Chapter Text
BANDITS & BORDELLOS
‘’But that’s stupid!''
You turned on your heel, frantically pacing up and down. The humid breeze outside threatened to cave in and engulf you whole. Pungent scents and metallic sapor kissed your senses. Just because you lived here for all these years, didn’t mean you were used to it.
How could you possibly be accustomed to the foul odour of death, the deafening ambience of hell and the nagging feeling of eternal dread?
‘’I’m not doing that, there’s no way!’’
Your eyes fell intently on the woman before you. Her blonde locks wavered about her forehead, swaying in time with her uncertainty.
She carefully pursed her lips, studying you, before finally responding, ‘’I know it’s not ideal. I don’t want this for you either, but we really have no choice.’’
‘’No choice?’’ You scoff.
‘’You could have asked Mila to do it, or fuck, even Leni! She would actually like the idea, too.’’
The stern looking blonde calls your name, almost like a warning. ‘’Mila’s still taking care of her sister.’’ She shakes her head, ‘’And Leni’s got her hands full preparing for the heist, you know this.’’
‘’Ugh, fine.’’ You droop your head down. ‘’But if they touch me—’’
‘’That won’t happen. Our job will be done by then.’’
You sighed, running your hands through your hair. As you took a seat next to the commanding woman, you threw your face into your lap.
‘’You know I hate that place, ‘’ you mumbled.
‘’I know.’’
It made you sick to your core. You had vivid memories of when you were 8 years old, frequently tagging along with your malicious father. He had always made you wait at the reception, with a fabricated story to mask his vulgar antics. Sometimes the place was an ‘illegal medicine smuggling base’ and sometimes it was ‘your uncle’s place of business.’
You believed it every time, you were a child after all.
That was until a rather kind woman found you, kept you company and exposed his white lies. That woman was the woman before you at this very moment,
Monica.
The fear you associated with the place forced its way into your mind, as you recalled memories you had long since buried.
‘’Yer rather young, aren’t ya?’’ A raggedy man emerged from the entrance. His unkempt stubble and distinct tired eyes were not a pleasant sight.
‘’How much for the little one then? It would be nice to experiment.’’ He chuckled, inching closer towards you.
As he extended his hand, aiming to graze your cheek, Monica abruptly smacked it away.
She had found you waiting silently and patiently atop a stool too high for you. It was like your designated spot, since you came here so often. Most of the other women wouldn’t spare you a second glance, though one time one offered you a glass of wine. And another time when you were 10, a woman tried to sincerely advise you against the business, assuming you were there to ‘train’.
‘’Don’t touch her you fucking creep.’’
He paused, slightly stumbling from the impact. ‘’If yer presenting such a pretty face, she must be up for sale, no?’’
Monica furrowed her eyebrows, ‘’They’re over there,’’ she pointed in the direction of a queue of women in skimpy outfits, ‘’leave the kid alone.’’
The brown-haired man’s gaze followed her hand, ‘’Hm, they don’t look as interesting to me.’’ He attempted to touch you again, ‘’I want this one.’’
Monica snapped, her eyes coated with daggers as she gave him a hard shove. ‘’Go to the others, or leave. I won’t repeat myself.’’
‘’How dare ya touch me, whore!’’ He growled, steadying himself. ‘’I’ll make this shithole go outta business, just ya watch!’’
He turned his heel, making his way to the exit. Monica shouted as he left.‘’Yeah, you do that!’’
You would continue to accompany your father, until at eleven years old, you considered yourself old enough to stay at home alone. But even without him, you would visit from time to time just to see Monica, who you had taken a liking to. You had soon learnt she was the owner of the place, it was one of the most successful brothels in the underground. She had many competitors, yet her place seemed to attract the most profit. Perhaps it was due to the location, being in the heart of the city meant it was easily accessible to several contenders to commute to.
Monica wasn’t exactly friendly, always serious, always expressionless. But nevertheless, you still felt a warmth radiating from her. And after losing your mother to the plague, living with an emotionally absent father, you desperately required the female company. The sense of comfort and belonging you felt with Monica was unmatched, and though Monica would never admit it, she felt the same about you.
