Futuristic 🪐 SATURN RETURN. | ( *starboob & syntra. )

[starboob]

Sloane was 12 the first time she was summoned to protect the moon colony from the ever looming shadow known as Kronos. She had used a sickle blade against some plump fellow and using the blade like a hook, she plunged the tip behind his collar bone and yanked, attempting to pry his chest open as she had watched Matthias do a thousand times over. But she was 12 and tiny and did little more than cause the man cheap suffering. She remembers the bored silence of the crowd and how she caught the Council of Athena yawning as they lazily scrawled out their notes.

Heat had washed over her, bubbling in her stomach where it settled. The man still died, but the show had not been impressive. It would not be turned into a VR sim like nearly all of Matthias’s sacrifices had been. This was confirmed when the Council of Athena flipped over their scorecards to reveal a series of 3s and 4s, giving her an average of 3.5. It was barely passable and wasn’t enough to grant her the heart. That privilege went to Matthias with his near perfect 9. (There was a reason he was known as Cepheus within the belt.)

She admired the asshole. As unpleasant as he was, the geezer was an impressive executioner. It was exhilarating to watch an artist at work and more so to experience through the sims. Sloane longed to be like him. He turned carnage into inspiration and she wanted to fill the moon colony with that same sense of hope for the future. She wanted to be the one who would someday vanquish Kronos, for good.

***​

A thin sheen of sweat coats Sloane’s brow, her skin hotter than white flames. Yet despite this, she’s shivering, hugging herself to keep warm. Her head pounds with a vengeance, throbbing against an invisible rubber band; she swears her skull is going to burst open. All this coupled with a high-frequency ring that’s plagued her since last week, she’s considering making a pact with all the gods, known and unknown, to release her from this fucking hell in exchange for her piety and sobriety.

The gods, known and unknown, must know Sloane is bluffing because none answer her plea.

‘Never doing quaaludes again.’ She hunches over on the bench, squeezing her eyes shut. She rocks back and forth, taking in shallow breaths while the world spins around her. It refuses to still. Shutting her eyes only makes it worse, like being stuck on a roller coaster with one too many loop-de-loops. There’s no saving her. She’s going to die. She falls forward onto the white tiled floor.

“Damnit, Sloane!”

‘Gonna fucking punch Ethan’s lights out the next time I see that little bitch.’

***​

Minutes or days could have passed since the woman’s last coherent thought and she couldn’t tell you a damn thing about what happened in that time. She only knows that someone righted her after she fell and that she's just been waiting for her shift to start in the belt for the better part of 3 hours. The lobby she's been in clears out as names are called over a crackly intercom and other executioners step forward to fulfill their duties. Cassiopeia. Draco. Orion. Each one comes back in various states of glory, sometimes with entrails hanging proudly off of their armor. Some approach Sloane and ask her questions like, ‘Where’s Cepheus?’ or ‘Are you coming out tonight?’ or ‘What the fuck are you on?’ Sloane flips each one of them off. It’s not personal, just all she can manage in her current state.

The only one who is spared this answer is Ruby, a gap-toothed little girl, who skipped up to her an hour ago and has remained by her side since. It had shocked her to see Ruby brandishing the full uniform and excitedly showing off her call sign, but she hasn’t been able to keep up with any of Ruby’s prattling since that reveal. She hasn’t even been able to offer her any words of wisdom for her first sacrifice. (Not that Sloane has much wisdom, but she'd scrape it together for the girl who latched onto her 10 some odd years ago.) To her credit, Sloane tries to wheeze at the appropriate moments.

Most of her focus is taken by trying to ignore the headache that’s wormed itself into her joints. It keeps her in that same hunched over position, nearly statuesque, shifting only to alternate between hugging herself and gripping the bench until her knuckles are white. A few times, she swears her nails thicken to claws, growing straight out of her fingertips, but then she’ll blink, look down, and her hands will be ordinary. ‘I really am going to throttle Ethan.’

The only thing keeping her going is the promise of the beer she left for herself in the shower as a reward for her hard work. She just needs to survive the belt.

“Sloane!” A gravelly voice barks across the lobby, summoning the executioner. She winces against the noise before staggering as she lifts herself up. Ruby, in a practiced manner, shifts over to allow the woman to use her shoulder as leverage. Sloane manages a weak smile and musses the girl’s curly hair before she sways and stumbles to the front of the lobby, stopping only because she runs directly into the mechanized door. It's... It's efficient.

