Fall, 1937

Lynn

 

November 25th, 1938. She tracked it every day. One more year, and then she was out. For good. She’d get Mia, tell her everything, and get the hell out of here. Out of this city. There’d be arguments, and fighting, Lynn had no doubt about it. But she was getting Mia out of here. 

 

This is no place to live.

 

Sirens whooshed past the window next to Lynn, blue lights reflecting from the cracked glass onto the wooden crate she was perched on. It must’ve been the third time tonight.

 

She felt the shoddily constructed boards of the box creak beneath her weight. A dim light bulb hanging from the ceiling, worn papers scattered across an old table, and a metal door barely holding on to its hinges. All these rooms felt the same, hiding drugs, guns, blackmail, or any other kind of illicit material, all stashed behind steel doors and secured locks.

 

And here she was, almost every night. Planted on a box, gun in hand, head between her knees, and idly staring at a metal door in a room that could be all the way across the city from the last, but identical in seemingly every way. 

 

Sleep clawed at her eyelids, tempting her to doze off each time she blinked.

 

It was becoming harder and harder to get through these nights, and her staying up until Mia came home every morning wasn’t helping at all. It felt as if even though she’d had the past four years to adapt to nightlife, her internal clock hadn’t adjusted at all. Staying up through every shift was still a struggle.

 

Another siren sounded from outside, blue lights zooming past her window.

 

Must be a whole damn squad out there!

 

Lynn straightened her posture and turned around to peek outside the window. Two more police cars were zooming down the wet road, flying past other cars to get down the road as fast as they could. They shot out jets of rainwater from either side as they belted down the street, the moonlight turning the water into shimmering, red particles.

 

Lynn looked up at the moon. The thing was massive, she wasn’t even able to see its entirety due to how much space it took up, tall buildings blocking off chunks of it. It was a deep, blood red, its shadows defined in jet black, and a hazy ring of red emanating from around it. Every night, it flooded crimson light onto everything it shone above, nothing was spared from its scarlet hue. 

 

A constant reminder of Rapture, of humans finding things never meant to be found. 

 

Almost everyone who’d lived through Rapture was long dead by now, save for a few undead and vampires who’d been lucky enough to make it this far, but the stories of those who’d since passed had been more than enough to make up for the lack of current survivors.

 

Any library or bookstore you went to would more than likely have an entire section of books detailing Rapture, the discovery of the seven seals and their subsequent destruction, the horrors it ravaged the planet, the creatures it let loose.

 

Planes of existence never meant to intersect were all at once thrust upon one another, sending unfathomable beings onto the Earth, as well as infecting humans with traits never before seen. 

 

Vampirism, lycanthropy, life after death, all sorts of things only theorized in legend became more real than anyone would’ve liked them to.

 

And so it sat there in the midst of void, stars shrouded by the light of streetlamps and the warm, yellow glow emitted by apartment windows all down the block, a red behemoth in a static sky. An endless reminder.

 

Christ, I need a pick-me-up.

 

Lynn turned from the window and holstered the pistol in her hand. She placed her hands against the top of the crate, pushing forward to slide herself off the box. Landing on the balls of her feet, a jolt of energy crawled up her body as she hit the ground.

 

Maybe I just need a walk to shake off the fatigue.

 

Lynn skirted the wooden table, mindlessly glancing at the yellow papers that covered it. Names, personal letters, receipts, contracts. She struggled to picture how they kept track of all of it when they kept it like this, and hell knows they probably didn’t. She started towards the door, wrenching the metal lock until it gave.

 

Lynn fetched her boater hat and trench coat from a coat rack nailed right next to the door, sliding her hands into either sleeve of the coat and looking into a grimey mirror awkwardly hung on the wall as she fit the hat onto her head. 

 

As she met her own gaze in the reflection, she couldn’t help but instantly notice the abnormally large bags that hung heavy under her slightly bloodshot eyes.  The curved scar on her left eye cut through one of them, parting the darkened section of her sepia skin in a thin line.

 

Jeez, I really should start heading to bed earlier.

 

Lynn turned, still looking at the mirror for a moment before pushing on the door in front of her. It swung open with a loud creak as she pushed against it, the hinges threatening to snap from the doorframe at any moment.

 

And the moment the door had completely opened, Lynn was met with a face she had the misfortune of recognising.

 

“Deadeye!”

 

“Dijon.”

