The streetlights are a return to normal. This dark is the irascible New York she knows - the landscape complete with Vinnie itching for a fight. Purple touches an eye as bruises bloom. Once upon a time Carmen would have joined in, gotten a little violent too. Responsibility's a plague. 

She whistles - “What are we, a fucking charity? If you’re picking a fight, I expect you to be charging for it.” Far from reprimanding. This is her, opening the hellhound’s mouth to check its teeth. She holds up two fingers. “How many?” She wants confirmation that she doesn’t have to turn around and collect a pound of flesh.

⠀#⠀       accustomed     to     the     metallic     bite     of     agony.     no     one     ever     said     it     would     taste     sweet,     a     kid     stripped     from     any     disillusionment.     a     thought     glint     in     his     eyes —     daring,     begging,     for     the     other     to     stop     being     such     a     nervous     dick     a     take     a     swing     !     bruised     fists     tightly     wound     with     a     phantom     hellfire     held     between.     (     dad’s     𝔦𝔪𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔢𝔡     𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔩     𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔰:     if     it     can’t     be     said     with     words,     say     it     with     your     fuckin’     fists,     boy     !     )     arrogance     rattles     in     the     boxer’s     laugh,     opportunity     scrapping     by     the     nose.     one  -   two     and     vinnie’s     out     the     door:     another     layer     of     coarse     skin     split     clean.     ruinous     chuckle     echoing     from     fractured     ribcage.     kicked     to     the     curb     like     some     stray,     scuffed     boots     stumbling     into     the     parking     lot     to     find     a     sense     of     balance.     whistle     sounds     a     bad     omen,     head     whips     in     immediate     reaction,     (     what     was     worse:     getting     caught     or     realising     there’s     no     feeling     in     your     nose     ?     goddamn.     )     fingers     instinctively     touch     above     cupid’s     bow,     savouring     the     blood     on     the     fingertips     and     can’t     help     the     shit  -   eating     grin.     “     you’re     callin’     that     a     fight     ?     i     would’ve     called     it     a     marketin’     strategy.     ”     callously     spoken,     fight     every     urge     to     roll     𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔰𝔨𝔢𝔶     -     𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔡     𝔢𝔶𝔢𝔰     at     the     leader.     “     sixty     -     seven;     fuck     you, carmen.     isn’t     it     some     sorta     fuckin’,     illegal     crime     for     a     council     woman     to     be     profitin’     off     the     regular     joe     ?     ”             

⠀#⠀       fuckin’     christ     !     arrant     horror     momentarily     revealed     beneath     glacial,     supercilious     disposition.     labelled     suits,     inherited     pride,     will     never     disguised     the     truth.     (     𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡     𝔲𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯𝔫𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥     𝔫𝔞𝔦𝔩𝔰,     dirt     dug     from     six     feet     deep:     you     will     always     be     a     mutt.     )    latest     headline     cast     aside,     sharp     inhale     rattles     with     indignity,     “     uh,     no     ma’am.     thought     it’d     be     best     to     . . .     ”     posture     shifts,     like     𝔞     𝔫𝔢𝔯𝔳𝔬𝔲𝔰     𝔡𝔬𝔤     caged,     “     you     never     know     who’s     watchin’     nowadays.     nice     to     know     that     journalists     here     are     just     like     the     roaches     back     home. ”     never     one     to     𝔱𝔞𝔩𝔨     𝔱𝔬     𝔤𝔬𝔡,     but     oh     how     dante     prayed     for     the     earth     to     swallow     him     whole.     rough     half     smile     falters,     sincere     bewilderment     under     sickly     green     lighting,     “     . . .     i     was     up     for     a     pay     rise     ?     ”   

Zakir pulled at the hem of his shirt, sweat falling off of his hair down his neck, the heat and the adrenaline working together to make him want to run outside to catch his breath. Though he knew he would end up in the cold if he did, so instead he used his shirt to wipe at his head, waving his hand in front of his face as he settled at the bar. Instead of sitting down on one of the stools, he kept standing, rolling on his feet, giddy with the recognition of earlier, a show which he'd joined in on rather than led. But that was the beauty of being a rapper, to anyone in the audience it might seem like rivals had joined on stage, while in fact they were all friends. Whenever he called any of them bhai, he meant in more than he usually did.

