The Independants/Rap Sheets/Meltdown

From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe

From the first sounds on the DVD, she knew everything had changed, forever.

"Didi Bang-bang! Heya, sister." Markup's overly loud, far-too cheery voice, the stupid gold tooth and teardrop tat garish in the light from the handheld cam. "Or should I say Didi-tective Fancher? Got someone wants to say hi, pig."

Guts frozen, she knew even before the cam started its shaky, teasing pan. Her mind painted it before it appeared on the screen: Desiree, kneeling naked on the cot, hands tied behind her, tears already flooding over the red clown-nose ballgag. Legs spread wide, straining to hold her up, to take her weight off the noose slipped expertly around her neck...Dani prayed she was wrong, knew she wasn't, prayed it was a sick joke...

It wasn't.

Markup's voice came from off-screen, as the camera zoomed in on Desi's wild-eyed face. "Stay sly, bitch. We'll see YOU soon enough, yo." Then the toys came out, and they started in on her.

She knew what to expect. Fancher had stopped two of these, managed to arrange raids that got the kids away, couple of stupid ravers, snatched by Markup's girls for some fun and the freak video market. Others, she knew, she hadn't been able to stop. And now it was coming home to roost. Karma.

She made herself watch the whole thing, from the first pinch to the last choking screaming breath. It was far, far too late for her to do anything. Desi was long gone.

At no time did she consciously say to herself "My little sister is dead, and it's my fault." Somewhere, deep in her head, she heard, almost felt, a tiny little click, like a breaker dropping out, as she switched...off. Her dad and stepmom would never understand why their little girl was dead, why her big sister, who had looked out for her so long, didn't, couldn't save her. Fine.

She had no family.

The guys on the force, they might applaud in private, but they couldn't condone what she had to do now. They SHOULD, but they couldn't. Fine

click She had no career, no friends.

Whatever sympathy she might have had for a few of the Foxes, the ones who joined out of fear, from having literally nowhere else to go except into a garbage bag in an alley, melted like the clouds on the three sunny days Seattle had in a year. They were part of this. They were not even alive to her anymore, just things, inanimate objects taking up space better occupied by, say, slugs, or rats. Fine. Game over.

click No remorse, no conscience, no worries. She watched, wide- and dry-eyed, and remembered, and went very deep inside and prepared.

When the murderous orgy on the screen was over, she took the DVD out of the player, bent it back and forth between her fingers till it cracked, tossed it. Went to the bathroom, dry-swallowed a Valium, hit her last line from off her compact. Then to the bedroom. Tossed the family pictures in the trunk. Got out the Tactical Services armor she'd been issued a while ago. Kitted up, strapped on the harness and guns. Changed outlook, changed skin, just like that, a whole new woman. Not who she had been that morning. Never again.

She'd be either dead or seriously fucked by the Man come daybreak. But there were gonna be an awful lot of bitches in the ground first.

And Markup was gonna scream for her. Dani was gonna fuck her in the ass until she screamed her eyeballs out...

It was raining, of course. As it should be. Angels were crying for her little girl.

As she drove, she tried to figure out what had slipped. For well over a year, she'd been running with the Sly Foxes, feeding intel to her handler in Vice. No one outside the department knew about it, and not that many inside. She'd done enough real badass nasty shit to get them to accept her, had partied and fucked and kicked ass- and taken names. And notes. She had enough testimony to sink damn near the whole gang without a trace, and still the bosses hesitated. Something about a turf fight with OC. Something else about Fart, Barf and Itch muddying the waters...three months stretched to six, to a year, as she got deeper and deeper in...

Fukkit. If you're gonna drown anyway, let go the rope and enjoy swimming with the sharks.

She knew where the video had been made- the psycho paintjob in the room gave it away. A crack den the Foxes held out near the harbor. It was a trap, of course, and even if it wasn't she'd learn nothing new there. But that was where Desi had died, so that was where she had to go first. She figured her ex-partners wouldn't try for a sniper or a bomb first off; gangs have very personal ways of dealing with cops and informants, and all the little roachbitches would be scurrying from under their rocks to curry favor with the Queen Bug.

Fine. Squish.

The place looked deserted. It wasn't, of course- the very seeming gave the lie to it. No stray cats, no rodents, no wandering lost souls looking for a hit or a dry spot to crash and sleep off the screaming in their heads meant some of the Foxes were there, somewhere. Ready to par-tay. Get busy with the rat who had gnawed them for so long they had thought they knew her soul.

She found the room. Noone tried to stop her. She was SUPPOSED to find it. That would be where she would get her payback. That was the plan, people like them were always very symbolic, even if they couldn't spell the word. The cot was there. Desi wasn't. Some of her was, in the form of dark stains, but her soul wasn't there. Something else, too, something gold and glittering, obvious on the ground under the rickety rapebed.