The guard who had called her forward whistles lowly. “You look like shit. Ever heard of slowing down?”

She grunts and flips him off.

He chuckles and punches the panel at the side of the door. The door splits open in three triangular parts, leading into a small blue lit room. Once Sloane steps inside, the door behind her hisses closed. Then robotic arms break free from the wall and prep the executioner for the belt. In a rehearsed fashion, she lifts her arms so that her shapeless black armor can be secured into place. Her helmet descends onto her head and fastens itself to her neck guard. Lastly, she’s handed a short sword with a handle as long as the blade. (She drops the weapon several times, causing the robot arm to pick it up again and again before she manages a solid grip on it.)

The robot arms retreat back into the wall once finished while a glass tube descends over her, clicking into place once it touches the ground. Mechanisms beneath her feet hiss and she's lifted on the platform, through the tube, up into the belt.

The belt is an impressive amphitheater, full of indistinguishable screaming fans. (“Cut off their head, Canis Major!” “Hunt ‘em through the streets!”) The arena itself is surprisingly plain (for now), covered in blank white panels. The only source of color is the display of 34 frozen, encased heads of past executioners that are embedded in the arena walls. Some have peaceful, aged expressions, likely having passed in their sleep. Others look tortured, their faces permanently contorted, likely having tried to escape and punished for it. It’d be an inspiring sight on any other occasion, but at present it feels as though she’s barely restraining herself from being turned inside out; excuse her if she can't admire her predecessors properly.

Sloane’s not even five steps forward or ready before the white panels of the arena glitch and holograms appear, turning the belt into a tropical forest. The sticky heat aggravates whatever hangover Sloane is battling against and brings her down to her knees, just barely catching herself on her weapon to literally save face. Confusedly, she looks around at her surroundings, heaving laboredly underneath her helmet. Dark spots open in her vision as the forest becomes a blur of greens. She blinks hard, but her vision remains splotchy and blurred. “Shit.”

Ever stubborn, the woman still forces herself forward, closer to the neon blob ahead that she’s pretty sure is a person and her target. Yet each movement seems to be an act of defiance against her body. The world spins around her the more she moves. Then, one by one, each of her nerve endings light on fire. Her skin starts to bubble and boil beneath her armor. (She’s starting to think this might be more than just a hangover from hell and more to do with…) She grits her teeth, grinding down on her jaw, concentrating her focus on that blob only a few strides from her. ‘Don’t fucking wuss…’

Though despite her resolve to trudge forward, her joints lock up against her will and she crashes onto the illusory earth with a thud, needle dragging against her insides with each fervent pulse. Then, it happens.

The bones beneath her skin heat up in sudden flame and shift unnaturally— snapping and growing while they rearrange themselves into a new shape. It’s like being pulverized to ground meat from the inside and when she opens her mouth to howl, her human canines are pushed out, falling into her helmet (gross), while long sharp pointy fangs push out in their place. Unthinking and desperate, she lifts an awkward limb, trying to reach for the neon blob (maybe still trying to fulfill her duties or possibly needing some help).

 

[Syntra]

It fucking sucked.

What did?

All of it.

Such was Quinn's analysis of the situation as she stared into the ceiling, wondering just when her life had gone so terribly wrong. The moment of my fucking birth? Yeah, a good starting point! Quinn sure wished she could go back in past and inform her pre-birth self it would have been more strategic to choke on the umbilical cord, but she could also acknowledge just how silly the fantasy was.

After all, infants were just... blobs. The reason they called them people? Mostly so that others couldn't just murder them willy-nilly, because offing future tax-payers was bad. No workers meant no profits. Ooh, yes, pray at the altar of capitalism harder, baby! But yeah, not like she had had a brain developed enough to process basic instructions, or even understand just why going through the birthing process was such a tremendous waste of everyone's time.

Maybe it still wasn't developed enough, though? Because, despite it all, Quinn didn't think she wanted to die.

Not really.

She wanted to do a lot of things, some smart and some less so, but ceasing to exist had never really been too high on her list of priorities. Too many people did that every fucking day, you know? And she liked to think her ambitions were more interesting than that. More... grand.

