#leverage fusion

god this is so long I'm sorry

it turns out mob bars don’t ask too many questions about why a just-18 young woman with no emergency contact needs a job.  Cassandra just gives them her bright, fake smile and says she's applying for classes at the local college and means to pay her own way.  they respect her secrets and her work ethic, and voila! a job busing tables and occasionally manning the bar when the owner has special customers to see to in the back room

her bright red hair and Irish heritage don’t hurt, either

it’s not an Ivy League school, nothing like what she imagined her future would be a year ago, but it’s something, which is more than she’d be getting at home.  all it took was a request for records from her old high school, some placement exams to confirm her genius level intellect, and the college was giving her a spot in their line of incoming freshmen.  

even with merit scholarships, tuition is a bitch to pay for.  it gets worse once she has another attack and needs some of her funds to go to the hospital bills, and the drugs the doctors there prescribe her.

Cassandra expects her boss to kick up a fuss at all that time missed, but he waves her off with a kind smile and says she can take all the time she needs to get back on her feet, because he’s never had someone so smart working for him before (she helps out with the accounts for the bar, sometimes)

one night after she starts back to work, it’s late, and the bar is empty of everyone except the Irish.  they’ve taken over the pub and the territory surrounding it.  Cassandra is cleaning up, closing down the unused tables and being as unnoticeable as she can

because let’s face it, she is not stupid.  by now, she knows exactly what’s going on here.  and maybe before it would have bothered her more, maybe her principles and respect for the rules would have had her out the door.  but she needs this job so she can continue her classes and pay rent on the space above the bar (which she’s getting at a discounted rate), and pay for her pills and the occasional overnight in the hospital.  besides, the owner is kind, even if his friends aren’t quite so nice, and his little girl is adorable.

anyway.  the Irish are here, letting off steam and worried, because their “accountant” just got put in jail.  everyone in the Family is prepared to play patsy, but losing an enforcer is nothing compared to losing the guy who keeps track of their money, their lifeblood.  those people aren't a dime a dozen, and pretty soon the Irish won’t have two nickels to rub together if they don't find someone new fast.

and cassandra just.  pauses.  just for a moment.  glances up to meet old McRory’s eyes behind the bar, just for a minute.  because.... she could do that.  Cassandra started balancing her father’s accounts for him when she was twelve, and they were hardly middle class: the Cillian’s had money in savings, but also tied up in investments and stock, and assets, too.  but that was nothing to her mind.  she could do it in her sleep near the end. hell, she’s been helping John with the bar’s funds for two months now, and not all of their revenue was clean , but she kept her mouth shut then and made the numbers work.

John wasn’t exactly a member of the Family, but he was a, a Friend of the Family.  so when she nods at him, I can do it, I need the money, just give me a chance, he casually picks up a glass to clean and mentions that she’s got a head for numbers, if they’re really that desperate

they are.

they take her to Callaghan, and he might be a little charmed by her bubbly smile and her red hair, but what really gets him is the way it takes her thirty minutes to decipher the codes the old accountant used for the ledgers, balance them out, shift funds between businesses and make sure to account for the statistical probability of amounts of cash-paying customers they can make up for car washes, bars, laundry mats, mattress firms, and movie theaters.  

that’s how she becomes the numbers guy for the Irish mob.  

Cassandra was never going to be Eliot, running away to the military with god in her heart and a flag on her shoulder and becoming disillusioned with doing dirty work for her country.  she needed to get slowly pulled into the criminal underworld.  I figured Irish mob was a good way as any to start, and what better way to pull her into that then math?

she spends some time doing that.  becoming more and more involved.  and she’s cute, like a little puppy, so the others like her.  enough to maybe give her a few self-defense lessons, because this is a dangerous life she’s leading now.

they go...okay??  taking care of her body is one of the first things the doctors recommended to her when she started getting sick, so she’s already in pretty good shape.  It’s just the basics at first; keep your thumb outside your fist, always go for the throat first—Cassandra calculates that three fingers-width above the hollow in a person’s throat would be the best place to strike, because then their voice box gets damaged, too.  

None of the lessons ever go much further than that, because these are brawlers who prefer to use a gun to send a message.  Sometimes the way they move when they show her something tickles the back of her brain, like there’s more to uncover there, but she can’t figure it out until the first time a brawl breaks out in the bar

Two of their patrons start throwing punches right in front of her and suddenly their movements are all angles: she catalogues their weight and height and how drunk they are and how much force they’re putting behind their swings and just…neatly steps out of the way, perfectly avoiding getting elbowed in the face. This…this has never happened before.  But, like everyone always says: there’s math in everything.  Even fighting—especially fighting.

When it looks like the two men are going to start breaking chairs, she hesitates for a moment, but…the knee is a hinge joint.  Thirty pounds of pressure pushing it the wrong way will snap it; twenty-five will seriously damage the attached ligament.  She blinks. Steps up to the closest one.