 

The yellow imp greeted her with a wide smile, just as fake as the rest of him. She could always sense the condescending undertone with his every action towards her, and that toothy smile was no exception.

 

His hair was combed over into a neat crew cut, the dark yellow strands slicked back, and glossy with some type of hair oil he used far too much of. He was outfitted in a plain vest and button up, gray slacks reaching just above his ankle.

 

“You’re on guard duty until five o’clock in the morning!” He fetched a metal pocket watch from his vest, clicking his forked tongue and tapping the face of the watch with his finger, “That’s another two hours, Deadeye.”

 

“Just thought I’d get something to drink, since no one thinks to provide us with anything on the job.” Lynn moved her hands towards the back of her neck, casually grabbing her braids and pulling them out of the back of the coat so they could fall behind her. She reached in the pocket of her coat and pulled out a flask, gently swirling it to show it was empty. “We got any booze here?”

 

Dijon scoffed at the proposition. “Oh please, Deadeye!” each time he referred to her, he seemed to grow smugger, as if the plain act of referencing her name soiled it, “You’re meant to bring things of your own to eat and drink. And why the hell would I give you booze on the job!? I’m expected to look over a highly operational group of guards, not a bunch of drunks!”

 

“Well, if you were able to find me something to drink I think I might be able to …” Lynn paused there, taking a step forward to whisper the last words closer to Dijon’s pointed ear, “put in a good word with Greed.”

 

Dijon stumbled back, eyes wide.

 

“You, you’d-” His mouth moved aimlessly, seemingly unable to process the words it was trying to say. He suddenly got closer to Lynn, meeting her low whisper.

 

“You’d really do that for me? Put in a good word with him?”

 

She gave him a cold smile. 

 

“Of course I would.”

 

She wouldn’t.

 

“Well, I, uh-” Dijon walked back, raising his voice from the whisper, “I guess I could find you something ... Just this once though, Deadeye, don’t think this’ll be a reoccurring thing!”

 

He turned, walking down the hallway, occasionally peeking his head through a door to peer inside.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Lynn shouted down the hallway as he walked, “be quick will ‘ya?”

 

A faint smile spread across her face as the imp walked out of view. 

 

Works every time.

 

There were certain pros that came with knowing demons. Very few, but they were still there nonetheless. 

 

Not that she knew Greed very well, or anything. He was her employer, and it wasn’t her job to get to know the guy. Wasn’t like he’d like to be known by her anyway.

 

Around four years ago Lynn had been approached by a devil offering her a job in the Septem Mafia, an infernal organization with members splayed out all over Aceton. They wanted her as a hired gun, someone to plop down in compounds like this and keep out intruders, get into the occasional firefight.

 

But there was an angle. There was always an angle.

 

Lynn had connections to a sterling supply chain through her work in the Moonlighters, an old gang of assassins and mercenaries from a town far south of Aceton. Though they were mostly well known for guarding speakeasys in years past, they were also notable for one of their founding members, Jameson Steelie, son of a hotshot sterling manufacturer.

 

Sterling was powerful shit. Bullets made of silver alloy and coated in a holy water of sorts, specially designed to slaughter the supernatural. It was rare, expensive, and something you definitely wanted to have on your side. So giving it to an infernal mafia? Not the brightest idea.

 

The job was boring, unfulfilling work, and she’d not only be working for the most despised organization in the city if she joined, but providing them with an insanely powerful resource.

 

But they’d offered her something hard to come across in this city, good pay, and the promise of protection. And it wasn’t like she’d had a history of fulfilling work, she’d originally come to Aceton for a hit job in the first place.

 

So she’d taken the job, and now here she was, four years later. Sitting on a box for a living.

 

Four years.

 

Recognition of the time passed pained her. All this time wasted on such a bore. Reporting to such assholes. 

 

Each day it felt like the emotions spurred by the realization that she worked for devils became stronger and stronger. They tore this city down with triggermen and scratch, and in doing so they were the only things holding it together. And she was helping them do it. 

 

She hated this job. Hated this place. Hated it all. 

 

But there was nothing she could do.

 

Sterling wasn’t something you just let waltz off wherever it liked, you had to grab it, and hold it tight. All sorts of groups were hungry to gobble the stuff up, loading up every dimwitted gunsel on their side with as much of it as they could. It gave you quite the leverage, the knowledge that any man of yours packing iron had a chance at taking down something like an imp. 

