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In ̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅ → 3 mos ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
“Fine. I’ll cover for you. But I d—”

“Don’t like it one fuckin’ bit. I know, Fi. I know. But we gotta try something. For Genny.”

Fi stepped out of the shower with a groan and started drying herself. Sally, still fully dressed for the night, grabbed a second towel and started to help.

“I just. It’s a helluva long shot. Sure you don’t wanna ask Miggy to go with you?”

“Gotta keep our heads down on this, Fi. Miggy won’t snitch, but what about the other boys?”

Fi sighed and began lotioning herself from the top down. Sally knelt and started from the bottom up. Even with the two of them, it took some time. Fi and Sally were the biggest kids by a significant margin, but in very different ways. Sally wasn’t all that short, but Fi was tall. When properly clothed, her ashen complexion was perhaps the only thing that hinted at exactly what sort of build she was meant to have. Her cheeks were sallow, yes, and her eyes were sunken, but clothes hid the full extent of the story. Her skeleton hadn’t entertained any rosy notions of stunting growth and staying small. Her stretch marks were probably more mass than the sum of her body fat. Maybe on someone of a different build, it wouldn’t have looked quite so sickly, but Fi clearly was never meant to be a small woman. And yet here she was, a giant beanstalk of a girl, trudging along and poking herself in the ass with her own hip bones whenever she sat down. It was always difficult for Sally, helping Fi in the bathroom. For years, Fi had fought herself. She only seemed to eat when Sally, or on the odd occasion, Sunny, fussed at her. Sometimes, late at night, Sally had to wonder if Fi wanted in her heart of hearts to just stop eating altogether, and let her bones finally leave the rest of her behind.

“Thanks. Just, uh. Help me with my hair ‘fore you leave, please?” Sally sighed and tilted her head. “My arms are sore, Sal,” Fi groaned, “So fuckin’ sore.” Sally nodded. “‘Kay.”

Fi collapsed onto the bed. Sally grabbed Fi’s bottles from one of the drawers and sat cross-legged next to her. As Sally massaged the progression of products into Fi’s hair, the only sounds that came from either of them were occasional contented sighs from Fi, and intermittent grunts from Sally as she tried to lean forward far enough to get every inch of Fi’s hair while also not smearing anything on her boob. Eventually, Sally grunted one last time, reached for Fi’s bonnet, and gathered the great expanse of well-attended afro into it. She pulled it right into place, and tied the ribbon into a bow.

Fi rolled over, then begrudgingly rose. The two girls leaned on one another for a moment, then moved on. They got off the bed, got changed—Fi from nudity into a well-worn, lightly torn ghost of good cotton pyjamas, Sally from a sausage casing of a black lace slip pulled over an organ-crushing waspie into a frumpy amalgamation of scavenged working man’s clothes salvaged into something she could wear—and Sally looked back at Fi one last time.

“We gotta trade tonight. I need some smokes. You need some grass.” Before Fi could protest, Sally plucked the pack from Fi’s drawer and pointed to the blunt on the vanity. “Smoke something, goddamnit. Get the munchies. You need both.”

Sally set out into the cold night with her back hunched and her hands planted firmly in her pockets, each curled tight around mismatched, blood-crusted knuckledusters pinched off of the progression of thugs that’d left too blasted to remember what they’d forgotten. And hunched over, with her hair tucked into the drape of a shirt she had on, Sally could pass herself off from behind in the dull yellow street lights as the sort of heavy-fisted brute that might have knuckledusters in his pockets. And the shabby clothes sent a clear message to any would-be muggers creeping behind that there wasn’t much to steal. Broke white men that nobody recognized had it easiest at night, after all. Neither the crooks nor the cops could be bothered to give a second look.

Of course, it wasn’t a perfect strategy. From the front, it was harder to play that card. Anyone who got a good look at her face would see the eroded remnants of her nightly getup, and the dark-circled, sullen shadow of what might’ve been a cute face back when it belonged to a younger child with less months-turned-years under her belt. And there was the rest of her, of course. Bodies came in all sorts, yes, but even without the outline of a military-grade bra, she didn’t carry her weight in any sort of way a man usually did. But hunching over helped. Pulling a cap down to cover part of her face did too. It was the best that could be done, and when it didn’t work, that’s where the knuckledusters came in. Sally could plant a good, solid sucker-punch, and when she was out and about, that usually meant she was in a mood that made her all too happy to throw as much into it as she could manage. She had the better judgement not to go out looking for a fight, but the odd time it did happen, she often found it more cathartic than scary. After all, out here, there was no reason not to fight back. Get a punch in. A real fucking punch to a face that really fucking deserved it. Even if she didn’t win, it felt nice to see the bastard lose a tooth for his decision to try something.

There was, however, one subset of man she didn’t mind running into out and about at this time of night. The lonely hot-dog man was a blessed island of fortune in the vast concrete expanse of jackasses of all colors and creeds. Sometimes, the guy on the night shift still had a face that deserved a broken nose, sometimes he was someone different—an honest man just trying to keep warm and keep everybody fed. It was a gamble, but it wasn’t one Sally really minded making. There was, whether the guy in question wanted cash or was after something handsier to warm himself up, the plain truth that it was one of the only places in the world where there was an honest exchange, no strings or secrets, that led to everyone getting some of what they wanted. Sally preferred the sublime joy of being the one to exchange currency for goods and services instead of the other way around, no doubt, but even in the latter case, it was a plain and simple trade—no bullshit, no evil, just two people who wanted something the other had. It was still dirty, but it was honest dirt. Not scum dirt. Dirt where everybody got a say in how much it sucked. And at least she saved the money.

A small solace tonight was the fact that the young man shivering behind the counter at the dinky little stand was a rare breed. He didn’t get angry or offended, just politely took the money and turned the alternative down with an explanation that he had a girl back home he was devoted to, and then got to fixing her a duo of Milwaukee-style dogs. He wished her well, she thanked him, and Sally was off with her prizes, which, even after the second went cold, made the rest of the way over to the Soirée far less of a schlep.

...

When she finally reached the place, Sally sulked on in, eyes glued to the booze-stickied floor, and hopped up the closest stool at the bar to the kitchen. She had three requests for the barkeep: Booze, a hearty meal, and a word with Madame Pearl, when she got a chance.

“It’s important,” she stated, “It’s about one of Sunny’s girls.” Then the stone wall went up. She wanted a word with Pearl. Not a grunt or a whore. Madame Pearl.

Pearl pressed the receiver between a raised shoulder and her ear, both hands still shuffling notes like a blackjack dealer. A cigarette hung loosely from between lips that muttered hushed counts.

