darting this way and that. She saw no threats, no welcoming committee. After a moment, she spotted a door that looked promising and nodded, mostly to herself, relaxing visibly.

She pulled a fifty from her pocket, placing it on the bar beside her untouched glass. She finally looked back to the bartender, giving him a more genuine smile. “Enjoy the drink. Keep the change.” Ophilia was just glad that things were moving again. Never let it be said that she didn’t reward people who didn’t waste her time.

The man kicked back the scotch with one hand, palming the bill with the other. However, as Ophilia turned to leave the bar, he stepped from behind the counter, walking with her across the club. She gave him a small glance, but withheld any attention. Her eyes were busy scanning the dance floor for possible ambushes.

She gave a jaded smirk as the bartender opened the door for her, like some old-school gentleman, all warmth and politeness now.

“Thank you,” she said casually, tipping her hat to him. The bartender grunted inarticulately in reply, motioning her into the doorway with a hand. “Oh no, please, after you,” Ophilia said, waving him in exactly like he had her. She still wasn’t taking any chances.

The bartender rolled his eyes and slipped into the space beyond. It was about what Ophilia had expected; a long, decorated hallway – for a nightclub – going in both directions. It was lit in radioactive green and black-light purple; a color combination that Ophilia felt shouldn’t exist in a sane world. She had even predicted the guards, naturally – one on each side of the door, standing against the opposite wall of the hallway. What she hadn’t expected was the level of sophistication they had in firearms.

The two were no different from the ravers on the dance floor – wild, revealing clothes with neon accents, overlaid with the faint smell of smoke and, occasionally, teenage angst – until one noticed the assault rifles cradled in their arms.

It wasn’t too unusual for a small-time gang like this one to have an abundance of side-arms, a scattering of submachine guns – usually Uzis, – and at least a few AK-47s thrown into the mix. But these rifles were in an entirely different category. The metal was sleek, the design ultra-modern and sported a small red-dot sight, a triple-burst setting, and large, easy to handle clips. There was no way these weren’t military grade.

Ophilia’s hand twitched towards her pistol, but she stopped herself before she started an incident. The two guards showed no blatant signs of hostility, so this probably wasn’t a trap.

“To see Vee,” the bartender said, thumbing at her over his shoulder. “From the Family,” he added as almost an afterthought. “She’s got teeth.”

Ophilia decided to show them right where her teeth were, flashing the two guards a rare, toothy grin. She wondered, with a small inward chuckle, if the bartender’s statement had been a comment about her offer to rearrange his dental structure, or if he’d somehow spotted her 9mm.

One of the guards nodded and the bartender left, slipping out past Ophilia without a word. The door shut softly behind him. Ophilia was pleasantly surprised to notice that, with the door closed, the pounding of the music was severely muted. She almost wept in relief.

“We’ll need to search you.”

Ophilia turned her full attention to the speaker, the guard standing to her right. He was wearing a pair of black-out sunglasses, despite the poor lighting in the hallway. She regarded him with instant dislike, treating him to her best sneer. “I keep my gun.”

The other guard shuffled in place, his uncertain expression lit up by the sickly green glow-stick hanging from his neck. “We can’t just let you in without patting you down. We gotta protect our boss, yanno?”

Glow-Stick was young – nineteen at most – and was obviously new blood. He was holding his rifle with the kind of nervous tightness that signifies someone who is either new to firearms, fears them, or both. His safety was even on.

Dark-Glasses reached for her shirt, but Ophilia stepped away from him, still sneering. He snarled and made another, more spirited grab for her.

In a blink, Ophilia’s body was pressed tightly to his, pinning his rifle uselessly between them. Her pistol, deftly drawn from concealment, was held to his side, out of Glow-Stick’s line of sight, while her free hand gripped the man’s arm, keeping him from retreating. His face was inches from hers and he was trying to stand very, very still. She could smell the nicotine on his breath and her headache came back tenfold.

“We’re all friends here, right?” She purred in a silky voice, entirely for Glow-Stick’s benefit. Then, more quietly, she spoke again. “Don’t speak, or else. First, two shots in your kidney, quieted by your body’s close range. I get behind your agonized body before your friend even considers turning his safety off. I’ll put a shot between his eyes. Then you. If I wanted you dead right now, you would be.”