She wanted to touch the stars. She wanted to matter. She wanted to do something about the fucking plague eating their shithole excuse of a planet, but no! Nobody listened. When the message wasn't the usual 'oh, poor us!' but 'hey, maybe it's kinda sorta our fault?' people mysteriously forgot how to do words. If fucking only, she thought, with no small amount of bitterness. Then perhaps Philomena wouldn't have run her fucking mouth.

With friends like these, you truly didn't need enemies. How hadn't she gotten the memo that revolutions were supposed to be secret? Until you whipped out the guillotines, you couldn't fucking talk about them! That was how you got yourself locked up!

Exhibit A, Quinn Sullia.

Yes, Quinn regretted quite a few things about this fiasco, the main one being believing for even one fucking second that Philomena had something resembling a functioning brain. Disgracing her family name was a close second, although she did sort of think that they deserved it. After all, hadn't they raised her? Weren't her fuck-ups also their fuck-ups? If she was going to be a commie, then she might as well embrace it with everything that--

"Gooood morning, princess!"

Matteus. Matteus, as in her least favorite guard. Quinn hadn't really thought the day could get worse, but fate always had more surprises up its nasty, torn sleeves. "No morning's good when you are here," she made a face, "What did you come for this time? To learn more polysyllabic words? I already told you I am not well-versed in gremlin education."

Annoying the man was one of the few joys left to her, mainly because of how simple it was. A braindead lobster could have taken him down in a verbal fight, which was... convenient. Quinn did kind of feel at her most lobster-ish. This time, though? He didn't even flinch, and that should have been a warning sign.

(Not like that would have done anything, though. Sensors telling you that you were going to crash into a tree were only fucking helpful when your hands weren't tied behind your back. Which, haha! Not her situation, here.)

"No," he smiled, and that made it worse, "I've come to pick you up. Did nobody tell you your big day has come?"

Oh. Oh, they hadn't.

***

Quinn tried not to listen. She really did, and mostly succeeded, except that you didn't have to understand the words themselves to pick up on the general vibe. They want blood, she thought, somewhat pointlessly. Not even my blood. They don't know who I am. It really was quite sad, what passed for civilization these days, and for a few fleeting moments, she wished their ancestors had never bothered leaving Earth.

How fucking hard would it have been, to burn in the fire they'd started? To accept some responsibility?

Survival instincts were for suckers.

Hers hadn't served her too well, anyway.

There was more cheering, more yelling, and, as Quinn waited with her arms tied behind her back, she wondered what meeting God would be like. Annoying? Disappointing? That she couldn't imagine a world where it wouldn't be one of those likely told you a lot about how her expectations had been shaped.

But, speaking about expectations? Her Executioner had certainly exceeded them all.

Hey, what the fuck? Quinn stared in quiet consternation, unable to decide whether she wanted to laugh or cry. Both, she thought; none of those, she was sure. The emotional vacuum of the last few days had left her strangely empty-headed, and so the difference between the two wasn't at all noticeable. What did nuance matter when she was fucking going to die? The sameness was... same-y. Grey, like her thoughts.

In that barren wasteland, the Executioner was an explosion of color. That... could be good? But also bad, because most good things were just bad things in disguise. Either way, it was something.

Quinn knew she should have been afraid, but she also wasn't. What was the worst thing to happen? Her death? Yeah, kind of why they were all here. For that, she was prepared. Torture? Not her first rodeo. Being forced to listen to My Chemical Romance? Not too likely.

And so, despite the last remnants of her common sense all crying out in horror, Quinn chuckled. Somehow, the echo was deafening. Even the fans shut up for a second, clearly quite baffled by the whole... development. And, honestly? Mood. "Poor dear," she gave the masked person a smile, "Feeling unwell? No wonder, working here must be such a depressing affair. Do you need something? A friendly ear?"

Yeah, she'd clearly fucking lost it.

 

[starboob]

Though Sloane hasn’t been able to find herself in the overwhelm of the audience, their silence slams against her ears with urgency, somehow louder than gongs. They’re hungry, expectant.

She can hear the chorus of, ‘Sloane, what the fuck?’ that’s surely going to be waiting for her if she doesn’t pull her shit together. She can already feel the box closing around her if she doesn’t act. And, trust, she wants nothing more than to kill this mother fucker and knock Draco from their spot. (Pompous little prick.)

Twelve pairs of eyes bore into the back of her skull as she struggles to get her limbs to respond to her, but they’re locked, breaking and writhing beneath her skin, still. Tears blur her already blurry vision, but she catches the white gleam of her wouldbe victim’s teeth, suddenly arrested by her hazy figure. Suddenly stilled by it.

