I
S O N G B I R D
Descent into the underbelly of the capital was always marked by the familiar stench of garbage. The mage, in some part, believed it served as a prelude for the state of the rest of the district—for those unfamiliar to wander unsurprised at the blatant lack of maintenance and disrepair only this part of the city suffered. Another theory was that it also served as a warning for those that didn’t belong—namely the curious who resided in a better district. Whether it was a dual-natured warning or not, the seemingly out-of-place pinkette was undeterred.
She walked the streets as if she knew them: because she did.
Pausing in her pace at one dilapidated structure in particular, she took a moment to appreciate the aging, somehow-still-standing, establishment for what it was.
The old church had seen many uses in its time—the wear and tear of the structure spoke to that. In her younger years, it was home: an orphanage for refugee children that were lucky enough to escape over the Aquroyan border. Presently, it served as a shelter for the homeless and the hungry. When volunteers permitted, it was a clinic. Though it had not seen worship in many years—at least that she could recall—it was a safe haven, always, for those in need.
Whether it was a secretive enjoyment or a sense of duty, the pinkette disguised her intentions for continuing to visit the church with a simple statement: she hasn’t forgotten her roots.
Crossing the threshold of the double doors, the mage instantly met with the now-relieved expression of the clergyman responsible for organizing services of the day.
“Is it so empty that I’m a sight for sore eyes, Father?”
“It seems the Light Workers we trained couldn’t be bothered to show up today,” the priest mused, albeit with a hint of bitterness.
“Not to worry,” she retorted. “You’ve got an actual healer today.”
Usually, students studying Light magic would volunteer for the open clinic, in order to better hone the healing aspects of the element. A requirement for graduation, no doubt—as volunteer numbers seemed to decline after commencement. She frowned, noting the formidable line of prospective patients that formed.
By the Goddesses’ ironic sense of humor, the mage was blessed to embody the element of Life—as such, she was a practitioner of true healing magic, despite her apparent lack of gregariousness toward the general public.
“First in line?”
A twinge of sympathy hit every time someone stepped up, of varying degrees—each came to address a different problem: physical trauma, day-to-day ailments, some with more serious illnesses. And yet, this was the only building that hosted even a remnant of a clinic. The only pharmacy found was of the street variety. There were, of course, certain dangers to be considered that were unique to the area—but these people deserved better.
“Just born on the wrong side of the cobblestone, I suppose,” she mumbled to herself.
“Pardon me?”
Meeting the hues of the elderly woman she was treating, the gentle light emitted from the mage’s palm faded as her focused gaze became more present. A soft smile creased her features.
“Nothing, ma’am, I was just talking to myself. I don’t sense any more tension—has the pain resolved?”
Her surprise was quickly replaced by relief as gnarled hands reached up to touch her temples.
“I hadn’t even realized! Thank you, dearie!”
Before the mage could respond, a fragment of conversation caught her ear—out of the corner of her eye, she recognized the gruff figure of one of the local goons always stirring up some kind of trouble, a little less than casually conversing with one of the other priests.
“…That’s higher than last week’s payment.”
“Yeah, well, so are the stakes. I’m assumin’ ya wouldn’t want somethin’ happenin’ to the place? Ya know, like arson, or maybe a robbery?”
She could feel her fist instinctively tighten beneath her cloak—but a gentle hand gripped her shoulder: a non-verbal request from the clergyman she’d spoken with prior.
It was a struggle not to voice her indignation.
“And that is where donations actually go, I presume?"
A sigh escaped the priest—the only answer she needed.
“It may not go to the beautification of the establishment, but I suppose it does go into protecting it.”
Protect was certainly used loosely in this circumstance. She wasn’t unfamiliar with the laws of District Three, having abided by them herself at one point. Surely, more was to be gained by simply walking up the worn steps to a wealthier side of town—but the poor were easier targets.
“I think I prefer to call it extortion rather than protection. Have you informed the Guard?”
A chuckle escaped from one of the patients—a middle-aged man who’d been treated for a laceration to his hand. Obviously, he’d no shame in eavesdropping.
“Don’t kid yourself, little lady. They’re either in on it, or don’t care.”
The mage’s thoughts turned to a fiery redhead—the Major Crimes captain, a woman she’d gotten to know over the years. Honest, hardworking, genuine… The mage was ever-impressed by the depth of her compassion and sharpness of wit. The captain garnered quite a bit of respect from those who met her acquaintance, she being no exception.