“500, 600, 750, 8…55 - Lloyd. I’m busy. Ya hear that? That right there is the sound of me countin’ bills and - Oh, fuck. 920? 950 - Fuck if I know. See, I’ve lost count now Lloyd. On account of you blastin’ my line. What’s so fuckin’ urgent, huh? Cos I’m countin’ my last nerve right now.”

“Some kid’s at the bar. Says it’s about one of Sunny’s girls?”

Sunny. Was it already that time? Another graduate of Sunny’s Sex School? It was still a name that bolted straight through her, reached a hand right into her mouth, wriggled down her throat, and gripped at her heart.

“Well why didn’t ya just say that, Lloyd? Tell the lil’ angel that I’m on my way and for gods sake don’t serve her a drop of nothin’. We ain’t watering saplings in my goddamn garden.”

She slammed the phone down. Rose from her seat and sniffed. She hadn’t had a whiff of coke since Winnie had been and gone. It showed in the ache of her bones as she made her way downstairs. The office door rattled as she kicked it shut behind her. The Soirée crowd parted like seas as she meandered to the bar, mink-lined shawl wrapped round her slender neck. The little cherub was sat stiffly at the bar, trying to badger Lloyd into pouring her something.

“What you doing out so late on a school night, treasure?” Pearly asked, slinking behind the bar to face Sunny’s girl. “You’re a little younger than the usual special delivery.”

Sally leaned forward on the bar like an old man. “Look, Miss Pearl, here’s the deal,” she stated, “Don’t wanna waste your time, but there’s a problem that I wanna solve, and it’s not something to talk to Sunny about. And I can pay you back for your trouble.” She cleared her throat. “So anyway, if you got a minute, d’you want the long story or the short one?”

Pearl arched a brow. Lloyd pressed a glass of champagne into her palm and she sipped from it, letting the young girl's words hang in the stale Soirée air. She smacked her lips, bubbles still fizzing on her tongue that flicked out and mopped up the residual liquid that coated her bottom lip like vaseline.

“Don’t wanna waste my time, huh?” she mused. “Well then, you better gimme the short version. But if you’re looking for a problem to be solved, don’t leave out the gory details. Pearly ain’t a fan of wool over these pretty eyes. Tell me. What can I possibly do for you that Sunny can’t know about? You need me to sign your report card?”

Sally chuckled dryly. “Actually, it is about school. Not me; I ain’t been since elementary. But got a younger girl, we call her Genny. She’s about 12, and she’s bright. Real fuckin’ bright. Keepin’ up with her grade level usin’ textbooks from the library with Sunny as a quote-unquote tutor bright. I could go on.” She gesticulated as if to wave the extra words away. “She begged and begged to go to school, busted her ass to prove it, all that, so Sunny reached out to a guy she knew, last name Radowicz. He’s the principal over at St. Rita’s. And apparently a real sonuvabitch. Tonight, he came over and rocked Genny’s shit real bad. She can’t speak. She’s got cuts. Belt marks and choke marks—whole nine yards. Apparently when Sunny first did him, he broke a drinking glass across her head. Can’t kill him, though, because otherwise Genny ain’t going to school. But she’s gonna be in his office every goddamned lunch period takin’ his due, and so I want the name of a kneecapper or burglar or something who can scare him straight a bit. Break into his house, steal some shit, rough him up—that sorta thing. But if it came from Sunny—she doesn’t know I’m here, of course—he’d definitely back out. Genny’s got potential, Miss Pearl. She could do your books. Shit, she could go out, live a real damn life, and not die in a ditch before 40 like I prob’ly will. So, can we do something about him?”

Lloyd had a cloth draped around a wine glass, clouded with steam. His wrist flicked as he polished, eyes pointedly averted but ears pricked with intrigue. Pearl sipped from her flute, shooting him a warning glare. She shooed him, leaning over the bar from her side of the jump, leaving a mere arms length between her and Sunny’s girl. The image of her mama’s babydolls teaching her to read, ever patient as she struggled through syllables from a kids cardboard storybook at 12 years old, flashed through her mind. A baby prostitute with promise? Who was she to deny potential? Maybe this poor little soul could get out the game? Maybe even go to college? She’d be saved from a life of spread legs and thinning optimism. So she needed some muscle to intimidate some sick sod with an appetite for little lambs?

“We ain’t doin’ nothin’, darlin’” Pearl purred, her eyes narrowing at Sally from across the sticky bartop. “All we need to do is make one lil phone call and let the professionals do the rest… But it’s a risky pie to put our fingers in, you know. This Radowicz may well just be a fly caught in a web… But what if he’s the spider, darlin’? What if Pearly sticks her neck out for you and them pincers find their way into my pert lil’ behind? I got enough dramas of my own to be dealin’ with without putting my name down for another… You know anything about this guy? Tell me he’s just a teacher who needs a lesson of his own…”

Sally shook her head. “I just need a name, Pearl. That’s a normal thing you do, right? I just need a name for someone who can give a principal who’s been beating kid whores since the 50s a taste of his own medicine.”

The Madam straightened her spine, eyes hardening at the young girl. She clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

“Oh, sure. It’s a normal thing I do, sweetie. For a friend. For a customer. Not for one of Sunny’s flock. Which is what you are, ain’t it? And see, that’s what makes this a lil less than normal, right?” Pearl’s tone was licked with warning. She turned her back, pulling out a drawer that sat beneath the back-bar. Setting a notepad down with one hand, cradling the champagne flute between the fingers of the other, Pearly sighed to herself and shook her head. It was just a name. Just a name and a number. A small act of charity for the poor things. It was good karma. And lord knew she needed some of that. Pearly’s pen scratched across the paper, her handwriting wobbly and barely legible. Shame pricked at the capillaries in her cheeks. This Genny could probably write a darn sight neater than that. Maybe she’d learn to? Get this teacher’s hands off her and she’d soon be writing cursive. The paper ripped from the wire pad’s binder and crinkled between Pearl’s fingertips. She whirled back round to face Sunny’s girl, chin raised and gaze darkening down the bridge of her nose.

“Take it,” she clipped. “You didn’t get it from me. You ain’t even been here, darlin’. Pop it in your pocket and head on back to Sunny. I don’t never wanna see Genny’s name comin’ across my desk, ya hear? Make sure she gets herself up on outta here. As for you? Stay outta trouble, sweet thing. Else you’ll be in a ditch much younger than 40.”