She released him all at once, the pistol vanishing before they’d even fully separated. She stepped back, glaring at the man, channeling all her anger through that gaze. “I’m the Silencer of the Melody Family,” she said in a normal voice, letting them both hear her. “I’m my father’s right hand and the last thing more than one has seen before they died. I’m keeping my pistol.” She paused, letting the silence speak for a moment. “Besides, if I had wanted to kill your boss, she’d be a corpse, and there isn’t anything either of you novices could do to stop me, even with those fancy rifles.”

She sighed, seeing Dark-Glasses simmer with rage. He didn’t, however, make any more moves to search her. With the danger behind her for the moment, Ophilia finally turned to get a better look at the expression of wide-eyed terror on Glow-Stick’s face. He was just now grasping how close to catastrophe he’d come.

“If I’d wanted to, our introduction would have been vastly different, I assure you.” Ophilia smirked at the young gangster, raising a hand towards him and miming shooting a pistol. “Likely, neither of you would have even known we’d gotten acquainted.”

With one part satisfaction, two parts regret, Ophilia noticed Glow-Stick’s hands start to tremble. He still hadn’t turned off that damn safety.

“But,” she said briskly, punctuating the word with a clap. She completely shifted her tone, sounding infinitely friendlier. “That’s not how things went, is it? So, which way to your boss?”

Dark-Glasses recovered first – quickly too, Ophilia had to admit. This one, she decided, was no stranger to violence.

“Luke, bring her up,” he said, motioning to the younger man – Luke, apparently.

Luke, for his part, shook his head furiously, his glow-stick wagging on its rope. “Fuck that! You do it, Bam!”

Ophilia felt herself smile, despite her best attempts to not. She liked this kid.

Bam growled a bit, muttering under his breath. Ophilia chose to ignore him. “Come on,” he said finally, motioning her down the left hall and glaring at Luke as he passed.

Ophilia patted the kid on the shoulder as she started past. “Next time, remember to turn the safety off.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “Hey, you got a light?”

Luke blinked, as if surprised. “N-no. I, uh, I vape.”

Ophilia groaned internally. Damn vaping straight to hell.

“Hurry up!” Bam shouted from up ahead.

Ophilia gave an exaggerated, long-suffering sigh and winked at Luke before she started following Bam. She purposely walked slow, forcing him to slow his hurried pace so he didn’t leave her behind.

As she walked, Ophilia tugged a cigarette from the box in her pocket. She smirked, remembering that smell on Bam’s breath. “You got a light?” She asked. He ignored her. “Well, fuck you too, then,” she muttered under her breath, placing the cigarette between her lips.

It was only a minute or two later, passing by several guards – all of whom, after a glare from Bam, magically didn’t have lighters – and walking up some stairs, before Bam stopped, motioning towards a door.

“The boss is in there,” he grunted. Without another word, he pushed past her, undoubtedly returning to his post. Poor Luke.

Ophilia bit her lip until he was gone, also biting back all of the numerous things she wanted to say to him. Once he was gone, she took a deep breath and wrapped herself in professionalism. The two new guards at the door looked at her curiously, but made no moves to stop or search her. With a courteous nod to them, she opened the door and went inside.

The music was back, and Ophilia wasn’t glad for its return. This new room was far more chaotic than the hall, having more in common with the ever-filling ground floor of the club proper. There was a pall of smoke in the air, flowing lazily from cigarettes, blunts, and a few rare cigars. The room had at least fifteen people in it, all of them either lounging, drinking, kissing, or dancing. They were all dressed in the manner Ophilia was beginning to relate to the Misfits – like ravers with violence in their eyes and guns on their hips.

Across the room was a large table, laden with a tempting spread of food. Ophilia hadn’t eaten since before her Job, and her stomach had so politely left that small meal on the side of the road anyway.

Behind the table was the tinted window Ophilia had seen from below, now open to the club’s main floor. The music thumped to the beat of Ophilia’s heart, throbbing against her chest like a crazed animal, trapped inside her rib-cage. The crowd outside had more than doubled; now it was a living, breathing, mass of humanity.

And, in front of the open window, stood an impossibility.