Though it’s her voice that sends shocks through Sloane’s delirium, pulling her back from some abyss she is only half aware had been ensnaring her. To the executioner’s ear, it’s a balm and her shifting bones even have to stop to listen. The fog over her mind lifts. She gains control of her right arm as it relaxes, responding to Her.

Her fingers curl back around the shaft of her weapon, momentarily considering taking the unimpressive score by ending the miscreant's life swiftly. As thanks for the distraction, of course. It’s only noble, she figures.

“Why aren’t you trying to kill me?” She surprises herself by croaking out that question instead. (She’d sound croaky and husky regardless, thanks to the voice filtration on her helmet.) It’s not unheard of for victim’s to make attempts on their executioner’s life and some, like Matthias and Cass, even relish in the challenge.

Though pain still waves through her, she’s distracted enough by the other woman that it almost seems bearable. “You–you could try to run. Your feet, not tied. They... They leave one of the gates... open, you know.” She breathes this out, talking still a near herculean labor. But she needs to hear that voice again. It’s like a primordial urge. And she’ll suffer through conversing just to hear Her melody. “To–to make things i–interesting. I’ll cut your hands... free, even.” Something tells her she might have done that without offering. She might have done it had the woman asked. (That traitorous thought sends thrills down her aching spine.)

Her eyes flicker briefly to her predecessors lining the walls, the ones with tortured expressions. They don't daunt her.

Behind her shade, her visor flashes red, warning her. The crowd’s getting restless. The council of Athena, those twelve pairs of eyes, are getting suspicious. She’s losing points. At any moment they might send in Cass to finish this and steal her points. ‘Fuck. If drop below Ethan I’m never going to hear the fucking end of it.’

Still, with only her right arm working, she’s no better than an infant. Might as well see if she can get her talking again. Her voice is pleasant, after all. “You’re hot.” Smooth. And observant. “A fr–friendly ear'd be nice... but your lips?” Her lips twitch into a weak smile, not that her victim can see this. "Much nicer. Ever–ever heard of the–the kiss of death?"

Is she... Is she seriously flirting with her victim? Maybe Sloane's the one who's lost it.

 

[Syntra]

"Because... I don't want to?" And she really didn't, for a lot of reasons, the main of them being that Quinn wasn't a fucking murderer. Isn't that the entire problem, though? If history had taught her anything at all, it was that you had to murder a little bit, when you hoped to change the world.

Nice words didn't cut it. Not the way swords did, anyway.

Perhaps updating her title to that of an 'opportunistic killer' would have solved the issue? Except that it was probably a little too late for that, because nobody was going to hire someone who was about to become a corpse in... approximately five seconds, she guessed. Maybe ten minutes, if the Executioner was as uncoordinated as she looked.

A wave of indignation ran through her, Could they not have sent someone more qualified? Someone who can hold their sword straight? Like, hello! She was Quinn Sullia, the daughter to Aurelia Sullia, and all the tax evasion money definitely should have bought her a more dignified death.

Then again, they had quartered her mother. Publicly, in the streets, because you didn't do such a spectacle behind the closed doors, the same way that you didn't hold a concert for one person. Quinn... didn't remember much from that, likely courtesy of shock. Still, it probably hadn't been dignified? It turned out that money really couldn't buy everything, then. The worst nightmare of the ruling class was fucking true, ladies and gentlemen!

"No, no, don't bother," Quinn said, not really trusting this person, "I'm not a great runner, and I don't want to get you in trouble." Say fucking what? That was certainly a thought, the one about not wanting to get her would-be murderer in trouble, and the worst thing about it was that it was sort of true. Her standards must have sunk somewhere into hell during her imprisonment, but... well, it was true that this was the first nice interaction she'd had, here.

Nice-ish, if you didn't count the impeding murder.

A big fucking if!

It seemed that surprises didn't end here, though.

"You're hot."

Quinn blinked, once and twice, and she definitely would have pinched herself had her hands been free, but since they very much weren't, she had to trust her ears. Not an easy fucking task, by the way!

But, you know what?

She might as well shoot her shot. It wasn't like this shitshow could get any worse, and Quinn found herself strangely curious about this Disaster Executioner's thought processes. Were they being sincere? Was this a trap, designed to humiliate her further? A momentary glitch in what passed for their nervous system?