“That’s the plan.” Sally produced a small wad of cash from her pocket and slapped it down on the counter. It was messy and crumpled, but probably more than people usually paid for this type of thing. “Thanks.” She slid off of the stool and left, squinting at the name in her hand.

Genny couldn’t help read this one. She needed to be as surprised as Sunny when the news broke.


Written in collaboration with @themaybreeze
In Graveyard Orbit → 3 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
How fortunate. There was at least a minimum of one other Kiel with some sense. Approval flashed across her expression as he tried to set the squabbling masses right. Walking closely alongside him as she was, her ears perked up at his shout. She had no doubt he’d spent years as a grunt, but the tone of his voice surprised her. Anyone could have imitated it, but he did better than she would have anticipated from someone who’d only been on the receiving end. Even if they were almost certainly from different factions, it would be a relief to have another proper officer. Someone who’d lived long enough to have seen more than combat training and a few deployments. Someone who’d seen, really seen, things from on foot and up above. Then again, even a middle-aged Kiellar soldier or petty staff officer could have more experience in war under their belt than even the longest-serving Dhasath or human generals ever could. Even if she was wrong, and he was a mere grunt, perhaps there’d be another reasonable mind among the naive and primitive.

Then the wetware abomination got more restless still, and then took off at her compatriot’s order. It was fast, especially for something with a wetware build, messy as those generally were. And it, followed promptly by one of the Dhasath, called her fellow Kiel by a term of address that didn’t seem to translate for her. Perhaps it existed to her compatriot, as he demonstrated no apparent confusion at it, but either way, his response prompted a little huff of amusement from her nose.

Things were headed in the right direction, if nothing else. The biggest outstanding problem with the developing plan was the fact that they were on a majority-Dhasath planet, which meant the Dhasath got the best shot at getting handouts—and would therefore have the most leverage. Dhasath always seemed to get lucky, and once again, the Dhasath had gotten luckiest. It sometimes made Ruvulla wonder, really, if they had some kind of real luck hard-coded into their genetics. But either way, Dhasath tended to share luck only with other Dhasath. And those Earthling cousins of theirs. Which begged the question, would they actually return? Getting out ahead of it, Ruvulla issued a stern declaration.

“Remember that there’s a Ragon waking up. If you do not come through with equipment or shelter by sunset, I, for one, will sooner requisition what I need than take my chances with a hungry Ragon at night and unarmed. I’ll be seeing you in the advance party by sunset, one way or another.”
In Graveyard Orbit → 3 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
As the group faltered, Ruvulla listened along as the group debated what tale they’d tell to the villagers. Rather than looking at anyone speaking, she leered exclusively at the still-recovering Ragon. It concerned her how few others seemed to notice the beast amongst them. The Dhasath, particularly the Earthlings, seemed all too eager to stand idly and quibble over details. To be expected. What they failed to appreciate was the imminent threat—and thus opportunity—laid before them. There was no need to pose as bounty hunters going after criminals. They had a real, tangible monster that needed to be attended to. If the villagers didn’t understand the gravity of the situation, it was at their own peril.

“The question is not if we’ll be hunted. It’s whom among us will be,” she remarked, gesturing with her whole arm at the Ragon, “That Ragon will either hunt us, hunt the villagers, or get us hunted by them if we fail to keep it under control. We can offer to help keep them safe from it and probably get some spare clothes and weapons in exchange. We can let it do as it will with them and scavenge the wreckage. But I’d recommend you all not ignore it long enough for it to decide for us.”
In Graveyard Orbit → 3 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
First thing we raid is the local haberdasher. Other clothes are secondary.

Nonsense! What we need are some proper fatigues!
In Graveyard Orbit → 3 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Ruvulla shot a scathing glance behind her at the soldiers rushing her out. Whatever pretences of discipline had evaporated the moment things became difficult. Typical. She squinted back at the ship through the overbearing sunlight, meditating on how she’d have responded if she’d only managed to grab a gun. Her back was tense. Her fists were curled. It was a stroke of luck that these good-for-nothings were as useless as they were, no doubt, and yet it was still also a deeply frustrating sign of the times.

And now she was stuck. Stuck here, with common criminals and scum of not just the galaxy, but with the inclusion of so-called “humans,” the local group as a whole. She watched the ship rise, glaring even as her eyes ached from the gleam of the metal. She willed that there might be some critical malfunction on the ship—some sort of fatal, painful cosmic justice—anything to strike down these good-for-nothings before they had a chance to get off scot-free. Knowing it to be an exercise in vain, she instead resorted to repeating the names she’d overheard in her head and tried to keep the faces in her mind. If she ever got off this rock, she promised herself she’d remember them. These were lineages that needed to be cauterized. If she ever happened upon them, it would be her deepest pleasure to ensure they got what they deserved. Traitors among traitors—there was no lower life form, not a one, even among the foulest, most miserable, and wretched dank little corners of the known universe.

Slowly, the conversations at hand peeled her attention away from that ever-diminishing hated blip in the sky.

There was such a monstrous conglomeration of races involved. There was no doubt that the correct destination, for the sum of them, was indeed a prison colony. The cacophony of translated tongues grated on her ears even after almost a century of intermittently tolerating such affairs. And there were stranger things about too—the sorts of things that belonged in vats in the lab or cautiously subjugated at arm’s length as the case may have been. There was some anomaly of nature inhabiting a space suit which felt equipped to weigh in despite lacking any apparent utility as far as skill or knowledge went. Worse still, there was an abomination of flesh and machinery—the sort of wetware monstrosity that she and the other medical officers were continually quashing attempts by arrogant and foolhardy cyberneticists to cobble together from medical waste. It too had an opinion, and one which was uttered in a manner which she needed no nanites to clock as profoundly ridiculous, to such an extent that its very presence felt insulting.

They all went around singing kumbaya and introducing themselves, as if they were new colleagues and not a half-cocked abortion from a prison ship run by the galaxy’s most worthless excuses for soldiers. She rigidly clasped the bridge of her nose as she contemplated the situation, and begrudgingly took in the ragtag assemblage’s assessments of the situation.

If it was any small consolation, there were at least some heads in the group with any notion as to how awful the situation was, and some thought as to how to begin to salvage it. Appealing as the proposition of shedding such humiliating attire was, it was also practical. The Dhasath was, in truth, correct in her assessment that alternative garments needed to be requisitioned by any means necessary. There were perhaps specifics to be quibbled over, but really, the only outstanding question was exactly what they were expecting to find. There were surely practical options available within reasonable bounds, but suitable? Less likely. They’d have to make do with whatever scraps could be dragged from this backwater.