 

That was real power.

 

So when Lynn had come back to the devil to accept the job offer, he’d roped her into a deal, an infernal contract that wasn’t so easily escaped, even in death.

 

So what was there left to do?

 

If she went for Greed? Lord knows he’d have her ass dead and in pieces within the seconds.

 

If she ran? They knew about Mia. They’d probably take her as leverage until Lynn scampered back to town. 

 

Even if she took Mia with her, there was no doubt in Lynn’s mind that they’d find the both of them. Devils were practically gumshoes with all the connections they had.

 

Even if she went ahead and just put a slug in her own head, who knows what might wait after death with an unresolved devil deal on your ass. Might as well be a straight shot to Hell. And anyways, she couldn’t put Mia through that.

 

One more year.

 

This train of thought must’ve sparked through her head at least once a week, it was hard to not go through it all again when her wandering mind had nothing better to do. A familiar craving ate at Lynn as the futility set into her mind. 

 

Shit.

 

She shoved her hand into her coat pocket, rummaging around the mass of wrappers until her fingers touched a thin stick among them.

 

Last one.

 

She gripped it and pulled it out. A lollipop, cherry flavored. Definitely not the best, but a lollipop nonetheless. She yanked off the wrapper and popped the candy in her mouth, moving her hand to let the stick point from the side of her mouth. The craving lowered, a remnant of it still gnawing at her brain. But she could ignore it.

 

It had been Mia who’d told her to stop smoking. Lynn still continued for a while, but eventually Mia got serious about it, bringing it up at what seemed like every opportunity she could. It was around then Lynn had stopped, she didn’t want Mia being that worried about her over something so minor, but it had been more difficult than she’d imagined. 

 

Mia had told her about the lollipop thing, apparently she’d read about it in a magazine or something. It’d been more helpful than Lynn had anticipated, dulling her desire to relapse and light up another cigarette. The first couple weeks had been hell, but she was getting through it, day by day.

 

She still had cigarettes in the house of course, King’s pack, but she’d never smoke those anyway. And besides, Mia didn’t know about them. No harm, no foul.

 

Lynn stood there for another moment, taking in the dark hallway in front of her.

 

Dijon was well out of sight now, the dark expanse of concrete floor and brick wall stretching into darkness ahead. There was another hallway to the right, a light fixture mounting to the ceiling allowing her to see down it.

 

A human stood in the hallway, looking straight at her. As they made eye contact, he stared at her for a moment, before casually turning his head, attempting to make it look as if he had just been zoned out in her general direction. 

 

Lynn sighed. Some days it felt like she couldn’t do anything but draw attention.

 

Deadeye.

 

They all called her that now. It’d been her nickname in the Moonlighters after the accident with King. She’d come back a changed person, and with one less eye to boot. It really began to stick after she got used to aiming with her one eye. King had taught her to shoot with both, so it’d taken some getting used to, but eventually she’d become just as sharp a shooter as she had been. 

 

So they started calling her that, after the eyepatch on her head, and her pinpoint aim.

 

It felt different here. She wasn’t a Moonlighter anymore, and she’d really thought after leaving she could leave that past behind her. She’d tried her best to throw it away, to keep everything under close guard. But it seemed everything caught up with her one way or another.

 

So that’s what they called her, Deadeye.

 

Everytime they said it it was like they dredged up the past she tried so hard to distance herself from. She heard words whispered on quiet lips as she passed groups of Septem goons, people talking about her deadly aim, of how she might’ve lost that eye, of how she must’ve been an infamous assassin in her heyday.

 

This damn demonic sigil didn’t do her any favors either. It was singed into her right hand, two circles, the smaller of the two positioned just as the bottom rim of the other. The burned flesh was made as a permanent reminder of her devil deal, branded into her palm the moment she shook the infernal’s hand, setting the agreement in stone.

 

So many eternal reminders.

 

Goddamn, I REALLY need a pick-me-up. 

 

Lynn turned from the hallway, walking back into her room.

 

She hung up her coat, put her hat on the rack, approached the crate, hoisted herself up, and sat, head between her legs in a relaxed slouch.

 

Raindrops beat against the street outside her window. Cars zoomed by, motors fading in and out of her hearing.

 

Lynn could feel her eyelids getting heavier and heavier by the second as the lightbulb in front of her flickered.