
if i look back, i am lost
almost home

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@andreagalan

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You said you were gonna grow up Then you were gonna come find me Words from the mouths of babes Promises, oceans deep But never to keep
@andreagalan
The king is dead. Long live the Queen.
It’s her second time down in the pit but now she knows its curves and edges. She knows where the wall goes in, where the ground is slippery, where her opponent might trip. She made those mistakes the first time – being too confident, going in too fast, too strong, losing energy and leaving with a split lip, a black eye and scratched skin. Most importantly, Andrea had walked out that first time with nothing to show for it but a bruised ego.Â
The anger in that man’s eyes had been enough to make her freeze; it’s not the reaction she thought she’d have, nor the one she wanted. Andrea has a people to lead, a crew that follows her, that looks up to her for leadership… But this idolization has been fading for quite some time. It hasn’t been long since the crown was finally placed on her head, but it’s already proved to be too heavy for her to carry and too large to hold.Â
It has been long enough that her life before looks more and more tempting with each passing day. What did I give up? She thinks at least once a week. Why did I want this? She can’t shake the feeling that what she craved for, this power, this position, is meaningless.Â
The crown is heavy but it’s all she ever wanted — I did it, she thought back then. I did it, this is mine, this is my victory. I made it. The crown is heavy and covered in blood and it makes her head ache after too long. Andrea looked around when she first put it on, with a grin on her face that could only ever be described as childish. I did it, look! But, just like tonight, she was alone. There’s no one to share a victory with when you’re on top. I did it. She’s repeated it over and over and over, to herself and to others. What else could matter when she’s on top?Â
Turns out, the edge is a lot steeper and the fall is a lot deadlier than anyone ever warned her about.Â
And now, she’s in it again. Exhausted and embarrassed and still pushing for a victory. She deserves it, her people deserve it. Her breathing is ragged, her body throbbing with pain, but her eyes burn with an unwavering determination to not let herself be walked over again. She’s had enough of that throughout her life — friends, boyfriends, partners, clients, bosses, peers, they’ve all thought so little of her. They still do.Â
There’s a crown, heavy to any head it lays upon, but impossible to let go of. Tonight, she can finally claim it as hers. Power is a good look on a woman, Andrea can tell when she looks at herself in the mirror. Andrea might have lost the battle but she’s decided to win the war.
And then she spots her opponent. Andrea’s stomach shrinks, it flips inside her, it makes her sick. If she thought what she’d seen before had been anger, this can only be described as fury, a thirst for blood and a personal vendetta.Â
The king is dead. Long live the Queen.
The Brotherhood and her haven’t seen eye to eye in years, almost two decades if her memory doesn’t fail her. She’d been a diamond in the rough in their ranks, a gem if they’d only polished and paid enough attention to her — they didn’t and had the nerve to be resentful when she left for a better bidder. Now, that offer for a greater future is dead, it died with its leader four hundred and twenty-nine nights ago.Â
He looks even worse than she does, which can only mean he’s been down here before. And he knows the way out. Andrea cowers in the face of danger and she hates herself for it. With a weapon in her hand, she’d be invincible — it wouldn’t be the first time she’s pointed a gun at him or others who feel the same way about her. JJ warned her, she remembers, but she didn’t listen. His anger is personal, not professional — this is both.
Her strategy is the same as it was the first time around: claws and heels aimed as any exposed skin. And, just like the first time, it’s not enough.
It doesn’t take long.Â
The king is dead. Long live the Queen.
Forty seconds until her fist is caught in the air and her arm is twisted back. She cries for help but it doesn’t come. Her head jerks back and she manages to free herself from his grip. Why am I doing this? What if it’s still not enough?
Sixty seconds until her foot is caught now, she loses balance and is on the ground again. She tries to kick him in the groin, catch him off guard, buy herself some time. Why am I doing this? What if I give up? Would he know, would they know? Would he know? But he grips her high heels, one at a time, rips them off her feet and tosses them out of reach. Eighty three seconds until it feels like his fist broke her nose. She cries for help but it doesn’t come. What if I give up? What if I step down?