Despite her misgivings, Ruvulla followed the proactive Dhasath, human, and Kiel with relatively little hesitation. It wasn’t as if there were better options lying around. As the other misfits continued their chatter, she sighed.

“The more time wasted out here, the more chance there is to get sunstroke. Anyone who intends to move ought to move. Talking and walking can be done at the same time.”

And just then, she heard a Kiellar name, followed by the words “Political dissident” and “Makerist monk.”

“That’s a new one,” she muttered, “What a sick fucking joke.”

She kept walking in the direction of the town, trying her best not to dwell on the matter.
In ̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅ → 3 mos ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
The dull blue of the urban night slowly lightened as the sun made its final approach. Genny slept soundly, recently numbed and gently hushed back into her peaceful, well-deserved slumber. Sunny sat at her side in the bed, having taken over from Fi once the night ramped up. She had returned at every opportunity to the side of that bed—her own bed—the very same bed which had once belonged to the married mobsters who’d taken her in.

Here, in this bed, lay the only tenderness anyone could ask for in this world. She gently stroked Genny’s hair, slumped to the side from exhaustion and unshakeable ambivalence. They had no choice in this life, not really. Nobody got a choice, did they? But she could pay it forward. She could be the one to comfort her kids, just as Mamusha and Tata had occasionally comforted her in the very same bed in their own ways, on the days after terrible nights such as this. Even if it was still under her watch that they were made to need that comfort.

At least Genny would be in a good school. At least she might use that potential she still had to find a better life than this one through that education. At least she’d never have to go to that man’s house. That much, Sunny could tell her, and tell herself.

It’s important that we remember what it was like, back when we were around that age. It’s all we can do.

It was a feeling like no other. Every pill, every dose—they each added a new individually overwhelming sensation to the pulsing mass within. Blasted. Gone. Strung out. Zapped. Each term might have captured some fragment of the impossible whole, but none could sufficiently articulate it. It was a paradoxical mixture, as though she were at once thoroughly sedated and yet also quivering in hyperstimulated excitement, fit to bursting with a writhing mass of fuzzy pink caterpillars gorging themselves on the nauseous erotic rainbows that churned in the pit of her stomach.

Cookie protested vehemently when Miss Orta pulled Sunny off of him. His cheeks were flushed, for having been so close to being done when they were rudely interrupted. Miss Orta, without a second look, reddened them further by shutting his back-talk down with a firm smack to the cheek. She gently led Sunny away and sat her down on the bed. As she wiped away Sunny’s smeared makeup with a handkerchief, she delivered a firm little lecture reminding Sunny not to make a mess. The young girl slurred and sputtered out, “Yes, ma’am,” several times, until Miss Orta finished wiping her clean. Miss Orta gripped her by the mouth, her long nails squishing into the young girl’s cheeks as she did. A curt reminder of diction accompanied it.

Her mouth was wet and then dry again. Its state oscillated frequently, sometimes for no reason at all, others because Sunny’s jaw sometimes slackened and tensed independently of whatever part of her brain ought to have been controlling it. Yet she was only a mouth-breather insofar as a routine gasp demanded—and they were often. Gasps of excitement, shock, and God only knows what else—certainly not Sunny—insisted upon themselves. The fire inside her was packed with all manner of flavor. It erupted into passionate excitement with the smallest kindling, and yet could be mellowed just as quickly by a hand, be it gentle or firm. She was an electrified putty, bristling with itchy arousal while melting into sticky, shapeable cheer all at once.

Miss Orta ordered Sunny to the mirror, and advised her on how to do herself up. Interspersed with these directions was the night’s briefing. Sunny, so Miss Orta indicated, would be taking on one Mister Andrew Radowicz after Cookie had finally gotten a bite in on him. Cookie’s sudden cackle at the proposition was shattered by the crack of a backhand across his head. He grumbled something unintelligible as he slunk down. Miss Orta snapped at him to fetch an outfit of his for her from the laundry. Sunny looked in the mirror. She’d been guided into rosy cheeks and mascara, but no lipstick. Who didn’t like lipstick? All of the colors looked so nice wherever they ended up. Miss Orta responded as though Sunny had said it out loud. Well, her mouth was its own person after all; maybe it did. Mister Radowicz didn’t like trollops. Apparently, he was a schoolteacher.

“Oh Mamusha, I won’t have to study for this, will I?”

Sunny already knew everything she needed to know. Just be polite. Just be good. And try, really try, damnit, to be a real boy for a little while. Doesn’t have to be the whole night. But there aren’t any other options for boys. Yes, Sunny, you can be a pretty boy. And remember, boys don’t wear dresses.

Cookie returned with the clothes.

Ties weren’t as bad as Sunny remembered. They weren’t too tight anymore. If anything, it was hardly noticeable. They weren’t as heavy as some chokers or collars. But didn’t it look wrong? When Sunny was dressed, she looked to Miss Orta with a skeptical expression. Wasn’t it silly, she wondered, to put her in such a dowdy uniform? It was like putting a bouquet of blooming lilies in a brown clay pot instead of a lovely vase. Maybe Sunny hadn’t said it out loud; maybe she thought she did and she hadn’t. Sunny wouldn’t have known whether she’d spoken as she thought or imagined herself speaking, as Miss Orta read her mind well enough either way. An outfit can complement one’s figure, certainly, but as Marilyn Monroe once did a photo shoot in a potato sack, so too could the figure make the clothes into a complement. They fit, at least, well enough that a few pins and stitches fit the outfit in short order.

Getting pricked with a needle was meant to hurt, wasn’t it? It was meant to be a sharp little sting, a jolt of awareness indicating the body’s desire to keep its insides protected under the skin. Sunny was aware, no doubt, but under some twist of fate, these days pricks, shocks—the little kicks of energy in life—had their edge removed. She was already a pincushion full of glitter. She could feel new pricks—not immediately, mind you—but the release from the needle’s swift exit still sent goosebumps down her spine. The little bud of blood had this sort of faint sting that kept her eyes wide and ready. Sometimes, Sunny wondered if there was a way to be truly sewn into an outfit. It wouldn’t have been a bother, really. It could even be fun. Nobody could rip it off and steal it easily. Well, probably not.

Once they finished, Sunny had made it halfway to the stairs before Miss Orta reminded her she’d be spending the night with Mr. Radowicz. All night. Until the morning, a bit past normal wake-up time. Sunny swung back and beelined for her little treasure chest full of serums cast off by the older whores. Miss Orta redirected her quickly to choose a “sexy little number.” There weren’t many choices of nightgown, admittedly, but it was always a hard choice. Miss Orta didn’t allow for the indecision for long. She neatly plucked a set of Cookie’s pyjamas from the drawer, then held them up to the nightgowns. She picked the best match for Sunny, and had the young girl pack a small bag with them.