He’s on the floor before John can make the corner of the bar, screaming his head off, and the other guy is backing away with wide eyes, shocked sober by fear.  Cassandra pulls back, letting her right foot settle behind her and point away from them, and balances on the balls of her feet for a moment.

John gives her a startled look, because she’s never done something like that before. Someone calls the guy’s friends to pull him up off the floor and drive him to the hospital

She grabs a rag to wipe up the mess they made of the counter and thinks.  Because that felt…good.  Really good. Using her hallucinations to dosomething, to affect the real world, gave her a rush of adrenaline and satisfaction.  Not just theory, like in her classes, but real application of the way she sees the world.

Like any good academic, she does her research (in her mind, this is ostensibly still for self-defense—just in case something like that bar fight happens again.  She ignores the giddy little voice in her head talking about how much fun this will be).  Her upper-body strength isn’t great, so something that uses joints and core muscles would be best.  Her size is a disadvantage, too: she can’t afford to go to the ground grappling with someone twice her height and weight.  She’s not looking to compete in a tournament, and she can’t afford to buy any equipment.  The best technique for her will probably be Krav Maga.  (For now, the excited voice in her head whispers)

Her search turns up a little studio on the west side of town that teaches Krav Maga to women for self-defense.  Perfect. The instructor, Miriam Epstein, was a course instructor for the IDF for twenty years before she immigrated to America and got certification from the KMAA.

Cassandra goes to observe a class before she signs up, and the moment she steps through the door her brain is set alight:  everything she sees goes a deep, brilliant hue of scarlet, finding the angles of their feet and arms and their centers of mass based on weight and height; herfoot is seven centimeters too far to the right and that strike would give hermore leverage if she moved three centimeters up from the elbow.  She has to stop for a moment to breathe and process all the information her brain displays in front of her.

That becomes the hardest part: not the constant exhaustion, or the bruises everywhere, or her aching muscles, but the overwhelming flow of information about body movements and the correct place to strike.

She is tired, though; working at the bar takes time, if not mental energy, and her classes take both. Add in balancing the ledgers for Callaghan and now these lessons twice a week, and the exercise she does on her own to keep up, and her schedule is completely full.

The Irish start letting Cassandra layer their funds, obscuring where the extra profits in their businesses came from.  Turns out she’s pretty good at that, too, though it’s not like it’s hard given they own a bank in Boston.  Loans are a great way to integrate funds, and their interest rates are always better than the next three competitors.  She tries not to think about the other differences, how the people she’s working for go to collect that debt.  

Construction is another great way to hide their funds, and from what Cassandra can tell from watching the stock market (which is considerably more than most people) real estate is on the rise.  When she carefully suggests that Callaghan try investing more money in that area, he actually listens to her.  Puts her theories and calculations into practice because he trusts her to be right.  

It feels almost as good as tearing that man’s quadriceps tendon.  Practical applications, she muses.  Sometimes she lets herself wonder how it would feel to take her theories all the way down the rabbit hole

Meanwhile, it only takes her four months to move to P2 in Krav Maga.  The average time spent practicing moves for each level is six months; she’s learning 33% faster than that.  Her muscles are adjusting better than she expected, and her skin stops bruising as easily, but she suspects she’ll always tire quicker than everyone else.

Miriam pulls her aside after class one day and asks why she hesitates so much when they practice moves on each other.  Nothing but the lightest sparring, of course, and nothing dangerous.  But Cassandra can’t turn her brain off, and now that she’s starting to learn the more painful moves, she can’t help but see them every time she stands across from someone.  (thirteen pounds of pressure at 125 degrees from her back to hyperextend her arm; plant your foot six inches from her spine and pull to dislocate her shoulder; 3,300 newtons of pressure delivered at 1.5 seconds would have a 25% chance of cracking her rib and sending a fragment into her lungs.  All this would take less than thirty seconds)

None of this makes it past her lips, but she thinks maybe Miriam can see it in her eyes.  We’re moving on to fighting armed opponents next week, she says, maybe you’ll feel more comfortable with that than basic strikes and take-downs.  She taps the side of her head in farewell and Cassandra tastes copper and sees the spot on her temple where the cranial bone is weakest; a quick jab with the second knuckle of her index finger extended could put her on the ground.  Shaking her head, she dislodges the scarlet diagram and shoves down the curious voice of, but you could do it, you could actually do it.

In another four months she’s at P3, and Callahan is actively seeking out her opinion about investments because she’s been right every time.  

Another four months and she’s almost 20 years old.  She’s almost gotten her degree in mathematics, somehow, even though she can’t qualify as a full-time student.  Part of it is the half-ton of college credit built up during high school, part of it is testing out of a third of their program when they wanted to place her, and the rest is just her ruthless pursuit of academia.  

Her attacks don’t become less frequent, or less powerful, but Cassandra still feels better.  Maybe it’s because she’s actually living her life on her own, even if it isn’t what she thought it would be; even if what she’s doing is wrong.  Because not only is she learning more, but she’s usingit.  She’s using her brain to dothings and affecting the world around her instead of just living in it. No matter what happens, no matter how much she changes in the years to come, she’ll treasure that.