Taking the bait was one way to find out.

"Thank you," a charming smile played on her lips, "I think so as well." What? Quinn wasn't into false humility, both in herself and others. Especially in herself, since she did own quite a few mirrors. Why pretend she was anything but drop dead gorgeous? "Also, yes! I'm very familiar. But," and Quinn winked, to her endless shame, "If you get me out of here, I could give you something nicer. Wanna find out what it is? It doesn't seem like you have better things to do, to me."

Alright, these were... new depths of desperation, certainly. But, hey, at least Quinn was doing some self-discovery here! Always a good thing!

Please, shoot me.

 

[starboob]

Sloane depresses into the ground, though she really could not feel any higher. The stranger must have been blessed by Apollo. Her voice is honey sweet and she could listen to it all day. It smooths over each volcanic ache in her broken disfigured bones and spreads. Each place it touches, her suffering is subtracted; each bone put lovingly back into place.

She regains function of her left arm. Her legs. Her torso and so on until she is whole again. The executioner peels herself from the ground and rises to her full height, standing taller than most women and shorter than most men.

“It doesn't seem like you have better things to do, to me."

And, suddenly, Sloane doesn’t think she has anything better to do than help this magnificent woman escape. “No, I don’t have anything better to do,” she shrugs, ignoring the shock of the audience. It’s true, she can’t really think of what else she is supposed to be doing. Well, aside from discovering what is better than a kiss. Heh. “But you will need to get better at running for that to work.”

Luckily, Sloane has an answer to that and it’s called performance enhancing drugs, babey.

With a flourish of her wrist, a spike hisses out from the mechanism within her bracer. She plucks it out with two fingers and holds it before the other woman's nose. “This shit isn’t fit for human consumption.” She wiggles it in front of the other's face, grinning beneath her helmet. “And it’s the fucking best, you’re gonna love it,” she assures, chuckling to herself. Should she mention the nauseavomitingupsetstomachdiarrhea crash? Nah. That'd be a mood killer. “It’s highly addictive.”

Then, with the care of a scorpion, she shoves the spike into the woman, directly between her fourth and fifth rib. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t give you anything I wouldn’t do.” That list is short, by the way. She pats her shoulder reassuringly. “And that’ll heal once the spike dissolves. Then you’ll feel like a god. Or at least like Hercules."

In any other scenario, the flashing red shade over her visor would be the warning that prompts her to stab or slash or sever her victim, but in this particular scenario it’s like one of those cute heart filters on Metagram. Ahh.

Still, even she’s not so far bewitched that she doesn’t see the warning. She sighs.

“For fuck’s sake…” She swivels around for a brief moment, taking in the holographic jungle as well as the restless, confused onlookers above them. “Hey, we should fight. Like, this is still my job for at least the next ten minutes while we wait for your ichor to kick in. I still want to finish strong." As she talks, she steps behind the woman and slashes through her binds. She then unclips a dagger from her belt and hands it to her. She does like a good fair(ish) fight, after all. "I still got Draco to take down and I’m this close,” she holds up her pinched fingers to demonstrate how close she is, “to knocking them from the third spot. For someone like me, that’s basically number one. So… c’mon. Hit me with your best shot.” She twirls her own weapon around before settling into her starting stance. "Before you're passed off to Cass," as in the ruthless Cassiopeia. "Please. Pretty please?"

 

[Syntra]

It wasn't a plan.

Later, when writing down her memoirs, Quinn would call it one, but... well, 'plan' sounded better than 'last desperate ditch attempt.' And when it was a last desperate ditch attempt that happened to fucking work? Yeeeah, she felt that the artistic license was justified, here.

Legends didn't write themselves. No, you kind of... had to do that yourself.

Oh gods, Athena and Hephaistos and Zeus, you are the most beautiful human being I have ever seen in my life! Nevermind that Quinn had no idea what they looked like under that visor, let alone what gender they were. To her, they were freedom; a chance to try, again, and rectify some of her fuck ups; something better than the cold loneliness of her cell. That was beautiful. Beyond beautiful, even, and Quinn was almost certain she could love them for that alo--

Ouch! Hey, what the fuck? Alright, so maybe it wasn't that smart to entrust your life into the hands of someone this unhinged. Maybe nothing about this was remotely fucking smart, but hadn't she already known?