The bait. Get her down on hands and knees, vulnerable, and come up behind. Why not? It's how the game is played. Walk in, down on one knee, pick up the locket Mom and Dad gave her for graduation...

And then she was moving, spinning, even as the first shot cut the air where she would have been. They always forgot, those who had ever known, just how freakin' fast she was, especially hopped up. Guns free.

Three of them, Zipperhead, cursing and trying to aim past Punchy, the stocky chicana, who was closing, fast for her size, chain in her hand. A third bint, new blood, Dani didn't even know her real name, she didn't HAVE a street name yet, hanging back. She'd have a street name after tonight, if they pulled this off.

They wouldn't.

Punchy took three in the chest as Dani faded away from the first swing of the chain. Both women fell backwards in opposite directions, another shot cracking past the redhead's ear. Trigger held down, rock and roll, the Ingram carved Punchy from tit to clit as she fell away, her putrid slime poisoning Desi's grave.

Drop the empty, steady the unfired gun. The fish had some stupid little popgun out, a .22 or .25 belly pistol, probably a gag gift from one of the Sisters, all full of penis jokes. Not worth anything more than a casual 3-round burst in the gut. Zipper, both smarter and more stoned than her buddies, had ducked back, used the falling, groaning rookie as a shield to snap 2 more rounds at Fancher, already rolling clear, before pelting back down the hallway. One on one wasn't Zip's style. That's why she liked raping helpless young women.

Pick up the chain. Selector to single, step to the door, as the world moves in slomo. Like a video. Line it up as she runs, listen to the soundtrack pounding in your heart and crotch, and a single shot to the back of the knee drops Zipperhead, howling and flailing.

Chuckling, Fancher kicked the gun away from the wounded Fox's hand, then bent and looped the cold metal around her neck. Kicking, struggling, the droog was hauled, heels drumming against the floor, backwards to the room, with the cot, mute witness to madness.

Where Dani hung her with the chain. Just like they had Desiree.

Only slower.

Hell on wheels, Death in steel heels, she hunted the haunts, quartered the prowls. High as a kite: meth, powder, adrenaline, rage. She'd always had a high tolerance, for booze, for sex, for the illicit chems that would have marked her as out of place if she hadn't joined the party. Had got her in trouble from time to time with the brass, but her busts had been clean, her proficiencies solid. Tactical thought she all but walked on water. This night she'd prove them right, and wrong, Old Testament vengeance, devoid of badge or jurisprudence, fire pouring from her hands, brimstone smell surrounding her.

If they'd turtled, mobbed up, she never could've done it. They wouldn't, couldn't. There were names to be made, revenge to be had- and yes, business still to be transacted, even when they'd been crazy enough to go after a cop's family, a cop they all had known was on the edge.

Everyone had known except her. She knew now.

So in their pairs and trios, once a group of five, she found them. Took their curses, their weapons; took their stashes and their lives. Twenty-three things with an outward similarity to human women left cooling in crimson-running gutters, ragdolls huddled in boarded doors, sprawled in obscene invitation for the passer-by to join them in the big metal bins with the other garbage. Nearly half the striking power of the gang wiped away by the angry hand of Goddess, had she known. And some incidental damage,a few contacts and customers who thought they'd earn favor by betting on a horse that was doomed to be put down in the backstretch. A fine Viking sendoff for Desiree. She never would have wanted it, but it was all Dani could give her, now.

But not Markup. She wasn't out on the street.

Markup had nothing to prove. Markup gave the orders, lived large on the whores and the product and the contracts and the shakedowns. And the videos. Markup would turtle, was in her crib with her backshooting subbie skank Mouse and some of the others, close by.

Waiting.

Knowing Dani was coming. Knowing she could not BUT come, the raging flame closing on the moth, beating wings against glass and daring the light to do its worst.

The first cloud-strangled light was starting to poison the darkness. She hurt. A lot. Training, reflexes and armor had kept her alive, but in the end, she was human, not Goddess, and had not escaped unscathed. One eye was swollen almost shut; an ear was still uselessly ringing and bleeding, from a shot so close only the hand of the Devil himself cold have saved her from it. Others had hit the armor- she could feel the bruises, probably a cracked rib. Headache, dizzy, the shaking awfuls; coming off the high, reaction, overexertion. Everywhere but her hands. They were steady enough.

Standing in the middle of the street, she looked up at the facade of Markup's crib,a modest 2-story building in a rundown area that was now, supposedly, coming 'up'. They knew she was there, she could feel the eyes, imagined she heard the breathing, subtle shifting behind the curtained windows, inside the walls. Bullshit. Hallucination, she was forty feet away. Still, they knew she was there. They were waiting to see what she would do. They had time to wait. She'd collapse under her own weight, or her own people, now alert to the rampage, would find her. She had to move soon.