One hundred and ten seconds until some of her nails snap off from how hard she’s scratching the man’s cheeks and forearms and neck. The others try to dig into his back. What if I step down? What if I don’t want to do this anymore? To an outsider, it might look like they’re hugging. Until she cries for help… It doesn’t come.
What does come is unmistakable shine of metal reflecting light. She knows the sight all too well — the sharp edge of a knife, the coolness of the blade. And she can hear, even from the distance, a crowd-wide gasp. Everyone can tell what it is and everyone can assume what it means, just like her. Bare hands and bare feet and a ripped dress against a strong body and a thirsty knife. All of a sudden, this isn’t a fight, whoever stands victorious won’t display their able body as the prize, but their life, too.Â
One hundred seventy seconds. She lies on the cold ground, humiliated in front of her inferiors and her peers, in front of her friends, her foes, her family, her loved ones. Blood trickles down her face, mixing with the dirt beneath her and the sweat of another failed battle. What if I don’t want to do this anymore? What if I can’t? What if there’s someone ready to take over?Â
The pain radiates through her body, every bruise and scrape a testament to her defeat. She simultaneously feels the weight of the moment all over her body — and nothing at all. What’s a broken nose on top of a black eye on top of a deep cut on her collarbone on top of a possibly broken rib on top of endless scratches on her elbows and knees and feet and palms on top of a ringing in her ear on top of–
A sort of calm that doesn’t precede a storm, but follows it. What if someone else would do a better job? What if I don't care? What if I run away? What if I leave?
It’s her one opportunity. Andrea feels the weight of his body suddenly be lifted off her, in a way that can only mean someone is carrying him out, dragging him by the sound of it. I did it. Everyone, look, I did it. He claims it and Andrea can hear his grin in that mocking tone. He’s claiming it, he’s saying he’s the one who finally got me. There’s no one around to see how tears well up in her eyes. It’s her one opportunity. Soon, another pair of strong hands drag her out of the Arène, too. It’s my one opportunity.
And she takes it, she closes her eyes and takes a shaky breath. She lets herself feel it. What if…
The king is dead. Long live the—
D'accord. He smiles at that. God-fucking-dammit, he smiles at that.
Jacques couldn't ever make promises then, just as he can't make them now. He watches every fight, tracks every breath. Under his roof, his crooked universe takes shape — and he's to make sure it all aligns.
The true sentiment under her request, however, is known and understood. "I won't avenge you — but I will have to watch."
Neither are particularly smart, but both are experienced. They are also bruised, and calloused, and entirely too proud. They are ambitious yet cautious. And they've always known—
—Kissing is a death sentence.
Past the gates of loyalties, they had made their bed and spent a decade lying in its bricks. Maybe in this split second Jacques happens to forget it as he leans forward and signs it in deliberate cursive, quill-like letters. Death tastes like the tequila she'd swallowed and the blood from an open wound. How could a beginning feel this final?
"Allez."
Tragic is the only way to describe the two of them. From two lovesick puppies, too blinded by their own ambitions to see the requitedness in the other's eyes, to sworn enemies, who'd spit and curse at the mere mention of a name, to this.
A beaten up songbird and a passionate rattlesnake.
She doesn't see him smile and that's tragic in and of itself. It's a sight she only ever witnesses in dreams and visions these days, a toothy, cocky grin in the face of his she'd known all those years ago.
A kiss that seals her fate, both of theirs, and it tastes exactly as it should. Alcohol and blood and sweat, all signs of intoxication. That's all they could ever be. She can only close her eyes and breathe him in for a second.
In this lifetime, that's all they get.
Andrea looks up at him. She's not crying anymore, but her eyes are swollen and red. She's hurt, and not only by another man's fist. Andrea shakes her head. It's too late now.