⠀#⠀       off     like     some     runaway.     desperation     lingers     between     healing     bruises     to     outpace     new     york’s     suffocating,     bright     lights.     on     the     hunt     for     somewhere     darker,     ignorant     to     the     sea     of     perennial     gazes.     dive     deeper     into     the     undergrounds     for     the     night,     the     labyrinths     the     closest     he’s     called     home     since     chicago     (     oh     how     the     night     rings     like     a     match     bell:     the     betrayal     in     your     brother’s     eyes,     cold like     𝔠𝔞𝔦𝔫     𝔞𝔫𝔡     𝔞𝔟𝔩𝔢.     )     features    𝔫𝔬𝔱     𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔱𝔢     𝔲𝔫𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔶     from     violence:     lips     lacerated     from     the     last     fight,     jaw     and     sight     barely     in     tact.     pierce     through     the     heart     of     the     crowd     and     follow     every     neon     sign     leading     to     the     bar.     knuckles     rapt     against     wooden     surface,     hooking     the     bartender’s     eyes     —     circled     in     an     ugly     shade     of     purple.     eyebrows knitted together:     was     this     your     handiwork     or     just     more     collateral     damage     ?     either     way,     vinnie     bit     his     tongue     and     asked     for     the     usual     poison.     turn     to     another     surprise     in     a     form     of     a     posed     question,     𝔞𝔯𝔪     𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔦𝔢𝔡     against     the     bar     table.     “     neither.     ”     even     in     all     his     sincerity,     chicago     humour     echoes     as     sarcasm.     truth     be     told:     you     had     no     clue     what     you     were     searching     for.     smile     glistens     under     dim     lights.     “     but     i     heard     you     on     the     way     down.     you     were     fuckin’     great     up     there,     man.     ”              

⠀#⠀       guilt     rattles     in     their     breath,     whisper     of     lev’s     tenor     serpentines     around     viktor’s     response.     how     grief     can     displace     entire     existences,     (     you     shouldn’t     and     yet     . . .     sat     beside     an     empty     chair,     the     archangels     with     blood     on     their     hands.     what     to     do     with     all     this     blood,     without     their     avowed     god     ?     )     𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃,     𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄     𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑     fractures     by     the     revealed     teeth.     no     amount     of     bitter     amber     can     drown     the     awful     truth     which     tightens     in     the     chest,     dismay     frayed     between     their     eyebrows     and     the     unspoken     reply.     there’s     no     peace     in     the     truth.     “     of     course     not.     ”     remorse     chews     on     helena’s     words,     pry     to     the     surface     a     pale     ghost     of     insomnolent,     southern     nights.     how     fortunate     for     lev     to     find     those     so     prepared,     devout     until     his     very     end     and     more     . . .     how     lucky.     head     swings     back     for     another     gulp,     glass     tight     in     their     tense     grip.     “     but nothin’     been said     out     loud,     and     it’ll     stay     that     way. "     fearful     of     what     might     be     heard.     still,     there’s     a     cruel     turn     of     their     smile,     disguised     by     the     glass     brought     near.     “     a     shame     that     he     won’t     get     that     open     casket     like     he     always     wanted.     let     the     world     get     one     grand,     final     look.     ”                   

Sofia Boutella as Ilsa

⠀*⠀ 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 convince a consummate sinner to enter the hallowed halls of a church once more? zahira would imagine that it went something like this: a former preacher's daughter and a rumored weapon walk into a church. only one of them walks out. she wouldn't tell helena this yet, but she reckoned that would be her. no matter what had happened in her past: zahira was always the losing dog that she bet upon. the clicking sound as her recorder is switched on is disguised by low, wailing hymnals.

