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Everyone suspects DARYNA PAVLIVNA LYSYTSYA of at least one of the cardinal sins, but in Nevada, the worst sins are bound by blood and this is HERS: THE FOXES. SHE rolled the dice FOUR YEARS ago. Under the desert sun, they claim the act of ARTIST. They’re often mistaken for SASHA LUSS before those crimson colored glasses slide down their nose. DARIA better get busy living, or they’ll get busy dying by the ripe age of TWENTY-NINE. There are no second acts in a marked life, and it’s measured out by the melody of BLUE MONDAY by NEW ORDER.

It was the voice of the fellow Foxes assassin that made Nadia smirk even more, the ruby lipstick she had on showing off the very playful nature of Nadia James. When she saw the other blonde, a girl she had known for quite some time - almost all of her life, she shrugged and rolled her eyes. “I should’ve known a fellow one would be here tonight. I’m surprised my sweet Lav hasn’t come. I’ll have to text him later. Mm, this champagne is one of his favorites. What do you think, darling Daria?” Nadia extended the champagne bottle to her, sitting down on one of the VIP couches with a much assured smirk. “Tell me. Anyone at this party currently an easy target for more stealing purposes? I could really use another nice bottle of something expensive, hmm? I’ll share.” 

“Your ‘sweet Lav’ is a pain in my ass. Don’t invite him, he’s annoying me,” she grumbled, snatching up the bottle by its neck, though she adjusted her handling and tilted her glass just so before getting the perfect pour--even her annoyance wouldn’t rob her of that.The pomegranate seeds that had settled at the bottle fizzled back to life, floating up to the top with the bubbles that tickled her upper lip. “Delicious,” she purred, extending the glass for a well-mannered ‘cheers.’ “And expensive. будьмо!” 

&

Sibel had not been thrown by the choice of venue for the first date. Vicky’s was fun, as she had been here before with friends from the hospital and the dancers were much more talented than Sibel could ever hope to be. But, the date had turned out to be quite the asshole. He’d spent more time ogling the waitress and trying to get a private dance. After only an hour, Sibel had had enough and got up, leaving him. She had been tempted to just walk out, but she wanted to drink a little more. Making her way closer to the bar, she sat down next  to a gorgeous blonde and eyed some of the dancers. That was the last time she went on a blind date. 

“They are, and very talented. I could never dance like that.” Some days Sibel was sure she was born with two left feet. The accent was foreign, but it caught her attention because it reminded her of the man she met at the party with a similar one. The same man who along with others had been taken from the hospital to somewhere with private treatment. When Sibel had finally returned to work, recovering from her own bout of poisoning, she heard all about it. Only the comment of her wearing ostrich feathers pulled her from her thoughts. “If I had feathers around my neck, I’d look like I should be on stage too.” Sibel chuckled. 

Daria’s lips stretched to a smile as she eyed the brunette. “Oh, you could.” But the dancers chose that moment to up the ante, incorporating some fan kicks and technical choreography in with their poised strutting. “Well, maybe not exactly like that,” she revised, squinting critically at a woman’s ruffle-clad bum pointing right in their direction, judging not her figure but the extension of her arch, or lack-thereof. “But drink a little more, loosen up and you could do most of that. That kind of dancing is just confidence. You put on the little costume, the rouge, the lipstick and you become your most sensual self.” 

Daria had given it a whirl once--had donned a costume of her own creation and graced the stage, if only to say she’d done it. And while she appreciated the attention, it hadn’t been the empowering debut she’d imagined. The stage felt more like a microscope, everyone looking down on her instead of the other way around. She’d decided it wasn’t for her, not at this venue at least, with its sea of competing dancers and leering men. “Life is a stage. We should always be ready,” she declared sagely, though a private smile crept out, letting her in on the bit. She may be notoriously dramatic, but she wasn’t a complete caricature. “Not a great night, huh?” 