Estrangement from your father at thirteen years old meant you no longer had a place to stay. Your father was a cruel man, the only nice thing you can remember about him being the roof he kept above your head. He was an abusive alcoholic, a cheating scum, and a selfish being.
Even while your mother drew her last breaths, he had spent the night with his disgusting acquaintances, who lived lifestyles similar to his own. They had practically lived in pubs and brothels, meanwhile you had to find a way to fend for yourself. And fend for your dying mother.
But unfortunately, the little money you scavenged by pickpocketing and performing tasks for Monica was not enough. You couldn’t save her, and you have blamed yourself ever since. The only person who loved you in the world was no longer there, and you decided you would stop pretending to love your father. And for that reason, you left home.
You felt embarrassed for presenting yourself to Monica in such a pitiful state. You really didn’t want to burden her but you were all out of options. Living out on the streets was far from ideal. It was cold, musty and simply everything unpleasant.
Monica had accepted you without another word, in fact, she was a little perturbed that you hadn’t come to her first:
‘’Next time you’re in deep shit, I’m the one you come to, alright? You don’t start sweeping the fucking floors outside.’’
You lived with her for exactly a decade, but it felt like you had been with her for the entirety of your life. At first, it was awkward, strange. You weren’t used to all the noise and the close-knitness of the community. All the women lived together inside of the brothel, while you and Monica stayed in a rundown house right next to it. But you practically all lived together, since the women all liked to loiter around her place. It wasn’t particularly big, but it had just the right amount of homeliness.
You grew quite close to two particular individuals, Mila and Leni. They were a few years older than you at the time, already turning into adults when you had just turned into a teenager. Yet you got along with them extremely well, and felt sorry for them when they had to do their duty. Particularly while you relaxed in the luxury of a warm home, without having to resort to selling your body. Though the other tasks you carried out weren’t less tiring, they were certainly less demeaning.
It’s not that Monica was well off, but she was the owner of a rather popular establishment. It was just enough to keep a roof over her head, eat warm food and wear clean clothes. Although she did own the brothel, it was co-managed by other sharp and incredulous men. This did mean profits were shared, and it also meant scuffles over shares were inevitable. It had even gotten violent at some points, but luckily Monica could talk and threaten her way out of it.
The one thing you were extremely grateful for was how lenient Monica was with you. Some may even say she gave you special treatment. In the ten years of living with her, she had not once asked you to participate in the business. She hadn’t even asked you to come inside. You hadn’t stepped foot in there in years. That didn’t mean you were let off the hook when it came to other work, but she had never asked you to lean towards this specific profession. It was almost like an unspoken topic, which was ironic considering it was the very atmosphere you were raised in.
With that being said, the ‘work’ Monica ordered you to do was by no means pleasant either. It turns out, before owning the brothel, Monica had been a renowned assassin who had long since retired. She had to lay low somehow as an extremely wanted criminal, and adopting a persona as a brothel owner seemed to be her best bet at the time. For that reason, she had drilled her wisdom of fighting and weapons from the moment you started living with her.
Eventually, you and some of the other women in the brothel, including Leni and Mila, had formed your own posse. Monica had surprisingly encouraged the idea, despite how it put her at blatant risk. It was essentially a gang of petty thugs. Nothing remarkable about it at all. Petty thieves during the day, prostitutes by night.
In some of the extensive, physical heists, you were accompanied and aided by the managers of the brothel. Claus and Ansel, though hostile at first, had warmed up over the years, forming a strong bond with all the women. They had not once made any of them feel inferior, not once tried to exert expected toxic masculinity. Possibly in fear of Monica’s wrath, as well as losing their jobs.
As a woman in the underground, learning how to fend for yourself, how to cook, how to keep yourself sanitary and safe was one thing. But learning how to fight, however, was arguably the most important.