“Ey-yo, everybody~!” The woman the Misfits called ‘Vee’ and ‘Boss,’ the one her father had called ‘VeeVee,’ held a microphone to her lips, shouting into it with gusto, her voice blaring over the speakers. “Your host, DJ-VeeVee is in the house! Who here’s ready to party till the sun comes up!?”

The club roared its agreement. Vee threw her arms up, earning another roaring cheer. She reached off to the side and pressed something on the wall beside her. The song changed and the window closed.

Vivian Scratch turned around and Ophilia stared headlong into the past. On that moment, hung eternity. Time stood still. Space contracted to a pinpoint.

“Ophilia. Long time.” Her voice was just like Ophilia had tried to forget. A part of her sighed in relief that, despite her best efforts, over ten years’ time hadn’t dulled the memory.

Vivian’s hair, once worn in a small, severe cut, was now long, tied back into a thin ponytail, with a wild top and bangs hanging down on either side of her face. It was still dyed that ridiculous shade of blue that Vivian had loved so much, shot through with an icy variant of the color. It swished behind her with even the slightest motion of her head, trailing her like a comet’s tail. Her bangs, blue as a clear sky, framed a face as pale as milk.

This woman, once so self-conscious, now stood with her fists on her hips, draped in a long, white trench coat, open at the front to expose milky skin, a few tattoos, and a shock of color in the shape of a deep-purple tube top, covering her small, perky breasts. Her pants were black and baggy, teasingly showing off the strings of her underwear. It was held up by a white utility belt that would make Batman fans swoon with envy and drool all over themselves.

The entire ensemble was topped off with a gaudy pair of sunglasses – with purple lenses no less – and a pair of radio headphones, sporting a pair of metal antennae from each ear, like some robot’s receiver. As Ophilia watched, stunned, Vivian pulled a blunt from her pocket, placing it between her lips.

Twelve years had changed her. The time rushed in, closing the distance between them.

“Quite…” Ophilia replied in a daze. She took a few tentative steps forward, ignoring everyone else in the room. Even her headache had vanished. Right now, her vision had narrowed down to a single person, and only that person mattered at all.

The Misfit boss must have felt similarly; her next choice of action wasn’t one Ophilia expected of a gang leader; at least, not one without a death wish.

“Take a walk, everyone. I got this.” Vivian gave a small wave, imperiously dismissing everyone in the room like a queen at court.

The room broke in lethargic motion, people moving to depart with no great haste. A few, more occupied couples, needed to be prodded for the message to filter through their brains. Soon, the room was empty, all except for one man who stood beside Vivian, on her side of the table. He turned to examine Vivian, who gave another passive wave.

“You too, Ne-Yo. She won’t hurt me.”

Ne-Yo shifted his gaze and studied Ophilia with a critical stare; the stare of a guardian who wouldn’t hesitate to kill to protect his charge. This guy had “bodyguard” written all over him with a neon marker. Ophilia hadn’t seen eyes like that since the day she first met Salvatore. This was a man of action, not some common banger. Ophilia met his stare as best she could, but Vivian’s sudden appearance had left her shaken.

After a moment, he broke the stare, apparently seeing something in her eyes that satisfied him. He said something to Vivian that Ophilia couldn’t hear, and the other woman waved him off, smirking. He walked from behind the table and, as he passed Ophilia, he gave her a small, respectful nod.

“I’ll be right outside if you need me, Vee.”

Vivian gave another dismissive wave. “Yes, mother. I promise to be careful without you, mother.” Ophilia heard a chuckle behind her and the door closing with a soft click.

As she slipped around the table, approaching the still stunned Ophilia, Vivian pulled a lighter from one of the numerous pockets on her belt. She flipped the zippo open and struck it with one smooth, skillful motion. The light of the fire danced, reflecting off the lenses of her gaudy glasses. She took a long drag, sighing out the smoke with a wistful expression. She offered the lighter to Ophilia as she drew within arm’s reach and smiled a warm, goofy smile, making Ophilia’s heart melt a little. “Need some fire, caveman?”

Ophilia had completely forgotten the cigarette she’d had between her lips. By some miracle, it hadn’t fallen out while she gaped. She started leaning forward towards the lighter with caution, as one would approach a wild animal. Her eyes flashed with the birth of the flame and she took a drag, letting the cherry catch. She breathed in the smoke, feeling her entire system loosen again.