(She had. She definitely fucking had, except that knowing you had no choice wasn't too great at changing that situation. Stupid self-awareness! And stupid Philomena! If she ever got out of there, Philomena was the first on her fucking list.)

Quinn looked down at the wound, not quite believing what she was seeing, but also realizing that not believing reality wasn't going to change shit. "You better hope I'm not allergic to this," she said, "Otherwise you're carrying me out of here." That... was her epic comeback? Quinn liked to think it had to do with the fact they hadn't exactly fed her well, since she didn't remember being this fucking stupid. But, still! What if these were going to be her last words? Pretty embarrassing, if you asked her.

(Bla blah blah, reputation, blah blah blah, people's stupid thoughts. Why did they matter, again? Oh, right! Because she had nothing else left.)

"I don't want to feel like a god," Quinn complained. "I want to feel like myself. Do you know how long that has been? And have you ever felt like yourself?" The anonymity of the visor... did strike her like a heavy thing to carry, metaphorically speaking. The Council of Athena really knew what it was doing. And, no, Quinn didn't wish to fight, but--

Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

The sound of her own heart in her ears, so loud it was deafening, shattered her thoughts. What... was this? The substance kicking in? Quinn blinked, once and then twice, but it only did very little to stabilize her. Duh? Eyes had nothing to do with that. The center of balance was in her fucking ears!

"I'm... sorry..." she breathed out, "But if gods feel like this then I'm not shocked they are... so angry... all the time." No, her mysterious savior likely would not be getting that fight.

The one thing she would be getting, though? A thorough ass-kicking! Because it seemed that just about everyone's patience with the greatest disaster around just ran out.

The gates to the arena opened; for a second, the room was drowning in steam, and Quinn couldn't so much as see her own feet.

When the steam dispersed, she... kind of wished that was still true. At least then she wouldn't have had to face all those fucking guards! With Matteus leading the charge, because of fucking course; holding a giant spear, because of fucking course. Always compensating for something.

"Give up, Executioner!" the man shouted. "Your... um, devious plan?" yeah, he sounded as if not even he believed that, "Has been foiled. Hand the prisoner over and move aside. The council is not without mercy; even one such as you can be forgiven."

"Hand the prisoner over and move aside," Quinn mocked, likely drawing her strength from the desperation, "I trust you won't let such a cliché line stop you, my dear?"

No, she totally wasn't using that label because she didn't know their fucking name.

Sigh. Fine, fine, perhaps she was!

Despite not really feeling much better, Quinn gripped her dagger, "Let's fight side by side, instead. And then I can try to kick your ass if you want it that much."

What? Desperate times, desperate measures!

 

[starboob]

In the deepest depths of Sloane's soul, she knows that her future self is going to hate her present herself for all the drama and commotion she is causing. And honestly? Fuck that hoe. That is a later Sloane problem. The slim possibility of future regret has rarely, if ever, prevented her from acting on her impulses. And it's worked out quite fucking well for herself considering she’s still alive and inspiring the bards.

Besides, it’s not like fear or hesitation can exist within an executioner. The gods chose her, over thousands of others, to vanquish Kronos’s shadow, his curse, that hangs over the very moon she calls home. With their blessing, every ounce of “weenie syndrome” has been banished from her soul.

Unfortunately, it seems her companion might not be so blessed if she is cowing from the effects of ichor. It's a good thing the woman is hot, Sloane thinks, otherwise she wouldn't hesitate to betray her and hand her over. She doesn't like to associate with weenies. But she supposes that it would be rather unfair if her companion were beautiful and heroic— not everyone can be Sloane Silvers, chosen by the gods and perfect in every way possible. (Not that the council agrees, but honestly? Fuck those hoes, too.)

“Never, my lady and my queen.” She doesn’t know what inspires those geeky words to come out, but she figures it’s just from reading one too many of those Prince Valiant comics with Ruby. (Ruby…) No, she can’t think of her. Not when she needs to jet. Not when she is so close to possibly discovering what is better than a kiss. Priorities! No one can say that Sloane does not have her priorities in order. “Careful, I might just fall in love with you if you do manage to kick my ass.”

“Hey! Quit flirting!” That one oaf looking guard with the spear shouts. Sloane turns back towards him, unfazed by him jerking his spear into the empty space between them. “I won’t repeat myself. Hand over the prisoner,” he orders, repeating himself.