Hooligans and evil profilerated like a disease in this cursed underworld, and violence was the only antibiotic. Monica had indoctrinated this perception into you, and it was all you knew. Many spoke of dreams to see the outside world, to become filthy rich, to start a family. But your dream was to simply stay alive. To live out the rest of your days with Monica and your precious family from the brothel, and die peacefully.
The only way you could do that was by surviving. Living didn’t matter as much to you.
It started off with simple tasks, such as grocery ‘shopping’ and sharpening ‘knives.’ She had essentially trained you to become a sly criminal, techniques and skills inculcated into your brain and movements.
Craftiness was a skill often overlooked, but Monica made sure to instill that in you too. The extent of your own creativity was limited to tattoo drawing and knitting, but Monica had expanded your horizons. Over the years, she taught you the art of lock-picking, archery, and even the intricacies of smoke-bombs. Being a woman of many talents, she had actually taught you how to make those from scratch. They proved valuable in the heat of battle, especially when the odds seemed to not be in your favour. A flashy escape, she liked to call it.
Not to mention her attempted martial arts training sessions, though she called you a hopeless case when it came to that. You were beneficially agile, owed to your small, malnourished form.
But you lacked one important thing. Core strength.
You had improved over the years, sure, but it was never enough to surpass Monica’s expectations. Theoretically, you knew everything about hand to hand combat, yet when it came to execution, you were often clumsy. You were definitely better than the average person, but nothing outstanding or particularly remarkable.
It took several years for you to hone all these attributes, but at this stage, you were mostly confident in your abilities.
You had done it all, stealing from notorious gangs with your very own, disguising yourself in certain places to gather useful intel, participating in public street brawls to earn rewards.
All but one thing.
Murder.
That was where you drew the line. You definitely knew how to. In fact, it was one of the first things Monica had taught you. But you would never do it.
Ever.
You were more than happy to threaten and intimidate, more than happy to see an opponent bloodied and bruised, wounded and floored. But being responsible for the disappearance of their entire life? Not a chance.
After seeing your mother draw her final breaths before your eyes, you realised there was truly nothing more vile in this world. Nothing more gut wrenching than to witness a being close their eyes for the last time. To watch them crumble in the grasp of fate. To watch as they gasp for air, pleading for it, only for death to laugh and spit at them.
You didn’t want that for anyone. Or rather, you didn’t want to be the cause for it.
Monica respected this decision of yours, and thus was careful with your assignments. However, in doing this, it meant you had to compromise in other ways. And today was that day.
She wanted you to pose as a prostitute to gather intel from a certain man. You had heard of him before. In fact, it was impossible to go a day without hearing his name in the streets. You had actually seen him once, though you find it hard to believe that the same boy you had seen all those years back could have a reputation like he did today.
It was one of the days your father had dumped you at the reception, readying himself to get on with his business. Monica was beside you, her deep blue eyes intently scanning a parchment in her grasp. It was probably a list of bills, or names of clients. She was completely focused on her work, and you remained comfortably silent next to her, trying to untangle a ball of yarn. You were fond of knitting at that age, the hobby still finding itself into your adult years. And it often served as a distraction from the horror you lived through as a child.
Interrupting your tranquillity, was a resounding bell ring. Someone made their way through the door. The small figure had mid length jet black hair, and a piercing frown. An awkward white tunic with holes and grime adorned them, along with baggy black slacks that were at least three sizes too big. Their groggy, gunmetal eyes shot you an indifferent look, before shifting to Monica.
‘’Miss Monica, is mother done yet?’’
The voice was rather low, hoarse. It seemed to be a boy, yet the unruly prettiness of their features made it difficult to confirm. Every part of them looked angry and stoic at the same time, but you remember sensing something else burning behind those steely eyes.
Innocence.
Sincerity.
Monica shot up from her seat, inching closer towards him, ‘’Ah, Levi, you’re here early.’’ She crouched to his height, hand coming to rest on his shoulder. ‘’Come back in, say, ten minutes? Or you could stay if you like, I can—’’
‘’No thanks.’’ The peculiar boy breathed, before twisting on his heel and exiting the premises as fast as he came.