“You’re a lifesaver, Viv.”

“It’s Vee now.”

The pair of women let out a breath in unison, the enticing scent of nicotine blending with the cloying scent of weed. Ophilia felt that might be symbolic of something.

“Come on, have a seat. Don’t be so rigid.” Vivian suddenly kicked into action, sauntering around to a small couch with a familiar swish to her hips that reminded Ophilia of a few choice moments of their shared history.

Vivian flopped carelessly onto the seat with, what Ophilia decided, was a very ‘Vivian-like’ gesture. She smiled around her cigarette, happy to see a shadow of better, happier time.

Ophilia joined her, sitting more sedately, smoking in silence. All the stress, all the suffering, all the chaos of the last decade-and-some years began to melt away. She felt like she was nineteen again, sitting in the club beside this awkward, wonderful, lovable young woman.

Without a thought more, Ophilia snubbed out her cigarette in a nearby ashtray, bracing herself to talk business. They could reminisce later. She couldn’t let herself be distracted by this overload of emotions. With a moment of concentration, she pulled the mask of the Silencer back on and turned to face the gang boss beside her.

She was taken completely off guard.

Vivian’s lips were just as warm as she remembered, flavored slightly with mint and heavily with pot. Her hands, holding either side of Ophilia’s face, were firm, demanding, but not forceful – never that. In the past, Vivian had been the shy, meek one, with the occasional burst of passion, but Ophilia found this change of personality to be a refreshing one. It was nice to have someone else take charge for once.

Despite any attempts at restraint, Ophilia melted against the kiss, her perfect mask cracking and shattering like cheap pottery. Her hands crept up Vivian’s back, clutching the thick material of her trench coat almost desperately. Her lips parted, deepening their contact, as Ophilia finally caved in and showed Vivian her true, hidden self. When she felt Vivian shiver, she couldn’t help but shiver in kind.

It had been so very, very long…

Memories poured back, like water filling a glass, threatening to overwhelm her – to overtake her – but Ophilia resisted the lure. Why bask in the past when the present was so much closer? If she hadn’t cried recently, she probably would have soaked Vivian’s shoulder straight through.

Vivian’s hands slid down off her face, trailing over her sides – testing, teasing, and remembering. Ophilia’s body might have a few new scars, but it was still a familiar landscape to the other woman. The hands stopped at Ophilia’s hips, never once venturing anywhere dangerous, and Ophilia nearly growled at the restraint. The initiative, it seemed, was hers.

She tugged harshly on the trench coat between her fingers, pulling the collar down and back. With vampiric desire, she broke off the kiss and dove for Vivian’s neck, finding soft skin to kiss and nibble.

Vivian made a sound of pleased approval, moving one hand up to knot in Ophilia’s hair.

For the first time in years, Ophilia felt a surge rush through her body. It was more than a lustful surge; those she felt often, and had learned to ignore. No, this was what she was taught to feel when she killed, yet could never connect meaningfully with the brutal work of ending a life. These were the feelings she’d wanted to feel so feverishly, had viewed so reverently, had pursued so fruitlessly.

Giving Vivian’s neck a bite, Ophilia moved her hands to the other woman’s stomach, feeling the smooth, creamy skin shudder under her touch. Wordlessly, she slid her hands back around Vivian’s body, pushing the heavy fabric of the coat off Vivian’s shoulders.

All at once, the mood changed and the dream ended. Vivian tensed up, pushing Ophilia away forcefully.

Ophilia, shocked, leaned back and studied the other woman in silence. Despite her glasses, Ophilia could still read the emotions on her face clearly – fear and shame – as she held her trench coat closed apprehensively.

Passion fled Ophilia, leaving nothing but the shell. The mask’s shattered pieces jumped up and reformed. She cleared her throat, ashamed she had shown such weakness. She had broken a promise to herself and had let someone – even if that someone was Vivian – see her emotions. Never let them see you bleed, her father always said. Someone had seen that the Silencer was still human after all.

“My apologies,” Ophilia said, all business now.

