One Off

She didn't have the face of a killer, he thought, adjusting his rifle in the pouring rain, his weathered hands stinging arthriticly in the cold. She didn't have his eyes, eyes that had seen too much and gone too far. Instead, there was a childish innocence to her, in contrast to everything he had heard, everything else about her he saw. He looked away, amused at how amateur he'd become, it had been two decades since he last killed, he knew clean shots don't always come around twice, and taking a few seconds to let his heart and breath steady, looked through the scope again.

His eyes, his weathered, killer's eyes, nonetheless left him frozen at what they saw. She stared impossibly up at him, despite the distance, more than five hundred meters away, and grinned devilishly, knowingly. He had the shot, knew he could put two bullets in her face before she hit the ground, but instead he stared, hypnotized, and watched her. She plucked a knife from her hair, with no fear or hesitation in her motions, and carved a line across the back of her hand. She lifted her blood tipped fingers to her face, still grinning, and smoothly, and with the confidence in motion that comes only from repetition, wrote delicately onto her face, NO MERCY.

In this moment, he saw her, knew her, and she saw him. He knew she was a monster just as he knew left from right or hot from cold, and she knew, she knew that he was but a corpse to her. There was no doubt, no other way things could be.

He stared through the scope and she stared right back, like children refusing to blink, for seconds or hours, it didn't matter. Her life was his take to take if he wanted it, and his finger grazed the trigger but a quarter inch a away. Deep down inside, not in his head, but deeper, he knew as she already did, that she would kill him. And the knowledge was as clear to him as was the nature of the monster in front of him, but he was wrong.

He watched her turn away and head deeper into the alley, all the way still in his line of sight, but that didn't matter. He saw her form slowly dissolve into nothingness as the distance between them grew. He stared into the nothingness she left behind, and despite a life of courage and tenacity, triumphs against insurmountable odds, found himself paralyzed and unprepared for the nothingness to stare right back at him.

But he was once a warrior. He dropped the rifle, his paralysis gone and with it the dehabilitating fear. How stupid, he thought. She was something else alright, but this had gone too far. He looked around, his head still spinning, and his amusement at how ridiculous he'd been acting turned quickly to anger. He had once been professional. What the hell had happened to that man? Furious at how soft he'd become in his old age, he swore that he'd kill her, swore that he wouldn't freeze up a second time.

But his world didn't stop spinning and her grin, her stupid grin, still haunted him. He was never the right man for this. Ashok had wanted his brother to go after the girl, not him. He remembered the torture and the promises.

Then he remembered other things. Lies that he told his first wife, promises he broke to his friends, the death of his father, the scissors his mom used to take to his skin. Through the pain of reliving all his sins and those witnessed upon him, of reopening all his old wounds, he knew what this was and he pleaded, promised he'd do anything, promised he'd go after the girl again, that he wouldn't hesitate, promised to be a better man, promised to atone for what he had done, and he cried, but only for a moment before his skull exploded onto the cold, wet pavement. Car tires futilely screeched, horns blazed, and voices cried out but he heard none of it, just a girl's innocent giggle, and the low roar of a beast far off in the distance.

The End of the Beginning (part v)

The man gulped hard, the knife pressed hard up against his throat, not quite drawing blood but tracing a faint little red line, and gingerly stammered, "This is it. Six twenty Kingsbury."

Mania looked up at the place. It didn't look like much. It was a two story townhouse nestled between a bunch of nearly identical residences. Unlike the adjacent homes, the lights were off, but the place looked well kept, and definitely appeared inhabited. She shrugged and shoved her tour guide with enough force to send him tumbling to the curb. Saying nothing, she gestured for him to run with her hand, and he happily obliged.

Her side ached and bled heavily ever since she plucked the knife from it, sending little trails of blood marching down her leg. Pain is silly. She looked up and down the block. Her former hostage was nearly out of sight, and otherwise, the street was wholly deserted. Streetlamps bathed the block in a hazy orange glow getting no help from the stars. The sky was empty beyond the smirking full moon. He grinned down at her and she grinned right back.