‘’Who was that?’’ You asked, mildly intrigued.
She found her way back to the seat next to you, lightly dusting her dress and sighing, ‘’That’s Levi. His mother, Kuchel, works here.’’
‘’Kuchel? The nice lady I told you gave me the yarn?’’
‘’Yes, her.’’ Monica responded, averting her gaze back to her work.
When you first arrived at the brothel, you were nervously twiddling with your thumbs, growing restless and frequently checking the time. Monica hadn’t joined you yet, so you had nothing to do. You avoided making small talk with the other prostitutes, 8 year old you being extremely timid and quiet. Only speaking when spoken to.
That is until a raven-haired woman casually took a seat next to you. Her long, silky locks framed her face perfectly. And her blue-grey eyes were ever so friendly, despite the marks of tiredness hanging directly below them. She was wearing similar suggestive clothing and enticing makeup to all the other women here. You clearly remember admiring her elegance, thinking that when you were older, you wanted to be as pretty as her, as charming.
‘’What’s a cute kid like you doing here?’’ She smiled, warmly. Her voice soothed you like honey.
You mumbled, cheeks tinting with crimson as you looked down. ‘’I’m waiting for my father.’’
‘’I see,’’ she nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and adjusting her fraying black corset. ‘’Well, you’ll get bored of waiting.’’
She rummaged through her long, frilly skirt, digging into the side pocket. ‘’Here.’’
It was a burgundy ball of thread, small and slightly tattered.
Your eyes widened, hesitating for a second before accepting it, intending to not keep her hand hanging in the air.
‘’Tell your father to stop bringing you here.’’ She exhaled, ‘’It’s dirty and you could get sick.’’
Nervously, you nodded, turning to face her completely, ‘’Thank you, miss…?’’
‘’Kuchel. Just Kuchel.’’ She smiled yet again, before lifting herself off from her seat and trotting into the direction of the backrooms.
The memory of your encounter seemed rather special at the time. Kuchel was the only worker there to be so gentle and kind to you, the others ignoring your existence or getting irritated at your presence. You didn’t blame them, since you were made aware of what their dehumanising profession entailed. And how lacking energy to socialise because of it made full sense. Monica made sure you knew of that, after your previous situation with the creepy, older man. She used it as a life lesson, and a way to inform you of the tough life of women in the underground. How hard it was for respect to come by, and even if it did, there was no telling if it was genuine.
But you never saw Kuchel again after that day.
And when you found out what happened to her, it broke your heart. You only spared a single conversation with her, but it still meant so much to you. You actually kept that ball of yarn to this day, in her memory. To you, it symbolises hope. That even in a place so putrid and devoid of life, there was still humanity in the little things. Like that silly piece of yarn.
And you couldn’t begin to fathom how that boy had felt. You knew what your own mother's passing did to you. Tearing at your insides and tugging at your sanity. It enshrouded you in a vast cloud of isolation and permanent fear. Fear of life. Fear of death.
It changed your perception of life itself - the fleetingness - the eternal nature.
How people never really died. How they merely stopped breathing. But haunted forever.
And the fact that Levi's mother encountered a similar passing to your own was all the more tantalising. You wondered if the boy had tried his utmost best to save her, in the way you were familiar with. You were also saddened by the realisation that he probably blamed himself, cursed himself for not doing enough. But what more can children devoid of hope and sun and joy and skies achieve? Despite knowing this, you took it upon yourself to claim responsibility for your mother's death. And deep down, you feared the possibility that that antisocial child felt the same way.
In the present day, however, you never would have imagined for that quiet, moody boy innocently awaiting his mother, to be who he is now. A notorious, stone-hearted thug, feared by gangs and civilians alike. With his deadly reputation searing the ranks so high that it even reached the above ground city of Mitras.
Everyone was dying to either kill him, be him, or even recruit him onto their side.
Everyone but your gang. They wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. He meant trouble, and Monica was retired from her days of that.
Unfortunately, fate had other plans.