Soon, Sunny was dropped from Miss Orta to the palm of a burly enforcer, who met doe-eyes, strung-out babble, and habitually creeping fingers with stern reminders that he was neither a paying customer nor intended to become one.

Why, oh why? Did he not know she’d do her best? Would he really be so happy to be gentle and protective for pay and pay alone? And fuzzy arms were fun to touch! The prickles and twists felt like phones ringing on her fingerprints whenever she got a stroke in. The back seat? Of course, she could move to the back seat, since they were still parked. But why would he stay up front? Didn’t he have any heart? It was probably because Miss Orta had put her in light lip gloss instead of something prettier. How high his standards were! A real catch!

Sunny felt like velcro in a room of sheep. She had no way not to stick to everything she touched. No matter the texture of the carpet, she could be stuck on firmly and then peeled off effectively with only a bit of tearing and fuss.

The bodyguard peeled her out of her seat and then steadied her. He spun her and sent her promenading in the rough direction of Mr. Radowicz’s door. With slight verbal correction to keep her on target, the bodyguard guided her through the dark into the backyard and to the back door. The tired man summoned the client, and Mr. Radowicz paid in full as asked of him. Sunny’s flopping enthusiastic greeting landed on a raised brow. After a polite introduction, Mr. Radowicz requested a word with the bodyguard, and suddenly grasped Sunny’s head, covering her ears. The bodyguard listened to whatever he had to say, then thought for a moment. Mr. Radowicz released Sunny and reached for his wallet.

“I assure you, that won’t be necessary, but very well.”

He produced a wad perhaps half the thickness of the first, handed it off, then gently ushered Sunny inside. He locked the door, led her into the kitchen, sat her at the table, then fixed himself a stiff drink. All the while, he engaged her in routine, polite small talk. Sunny, for her part, thought she did well, but Mr. Radowicz oddly seemed to find a few of her remarks amusing. As he finished preparing his drink, he offered Sunny a choice as well. She could have chocolate milk, yes, or he could add something to it. Some kind of liquor. If, of course, she wasn’t the pukey sort.

Sunny had plenty of experience with drinks and holding back vomit. Not because she was a heavy drinker—not in the sense that she drank on purpose, anyway. But like a great many things, it often found its way into her and she wasn’t inclined to protest. Really, it was its own sort of exciting. For one, it contributed to a magnificent blush that Sunny found herself drawn to admire whenever she passed a mirror. Equally importantly, though, was how it added to the potent mix inside of her. With her normal regimen, Sunny was a mess of grins and giggles in the head, certainly, but had managed to bootstrap a sort of romantic gait, like a ballroom dancer gliding about from suitor to suitor. But with alcohol, she eventually got too light, and past a certain point, ended up striding and spinning about, intermittently making dramatic little stumbles, like a newborn deer on party drugs. And when she fell over, even a double chin could look flattering through her eyes. At the bottom of every bottle were wonderful lenses, lenses that made everyone, her included, all the more beautiful.

But a choice of beverage? The novelty compelled an enthusiastic giggle. Nobody ever asked; why would they? A surprise—a wonderful surprise from a wiser adult—that’s what should go in the chocolate milk. And Mr. Radowicz looked back at her with incredulity, and, though Sunny scarcely had the sense to register it, a touch of disappointment. Sunny’s eyes wandered quickly as Mr. Radowicz considered the options presented by his shockingly free hand.

Her gaze eventually happened upon the pictures. It was strange that Mr. Radowicz would be alone tonight. He had a wonderful family. The kids—those darling kids—Sunny beamed at their colorful Christmas clothes. His wife was so pretty; what a privilege to be in a picture with her! Mr. Radowicz agreed. He, after all, was in the very same picture.

He soon set a glass in front of Sunny. It was a towering glass of milk, mirrored in turn by the heavy pour he’d given himself. When Sunny took a polite sip, it became apparent that he poured strong for her too. To Sunny’s surprise, he took a seat and continued their conversation. For the most part, his questions were more detailed than any answers he gave.

Even as novel as such a conversation was these days, Sunny still found herself struggling to stay in her chair. She always did. She was filled with three or four different flavors of jitter, the sum of which could only be temporarily stymied by a firm grip on the underside of the table and tensed leg muscles. But every sip made her grip weaken.

As the glass drained, she melted forward onto the table, slowly pooling in Mr. Radowicz’s general direction. He was such a curious man—in both senses of the word. How dramatic was Cookie, acting like this was hard! It was lovely! It was like a little date!

Mr. Radowicz finished his drink in short order. Sunny hadn’t. He stood. She moved to rise. He ordered her to stay. Make eye contact. He began to quiz her on the previous conversation. It came to resemble some mixture of an interview and an interrogation. It was strange, Sunny thought, to be so much food for thought. She beamed along and finished her drink as they continued talking. Mr. Radowicz paced around the room, eyeing her up. He coaxed her story out, pricking at details, and called her by her old name as soon as he learned it. When they came to her departure, he smiled and chuckled. He picked her apart with his eyes as he did.

“So you’re not just somebody’s little science experiment, are you, boy?”

Sunny shook her head. Mr. Radowicz clarified. She, or rather “he,” was many things, wasn’t she? A troublemaker. A miscreant. A thief and a vandal. Sunny softly mumbled a disagreement. Mr. Radowicz called her on it. Sunny just wanted to do good, did she? Had she?

He cracked his hand across her face. She fell from the chair and slammed into the floor. She scurried to stand. He kicked her back down several times before she stayed. Disobedient, really. That’s what all of these brats were. Really, she wasn’t so special—not in the way she thought, anyway. He taught plenty of rowdy kids, brats and fags among them. When she stayed put, looking up at him like a deer in headlights, he planted another jab with his foot in her stomach. Maybe she was normally just a slow little good-for-nothing fairy, but here, she was actually picking things up.

Imagine if she’d actually learned something productive.

Mr. Radowicz continued on, occasionally planting little reminders with his foot while he tore at Sunny. At first, he had a cool smile on his face as he did. But as Sunny kept looking up at him with plain doe eyes, his smile faded. His kicks slowed. His eyes narrowed. He sighed. He snapped at her, told her to stand up, then told her how to stand. Sunny hobbled to her legs. He smacked her again for failing to function.