⠀ zahira meets helena's eyes. she's wearing a poor imitation of a sweet smile, one leg folding over the other as she makes herself comfortable. ( it is all a guise, of course. she hasn't been comfortable in a church in years. flashbacks of religious fervour and a hand in the flaxen hair of a peer, red lips pressed to ear - whispering things she was sure she'd want to hear. )

⠀ she wonders if she'll be able to tell helena exactly what they'll want to hear. " can i bum a smoke? " she asks, almost impatient, head canting to the side. she's not sweet in her request. if helena is smoking in church, she wants to be too. " i'll say a couple of hail maries for staring at one of the best-dressed people in church. " her lips curve up into a smile. " aside from myself, of course."

⠀#⠀       two’s     company,     three’s     a     crowd     with     god’s     omniscient     gaze     swallowing     the     room     whole.     but     what     else     is     a     sinner     to     do     but     call     holy     grounds     home     ?     the     only     constant     in     such     wrath     torn     life,     (     a     weapon     not     born,     but     raised,     on     the     𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞     -     𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭     taste     of     divine     vengeance.     addiction     seeps     between     the     cracks     of     your     smile.     )     bite     their     tongue     as     a     means     of     survival,     a     glimpse     of     surprise     in     raven     hues,     all     a     guise     for     practiced     temperament.      “     sure.     ”      helena     fishes     out     a     crumpled     packet     and     offers     with     a     ghost     of     a     smile.     another     long     drag     curls     with     the     echo     of     a     bemused     chuckle,     eyes     met     and     recognised.     (     hear     it     echo     in     the     back     of     your     mind,    teachings    lashed    and    there’s    scars    to    prove    it    /    hymnals    cry    out    . . .    𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐥    𝟏𝟏:𝟑𝟐    !    )    “    bless    your    heart,    seems    like    flattery    does    get    you    anywhere    in    this    city.    ”    gaze    like    dagger    with    words    dripping    with    sugary    cadence.    reptuation    precedes:    zahira’s    name    whispered    like    doom    impending.    but    the    smile    remains,    legs    meticulously    cross    one    another    as    spine    eases    into    pew’s    grain,    “    now    you’ve    got    me    sittin’    on    the    edge    of    my    seat here,    honestly.    ”                                

            a cookie tray pulled from the oven sits on the kitchen counter and a plastic container labeling a failure at $2.99 sits in the bin.  this is what families do.  but she is not her sister, she is merely a performative attempt of the maternal image conjured up from television commercials and magazine articles. a name and mirror reflection are all sisters share now, and a boy. miriam's nephew. the one who stands by the doorway with a bloodied bottom lip.  ' behold i send you out as sheep amidst the wolves. '  new york is not kind to all, but mira knows he is not kind to it either because she shares in that pessimism rooted in their very bones. it's exchanged over finger print dusting, bloodied sidewalks, bullet fragments and neon yellow caution tape.  that is what this family does.  “ did you mouth off to lovegrove or valiente? ” neither. she knows this, it's as nonchalant as asking for coffee with no sugar, just cream, and because of this, mira looks downward to the round dining table with a singular place setting, just now pushed across to the chair he will occupy, the only other chair.