A kiss that sums them up in three words: tragic and bittersweet and over.
The goal is to keep the person down. So that's exactly what he's doing - and that final punch seemed to slow her squirming underneath him.
"I can be... you seem tired." Asa's speaking through gritted teeth for a moment as she keeps shifting and his fingers dig into her arms where he's holding her in place, hard. His knuckles are a bit bruised, knees a bit scuffed up. The most obvious evidence of their fight are the oozing scratches across his face from her nails. But he seems undeterred. Pushes a knee onto one of her legs and just lets the point dig in a bit. Just a bit of his body weight. "Just tell me, if you like. And we can be done." He adds a bit more of his weight.
You seem tired. She wants to scream, she wants to set him and everything else on fire with her rage. You seem tired. Is it that obvious? That this man she's only faced once can tell to easily?
Andrea stops fighting him, she lets his stronger grip take over. She's pinned down, trapped, with nowhere to go and everyone's already seen it, she's sure of it. She doesn't even wince when he puts more of his weight down on her, like she's stopped trying altogether.
And just like that, the winner is called.

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Frozen is a word which could be used to describe Jacques's current state. Frozen in time, a far more accurate version of it.
That hand at the back of Andrea's neck shifts, lowering to her shoulder, arm wrapping fully around it. She cries and he stays as he is, not doing anything because everything he's ever done was catastrophic somehow.
In the small space between them, Jacques can feel all the expecations of what he should say and do. All the disappointments of what he hasn't said and hasn't done.
In their perfect ending, as ideals written by French poets or movies where an undeserving man somehow gets the girl, Jacques would tilt her chin up so she can look at him, as—
—He says the right thing, the expected thing, and she buys it. As he kisses her in the way she'd always dreamed of, and she kisses him back. As he recounts every wrong thing he'd ever done, and lists all the ways in which it could be worked into something right. I'm sorry for this, I feel that, I promise that other thing.
She forgives him. They say that word which should never be said by people like them. Roll the credits.
But Jean-Jacques Baptiste doesn't live in a John Hughes or Crowe world, nor has he ever heard of them. Andrea doesn't live in a suburban house and he has no clue where to purchase a boombox from.
So instead, all he says is—
"Oui." He gets it. Going back, being present, showing goddamn face. "Fais—" English. "Be safe."
Out of nowhere yet everywhere, comes the urge to draw her closer. "D'accord?" Like he has to remind her of it. Like if he doesn't, she will forget to— "Be safe."
His arm around her feels familiar, but not in the way she'd expect it. It doesn't make her want to jump into his arms, declare her undying love for him, beg for forgiveness, swear on her life that she'll spend the rest of her days trying to make it up to him.
Instead, it makes her feel at home. A home that neither the Cartel nor the Brotherhood could ever provide, not even her childhood or her blood family. A home that's crafted only for broken people, those who fit nowhere else. A home for people who can never get a happy ending.
Be safe. Be safe. No one's said this to her in months, in years. She hasn't studied his mother tongue but she still attempts to mimick his cadence when she agrees. "D'accord." Andrea can't promise him that just like he could never promise her anything back then.
She finally raises her arms as if she's only now remembered they exist -- they sneak around JJ's waist, they secure her spot against him. "Don't watch," she requests. If she loses again, she can't stand the thought of him avenging her once more.
The tussling on the floor is a mess of grappling arms and Asa is doing his best to hold her down even with a fist flying into the side of his face. It does nothing to help the residual stinging from her nails. And yet, he's surprisingly strong- he has her stuck beneath him and he's not letting up.
The spit comes as a surprise - one that doesn't do much good for the woman beneath him. It startles him back just slightly, dripping down his nose as eyes briefly devoid of any reflection, darker than night, stare at her in surprise with an incredulous laugh.