Going in the front door would be suicide. Half the guns in the place would be there, in the narrow hall. Walking through the floorplan in her head- she'd been there many, many times- she could come up with no other option. The Ingrams would not be enough. Fortunately, she'd brought toys. And some of her former sisters had been nice enough to contribute to the cause.

A quick snort from one her vials, the spoils of her war, and she moved to the back of her bullet-chewed car, popped the trunk, started collecting her tools. The stubby .38 holdout, which went in the top of a boot. Two flashbangs, a smoke cylinder, and a frag. A bowie knife with a spiked knuckleguard, custom work.. A 12-ga., sawn so short it was as dangerous to her as anyone she pointed it at. As the weight mounted, as each piece of gear, each weapon, each ammo load found a place on her armor, her strength increased, she settled, immovable, feet rooted. The heavy Maglite. Flaregun.

Finally, her calling card. Grinning, she lifted the olive drab tube out of its case. Part of a kickback from an arms deal, she'd had some stoned-off-her-ass idea about setting the thing off for the Fourth. Glad now she hadn't.

Locking pin, pull, extend the barrel. Check that vents are clear, yank safety pin. Swing it up, centered on the door. It was reinforced, she knew, but not enough. Squeeze the grip safety, as a window rattles open, a voice yells. Someone had finally realized what she was up to. Two steps, three, hit the stud.

Like an extension of her anger, the antitank rocket leapt from her shoulder, pierced the door, a knife to her enemy's heart. A tenth of a second later, door, part of the front wall, and whoever was waiting for her right inside vanished in an acrid flash. The bullet rain started then, but she had already dropped the spent case, was moving...

One of the flashbangs beat her through the ragged mouth of the cave where the wicked witch lived, just in case any of her slaves was still alive nearby. The wreckage, human and building, tangled her up for a second, but not long enough, not to save them.

Crazy Karen was huddled inside, clutching her face and groaning. One blast from the shotgun removed her pain. And her face. The second barrel drove a gunbitch back into the room from which she was trying to peek, a clean miss, but giving Fancher time to close. When gun and hand appeared again, the wrist was caught, yanked against the doorframe until something cracked. The rest of the body didn't last long after that.

The frag scattered a small knot of soldierettes as they pounded down the stairs. The Ingrams finished whatever red-hot flying razors had left undone. A moment's thought, and Fancher dropped her clips, swapping out tracers for standard jacketed loads. Markup kept her private stash upstairs, both for protection and to limit pilferage by her rowdy sisters. Dani didn't want to risk flashing an impromptu meth cooker. Not yet, not by accident.

Boots fighting for traction in the gore, she made her way up the narrow stairway. Here there be dragons. Two-thirds to the top, she sent the smoke canister on ahead, flipped down the rudimentary low-light visor on her armor. Markup's suite was in the back, there HAD to be at least one gunnie left between there and the stairs. Maybe. She'd never known how big the gang really was in total, and she'd long since lost count of the number she'd trashed. All she knew was that Markup- and the Mouse- weren't part of the wreckage behind her.

Last flashbang unpinned, cradled close, she finished the climb. Sure enough, a door opened in the choking reek ahead, a coughing figure emerged, took a step, and no further. what you can't see CAN hurt you, very easily...

Wait a heartbeat, they know, must have heard the shots. Kick the door, sweep around the room...other side of the hall...noone. One door left.

One.

Two.

Desi I'm sorry...

On THREE!, her plated shoulder slammed into the door to the Queen Bitch's bedroom, best Academy style. She was surprised to crash though unhindered, the door unlocked. She dropped the flashbang, kicked it deeper in, squeezed her eyes shut, hunched hershouldWHAM. Scramble sideways, away from the entry point, let the ears recover form the overpressure, open the eyes...

Just in time to see Markup step out from behind the makeshift barricade of desk and bead, shaking her head. her eyes were wild, way too bright- into the product bigtime. Coulda been Pacino, about to introduce her little friend, only all she was holding was her 'bitchbeater' nightstick. She'd used that on Desi, too.

"D-Bang, you FUCKIN' whore!," she hollered. "Never knew cops knew how to PARTY! WHOOO!"

Everything was calm and light, in her head, in her heart. The world had a sharp edge, sooo clear, like a newborn's first breath. Dani put down the machine pistols, let them drop, actually. Drew the knife, fingers curling and uncurling in the griprings, held it up in front of her eyes, like a salute, spikes facing forward, towards the thickbodied woman..

"Ready to bleed, Markie? You're gonna beg. and then, eventually? You're gonna die. But first, you're gonna hurt. A lot."