“Hmm,” Sloane taps her chin, tilting her head. Her hand falls to breastplate, where another dagger is fastened, and in a single sweeping motion, she unsheathes and releases it into the neck of the guard standing next to the oaf. "Nah. No thanks."

The almost-corpse-guard, caught between how he wants to choke to death, wisely falls to his knees. Good boy.

The executioner counts some dozen guards and, no doubt, each one that falls, another will run in to take the fallen’s place. It’s a stacked fight, especially since Sloane has to watch out for the dreamboat/weenie behind her, but she does love rising to the occasion and overcoming the odds, a true underdog.

Alright, then. She cracks her neck, rolls her shoulders back, and raises her main weapon in challenge.

The guards charge the duo in a predictable fashion, having been trained like dogs. Sloane weaves through them like a needle, taking down the first three with ease. She looks behind to check on the dreamboat/weenie, making sure that she's not about to faint or whatever. Though the force of multiple bodies crash into her all once, distracting her, knocking the wind from her lungs and disorienting her. Her eyes roll around in her skull, dizzyingly, trying to latch onto anything familiar.

She struggles under their weight, gasping as their stupidly heavy bodies threaten to crush her inside her armor. Her hand flails around, searchingly, and clasps around a grenade from the nearest belt— hers or a guard, she's not certain. Not giving herself the chance to hesitate, she flicks the pin free. It only takes a few seconds before one of the meatheads notices the urgent beeping and scrambles. “Fuck! Bomb!” The other guards dogpiled on top of her echo each other like a hive mind as they scatter. Whew. Sloane dusts herself off as she rises, then chucks the grenade into the audience, tickled by their screams. It's called a splatter zone for a reason.

Now, how’s the weenie dreamboat doing?

“Hey, honeybear,” since they’re doing pet names already, “I don’t care if you like being your weenie self. Are you like the gods yet?" While she chats, she dodges a spear that's thrown towards her, side steps someone rushing her with a sword, and pulls a man in front of her as a human shield. "Because I need that version of you, if you're serious about not being sacrificed.”

Yes, because that last stunt of hers definitely has not helped. Unless that storm of guards coming towards them are, like, racing to team up with them? It wouldn’t be the most bizarre thing to happen to Sloane today, so she decides it's safe to hope.

 

[Syntra]

"Never, my lady and queen."

Oh, Quinn thought, They're embarrassing. And not in the cool 'isn't afraid of their feelings' way, but more like a handmade T-shirt that your friend gave you because nobody else would take it, and because you were big enough of a sucker. And this is someone I'm entrusting my life to?

For a second or two, Quinn hoped they were at least hot.

Another second Quinn spent on kicking herself mentally, since it didn't fucking matter if they were hot. Not like that would fix anything! Even if hotness did make dumb people marginally more tolerable. Please, let them be a woman, let them be a woman, let them be a--

That... sure was a thought. A dumb fucking thought, but what was new? Not being an idiot was for people who weren't about to die.

"You will fall in love regardless," Quinn heard herself saying, for some motherfucking reason, "We both know I'm too hot for you not to." Well, at least she could blame the weird drug? Even if she knew, in her heart of hearts, that the substance had very little to do with the... chaos inside her head.

Then again, the chaos inside her head had very little to do with anything.

(Quinn would have liked to think it also had very little to do with herself, but she wasn't quite so delusional just yet.)

Blah blah blah, more words, blah blah blah, more fighting. Matteus' voice, nasal and annoying. Was it fire coursing through her veins, or was it blood? And what was even supposed to be there? Quinn was pretty sure she had known the answer at some point, but... well, there was also a point at which she wasn't a walking corpse.

Times changed.

That the Executioner wasn't incompetent, and could even be called a badass, was certainly a twist. A welcome twist, for one, which... was something that apparently could happen? Cool! Certainly better than the endless fucking tragedies. Almost against her will, Quinn was impressed. Not even being called a weenie diminished that, because, yeah, not untrue.

But, the thing that prevented her from admiring her hero's prowess?

The lightning. Not literal lightning, mind you; more like lightning in her head, lightning in her heart, lightning in her... everything, both pleasant and not. It probably wasn't a good thing, because two good things happening at once? A stretch. More than a fucking stretch! Something straight out of fairytale land, and Quinn no longer believed in fairytales.

(Never quite had.)

Perhaps she should start, though?

Because...

Because--

Perhaps the people who yearned to be like gods were onto something.