She was a good cop.
Unfortunately, she belonged to the good part of the city.
Shaking the thought, the mage silently accepted the reality that the captain was a needle in a needle stack. The man was probably right.
“It’s getting dark,” the priest interjected suddenly: another code to live by for the street-wise.
“I suppose I should be on my way now, then?”
“Please be safe.”
A soft smile swept across the mage’s features as she gave the old church one last glance-over before turning toward the exit.
“I’ll come by again another day to make repairs,” she replied, motioning toward the cracks in the ceiling.
Knowing better than to object to help, the priest nodded, sending the mage off with a wave.
II
R A P T O R
As night fell, darkness blanketed the barely-lit streets: the lamps used to illuminate them strategically placed few and far between. The stark contrast of building silhouettes served as a guide for navigating rooftops—the absolute blackness of their shadows made it easier to gauge the distances between. Little by little, the underbelly’s most despicable slithered out as the hours grew later.
Tonight was perfect to hunt—though truthfully, there were eyes for only one prey.
The soft padding of leather against shingles sounded every so often, barely audible to ears that weren’t trained to listen for it. A petite figure leaped from roof to roof, auburn locks trailing behind her. For the residents of District Three, she wasn’t an unfamiliar sight, if one was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of her.
Truthfully, her presence lent balance to the scales for this part of the city: though perhaps not so much justice as it was karmic. Justice, fairness… Those were ideas that simply didn’t appeal to the nature of the slums: the only law that applied was survival.
She offered something far more tangible than ideas: reprisal.
Stopping at the ledge of one of the taller structures, the vigilante took a moment to appreciate the skyline—more realistically, the quality of her vantage point. From atop her perch, magically-induced amethysts scanned the cobblestone below. There appeared to be no sign of trouble… In fact, it was quiet. This was a rarity she would normally enjoy, had she not come out for a specific purpose.
Finally, a conversation caught her ear.
“Where’d ya get all that from? Boss hasn’t changed his rates in a while.”
“I like to charge a little extra as a collection fee—what he don’t know won’t hurt him.”
One of the men held out his hand, gesturing for a share of his own. With a sigh, the goon forked over a few gold coins.
“Hush money, yeah?”
“I ain’t seen or heard nothing.”
Just who she was looking for.
Emerging from the darkness, she waited for the two goons’ shadows to pass beneath the adjacent lamppost, before signaling them with a sharp whistle.
“Hey, Handsome~.”
Puzzled, both men stopped, searching for the source of the sound, before finally settling on her form. The collections agent quirked a brow.
“Eh? Hookers are solicitin’ from rooftops now?”
“Someone’s probably into that. Ain’t a bad strategy, though.”
“Yeah, well I ain’t one of ‘em. No thanks, lady. Try the next corner.”
He retorted, waving a hand dismissively at her.
“What a shame, but I think I’ve got a better idea,”
Distracted by her sudden appearance, the two men hadn’t noticed the length of amethyst ribbon encircled around their next step. As their feet made contact, her trap sprung, wrapping around the lamppost. The goons hung by their ankles with considerable slack—but the height was nonetheless still intimidating.
Their terrified shouts was like music to her ears. Despite their appearance, the binding ribbons were reinforced by an enchantment, and bore considerable strength.
But the vigilante wasn’t about to let them believe that.
Like pendulums, they swung back and forth—until the ribbon bindings finally stabilized around their wrapping points. Afraid to make any sudden movements, the goon barely uttered a word as she drew closer from the ledge across, prying the tightly-held burlap wallet from his hand.
“Seems you’re as generous as you are handsome,”
She commented, with a wink.
“As thanks, I’ll teach you a little thing about momentum…”
It hadn’t quite registered until the vigilante lifted her leg to deliver a swift kick to the goon, knocking him sideways into the other. Albeit unwillingly, the blow was returned—and the motion would likely transfer between the two for some time…
“You bitch!”
Finally, one mustered up the courage to say something.
“Feel free to hang around for a while, boys~.”
A mixture of amusement and pride coated her laughter as she made her escape, a satisfying thud ringing throughout the night as her spoils fell into the old church’s donation box.
Charity felt good.