“Please, don’t be sorry,” Vivian quickly replied, rubbing the spot on her neck that Ophilia had bitten and shuffling in her seat. She let out a small chuckle, letting both hands drop to her sides. Ophilia tried to not stare at the red mark on the other woman’s neck. “I really enjoyed that,” she said, then paused for a second. “A lot, actually,” she added, with a bark of laughter.

“So,” Vivian said brusquely, pushing off the couch to stand up. Ophilia caught a telltale glint of metal as Vivian stood – a firearm secreted away inside the long, large coat. Yes, her friend had most certainly changed. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon. I had thought your father would send someone else, given our… history.”

“Clearly,” Ophilia said dryly, “you don’t understand Charles Melody at all.” Ophilia gave her head a small shake. She wished her father had at least warned her of who was running the Misfits, but that, she supposed, also wasn’t like him.

Vivian was silent for several heartbeats, then nodded. “Suppose I don’t. But I know plenty about you.”

“Do you, now?” Ophilia asked, trying really hard to not sneer.

“A-yup. Ten years or two years, we both know there are some things that’ll never change. Admit it.” Vivian motioned between them as she spoke. “You’ve still got loads of style. I’m still a nerd at heart. You still like biting. I still like fun toys.” She finished with a flourish, opening her coat wide. Not only did this give Ophilia a good look at Vivian’s body, it also showed off the set of huge, chrome Desert Eagles strapped weightily to the inside of the coat.

Ophilia felt her hand twitch for the second time that day, moving to draw before her enemy. She stopped that train of thought quickly, scolding herself. Vivian was not her enemy. It was as improbable as it was impossible.

After a second, Vivian let the coat close, hiding the firearms again. “Look, I knew how to get your Family’s attention. I made just enough waves so that your daddy-dearest would get interested, but not enough that he’d want me decorating the floor of some basement somewhere.”

Ophilia flinched and gave Vivian a meaningful, curious look.

Vivian tapped her headphones in reply. “Shit, it’s 2014 Ophilia; get with the times. You’d be amazed what a little technical work can accomplish. I get all sorts of fun radio frequencies on these bad boys, including the pig’s radio frequency, certain phone conversations, and a bitchin’ electronica channel. I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere, especially on you and your Family. I hear everything everyone doesn’t want me to hear – best of all, they have no clue I’m doing it. Your Family made a real mess of that guy.”

Ophilia felt the blood drain from her face, growing nauseous all over again. She closed her eyes, but couldn’t hide. A corpse with a bulging eye stared at her, making broken, gurgling noises…

Vivian caught on immediately. “Oh. Your work?” She paused, studying Ophilia’s face and frowning just slightly. “Suppose some things are bound to change, right?”

Ophilia dropped her eyes, ashamed. Being her father’s personal attack dog was one thing, but having Vivian know all the gritty details was something entirely different.

There was a long silence, until Ophilia heard Vivian closing the distance between them. “Hey. Don’t be so down on yourself, Mel,” Vivian said, her voice soothing. She moved in front of Ophilia, leaning down when the other woman didn’t look up. “Hey. Listen,” she said, her voice accompanied by a soft click. A second later, Vivian set her glasses down on the couch beside Ophilia. As Ophilia stared at her hands – anything to not look at her face – she noticed that Vivian had tattoos over her knuckles; Viva Voce, with a letter on each digit.

“Look at me. Don’t be ashamed. We’ve both done things we aren’t proud of, okay?”

Both curious and unable to refuse Vivian’s simple request, Ophilia looked up and met her ex-lover’s eyes. What she saw chilled her to the core.

Vivian’s eyes had the glassy sheen and large pupils of someone using, at the very least, one or two narcotics. Ophilia saw that look more clearly now, the fear and shame she’d shown so briefly. Shock and worry burned through her veins. She started to stand, but Vivian put a hand on her shoulder, keeping her down.

“Relax. I haven’t touched dope in years,” Vivian said simply, as if that somehow made everything better. “We’ve both changed. We both do and did things we wish we could take back; things we wish we didn’t have to do; things we wish we could change.” In the silence following that statement, Vivian pulled down the shoulder of her trench coat, showing off her arm. Suddenly, Ophilia understood why Vivian had reacted so poorly to her coat coming off.