“We weren’t,” Lav said, Russian concealing just enough from those who knew their native tongue if they wanted to listen in. “We weren’t worthy. We didn’t balance power, we didn’t care for who was ready. We believed in out dated shifts of power to little boys and girls who only ever knew how to balance a crown on their heads. Oleksander was one of those, and his father before him. Using your power to get what you want, to waste the skills of those trained under oath, to chase feuds sought over bar counters, who you found in your wife’s bed, who cheated you in a game of clobyosh when you need it because you’ve spent all your money on bets… that isn’t power at all. It’s a child’s messy clean up. It’s a fucking tantrum, and I assure you that everyone who puts those whines into action are tired of being babysitters.”

It was a daunting confession on behalf of someone who had their name, who had grown up sneaking under tables at the family’s grand events and only stuck their head out when truths of their crimes were unveiled. So many had deemed him ungrateful for what the family had done for him. Aleksandru Lysytsya had been one of their best assassins until he found a woe he’d rather drown with a bottle than silence with a bullet. He had been pawned off his son the care of cousins, family friends, and even bar owners as long as it meant someone had an eye on him. Many, the better of the bunch Lav liked to think, had decided that the best way to handle another child was to make use of him, busy him with work that they knew required skills that were passed down in his bloodline. He was a quick study, an instinct for survival already ground into his bones. He had stayed at the lower ranks as another means of staying alive. He had seen every shift in power, the bodies that fell like flies by his own hand. Lav didn’t need it to feel whole, or prove a point. Being able to have a purpose and see it fall into place was enough of a reward to him as long as he had a moment to reflect upon it with a drunken grin. 

He sighed, the bottle that typically graced the counter whenever he sat on one of the stools opened with a pop and pouring over into another glass to share. 

“I do what needs to be done when I am asked, and I only speak up when there is risk that should be avoided.” Lav said though it was a matter of fact where he switched back to Ukrainian and out. “Other than that, I do what I’m told and it keeps me out of trouble. I do not go out of my way to be recognized. I do my best, but I do not exceed expectations. What would be need otherwise? For power? I do not want power. I never have. I only ever gave into it to help those who needed it to be yielded correctly. You can only have so much to protect you before it turns into target on your back. I won’t deny if it I’m given some, but I don’t go looking for it. Ambition was wielded poorly in this family, and quite frankly, it takes too much time and effort now. I’ve always been happy being soldier. I did not step down until someone worthy and someone bold, as you say, came along. We did not have anyone else in our family like that left who had not been raised believing it was a right instead of a privilege to be that way.”

“What is ‘worthy?’ And who are you to decide it?” He was irritating her now and she wore it plain as day on her face as she chewed down on the inside of her cheek. “You’re hardly the poster child for the moral high ground.” Her gaze lifted to his slowly, letting the blow land with a pointed stare. It took the edge off a bit, the anger boiling into steam and dissipating with the small release. She’d feel shitty about it later but for now it felt like a small victory. 

“I just don’t get what your goal is, Lav,” she admitted, following him seamlessly into Ukrainian. “You benefited from the family’s reputation too. Being a Lysytsya used to mean something. Even when I didn’t know what I meant, I knew the mere mention of our name carried a great deal of respect. Fear. Power. Now what? We’re nothing. And for what? For the good of the Foxes? We are the foxes.” She barely spared the waiter a glance as she took a sip of her champagne.

“Yeah, uh, never really been the type of person to go out all on my outfits,”  Stella lets out a chuckle as she looks down at her clothes. Being a creature of habit, nothing really changed, even when she was out for a few drinks. She was sporting her infamous leather jacket, dark washed jeans, and a white tank top. Nothing truly special at all about it. “I don’t know if feathers would look good with what I am wearing, would hate for it to fuck with my jacket. I’m not really into the glitch and glamour that this city brings.”

“Well, it shows,” she deadpanned with barely concealed distaste, letting a bit of an accent slip. It masked some of the rudeness or, at the very least, repackaged it as European and exotic. But really, who didn’t like glitz and glamour? “You definitely live in the wrong place.” Her eyes did a pointed scan of the room, silently gesturing to the lights and sparkles saturating the place. “What brought you to Las Vegas?” 