She tapped on the door and overheard whispers and shuffling feet on the inside. After a long wait, during which she spun and twirled impatiently, the door opened to frame a huge man in a suit, weapon already drawn, the gun pointed directly into her face. Mania tilted her neck to the side and looked up into the man's poorly illuminated face. He looked very serious. She smiled.

His index finger caressed the trigger, but he found himself unable to fire when in an instant his arm was skewered through his median nerve and pinned to the door frame. He screamed for a second, but only a second, quickly silenced with a savage slice to his throat. The nearly decapitated man buckled and sank to the floor while Mania tugged in frustration at the blade she left sunk in the door's wooden frame.

She cooed, "Knock knock."

The dark room was illuminated in a hurry with the flash of gunfire, and Mania taking quick note of the locations of the men ducked back outside to avoid the shots. She licked the blood of the first suit off her lips while slipping out of her heels and setting them carefully next to the welcome mat. The men inside were yelling at her, telling her to stop, to wait, to listen, but she wasn't terribly interested.

She spoke over them, "Little piggies, I want my recording." She showed herself around the door for a second and again was greeted with gunfire. There were many things that Mania didn't know or care about, but one thing she did know, was that gunfire meant cops. She didn't like cops. Angrily, she shouted into the door, "I'm going to huff and puff now."

"Belmont chair playing violin." She collected the throats of the five suits.

She didn't have a lot of time to look around, she knew. A few minutes tops. She should have been more subtle, should have been quieter, maybe killed them before they started firing. Stupid guns. So loud. If you were my recording, where would you be?

"Neat," she shot her head around to find the voice. A man, in a suit, but clearly different than the other suits, continued on, "It's not here. I've had it moved." He was young, teenage perhaps, clean cut, confident, and oddly calm. He studied her with curiosity while she did the same.

She didn't like this boy who took her recording. He grinned while she sized up the room. He wasn't more than fifteen feet away. She grinned back at the boy. She could have him dead before he could begin to draw a weapon.

She was wrong. The first bullet tore into her right calf, the second grazed her left forearm. She collapsed before completing a second step. He maintained his distance while he spoke and kept the gun trained upon her, "The recording, I want you to have it."

She heard the footsteps of more men approaching the house, at least three pairs of legs, and too soon for it to be the cops. More suits. She smiled innocently, "Okay. Are you Mr. Tiller?"

"No, I'm not, and I apologize. How rude of me. I know you, Mania. My name is Donovan Cross. Your Mr. Tiller has passed away unfortunately, but you needn't worry, he didn't leave without explaining to me exactly what he had in his possession."

She nodded as he spoke, not really paying attention to a word of it. "I killed your suit people," she pointed around the room at the carnage proudly.

Donovan shrugged. "I have more." Four suits entered the doorway behind Mania, weapons drawn, trained on her. "I expected you'd get here a lot sooner honestly. We really should hurry--"

"Blame Bootleg," she pouted.

"Who's Bootleg?"

***

If Bootleg heard talk of people not knowing who he was, he would have been furious. Bootleg, super thief, hero extraordinaire, arch nemesis of Mania, how could anyone not know of Bootleg? However, at the moment, no sort of talk would have been of any interest to Bootleg as he lay motionless, doped on a medical bed, blankly staring at the drip-drip of his IV. His medical staff had sewn up his hands and shoulder without much consternation -- they were used to his repeated injuries, and so was he.

He figured Mania had probably gotten to where she was going by now and he lazily wondered if little miss "I hate necks" found that recording she'd been looking for. Why did she think that the other words would do anything anyways? It didn't matter to him if they did. Next time, he'd tie the headphones to his head. With fancy knots too. Mania hated knots. His recent "draw" with Mania left him disappointed but not terribly disparaged. He stared up at the florescent-ly lit ceiling, if he cheated and used dumb weapons too, beating her would have been easy.