Mr. Radowicz pivoted. So this little nancy boy thought it could be a real woman, did it? He went down the list. Sunny failed to muster an answer to the first question, thinking it was “retardical.” He played a few schoolyard bully tricks on her before delivering a simple conclusion. Broads could be dumb as a brick—just as much as boys could. In fact, she did look the part of some dumb little nothing of a girl shoved into her older brother’s proper school uniform and left woefully unprepared for much of anything. She acted it too.

But that wasn’t true, was it? What man—a real, non-homo one—would ever love her as a woman in any real tangible way? She couldn’t have kids. And look at that face. Those weren’t the long lashes of a woman, but those of the softest, spoiledest little shitstain abortion of a boy. And even if she did find a fairy fucking godmother, the ship of decency had long sailed.

Nothing? Really? Just a little frown of protest and some baby headshakes?

Mr. Radowicz suddenly led her into his daughter’s room. He pulled out the very same outfit from last year’s Christmas photo. Runtish as Sunny was, there was still no way clothes meant for a kindergartener would fit her. Not well, anyway. She protested. It was such a cute little getup, and it’d be a shame to stretch it, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t his lovely wife wonder what had happened to—

Mr. Radowicz gripped her by the throat, lifted her up, and declared that she was not to speak unless asked a question. He ordered her to get up and get it on before she even hit the ground when he dropped her.

She tried. He forced it on when she struggled, and the top ripped at the arms and along the back as soon as she moved. The little skirt was closer to a belt. The fit made Sunny look like she’d suddenly doubled in size while wearing it. He mocked her as she wore it, only to grow frustrated and violent once more when he observed her growing preoccupation with the damaged outfit itself. He ripped it clean off of her and tossed it in the trash without another thought. He dragged her out of the room, and slammed the door behind them.

He went on to experiment in a variety of different ways, each time coming away frustrated with the results. He progressively reddened in the face. Occasionally, as he drank more, he missed a strike, and then went in for a second with greater force. Sunny groaned and buckled every now and again, but each pain flashed away quickly, just as Miss Orta’s needle did. Bruises grew on her skin, and she furrowed her brow not at the soreness she should have felt, but at the passing recognition that they were bad enough that they’d hang around for quite a while. She did, however, slowly lose her smile. A pleading, pathetic expression grew in its place, and on occasion, her eyes watered at the moment of impact. She kept getting distracted, though, even as Mr. Radowicz grew more erratic. And whenever these tears dried and her gaze drifted off into space, it seemed that his upset intensified.

Finally, Mr. Radowicz went silent. He finished another drink. He gazed at Sunny as she lay half-up on the floor, still quivering and frightened, looking nowhere in particular, like a sedated sheep awaiting slaughter. He looked down at his empty glass for a moment, then shrugged and flung it at her head. The cheap glass shattered along the top of her forehead, skipping and spraying shards all over. Sunny’s vision went black for a moment, and she collapsed onto her face. She slowly rose and made terrified eye contact with him. Stony rage stared back at her. Her forehead felt warm. Wet. So did her nose. A lazy stream of blood entered her right eye. She hesitated for a moment, then tried to stand. Mr. Radowicz rose and approached her. She struggled against him, truly, for the first time. His expression softened. He let her escape.

Sunny darted straight for the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Little shards of glass were embedded along her forehead, in her eyebrows, on her nose, and into her hair. Mr. Radowicz entered behind her. Sunny screamed. He grinned. He wrestled her down. She screamed more, begging for help, mercy—anything. He went in with tweezers and began to pluck shards. She steadied herself just enough to babble out a plea that he be careful. He chuckled. Even if she did scar, lose some hair—something like that—it was only advancing the inevitable, wasn’t it? One day, one way or another, she’d end up broken and worthless. That was the only fate any little piece of trash could expect, be they little thugs, little whores, or some other sort of postnatal abortion.

Pluck by pluck, he broke down the slowly-sobering child in his grasps. Whimpers became yelps as he continued picking at the physical and verbal wounds he’d opened. Yelps became individual sobs, and those sobs slowly blended together into a whole that brought a new smile to his face. Mr. Radowicz was ready to collect on his hard-earned prize, now that he’d primed it just right.

That night collapsed into a singularity of dumbstruck agony coursing along those same drugged pathways as the numb nirvana meant to be there. It was impossible to fish out a single sensation. She was blinded by her own tears. She couldn’t think. She had no idea when she was and wasn’t breathing. She melted under the heat into a heavy haze of salted, soaked perdition. And when the end of eternity came, it took her some time to even remember what—never mind who—she even was.

There were many more nights like it.

Mr. Radowicz’s job only got easier. Sunny’s only got harder.

No substance on God’s Green Earth could have dulled the pain. Not that night. Not the next one. Not ever. Sixteen years on, and those nights still brought back the very same burning tears.
In ̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅ → 4 mos ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
The semi-sheer curtains blocked just enough of the view and the late afternoon light to cast the whole room in a comfortable, familiar-feeling warmth. Combined with the decor, it was apt to remind a born-and-bred Minnenoonan of their grandma’s house back before she got moved into one of those miserable homes and they stopped seeing much of her. Of the room that used to belong to mom or dad over there, and had since been kept in stasis for the grandkids. It was intimate, welcoming, yet so well-appointed as to appear unused. And despite the coaxings of the easy listening playing on the radio, despite the light perfuming, despite every effort imaginable, it remained inexorably alien to the present.

Sat on the bed, looking anxiously into the mirror, was a little girl. Her age was difficult to determine. She was small, small enough that she could have been in elementary school. Certain aspects of her attire suggested similarly—these days, ribbons and bows were the territory of the little ones, after all. The school uniform she wore offered no clarity. Saint Rita’s admitted children of all ages. The uniform was new—brand new. The shirt was freshly ironed, and fit in such a way that suggested it had been tailored specifically to fit her.

The girl’s attention was broken suddenly by the opening of the door. A woman entered, brandishing a small mascara bottle. The woman offered the girl a sympathetic smile, while the girl mustered a tight-lipped attempt at one in return. The look in the young girl’s eyes suggested she may have been older than elementary school. It was the sort of Mommy-I’m-trying-to-be-brave look that some kids in Minnenoona put on for the adults as they got old enough to figure out the shit hand they’d all been dealt. The woman herself was probably too young to be the girl’s mother, and they looked different enough that they may well have not been related at all. But still, with the way the woman navigated the girl, preening her and fussing over every little detail, and adding the little compliments all along the way, there was, if nothing else, a certain familiar affection that underpinned it all. In short order, the woman stepped back for a moment to appraise her handiwork. She then had the girl unbutton her shirt and open it—revealing that the girl was wearing lingerie underneath—then beckoned her to look to face her. She grabbed the bottle she’d brought in, and started applying mascara on the girl. The young girl promptly tilted her head, opened her eyes wide, and looked at the ceiling, as though she’d done this a thousand times before.