He plucked the cigarette from her mouth and claiming it as his own. He leaned back in the chair against the bar, legs folded over the other as he mimicked her entire entity. Lavrentii’s first responsibilities to their family had been rooted in that ability, the way he could mirror behavior. He was a quick study, his faults buried with books and language outside of their Slavic tongue. Any small tilt Daria gave him, he leaned the same way. It was an act that had gone through many stages, from learning how to be poise after growing up playing hopscotch in a living room filled with broken glass from empty bottles and mocking for the sake of a drunken laugh. Other times, like these, it was a challenge. It was a small scratch against whoever was before him, that he knew not just the path they walked but how they walked it and how easily it could be followed—how easily he could play at her jab.

It was a small shift, his boyish behavior still ever green within him. The liquor was passing his lips at the same rate of consumption. He rolled his shoulders, a small shrug at her suggestion. He spoke softer than he had, mimicking his notorious careless attitude despite a body language that spoke louder about the severity of her pass at him.

“I would not be a very good Zrobyv Lyundnu if I was busying trained killers with one night stand clean ups. Do you agree?” He asked, careful to place every article between his words and shorten his vowels where he could. 

Then, he softened. He had to. Lavrentii was still gaging just how far the affairs of the Foxes went with Daria. Yes, she was a Lysytsya and despite her mother’s attempts, this had been a birthright at some point. But now? The Lysytsyas were nothing but novelty and he could only believe that his cousin was still comfortable in that security. 

 He leaned back, cigarette returned to her and replaced with a toothpick as he spoke. “I would not be able to get naked on Vick-ee’s stage and dance if I was Zrobyv Lyundnu. That is what happened and why I only had feather fan. Not very fun.”

Her eyes narrowed, as if she might squint through his easy charm. It was easy to remember he didn’t have a traditional Lysytsya upbringing. Not the way she did--with everything served on a golden platter, no request too outlandish, no demand ignored and no shortage of people watching her back. He reminded her with every embittered jab through their childhoods that they were not the same. But it was easy to forget that, for all the drama and passing around, he was raised with perhaps more of their family influence than anyone. Where she was coddled and tucked away, he got the brunt of their inadvertent training, both adept in not only physical warfare but the far more important psychological. Where Daria was just learning to play the game, Lav had been a reigning champion for years. Still, she was fine with people underestimating her. It’d be her best shot at getting the upper hand one day. 

His mask was good; it was difficult to tell if her jab hit home, though the marked change in his tone turned so casual it couldn’t be anything but carefully forced. “You wouldn’t have time for all these one night stands. You have too much time now because what you’re doing doesn’t challenge you. Your skills are being wasted.” Her eyes flicked to someone nearby, perhaps a bit too close for her to speak so candidly. In the next breath she switched to Russian, so smoothly that if you’d be listening in, it might’ve taken a moment to realize. “Am I so vain for thinking our family should matter? Why shouldn’t we stay on the proverbial throne? Do you think other people who climb to the top are thinking about checks and balances, limiting power? Do you think they’re going to graciously step down when it’s time? This isn’t a democracy. You take power and you hold it until someone else comes along worthy and bold enough to take it for herself.” Her eyebrow quirked at him as she downed the last of her martini, flagging the bartender over in a wave. “Or himself.”

Lav looked down at his clothes. He wasn’t as flashy as their cousins, but he wasn’t quite sure any of them would have been able to pull off feathers. The only exception he could think of was Daria herself. She was the only face of theirs that could lay on a painting, on some editorial, and not look like the shadows in the image were hiding something. Daria was always emerging. She was concealed from their world, but truly, for the better. 

“I have tried,” He admitted, his accent slipping into its native language with ease in her presence. “The feathers. I still have some around apartment here, there, everywhere. It is worse than the glitter. It sits in air. You sit down and oof! There is feather up in air, on pillow case, on face. I went once once with feather fan because… well, maybe we do not discuss where clothes went. There isn’t much to discuss because I do not know where it went.”