***

Mania yawned. Donovan had been talking for a while now, especially for a man in a hurry. His men still kept their guns trained upon her, the blood splattered room served as a good motivator to not their attention slip. He talked and talked and talked, clearly in love with the sound of his own voice.

She tuned in for a moment, "-- is why you're coming with us." She gave Donovan a skeptical look. His face read nothing.

The knives were still in her hands. He had made no point of disarming her, perhaps because he felt she wasn't a threat. She was wounded severely. The gunshot to her leg bled freely, but the real danger was the triangular hole in her side, the rest would heal, but she needed to stop the bleeding in her side and get somewhere to lie down. Stupid Bootleg. She pointed at the puddle of blood beneath her.

Sirens blared in the distance. "We can treat those there too. It's close."

Donovan didn't realize the mistake until the knife tore into his hamstring, dropping his weapon in shock. The gun tumbled down the stairs, all eyes on it, and as it skidded to a stop, Mania sprung up putting herself between the men at the door and the young suit. The men held their weapons on her, but didn't fire, she knew they wouldn't, "Belmont chair playing violin."

Two of the blind suits tumbled out the door while the other two remained fixed to their spots, trembling, sure they were going to die, correct. Donovan, blinded, abandoned any hope of getting to his gun and fled up the staircase, but Mania didn't pursue. She turned and walked slowly to the two men frozen at the door, humming all the way.

"Darling, you are all I long for, all I worship, and adore." An eviscerating slash on one of the men soaked his comrade in his friend's warm insides. The man shuddered for a second before Mania's blade crushed through the side of his skull ending his fears in an instant.

The unfortunate consequence of which was leaving her knife stuck into the man's head. She abandoned pulling it out and, empty handed, chased the two runners out into the street.

She immediately spotted one of the men stumbling down the stairs out front. She tiptoed out behind the man with exaggerated and cartoonish movements.

"Boo," as she shook his shoulders delicately.

The man spun around and fired hopelessly towards the house. Thoroughly amused, she danced around his futile efforts, laughing. Finally, some fun. After a few of the shots were a little too close to home, she effortlessly lifted up the man by his head and, pressing his body into one side of the metal railing descending the staircase, bent his neck around the other, severing it horrifically.

She hopped up onto the slanted railing hoping to spot the other man, but he was nowhere to be seen, and quickly bored, Mania retreated back into the house to retrieve her daggers before the police arrived.

To her relief, the knife she threw at Donovan was left on the railing, and affixed to a letter. Ignoring the note, she picked up the knife and headed upstairs. Cross was however nowhere to be found. She eyed the open window out to the fire escape, shrugged, and headed back downstairs. Her recording was close. She just had to get that remaining suit to take her there. Now where was he?

She ducked out the front of the house unseen and made it a few houses down as the police rolled up. There were still three cars parked out front -- she figured they probably belonged to the suits. The man had not driven away. He probably could at this point she knew. It had been more than a few minutes, so she knew he could probably see. She squinted, surveying the area for her lost man. Luck was on her side, or perhaps it was simply the recession of night into morning that aided her search, as she spotted him creeping along across the street six or seven houses down.

As she headed over to the man, she saw him hop out into the street and attempt to hijack a passerby car by waving and threatening with his gun. This would have likely been more effective if there weren't two police cars stopped with their lights blasting down the block. The driver swerved around the man and sped down to the cops. The suit ran. Mania shrugged and followed.

If the man had seen her, he probably would have broke into a full run, but his acting concern was avoiding the detection of the police down the street. Still, Mania was not at her fastest. She left a trail of blood through the street as she skipped, ran, and limped after the man, singing all the way hoping to get in earshot of the suit.