Anger is an odd feeling for him. Something normally just not present. But in a space where his fists have been flying, blood on his teeth... he uses the backwards momentum from the shock to let himself rock forward again- and while still trying to keep her down amidst her constantly moving body, lets one more hard fist get her in the jaw as he hangs over her. He's out of breath. "So fucking rude. I could've been so much worse." It's true, and that should frighten him. Instead, it seems to only empower. "Are you done?"
She has to fight back or at the very least try. If not for herself, for her people who are surely finding less and less arguments to have her back. If her leader had been laying under someone else, simply taking it, Andrea would have rioted herself.
Her head ricochets when his fist snaps against her jaw and she lets out a wail in pain. That's the worst one yet, it makes her dizzy and worried she might go blind for a second. "Are you?" She still can't bite her tongue, she's never been able to. "Get off me," Andrea hisses, still strugging underneath him.
No. The word confuses him, as perhaps she already knew it would.
Confusion is replaced by a scoff, then, ill-timed but between the two of them what the fuck isn't. "I own the place."
He's not going anywhere.
Jacques looks away, at the same time a hand comes up behind Andrea's neck, long fingers entangling into dark strands as he brings her tear-stained face into his chest. No permission asked, or needed. There's sweat, and goosebumps, and streaks of Asa's blood. Imperfect comfort.
She's taken back to a more innocent version of herself. Twenty-something and ready to take the world on by storm. His hand makes her wince -- he doesn't touch any of her bruises, but still it feels like it's too much. "What..." Her question falls short. It's a sort of intimacy they haven't shared in years.
Andrea doesn't want to, but she still melts against him. He takes over, even if he doesn't mean to, and she can't hold back her tears any longer. What had been a few rebellious drops is now a neverending waterfall.
And even through her breakdown, she needs to say this. "I have to go back in there."
Jacques may not be leader of his gang, as Andrea is in hers, but he's the leading force of his own underworld. This carnage of a space around them. Prides himself in dealing with any issues with ease. Yet—
He has no idea what to do when she starts crying.
What's the right thing to say, when there's no such thing as the right thing to say? (When, nine times out of ten, he isn't bothered enough to try?)
A slight nod. "Évidemment." Obviously. He knows.
Jacques uses the back of a bloodied hand to wipe sweat from under his nose. A quick glance around, only to find no one rushing to her aid. Beaten, in tears— "Where's your—?"
He hadn't played her shoulder to cry on in years. Ten of them, to be precise.
He's kept his strength where she feels hers slipping through her fingers. Their paths, almost perfect parallels until she took a sharp turn. They grew amongst their people, left others behind -- where he walks tall, Andrea still hears whispers everywhere she goes.
"No," she breathes out, in Spanish, though it's the one universal word. At least, it is for the two of them. There's no her anything around. Andrea checks the room herself.
Her head falls and she's forced to see the terrible job she's done on her dress; where she thought she'd nursed it back to life, she now finds a corpse of a costume. Smudged with dirt and red paint and dry blood, ripped at the seam on her right leg. "Leave." A plea and a test.
Backstage is where they meet, as only one party bleeds. They'd both faced the same opponent, with two distinctly different endings.
"Beginner's luck," Jacques then spits, off the man who had drawn red out of her. He eyes the dress from a distance, as though his gaze alone could stain it further. "Second round proved it, eh."
Right and left-hand men scatter away. For the first time in a decade, they inhabit the same room alone.
She's stoic, head held high, lips pressed together and gaze intense when she leaves the bathroom. As soon as she sees him, Andrea's body goes back twenty years -- when the mere sight of Jacques would be enough to make her feel safe. She doesn't fall apart, she doesn't allow herself to. But tonight is a night of what ifs and he will forever be her biggest one.
Second round proved it. She looks elsewhere, but her eyes drown in tears regardless. Andrea breathes heavily, trying to push the tears back where they came from. "I could have killed him," she says and she doesn't mean she held back. She means out there, in the real world, with her preferred weapon in hand. She could have and she would have.