It was calming to discuss the simpler parts of their world. The outer shell of it all was something he couldn’t focus on as of late, and small moments like this he enjoyed that he could still have it. It was sobering, but in a way that he didn’t mind. There was still a realm outside of the Foxes, one where the Lysytsyas were still a family and where they weren’t always invincible. 

Her lip curled, a feline grin over the rim of her cocktail as she caught her cousin’s eye in sidelong glance. “Feather fan? What were you doing with a feather fan?” Daria didn’t have much of an accent--she’d spent most of her childhood in the states, but being around Lav seemed to pull the rolled ‘r’s and long ‘aws’ right out of her. “Perhaps you should hop on that stage, Lavrusha. I didn’t realize we have another artist in the family.” 

Her nose scrunched, the only acknowledgment in her deadpan delivery that she was joking, although she would’ve been just as happy to pose it as a challenge. The toxic Lysytsya family dynamics had always tainted their relationship and, while the Sin City seemed to be ironing out some long standing wrinkles, there would always be ‘sibling’ rivalry that kept them competing. The same rivalry that prompted her to test the waters. “If you were still Zrobyv Lyundnu you could hire someone to clean up after all your feather fans.” 

Bohemia was easy when money wasn’t an object. In New York Daria had tried every artistic pursuit that crossed her path--book-binding with a blind man from Iceland, screen printing with a student of Warhol, traditional Kirigami with her Japanese roommate, embroidery with a guy who sewed ‘live, laugh, jizz’ onto his back pocket, ice-sculpture, hair braiding, beading, cake decorating, comedy. Not dancing though, she mused as she watched the burlesque show with the sharp eye of a critic. She’d left dancing back in Ukraine after she begged her mother to let her quit. But now, admiring the glamorous costumes, lush with sparkles and feathers and swaying and glittering under the dim lights with the dancers’ hypnotic movements she wondered if she might try it out again. 

“Very beautiful, no?” she asked the person beside her, not even sparing them a glance as she took a sip of her martini. “I think we should all wear more of um... the ostrich. Ostrich feathers.” She punctuated this with a sweeping hand motion, a bit of a dance in itself. “Even your outfit, for example.” Her eyes flicked to them this time, though only barely. “‘s very simple. Imagine some beautiful plumes of feathers at the shoulders or by the neck. This is Las Vegas. If there’s any place to shed ‘simple,’ it’s here.” 

(abortion; tw) (pregnancy; tw)

background (tw; abortion)

“if i’m answering truthfully?” she paused, pouting her lips in thought as she gave jenny a once over, “i think overall you’d do great in prison. i think you might have an issue with the pecking order at first, but something tells me you’d end up on top.” she said, shrugging slightly as to not disturb their intertwined arms. this definitely wasn’t normal for the two of them, but drugs often made carmen a little more touchy-feely than usual. she laughed without restrain when jenny described her night, “harsh.” she exclaimed through the laugh, “especially when whoever you were just with was is probably lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering how they got so lucky.” she hummed, an easy smile playing at her lips, even when she couldn’t place whether jenny was mocking her playfully or maliciously. “better to ask than to be murdered without being able to plead my case, no?” she asked, raising an eyebrow, “about half past three, i would say…” she paused, fingers brushing the spot beneath her eyes, “do i look like a used rag? i absolutely feel like one.”

Everything would be so much easier if Carmen was just a bitch. That would make their dynamic nice and simple--Jenny could explain her aversion without sound like an insecure head case and they could get with their lives in uncomfortable silence peppered with petty arguments. They wouldn’t have to walk down the street, arm in arm, playing nice and pretending there wasn’t this bizarre tension between them. What if Carmen didn’t even feel it? She was acting like she didn’t feel it, which was almost more irritating than if she’d been outright rude. Where did she get off making Jenny feel crazy? “Is that like giving a robber your money so he won’t steal it?” she asked, forcing a smile as they walked. “If you look like a used rag, then I don’t even want to know what I look like. Where are you coming from?”