After a block of chasing, she succeeded, with the proof being the man's half-run transforming into a full tumble to the pavement. She was on top of him quickly and about ready to bash his head into oblivion on the sidewalk before suddenly remembering she needed him to escort her to Mr. Cross. Her hesitation bought the man precious time and, while the shots he fired out failed to meet their target, Mania was forced to jump back for cover.

He continued to fire until expending the bulk of his clip. She peeked around the car she had ducked behind, singing quickly before she did, and spotted two things. The man didn't seem especially mobile. He crawled along the sidewalk, but had no obvious wounds. Second, thirty meters down the block, a young boy, likely on his way to the bus stop, lay sprawled out on the sidewalk, a victim of the suit's wild gunplay.

Ignoring the blind suit, she tiptoed over to the kid. A bullet had ripped through his leg just below the knee, and the child moaned and shrieked as he bled profusely onto the pavement.

"Hi, " she spoke gently and the boy rolled over and turned around to acknlowedge her. Out of earshot of the singing, he could see her. Despite turning to address her, all the boy could do was shriek and cry in her face. Mania didn't like this one bit, but simply offered up, "You're hurt."

The boy nodded, his sobbing subsiding slightly, now equally fascinated by Mania's ghoulish appearance as by the pain in his leg. He choked down his sobs into silence and stared blankly at her, utterly beguiled.

Mania continued, "You're going to bleed to death if you lie here. I'll take you to get help." The boy, confused by the pain in his leg and by the fact that this monster sung as she spoke, continued to stare cluelessly. "Wait here."

She pranced over to the blind suit, disarmed him of his gun quite literally, and dragged the man recklessly across the pavement over to the wounded boy. She dropped the blind, wounded, terrified man in front of him proudly, frowning at her failure to elicit praise or even a response from the kid.

Confused and disappointed by the lack of aggression from the child, Mania chimed "He hurt your leg." The boy stared silently, but made no move. She realized the problem, handing the child one of her two daggers and gesturing with her hand, "Cut him back." The blind man squirmed, but she restrained him without much difficulty, and motioned for the child to slash the man.

The kid shook his head violently, protesting, but didn't drop the dagger. She saw that he needed help. She took his hand with her own, and together, they drove the dagger forcefully through the gap beneath the man's knee. The boy said nothing, didn't cry out, just watched as the man bled and screamed. Mania was proud. She let go of the boy's hand, and with her free hand stroked the wound on the man's leg, covering her fingers in his blood.

"Hold still," she purred. With the man's blood, she traced, in giant letters, "No Mercy" diagonally across the boy's face. The boy felt the blood run down his cheeks, his nose, his lips. He smiled while Mania beamed. She took the boy's hand again, totally forgetting her desire to keep the man alive, and together, this time the boy exerting more of his own force, drove the knife through the man's windpipe putting a succinct end to the suit's whimpering.

She carressed the boy maternally, "Now don't you feel better?"

He nodded, and gave a throat cracked, "Yes."

"Let's walk. Those cops will help you fix your leg." She sprung to her feet despite her wounds, but the boy struggled to right himself, falling many times before he made it to his feet, and even then, it was a precarious balancing act that streamed blood copiously onto the concrete. Unphased, Mania took an exaggerated step as if to show him how, "Now walk."

The boy took a similarly giant step with his good leg without a problem, but on his second step onto his damaged leg, pain shot through his body, shaking him, and sending him twisted to the ground. He looked up at her, crying, "It hurts."

Mania pointed to the wound in her leg, "Me too." The boy looked, but didn't seem to care much. She looked at her wound and at the boy's. He was right, his was worse. She savagely slashed her already wounded leg with one of her daggers opening a long gash down the front of her shin. She rolled her neck, savoring the pain, laughing lightly, "You're right, but we're even now. Let's go."