Vivian’s skin, from the shoulder down to her wrist, was riddled with blackened veins and track marks; a silent testament to her poisonous habits. Ignoring Ophilia’s horrified expression, Vivian continued, pulling her pant leg up to reveal more of the same running up her leg.

After a significant pause, Vivian pulled her clothes back into place, hiding her shame with layers of cloth and denim. “I don’t judge, Mel. I don’t have the right to judge anyone. I used to use so much that I doubt I could even find a vein anymore.”

Ophilia caught Vivian’s hand as she reached for her glasses. “What are you on now?” She tried to keep the tremor of concern out of her voice, and almost succeeded. Her fear was bubbling in her chest, threatening to drown her. Vivian tried to look away, but Ophilia gave her hand a squeeze. “What… are… you… on… now?” Ophilia repeated, her eyes intense, despite her stress.

“Just a few pick-me-ups,” Vivian replied evasively. “It helps keep the edge off.”

Ophilia drew her hand back, letting Vivian replace those gaudy glasses on her face and lean upright again. “Father told me you were dealing, but…”

“We are, I can’t deny that, but I avoid selling anything too addictive, like heroin or crack. Our clients are looking for a good time, hoping to blur the edges off a bad day or to make a night particularly crazy, not to get hooked on something nasty. I refuse to make slaves of people through chemicals.” In a gesture she probably didn’t even notice, Vivian scratched at her arm idly. “Shrooms, acid, and the ole’ standby, weed; those are my big sellers. Naturally, e-pills and molly sell like hot-cakes, but I’m real careful with the distribution of those.”

Ophilia listened in silence, nodding faintly. “I believe father will be pleased to hear that. He doesn’t much care for large-scale drug operations in his city.”

“His city…” Vivian mimed, but shrugged, not refuting the claim. “Well, I’m glad to not upset his delicate sensibilities,” Vivian said, her tone snarky, as she walked across the room. Ophilia watched her, just not starting to recover, as the other woman scooped a slice of pizza off the table. As she took the first bite she walked to a chair, flopping into it gracelessly and lounging back as she ate. It was as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

“I wanted to make a deal with your Family; a 70-30 split on all illegal profits, in the Family’s favor, of course. I’ll also toss my contacts from the tech and weapons department. In return, you’ll protect me and mine; ensure no one messes with my businesses and make sure none of my boys get killed needlessly.”

Ophilia raised an eyebrow. “Generous. But what makes you think we need those contacts?”

Vivian chuckled, finishing the pizza and licking her fingers clean. “Let’s face it, Mel; I know you saw what my crew carries around. I know you well enough to know you’ve been thinking the same thing; your Family might be huge and powerful, but they’re woefully under-equipped. Your guns are archaic, back from a time when people were better off throwing rocks at one-another rather than shooting at one-another. You need better weapons to keep up with modern times. I can help with that.”

Ophilia leaned forward, entwining her fingers as she thought. While Vivian was exaggerating, she had indeed considered this very matter before. Her father had a strange obsession with the old days, the old ways, and symbols. He clung to the past like a mother clings to her dying child. He supplied his people with nothing but classical firearms, purchased cheaply and in bulk, putting his common gunmen at a distinct disadvantage. If it wasn’t for Charles’s management skills and the smothering size of the Family, they would have collapsed under the weight of heavily armed gangs like Vivian’s. She needed these contacts. She needed to convince her father to embrace the future.

She leaned back, liking this deal the more she considered it. If she was forced to inherit the Family one day, she’d like to have Vivian’s firearms on her side. “All right, Viv. But what’s the catch?”

Vivian spread her hands innocently, giving a wry smile. “No catch. To be honest, most of our income comes from completely legit methods; nightclubs, record deals, investments, things like that. I can even play the stocks, if the urge takes me,” she said, dusting some crumbs from the pizza’s crust off her lap, onto the floor. “I do have a special request though, if it’s not too much to ask.”

Ophilia raised an eyebrow again as she considered this. She was allowed to make deals in her father’s absence and he had sent her to deal with this matter personally. He couldn’t complain if she actually made a deal, could he? “What is it, Viv?”

Tension faded from Vivian’s body. She settled into a soft, warm smile, letting out a long, familiar sigh. “You, Mel. I want you back in my life.”

Author's Note

Chapter two, which brings in our esteemed Vivian. What do you think of her?