⠀#⠀       doesn’t     justice     feel     divine     ?     a     righteous     anger     fractured     between     bruised     knuckles     and     lacerated     lip.     the     city     rots     with     an     all     too     familiar     cruelty,     deep     beneath     sinew     and     marrow,     desperate     to     pry     out     what     little     hope     remains.     for     every     learnt     monstrosities,     sliver     linings     of     his     mother     remain     -     no     matter     how     desperate     he     tries     to     run     away     from.     it     leads     him     here,     body     reliant     against     the     doorframe.     deja     vu     aches     where     flesh     splits,     (     you’re     sixteen     again:     head     low     with     boyish     guilt     and     declared     winner     of     another     schoolyard     scrap     !     crown of sticks     and     leaves     caught     in     brown     tussles.     )     “     did     you . . . did     you     try     to     bake     ?     ”     he     doesn’t     mean     to     laugh.     echoes     of     the     sound     atrophies     with     bewilderment. is     this     what     families     do     ?     held     under     a     magnifying     gaze;     tenderly,     up     close,     the     thought     of     familial     affection     makes     the     agent     squirm.     limbs     a     cumbrous     tangle     upon     the     chair,     posture     relaxes     with     a     battered     exhale.     “     actually,     some     bastard     tried     to     pull     a     runner     nearby     central     park.     thought     punchin'     an     agent     would’ve     given     him     sort     of     head     start.     ”     capillaries     reach     to     graze     over,     dried     blood     staining     his     fingertips.     he’s     been     through     worse.     “     explainin’     it all     to     lovegrove     and     valiente,     now that’s     going     to     be     more painful. ”                        

⠀#⠀       boy   -   king     disguised     as     the     reverent     son     of     god,     a     dog     imitating     his     father’s     worst     growl.     solitude     soaked     in     a     grin,     something     to     say     about     the     cacophonous     sight:     delicate     kiss     brushed     against     cold     skin     and     the     mind     wanders     . . .     how     bad     is     it     this     time     ?     digits,     maimed     and     elongated     with     vicious     nostalgia,     surrender     precious     cigarette     without     complaint.     casually     cruel     with     a     hypocrite’s     smile,     (     and     oh     doesn’t     the     vile     heart     𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊     at     the     sight     !     if     circumstance     ever     gave     him     a     tender,     fighting     chance     all     those     years     ago.     perhaps     holy     beings     wouldn’t     get     such     a     riotous     kick,     otherwise.     )     bestow     a     sigh     as     condolences,     lips     purse     as     soundless     response:     greed     was     a     terrible     curse     to     suffer     with.     “     father     paul     can     keep     tellin’     all     he     wants,     it’s     not     my     job.     ”     melodic     cadence     disguises     the     sharp     truth.     (     never     taken     kindly     to     such     figures.     𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑   𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐄  /   𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒𝐓     raised     to     be     a     pious     weapon,     childhood     gouged     out     as     divine     offering.     )     a     fractured     reflection     of     a     mirrored     grin,     capillaries     seize     jaw     and     push     designer     shades     away.     peer     into     pallid     hues     in     prayers     of     some     glimpse     of     the     future,     some     sign     from     potential     godhood.     “     these     aren’t     the     times     to     be     so     generous,     gotta     keep     those     cards     to     your     chest,     darlin’.     ”     grasp     releases,     cigarette     taken     back.     can’t     always     get     what     you     want.     “     and     stop     fuckin’     grinnin’.     you’re     suppose     to     be     in     mournin’. ”          

⠀#⠀       canines     exposed,     a     bloodied     fondness     for     early     morning     ascetic     cadence.     intrinsic     nature     to     bite,     the     worst     pried     out     from     wounds     by     the     ribs     and     sternum.     grin     maintains,     sight     of     holiness     off     -     kilter     pacing     down     the     hall,     (     met     with     scathing     affection:     glad     it     was     you     and     not     me.     )     “     shame.     could’ve     gotten     rid     of     two     birds     with     one     bullet     if     mcnally     had     better     aim.     ”     a     display     of     clashing     dichotomy,     morbidity     shrugs     in     absent     remiss.      “     they'll     keep     hiring     any     sideshow     freak     with     the     vaguest     concept     of     the     justice     system     and     a     hard     on     for     carryin’     a     weapon,     it’s     well     . . .     ”     hold     english     cynicism     on     the     hilt     of     the     tongue,     “     𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐄,     really.     ”     another     sip     to     swallow     american     egotism,     eyebrow     raised     with     bemusement,     “     and     miss     seein' you     explain     to     lovegrove     and     valiente     why     we’ve     got     a     bunch     of     halfwit     interns,     but     no     new     agents     ?     i     wouldn’t     miss     it     for     the     world.     ”