The boy, either in fear of what would happen if he didn't or in bravery, got back up and tried walking on his damaged leg a second time. The pain was still too much, but he could drag the leg and shuffle forwards slowly. The two continued at this pace for a few steps, but Mania looked at the child, concerned. She knew this pace would take way too long. "Walk normally," she barked.

Frustrated, angry, and terrified all at once, the boy spat back, "I can't."

"I'll show you," she pointed the tip of a dagger to the boy's throat. "Every time you land with that leg, laugh. Laugh as hard as you can."

The boy, in a near crazed state of mixed emotions, complied. His leg hit the ground and the pain shot up his spine, but instead of wincing, he chuckled, and to his shock, he felt better. She walked alongside him. He tried again. Again, the pain was there, but as he laughed while he walked, it wasn't so bad. She laughed with him. The pair continued at a steady pace down towards the police cars laughing hysterically as they travelled, but unfortunately nobody was around to enjoy the spectacle.

She explained to the boy matter of factly, "See, pain is a joke. As long as you laugh, it's okay."

As they drew near the police, the boy, proud of himself, and in awe of Mania, stopped to ask her something, but she was distracted by the realization that she was supposed to keep that suit alive. She would have to go retrieve that dumb note now, but knew the house would be crawling with cops.

The boy continued, "-- are you?"

Not having a clue as to what the boy asked, she casually replied, "I'm Mania." She held the boy's hand and walked with him, still laughing, down to one of the parked police cars noticing the men had all headed inside the house. "Wait here." The boy considered protesting, but thought better of it, and watched her slink off towards the house.

It wasn't long before he heard screams and the sound of gunfire and his heart worried, for a moment, for the safety of his new friend. He knew he didn't have to worry too much though and what little doubt he had was erased with her quick emergence from the house, an envelope in one hand, a police officer with severed arms being dragged by his throat in the other. He couldn't hear what she was saying to the man, but the boy saw that the man was, to Mania's frustration, in no condition to respond, and watched as she angrily squashed what was left of him into the stone of the staircase before delicately retrieving her heels from next to the doorway.

She limped over to the kid, the heels not aiding her walking, "More are coming. They'll help you."

He understood, "You're leaving?"

"Yes." She pointed at the bodies, "I have to." She saw the sadness in his eyes and continued, "I want you to get better for me. Get strong for me. I'll find you, okay?"

The boy shook his head in acknowledgment, but, before he could find words for her, came the blaze of police sirens, and he silently watched her whisk herself away into the remaining shadows of the dawn's half light.

***

Donovan grimaced as the girl stitched up his leg. There were no painkillers on the helicopter. He thought about the events of the evening to steer his attention from his leg. Mania had been more than he expected. The old man told him to be careful with her, but replaying what he saw in the past hour, that seemed like the grossest of understatements.

Still, this seemed like the sort of mission from which he wasn't expected to return. He was instructed to bring her back alive, but he had little interest in bringing her to his father. "Careful," he thought. She was a monster. He should have used a sniper, or a toxin -- some means less physical. Next time. She was too dangerous in proximity.

The helicopter landed and he and his remaining entourage descended the stairs to the upper elevators. New suits, his suits, greeted him on his arrival. He turned to his men, serious and calm, "April Showers." They understood.

I have the recording. She'll come for me.

He wished he had read the letter sooner, how stupid to have left it sealed for so long. What would have I done differently? He didn't think she'd listen to him, believe him, or even care. He had no proof. Maybe it was fake. Maybe the old man knew he'd read it. He punched floor 42 in the elevator.

The elevator slid to a stop, the doors opening into the atrium of his boss' study. He stepped out alone, his men continued downwards, they had other tasks.

The old man was relaxed in a recliner gazing at his wall sized television. He had clearly heard Donovan's entrance, but made no effort to recognize it. On the monitor, reporters and policemen flocked about the house Mania had so recently visited.

"This is going to be a problem," croaked the old man, rotating his chair around to face Donovan, angry and frustrated. He stared at Donovan with disgust and revulsion, his son's mere presence was cause for nausea.