Enter Lamia, stage right

See, Dulaque is Damian Moroe; boogeyman and semi-god of the criminal underworld.  You can’t spend more than six months involved with dirty money without hearing about the man who bankrolls terrorists and buys countries to launder his money through. He’s a legend, untouchable.

Almost as infamous is his right-hand woman, Lamia.  A trained killer with no hint of a past before she showed up as Dulaque’s chief…well, he’s too classy for the word enforcer, and so is she.  But if they were anyone else, that’s what she’d be. As it is, just a whisper of her name will send some grown men running to give up whatever she wants in exchange for safe passage.

And see, Dulaque has caught wind of the irish mob’s sudden financial success and wants to know how it’s happening.  Take advantage of it if it’s luck, invest in it if it’s skill, and perhaps recruit whatever or whoever is responsible into his own enterprise.

Lamia doesn’t always like to trade on her name, though, so she comes to Boston quietly, and investigates how the Irish are doing so well—not just in the American markets anymore

(Callahan called his friends in the old country and told them about the redheaded accountant with a genius-level intellect who could analyze the stock markets to a T; suddenly Cassandra had a whole lot more to balance than a few local business and investments. Suddenly, she’s the lodestone to an entire financial criminal empire that’s only growing.  And that little voice in the back of her head sighs in contentment as her reach extends, her area of effect getting bigger and bigger. Whenever the air in front of her lights up blue and smells like oranges, she smiles a little and hums, because this feels right.  Follow the money and see where it leads, all the way down)

It doesn’t take long before she finds John McRory’s place, where a petite little redhead still waits tables and occasionally mans the bar; locks up more often than not, now, because her place is right upstairs.

There are a couple ways she can do this.  She can go from the top down, approach Callahan and demand to speak with the girl. She can have her brought directly to Dulaque, where he can make an intimidatingly persuasive offer the girl won’t be able to refuse.  Or…

Her eyes are rather striking, in the warm light of the bar.  

After Lamia finds Cassandra Cillian, she spends another week watching her, and the girl is interesting.  Balancing all that money, layering and incorporating it in three different countries and seven different cities, would be too much for any one person.  And yet she seems to slot all that work neatly into her afternoon, after her classes at the local college and before her shift starts at the bar.  What really draws her attention, though, is that little studio she visits twice a week for “defense lessons.”  

Krav Maga is brutal and straightforward, a beautiful Frankenstein of a martial art that takes the easiest parts of a handful of the others and sharpens them into something dangerous.

Lamia sits in on one of the sessions.  The instructor she immediately pegs as former military, that’s a very distinctive stance, but the way the girl holds herself…now that, that’s something to watch out for.

P3 after less than a year of training is impressive, but not unusual enough to matter.  What matters is the way the girl locks her eyes onto the instructor while she demonstrates a move, all cold and calculating; the way her gaze flickers over her sparing partner’s feet, hands, arms, shoulders, hips, like she’s finding every angle and weak spot there is to be found.  

Finally, Lamia smiles as she hesitates just before moving into action.  Oh, that look.  Not fear of her opponent; fear of herself.  And buried beneath it, a bone-deep desire and curiosity. Ah, she thinks.  Gotcha.

Cassandra is smarter than probably everyone Lamia has ever met, so there won’t be any straight-up conning her into what she wants, and that visit to the hospital had been unfortunately enlightening, because threatening probably won’t work either.

Dulaque, she knows, will want the girl’s head for numbers.  And he’ll get it.  But perhaps if Lamia asks very nicely, he’ll let her keep Cassandra to herself for a little bit and show her what she could really be capable of.  A little push, someone to tell her it’s okay to crave that violence, and Lamia can have danger thrumming under her skin right next to those numbers in her brain.

She waits until the class is over, nods to the instructor, and walks up to her.  Cassandra squints at her face for a moment, but it isn’t long before a bright and surprisingly genuine smile breaks out.  “Hi!  You know, you look really familiar.”

Lamia smiles; it’s more of a smirk, really.  Lying is a bad idea, so, “I think you work at that bar I was in the other night.  What was it…”

“McRory’s?”

“Oh, yes, that’s it.  I was kind of surprised to see you here, actually, you don’t really seem the type.”

“Well, knowing how to defend yourself is important!”  God, everything about her is bright and bubbly, isn’t it?  It begs the question how much of that is real, and how much is a front, a persona.

“Anyway.”  Lamia holds out her hand.  “Lamia.”

“Cassandra.”  The girl takes it, and she makes sure to grip her hand warmly.

“Cassandra,” she rubs her thumb over the back of her hand and curls her lips.  When she leans forward, Cassandra does, too.  Neither of them lets go.  “Have a drink with me.” Not a question, not a demand.

Her eyes focus intently on Lamia’s, something like real happiness lingering around her mouth. “Yes.”