“You won’t be wearing this to school,” the woman assured, “But Mr. Radowicz will appreciate this for tonight.” The girl affirmed the statement with a “Yes” carefully uttered to avoid moving her head.

When the woman withdrew, she was quick to tell the girl to wait. There’d be more coats. The girl questioned the decision, asking wasn’t it a lot more than usual? How many coats would it be? The woman told the girl that they were shooting for just under trashy—enough to really run. She was sorry, but it was what Mr. Radowicz was asking for to “stick his neck out” and get her a spot at his school. The girl’s mouth crunched even as she maintained her position. Today was going to be rough—much worse than usual. Special orders were bad news. Planning for mascara to run was, as she understood, worse news still. Genny had always been a brave face for her age. Ever since she ended up here, she’d taken to wearing a brave face better than most. Miss Sunny had said so herself. She had responsibilities, discipline—she was even in charge of wake-ups for the other kids now. She wasn’t a cryer. Miss Sunny knew that.

And all Miss Sunny could offer when asked was that she was sorry, that she couldn’t tell her, that Mr. Radowicz had specifically wanted to “surprise her.” Genny’s heart sank. She went pale. Soon after, Miss Sunny guided Genny’s head back up and started on the second layer of mascara.

There wasn’t much to be done to break the atmosphere of dread that hung over her for the remainder of the time she spent getting ready. It was inflamed by every subsequent detail. The extra rounds of mascara, the tinkering with her bobbed black curls, and then it was all cinched with Sunny’s recommendation against hiking the skirt up a bit. The fact that Mr. Radowicz would want her to look as she would at school was somehow worse. Then, the reasoning made it click. When Genny asked Miss Sunny the question that immediately came to mind, of “why,” it was as bad as she’d imagined. This wasn’t a one-time thing. This wasn’t an entry fee. This was an ongoing service charge. And how often would it be, Genny asked. As Mr. Radowicz’s “charity case,” she’d be in for lunchtime tutoring. The kids never ate full lunches at home anyway, so it was a good time to do it, Miss Sunny insisted. And sometimes, it would actually be help for getting her caught up. She’d even get a little dessert after, as compensation for whatever the hard work of the day would be. Wasn’t that nice, at least? And besides, anything at the school would have to be much more tame—Mr. Radowicz had a job to think of, after all. But without specifics, Genny smelled bullshit. Probably more than Miss Sunny did, if she had to guess. And as another consolation prize, if it could be called that, Miss Sunny offered that she and Mr. Radowicz had at least agreed that Genny had plenty of exercise in her life already. Physical Education was unnecessary, so Genny could have some time to tackle her homework privately. And fortunately, her study hall wasn’t supposed to be in Mr. Radowicz’s office. So there was that.

Soon, the hour approached. One of the first things the kids always learned was breathing exercises. They were essential tools for keeping a veneer of calm. The screaming and struggling, ideally, was meant to be on-demand. And though Genny hadn’t needed to go so far as breathing intentionally and drinking water slowly in some time, today, with the essential promise that she was in for something that would push her back to that visceral fright and pain she’d spent years trying to lock in that deepest pit of her stomach, she needed every trick in the book. Lest she waste the mascara prematurely.

When Mr. Radowicz knocked on the door, he was promptly invited in. He and Miss Sunny chatted briefly in the mud room as she helped him with his coat, all about nothing in particular. Genny was surprised to observe that he appeared so normal. Attractive and ugly had come to mean increasingly less as the entire affair became disgusting as a matter of principle to her, but, for what it was worth, even as his hair was greying, he had held onto a thick head of it, kept very well-groomed. His face was angular, accentuated by his thin glasses and bushy grey eyebrows. He wasn’t slim by any account, but he wasn’t particularly overweight either, so his excellent posture gave him a better apparent figure in his suit than might otherwise have been the case. What ultimately drew Genny’s attention, however, were his hands. They were stubby, strong, and terribly hairy. He had a wedding band and a few others which by her estimation from other important events. Whatever he was planning on was going to hurt.

And despite what was coming, when he first approached her, he was all but a perfect gentleman. If it weren’t for the occasional looks that she’d developed an eye for—and even those were common enough that it didn’t really discount the sentiment—he’d have come off as nothing more than a perfectly sensible, well-to-do, well-dressed, good-and-decent fellow that all the adults were always saying the world didn’t have so many of anymore. Genny stood up and greeted him politely, they shook hands, he kissed hers as he had Miss Sunny’s, and commented about how much he’d heard, and then Miss Sunny appeared from behind him with some papers. The three of them briefly discussed the contents of the admission papers, then Miss Sunny excused herself for a moment. While Miss Sunny was out, Mr. Radowicz asked Genny a few mundane questions, and things remained so above-board the entire time that Genny began to wonder if perhaps she’d worried more than she’d needed to.

Miss Sunny soon returned with a yellow folder, and produced several documents from it. She and Mr. Radowicz looked at them together and compared them, and Mr. Radowicz nodded along with a pleased expression as Miss Sunny explained that they should be sufficient as far as identifying documents were concerned, should they be needed. Genny would be Regina Esposito at St. Rita’s, and, if need should arise to explain it, was Sunny’s niece. The name was repeated amongst the three of them a few times to get a feel for it, and from then on, Mr. Radowicz addressed Genny as Gina. Once that was done, Miss Sunny gave Genny a hug and sat down with the paperwork. Genny stood still for a moment, until Mr. Radowicz prompted her along. There was a bit of impatience in his voice as he asked her if she was “worried” for his “assessment” of her, behaving as if they were indeed just having a little private, harmless intake meeting. Summoning as much confidence as she could manage, she assured him that she had tried to be well-prepared. That, at least, wasn’t a lie. She straightened her posture and led him upstairs. She knew well enough that stalling often just put the adults in a bad mood. And when that happened, there wasn’t a chance in hell even the pretences of being a child worthy of protection would hang around behind those doors. Impatient men were rarely more gentle than they had to be.