Donovan checked his watch. Five. Four. Three.

Explosions ripped through the building, he felt the floor buckle and shake, but it held. That was a little early, but whatever. The old man lept from his chair, panicked, terrified, and stumbled about trying to get to his desk to assess the situation. Donovan stood quietly, calmly.

He had this contingency plan lying in wait for two years now. He knew it might eventually come to this. The letter confirmed it.

As Donovan pulled out the gun, the old man understood the situation, the betrayal, but had no words to offer. Donovan, however, had, as he often did, a few things to say. "You didn't plan for me to come back from this one, did you, dad?"

The father looked at his son, still with the same disgust, "I was indifferent."

"Tell me everything about Mania."

"No."

Donovan shrugged, "I'll find out myself then." He put a bullet into each of his father's eyes and one through his neck. His father hissed and garbled as his life trickled away, but Donovan wasn't around to watch, already on his way out after the third squeeze of the trigger. He checked his watch again. Not much time until the last round of explosives, he had better be leaving.

Tonight was unexpected, but perhaps the start of a good thing. He thought back on the letter:

My dearest Charisma, it's been a very long time, you don't know how I've missed you. You were but a small child when last I held you, and when last I heard your beautiful voice. I know what you've been seeking and I've found it for you. All I ask is that you sing it for me. Please come find me at 450 N Columbus. Ask for a Mr. Cross. I'll always love you no matter what. Your father.

Reconciliation

Bootleg was slightly confused.

Mania had wandered off a safe distance; he wasn't in a great condition to fight, but he could run if needed. What kind of hero runs?

He hollered after her, "WHY DID YOU GIVE ME A STUPID PHONE?"

She spun around and matter-of-factly quipped, "So we can talk."

Bootleg scowled, she is crazy, "We're talking right now."

"No, we can't, because you're wearing stupid earphones." She picked frustratingly at the two knots at the end of her blade without much success. I hate knots.

Bootleg looked at Mania, looked at the headphones that she flung from his head not five minutes ago, looked at the blood drenched shirt she presumably had given him to bandage his wounds, "I'M NOT WEARING HEADPHONES YOU THREW THEM OFF."

Mania shrugged. Bootleg was fun. She figured he'd probably help her. "Okay, I need to go to 620 Kingsbury."

Bootleg didn't wonder why in the slightest, "I don't care."

His refusal didn't particularly concern her, "We'll go there. Get the recording and get out of here before a policeman shoots me."

Bootleg stood up ready to fight again. "What recording?"

She gestured for him to wait and she fumbled about her outfit finally producing a piece of paper. She walked over to him, arm stretched out straight, and handed it to him.

There was someone's handwriting on the paper, definitely not hers, it wasn't crazy, but the paper was so smeared with different shades of blood that is was illegible. "I can't read this."

"Ahh, it's all smeared." She picked up the shirt she had given him and attempted to clean the dried blood off the paper, rather unsuccessfully. Bootleg watched in awe as all she accomplished was smear the paper further by wiping it with the blood soaked shirt. He snatched it back and tried again before she totally ruined it.

original ------ --- ----- -- private collection of ------ Triller. A longtime Chicago resident and ---- fan --- ----- ---- --- --- ----- --- ----- ---- -------- -- ------- -- ---- ---- ----- --- remaining print of The Card Cheat.

Seeing that he had somewhat deciphered the writing, Mania innocently chimed, "So let's see what happens when I sing the other words."

"You don't know the other lyrics, so you came all the way here for the master print?"

Scarcastingly she fired back, "You should know it needs to be a very high quality recording."

It made sense he thought. He had the only working copy of her voice. Others had certainly recorded her, but their sound bites did nothing. Maybe the original would do something for her. Helping Mania learn some dismemberment sympony didn't seem very heroic though.

She shifted her weight impatiently, "So are you going to help or not?"