"OOOoo...like you sister, pig?" Markup grinned, sloooowly curled her tongue around the heft of the ebony billy. "She was tasty. Shame she di'nt last longer. Still, vid should make good money- once folk know who the star is..."

Even as she lunged, she knew something was wrong, something she'd overlooked. Past caring, only wanting it to be finally over and quiet, she went for it anyway. Valhalla- or hell- was waiting.

The pain of the impact blotted out the roar of the shotgun, when Mouse steeped from the closet and shot her in the back.

Groaning, the knife knocked from her hand as she sprawled, she managed to roll over. Sure enough, there was the little cunt, in her leather fuckmes, tits hanging out and piercings on display. She cradled the shotgun easily, like she knew what she was doing. Fancher was amazed- she'd never known the slut could do anything other than lick and moan. And scream sometimes. The diminuative woman grinned at her.

"Sorry, Didi. Didn't know M would get all fired up and go after the kid. Thought it'd be YOU on that vid. Now THAT woulda been sweeeet..." She shrugged, the gun never shifting its aim. "But hey. We got us a twofer, right? A..." A giggle bubbled out of her, a chill spring of evil and mean. "sister act?"

Slowly, Dani squirmed, trying to get the feeling back in her legs. Mouse had been firing shot, or she'd be dead. Her armor wouldn't stop a slug at that range, but it had stopped the buck load, most if it, at least. Almost, she wished it hadn't. SO close, to be knocked down now. The pain was nothing compared to what would come, but she was cool with that. It was the failure..."How?"

Markup knelt by her head, tapping the nightstick against her cheek lightly, before lewdly tracing the redhead's lips with the tip. "Oh, we known for a WHILE, pig. But, you know? You were SO bad-ASS? SO down with it? I got stupid. I really thought you seen the light. Gave you a walk, thought you come around." The gang boss looked up at her pet and smiled. "Like my mousie did."

click

Finally, the last piece dropped in. Eyes wide, the world tinted in the most beautiful shade of red, the downed detective shifted her regard back to the still-giggling bondage toy. "You're one of ours. You're a fucking cop."

Rough fingers tangled in the red mane, yanked hard. "Careful how you talk to my bitch, pig. Mousie be MINE, not yours. She know where all good things come from. Ain't that right, Mouse."

The little blonde nodded, knelt by Fancher's feet, shotgun across her knees. "I got friends in Central. Found out within oh, couple months after Vice put you in. Lady Mark didn't believe me at first, cause, you know- DAMN, Fancher? How much free play DID the bosses give you? Even I got to thinking it was a fuckup. You were too, you know, REAL to be a plant. Learned better, though. Eventually."

Another yank, and Dani was face-to-face with Markup again. Kissing close. Biting close. A viper to my bosom hold. Lord, the woman's breath was foul. "So. Bitch. We got some talkin' to do. About bleedin'. And...wasn't it beggin', you said?"

But Dani was already laughing, not Mouse's coy giggle, but a bubble of laughter so big it felt like the world would explode with it. It all made sense. Full circle. She'd been all into The Right Thing, the Greater Good. THE JOB. She'd done some serious bad shit to uphold The Rules, to Serve and Protect. And then...

Oh, it was so hilarious, she could cry. Desiree hadn't died because her sis had screwed up. She'd lived as long as she had because her sis was too damn good at her job. Had looked so deep into the abyss, the things that squirmed in the bottom of it thought she was a mirror.

And then, she'd been shopped. By one of her own. Too. Fucking. Funny. Her sister had been killed by one of her partners in arms, double helix ties of sisterhood on both sides of the law.

"The fuck's so FUNNY pig?" Markup slapped her once, twice, three times, but she didn't feel it, too wrapped up in the joke, gasping for breath between heaves. Confused, Mouse looked at her boss, frightened, perhaps, of a madness that outstripped her own.

Dani was still laughing when she hunched, yanked the holdout from her boot, and shot Mouse in her perfect ivory teeth. Laughed more when she jammed the pistol into Markup's crotch, and pulled the trigger. Three times.

Giggling still, she dragged herself to her feet, swept blood from her eyes, recovered Mouse's Ithaca, and gave the room a new paint job.

The rules are simple:

Do whatever the fuck you want. If you don't, someone else will, and you'll miss out.

Fear is for people who really give a shit.

Never. Ever. Blink.

A last swig from the bottle, dashing the drops from her lips with the back of her hand. A quick snort from the vial she'd grabbed from Markup's dresser. Didn't know what it was. Didn't care.

The tires squealed as she firewalled the battered little sedan, pulling a bootlegger in the middle of the avenue...

and pointed the bitch right at the line of black and whites parked in front of her precinct.