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context: the arène, post asa fight with: @jjbaptiste
It's humiliating enough to drag her feet out of the pit, dress dirty and hair grey, that she doesn't want to see any of her own. She knows what they'll say. They'd accuse her of letting him win or, worse, of being too weak to stand up for them. Andrea shoves the door of the nearest bathroom open and grips the sink before she can dare look at her reflection. It's the image of a broken woman, if she's ever seen one.
In that moment, it pains her to see her mother in her own face, her frown, her disappointment, her sadness.
But she, unlike her, pulls herself together. A wet napkin dusts her dress back to white, and her fingers move her braids back into place. When she exits the ladies' room, she still hobbles though she tries her best to conceal it. What remains in plain sight is a black eye and split lip.
There's blood dripping from the cuts on his face but it doesn't make much difference. There's buzzing beneath his flesh and he's already gotten her with a fist.
Perhaps a few months ago this would've felt like a need to prove himself. But in the humming of his brain on an adrenaline overdrive, it's the need for the scratching of skin and the struggle. Whether he wins or not. But when he's not masking himself back into the box of normality... well. It can come off a bit scary, and if he focuses too long on her expression, he'd see that reflected right back at him. Fear.
A leg gets between his and there's a very harsh pain that makes him fall back. Briefly. Nothing's out of bounds in this type of fight - and Asa's not even fully back on his feet, leaning heavily into one arm before he tumbles himself right back into her around the waist, dragging her back to the floor. There's that sound of feedback in his ears from being knocked around and the second an arm comes flying at his face he's biting hard, swinging another fist into her face, fingers digging into her to keep her down.
All is fair in love and war, and their business mixes hints of both. A never ending feud between all three factions, and the reactions of their people that wouldn't exist without some form of passion.
Andrea manages to knock him off her briefly, and she takes the opportunity to get back on her feet. Her dress has gone from white to grey in a matter of seconds, but at least the rip she forced down its side allows her to move more freeling. It doesn't take long before she's back on the ground, though now she aims a fist at his face, dodging his own attempt by the skin of her teeth.
She struggles against the dust beneath and the man above, but neither budge. With her useless arms pinned down and her legs too short to kick him again, Andrea instead takes a second before spitting up harshly at his face.
There's not much talking - not like some of the other brawls where shit talking is rampant and insults thrown back and forth. Asa doesn't really know this woman, beyond her title. And he imagines he's unknown as well. It's a good thing, in his mind. Focusing is more important.
And pure focus on Asa is a bit scary. Her nails hadn't been his first thought so they catch him by surprise, ripping across a cheek and leaving cuts that burn, already dripping blood. But his reaction is hardly anything, beyond his head forced to swing in the direction the nails brought him. But the brief time a reaction would take place is instead taken up by two surprisingly strong arms grabbing her by the waist and toppling her down to the ground, only unwrapping an arm to swing his fist at her face.
She doesn't know who he is beyond his alliance -- that alone is enough to get her blood boiling and her teeth showing. Andrea drags her nails across his cheek, digging as deep as she can, looking to make some damage and leave a mark. A scar across his face would be a good reminder to stay out of her way and away from her people.
But the victory is short lived, as he's soon trapped her under his wider hands. Though she attempts to put up a front, the fear in her expression can be easily spotted. Her arms come up to shield her face from his fist but it's still strong enough to knock her head back against the floor. "Pendejo hijo e' puta," she hisses, cursing her dress in her head but still swinging one knee up to kick him in the groin. At the very least she can hear the white fabric of her costume ripping to allow for better movement.
"Oui," he says. "Rabbit to a fox."
Confident enough to not double-down on being confident. Jacques is aware of his body, the broadness of his shoulders, the size of his hands. Minimal effort, physically speaking. It would have been simple, to end this cycle years ago — yet, here they stand. It had always been obvious, that he would never lay a hand on her.
"'Any of them'?" Words echoed with an accent. "That is what they mean to you — nothing?" Not one more important than the other. None who had been toeing the line of disapproval. No indispensable players in her game. "Aight. Any."
