#angelahansenthread

Angel lets out a slow, shaky breath, turning her jaw to look off to the side. Eye contact has always been too much for her, the way he’s speaking so softly and earnestly to her is especially making it difficult. Her bruised and battered features twist into something indescribable as she debates with herself before she concedes, nodding tiredly. Angel may be a masochist but denying herself of this comfort would be going too far, especially after the day the both of them have had. 

Frankly, she’s only just met the man, so naturally she looks wary considering just how strong he’s coming on to her. All she did was finally give him her name and he’s practically falling to pieces. Angel has never had that effect on anyone before. It’s jarring, and a little embarrassing. Part of her believes that this is a prank.

Especially when he can’t contain himself the moment he touches her arm. Angel steps back slightly, offering a confused and cautious chuckle. “Angel’s really supposed to be an ironic nickname. I’m the farthest thing from what you believe me to be…trust me.” Frankly, Angel’s personality screams introvert, so this is all coming as a shock to her.

In her line of work, there is no avoiding Tatooine. Despite the fact that AN-8314 would rather sell her right kidney than step foot on this sandy cesspool again, it’s the breeding ground of at least 30% of her income. Mos Eisley is convenient, she can park her ship and make the trade yards away then treat herself to a drink after. If it wasn’t so damn hot, she’d actually visit more often.

“Everything is there, I thought you trusted me Fazza. Aren’t we closer than that?” Her eyes narrow behind her comically large goggles playfully at the grumbling merchant as he sifts through the bag of goodies she tossed on his table. She’s sweating under the numerous pieces of fabric she has wound around her face—not to conceal her identity, she couldn’t care less about hiding. The thought of being barefaced after all those years as a bucket head makes her feel shifty. Shifty enough that she’d risk a heatstroke in Tatooine of all places. The merchant pauses for a few moments before tossing a pouch at her, earning him a dramatic bow of gratitude before she turns on a dime and walks leisurely out of the shade of the tent.

Peering inside the pouch, her body language gets a whole lot less stiff, relief flooding over her. I’ll have enough for the next two weeks at this rate. Excitedly, she stuffs her credits away in her coat, slipping her gloved hands into her pockets as she practically skips along. Too preoccupied in her temporary wealth, AN-8314, or Sparky as her clients call her doesn’t notice that she’s being tailed. Plus, all the fabrics she’s wrapped up in takes her peripheral vision away entirely. A womp rat skitters in front of her path, making her stumble a bit before gathering herself and carefully stepping over the ugly creature. Months ago she’d consider kicking the damn thing, but ever since she turned a new leaf, she can hardly hurt a fly. The heavily modded blaster on her hip may beg to differ but it’s honestly just for show. That is until the First Order is involved, but that’s a whole other story.

Angel is running on fumes. It’s been fifty-three hours since the last time she rested her eyes and it’s beginning to take its toll. In between her day job and her ‘hobby’, she’s been stretched thin. Unfortunately for her, as the winter months start rolling in, crime tends to have an uptick in New York before the first snowfall. It happens every year. Thieves and sickos getting their last hits in before they’re confined inside for the holidays, going to church to confess their sins before the cycle starts all over again at the first sign of spring. That all meant extra overtime for Wildcard. Every night for the past three days she’s barely been able to book one criminal before her AI system is alerting her of another break in. 

This night is no different. It’s about 2AM when she finds herself pinning some poor sod against the wall with one of her arms. Angel crawls towards him to really sell just how creepy she can look in the right lighting. She tilts her head to the side, though it’s not nearly as comical as it usually is. 

“What kind of idiot tries to mug a lady in Hell’s Kitchen? You’re lucky I got to you first and not Red. He’s so much messier.” Her voice is extra tinny as it comes out. As much as Angel would love to believe that she’s this scary all the time, this is just another protocol she implemented in her tech. 

Though, as she’s about to continue to terrorize this poor mugger, her saving grace of an AI program alerts Angel of a presence behind her. With a tired sigh, she pulls away, knocking the man out and tossing him into a nearby dumpster. 

“Listen, if you’re here to arrest me, I’m letting you know now that it’s not a good idea.” She swivels her head around, the LEDs on her goggles flickering as she identifies whoever decided it was a good idea to attempt to sneak up on her of all people. One of her bionic arms subconsciously reaches behind her and drops a garbage bag on the man’s head, as if that did anything to hide evidence of her activities. 

When Angel came to Billy in need of medical attention and a spare set of clothes that weren’t soaked in her own blood, she didn’t think much of it. She doesn’t have many friends to begin with, god forbid any that knew what she did with her free time. Her ski mask is pulled up over her nose as she cradles a forgotten bottle of lukewarm water. His in company medic had long finished stitching her shoulder together, but she hasn’t bothered to pull her suit back over herself. Her nerves are thrumming with pain, it’s all she really feels like focusing on.

The disassociation doesn’t last long though, the feeling of someone tracing the old angry puckered skin along her arm has her shooting out of her seat. Her skin burns at the memory. The water in her hand spills and what can be seen of her face is set in a grim line. Soon enough, she realizes her mistake, the falter in the mask she shows everyone, and smooths her expression. With a strained chuckle, Angel pokes her arm through the sleeve of her suit and shucks the fabric back over herself, hiding as much skin as possible.

“Energy levels low. Input a new energy core at your earliest convenience.”