It didn’t take long for the first sounds to emerge. The carpeted hallways muffled the normal sounds. But these were yelps of pain. Louder yelps and screams. Sometimes muffled into gurgles, sometimes visceral enough that her voice cut out. Sunny flinched every time a new sound echoed down the stairs. She was writing even slower than usual. She hadn’t finished the first page when a couple of the older kids descended the stairs, both half-dressed for the night, asking to know just what the hell was going on. Sunny sighed and tried to talk around it. The larger of the two, a pudgy blonde girl with a tired, severe, and downright dour look about her, finally leaned forward on the table and all but demanded a straight answer. “No, seriously,” Sally insisted, “The fuck’s going on up there?” So maybe Genny did want some of it. She wanted to go to school, and that came with a price. All three of them were on the same page that nothing came free in this world, and rarely did a whore get a good price. But this? This was unusual. It was too early, for one. And more importantly, Genny wasn’t a screamer. Rooms weren’t supposed to have thumps. And the door? The door was locked. Sally had checked it herself. Where was the key? They needed the key, to go up and bail Genny out. It didn’t matter if this was the price of admission. It was too far. That was the rule. Everyone helped each other stay safe. That was Sunny’s fucking rule. The Golden. Fucking. Rule.

Sunny rose from the table. She hadn’t made eye contact with Sally or Fi since the conversation had started. She shook her head as she reiterated her point. Opportunities like this were one in a million. And that meant it was gonna cost a high price. But Genny would ultimately be fine. She’d recover, anyway. Sunny gripped the bridge of her nose as Sally called bullshit. The argument continued, even as the three of them all intermittently flinched and were momentarily distracted by the worst of the sounds from upstairs. Finally, Sunny grabbed them both by the shoulder and broke into a serious whisper. She knew what was happening in there. They’d only gotten a shot in the first place because Mr. Radowicz used to be her guy. He still was, every now and then. She was just getting to be too much of a real adult for him to scratch all his itches. See? She’d done the whole nine yards already. In the uniform. In the ass, too. It was nothing some ice and criminal-grade painkillers couldn’t keep under control. Genny couldn’t know enough to really brace herself, otherwise her reactions wouldn’t have been genuine—which was what Mr. Radowicz was really truly after, cross her heart and hope to die—but she’d get as much of the good stuff as she needed after this. It was all Sunny could do to make it up to her.

That part may have at least answered part of their question, but the girls certainly weren’t satisfied. They returned to their other focus: what the specific fuck was going on in there. Sunny resisted and tried to divert at every turn, but the older kids only agreed to continue getting ready in a timely manner if they got the whole picture of what was on the table that Genny was getting her face slammed through. They continued getting dressed in Sunny’s room, grimaced as they saw scars she usually kept hidden, and exchanged worried looks as Sunny enumerated all sorts of techniques to inflict pain while minimizing impact. And then, when she clarified that Mr. Radowicz only held back like that when he was concerned about leaving evidence, their blood ran cold. No amount of assurance felt like enough. How could it be? Sure, it’d all heal. Physically. But inside? There was only dampening the bleeding. It was one of those moments that really reminded the girls how little they felt like they actually understood Sunny. Maybe it was preventable. Maybe it wasn’t. But it was more than unfortunate. What was happening in there was undoubtedly monstrous. It was vile. It was deserving of every effort in the goddamn universe to try at the very least to soothe those bleeding, pussing, ever inflamed-and-infected emotional gashes at every opportunity. And there wouldn’t even be an opportunity to catch a real breather. This was, after all, a personal visit. Not a night’s work.

The moment they were ready and had gotten all they could out of Sunny, the girls stood up and left without another word. They took their chairs, and, as Sunny prepared to return downstairs, she observed them positioning themselves on either side of the door, waiting for the very second things were done in there. Sunny returned to her seat and her paperwork. It was a struggle. A real struggle. Especially with all those awful sounds. But she was pretty close to finishing by the time she heard a knock from the door upstairs. And her two accosters hollering down the stairs about it. She produced the key, and went to unlock the door. Before she could enter or Mr. Radowicz could exit, Sally shoulder-checked both adults, forcing her way in. From Sunny’s view, all she could see was the two older girls piled around Genny, who was seemingly in a fetal position sobbing on the floor. Mr. Radowicz was already dressed and promptly tried to lead Sunny away from the room. He had an easy smile on, as though he and Genny had simply enjoyed a productive conversation about her new school. He apologized for the state of Genny’s uniform, and promised he’d replace it with a brand new one. He asked about the paperwork. Sunny stood her ground as best as she could and peeked past him. She asked that he wait downstairs, that she’d have it finished soon, that she just needed to handle things. He shrugged and said he could pick it up another day—she wasn’t one of his own kids, after all. She nodded swiftly and apologized, but said she had some urgent things to attend to, and asked if he could please show himself out.

Sunny hurried to her room, and procured some pills and some water. She returned to the room with the three girls as fast as she could manage. Finally, she could see the aftermath. There were little splatters of blood on the carpet. The remnants of Genny’s skirt were on the floor nearby. Looking at Genny herself, who had only just sat up with the support of the two older girls, her shirt was open, with several of its buttons ripped clean off. There were dark red marks around her waist, where the skirt was, and around her neck, where her tie had been. There were other marks as well, both in those same spots and all over the rest of her, some with indentations of rings, others looking more like the marks of heavy hands. A few looked like the products of hard falls. Her wrists were red, her hands were shaking as she took the pills and water. Genny’s face was covered in dark black streaks, like a hot dark rain over cheeks red-hot from monstrous impacts. She’d bitten her lip several times. Sunny asked her softly to open her mouth. Genny hesitantly did so. She’d bitten the inside of her cheek too—and hard at that. She was still bleeding a bit from a few spots. Her throat was red and irritated. Genny’s weak whimpers and sputterings were so scratchy that she often flinched after making the sounds, trying desperately to keep calm enough not to hurt herself further. “Ice pops. Please go get the ice pops,” Sunny whispered. Sally sprung up and hurried downstairs.

Fi still clung Genny tightly. Sunny went in to comfort her as well, but Genny pulled closer to Fi. She looked pleadingly at Sunny. Sunny held back. Genny’s eyes were red and dry. Fi was stoic, staring off towards the door with a protective glare, as if she would vaporize the man with her eyes should he dare to return. Sunny’s lip quivered, but no tears came. She knelt in front of the girls and looked deep into Genny’s eyes. All she could offer was, “I—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I know it’s hard, sweetie, and you’ve been so brave. I’m so proud of you. You’ve dealt with enough tonight. You don’t have to do anything tonight or tomorrow. I’ll take care of everything. I’ll make it better. I promise.”
In Graveyard Orbit → 4 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
In Graveyard Orbit → 4 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
In Graveyard Orbit: A Scifi Western RP Concept → 4 mos ago Forum: Casual Interest Checks
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