He eyes Andrea, then. "I do." Jacques smiles with that same quiet confidence from before. "Who else gon' cheer for me?"
She knows it too -- his frame is tall and wide and imposing enough that anyone who volunteers to fight him must have something seriously wrong with them. Andrea feels safe in her offer; if anything, she takes for granted that he'd never accept it. They were always meant to watch each other from the distance.
"They're my family," she says, although the words taste more like a rehearsed dialogue than a truth. That's what they mean to you? No. It's much worse.
He smiles and Andrea is transported back to twenty years ago, when he'd look down and she'd wear white and they'd chat and have blood on their hands. Just not each other's. "You gonna chear for me, too?" Leading by example.
Her lips twist together, a little more uncomfortable but - eh, she gets the edge of it all. Astrid's arms cross over her chest, and she follows Andrea's nervous gaze. She's not the type to try and distract her or get her attention, but -- Might as well try. "I haven't run into anybody yet, really. Are you, uh, are you good? You got your head on a swivel."
Are you good?
Andrea needs to chuckle, to burst out laughing and not stop until she's crying. No, she thinks, I haven't been good since the second grade. She nods. "No swivel, mami, just be careful." She doesn't fully know what threat she's warning Astrid against, but in her head, there will always be something luring over them. It's just their luck. "You give me the signal if anything."

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Location: The Arène Status: Closed, Andrea ( @andreagalan )
It might be a bad idea, but so is murder. And probably, so was joining a gang in the first place. He's not so much thinking of logistics - it's the adrenaline. The itchy feeling in his fingers to do something.
White noise is in his ears as the Cartel leader stands across from him in the ring. Well, shit. Alright.
Jacket and sash are gone - so is the vest that had been underneath, and regrettably, his knife. But his hands form hard fists. The crowd is so loud. His eyes are just slightly too wide, lips twitching at the corners as he finally focuses back on her. "Let's go then, love."
Someone has to stand for their people and who best than their leader herself? Andrea is not wearing anything remotely close to ideal to fight someone, but she's still trying her best. The dress is a little too tight and her heels make it hard to move too fast, but she's been wearing a combination like this for years... Granted, her hips feel naked without a gun holder and, more importantly, the weapon itself.
He looks insane like this -- wide eyes, fists at the ready, and once more Andrea wonders if she's made a grave mistake. But she doesn't stand back and she doesn't back down. Instead, she charges towards him. Weapons might not be allowed but her long nails could claw right through skin, even better than a simple knife might. That's her attack plan, her hands aimed at his face.
"I believe ya." Andrea couldn't see a good thing that she'd take her claws to it. Whatever happened between them is still a pile of shreds.
Jacques shakes his head, "Ain't no one here able to take me." His stature alone is enough to hold his ground, handle the heaviest of hits. The Syndicate has some as tall as he, but none as big. So it begs the question of what ultimately wins. Body or mind. Fair or dirty play.
(For a detestable second, Jacques does consider it. He's always wanted revenge. Yet, he's never known what revenge could look like.)
(If there was an answer, he would have already done it.)
"...But I'll give ya the choice— of which one of your members you want dead." Beat. "That is the one, I will fight tonight."
She knows that well. He's tall and broad and strong-- which is why she's convinced herself he doesn't truly mean her any harm. If he did, she'd be dead already. All he needs is to shove her a little too hard and she'd be gone. For a second, Andrea wonders if he'd do her that favor, but she's back in reality before she can think too hard about it.
And still she presses his buttons further, as if she needs to hear him say it again. "You're just too much of a coward to fight me, eh?" Gun in hand, Andrea could easily take anyone, the fastest of women and the strongest of men would fall to that extension of her hand. With no weapon, however, she'd be crying out for help. A disgrace to the Cartel.
"Take any of them." Offering him a name would be like signing that person's unavoidable death. "You expect to see me in there too?"