"No, how about we just fight more."

She shrugged. "Kay."

She dashed at him, but expecting only bare hand blocks from Bootleg was dissapointed to find her forgotten knife plunged into her ribs. Bootleg's eyes darted about. His headphones were too far. The earplugs seemed totally ineffective. She was too loud. The water was close. He jumped.

Singing with a knife in your ribs isn't so easy, "Belmont chair playing violin."

His vision left him as he struck the water. He nonetheless dove straight down aware that she'd probably keep singing until he was forced to surface.

With both knives now recovered and the prospect of ruining her outfit by diving after him, Mania lost interest and merrily trudged up the slope with the knife still stuck in her side.

Confrontation

Bootleg found her with little difficulty. The wires were ablaze with talk about two brutal killings on the Clark street bridge. It would be hours still till the police realized who was responsible, but they would, and Bootleg knew that the siege the police would launch was beyond anything even Mania could weather.

Her official count was one hundred and nine bodies, a gross underestimate. There were even groups of losers online who celebrated milestone killings for her. "Congratulations on 1000, Mania! We love you!" Freaks. She hadn't been in the States for over two years -- the cops claimed she was dead. Never mind similar murders in Belize, Brazil, and Chile. Not the cops' problem.

She was sneaking along the river, unusual for her to be even remotely cautious, but despite her efforts to avoid detection, the moonlight and the fact she was covered head to toe in blood, left her glowing like a taillight.

She had not spotted him. She was alone. No hostages. No innocents getting involved. Now or never.

Two knives to worry about and one random toy of hers. The knives, more like little ten inch triangular tipped spikes, were always with her. Her other weapon varied. Last time it was a chain she strung through little holes in the base of her blades, but there had been others. Better she doesn't get to draw her weapons at all. He double checked his earplugs and cranked up the volume on his headphones. No mercy.

He slid down the bank behind silently and his first blow, a savage elbow to the back of her neck, left Mania tumbling forward to the hard concrete with a satisfying crunch. Without hesitating for a response, he followed up with a cross between a stomp and a kick to her ribs. She covered them with her elbow as the kick came down, but the impact was still clearly felt. She rolled backwards. He came in for another kick, this time to her face, but her knife was in her hand almost instantaneously, and he sprung backwards gracefully just before she sliced his leg.

Shit. Not good. Not good. Not good. Don't die.

She still hadn't gotten much of a look at her assailant, but in anger, she jumped up swinging the blade in her right wildly. Bootleg dodged and blocked with relative ease. Back on the aggressive, he feinted a high hooking punch, and dropped down sweeping out her legs, again sending her sprawling onto the concrete. She hit the ground hard, knocking the wind from her lungs. She'd been fighting blindly, wildly, clueless as to what was happening. She looked up finally seeing her attacker. Her face read fear.

Bootleg dropped down on top of her, pinning her arm holding the knife to the concrete with his knee. Her free arm plucked the second knife from her hair and drove it straight at Bootleg's throat forcing him to again leap back off her, and quickly. The knife that she held in her right had skidded off when he pinned the arm, but she kept the second blade in her left; transferring to her right would be cheating after all.

She squared off finally. "Bootleg. Silly Bootleg." She rambled on but Bootleg heard nothing.

"-- and what you, you you you, don't get, what you don't get, what you don't get, Bootleg, are you listening? Bootleg." She glared at the headphones finally realizing that he heard nothing she'd been saying. "Oh how very rude." She continued on anyways, "I'm probably going to kill you here tonight, I'm not really sure, because --"

Bootleg spoke over her and very loudly, "Mania. What are you scared to fight me without dumb weapons? Know I can kick your ass? First you cheat with your dumb singing. Now you cheat with knives."

He continued on while Mania glared. She tried to interrupt him, "Bootleg, take off the headphones. I just want to talk. I swear. I SOOO swear," but the conversation was somewhat one sided. While he talked, she looked up the bank noticing the conversation of a few young men up the street.

Bootleg continued with his boasting, "--which is also why I'm way more popular--"

She reached into the base of her dress, pulling out a small reel of fishing line and proceeded to thread it through the circular hole at the base of her blade. She tied it off, quite proud of herself, and held it up proudly to show it off to Bootleg. She gestured at the men up above, "I'm going to go talk to them for a sec, I swear I'll be right back." Bootleg heard nothing she said. She pointed and pointed. He shrugged.

She started to move up the hill, but Bootleg, cactching on, siezed the chance and dashed at her, dodging the swipe of her knife as she spun around, and landed a backfist to her face before he was forced to dance out of knife range again. She feinted a few swings at him, and maneuvered herself to pick up her second blade. She screamed, "I WANT TO TALK TO YOU." Bootleg shrugged, and feinting high, again was able to get underneath her guard, knocking her to the ground.

She sprung up quickly, anger gone, replaced with a grin, "Fine, fine. Fiiinneeee." She carelessly twirled about waving her knives idiotically. Bootleg took the bait. He attempted to slide underneath her guard a third time, but she came down with her left blade into his shoulder, following immediately by ramming her knee up into the blade, pulling the knife out the top of his back. He fell back, but didn't falter -- he had endured worse.

She transferred her threaded left blade to her mouth and began attacking closed fist with her left. Bootleg blocked the blows with ease while remaining cautious of feint's from Mania's right. She eventually landed a hooking left to the side of his head, which would have been no problem if she wouldn't have followed it with a hard thrust to his neck with her right. Using both hands, he trapped her right, but only for an instant. She rolled her wrist free of his hold, and the using her free left, pinned Bootleg's hands together.

"Hold this," she rammed the blade in her right through both his pinned hands. Through the pain, he felt his headphones slide off, and "Belmont chair playing violin."

"I'LL BE RIGHT BACK."

Think. Think. She didn't know I've been training for this. I'll be able to see in thirty seconds. Get this knife out. Get my headphones back on. I'm the hero. I can't die here.

Mania had to run to catch up to the men she had spotted. Covered in blood, some of it hers, most of it not, in her sweetest voice, "Can I plleeeeasssseeee borrow two of your phones?"

The three men looked at her and had no idea what to think. They stared at her for a few seconds. She reaked and, well, she was head to toe in blood.

"Are you okay?"

"You want us to call 911 or the cops or something?"

She shifted her weight from left to right impatiently. This was taking too long. She furrowed her brow in thought. "Oh I know!" She pointed at two of the men, "You, call, you."

The men had their phones in their hands but didn't dial -- they just stood confused. Meanwhile, Bootleg, still blind, started bashing his impaled hands into the ground trying to free the knife. Six more seconds.

She screamed, "JUST CALL EACH OTHER."

The men looked at each other confused, but shrugged and complied.

"Okay, so give me your phones."

"What?"

"No."

"Look, we'll call the cops or something for you, but -- "

Inches from the most defiant one's face, she screamed, voice-cracking, "PHONES NOW!!"

"Chill the fuck out."

She did not "Chill the fuck out." Why the men failed to notice the large spike in her left or why they didn't flee immediately when they saw her plastered in blood would be questions they'd answer in another life. She drove the spike through the first's neck, all the way through and out the back, the fishing line dragging behind. She was through the other two's throats before they could take a step.

Bootleg's vision returned to the sight of her tugging on the blade, the line through each man's neck swinging the bodies around wildly until it finally cut its way out, blood erupting out the three like geysers. Bootleg smashed his hands into the concrete hard as he could finally knocking the knife through both and freeing his hands. He screamed in pain.

She nonchalantly picked up the two phones, ripped the blood soaked shirt off one of the men, and walked down the hill. She tossed the shirt and phone to the still struggling to stand Bootleg.

Her face was oddly serious, "I'll be in touch."