That was the last thought Quinn had before literal lightning sprang forth from her fingers, beautiful and terrible and beautiful, the sparks like the birth of a million stars.

Well, and then there were the corpses. The awful, awful corpses. The corpses that smelled, and were the opposite of beautiful, and reminded her of people, because they had been people once, despite the shit job they'd taken. Ugh! Why the fuck a) did it have to be burnt meat, b) had it missed Matteus? The idiot was still standing there, staring at her as if she'd grown a second head!

Most people were staring, in fact. Staring was easier than doing something about the woman who had just fried an entire battallion of guards, so Quinn wasn't exactly shocked.

"Well?" she raised her lips in not-quite-smile, teetering somewhere between genuine amusement and something close to hysteria. "That divine enough for you, or should I turn some water into wine?"

And then, embarrassingly enough: "Are you in love yet?"

 

[starboob]

A dreamboat weenie with lightning powers? Sparks light up in Sloane's eyes, dazzled and arrested by the awesome power of her future wife; because, yes, she has decided to commit her heart to a woman whose name she doesn't even know and a woman who she thought she was going to kill about 15 minutes ago. Sweet Aphrodite sure does work in mysterious ways.

Anyway, she supposes they can get around to introductions and their honeymoon after they skedaddle. She figures that they don't have much more time before the council's surprise wears off and their moment of advantage is lost. They are undoubtedly scrambling up in that fancy booth of theirs. She hopes that at least three of those wicked crones are shocked enough to be suffering a life threatening heart attack. That would totally make today the best day of her life, even with that weird body-altering hangover experience earlier.

While there is still that one dope to deal with, his shaking tells her that they still have a few more seconds before he comes around. She doesn't really blame him; civilians, and Sloane does consider him a civ, rarely know how to react appropriately to their entire battalion being flambéed in front of them. (The correct reaction: run, bitch!)

Sloane, taking this entire affair with the utmost seriousness, begins clapping her hands and hollering her praise. “Woohoo! That's my girl!” Oh, it’s hella awkward that she’s the only one cheering, but the executioner remains oblivious to this. She's in a world of her own.

She rushes over to the woman, wild glee on her face (not that it can be seen), and takes her hands in her own. “That was freaking awesome! I mean you missed that one guy, but it's okay. It's your first rodeo. Or massacre." Before she accidentally proposes to her in front of their live (and unalive) audience, she reminds herself to be cool and coy. Like the fish. "I think I've just experienced heart palpitations, but that could also be my hangover." She shrugs. "If you really can turn water into wine, on top of being a dreamboat weenie with lightning powers, then I think I'll definitely fall in love. But I've gotta sort through my other matches first before I commit to anyone. There's this freaking babe in my DMs right now— actually, I'll tell you about her later. C'mon."

Ugh, if only they could continue talking and getting to know each other. Alas, they are still trapped in their cage and not free yet.

“We need to jet and you gotta tell me about your lightning powers— ichor never gave me lightning powers.” In fact, she can’t recall it ever suping someone up quite like that. And she played labrat for a few different mixes of the stuff. At most, it’s only ever allowed her to punch people’s heads off. (That was pretty cool, she won’t lie.) “I bet Zeus is shivering in his timbers.” Surely, that is how the saying works.

Anyway, tugging on the woman’s hand, she pulls them towards an exit. The single remaining guard regains his wits and attempts to stop them, moving to block their path. Sloane doesn't slow her pace, instead she rushes straight into him. He waves and jerks his spear around, Sloane prances and moves around it, eventually gets in close enough to knock it from his hand. She grabs his shoulders yanks him down onto her knee. Unsheathing yet another dagger, she drives it into his neck, shoving him to the side. "You stupid little man. You shoulda played dead." She stomps on his jaw before going to rejoin her companion. She's, like, pretty sure he's dead.

Now they just have to worry about the exit and what lies beyond. No doubt the gates are all sealed and no doubt there are more guards waiting to stop them. This does not daunt Sloane. She is a problem solver. Without breaking her pace, she bends and snatches a cluster of grenades from the barbequed guards.

With the gate still a good distance from them and, knowing the reach of these grenades, she only has a few more steps before she should chuck a grenade at the door. If she times this perfectly, and she will, the grenade will go off, blast the gate away, and the explosion shouldn’t interrupt their own pace. Easy peasy.

She catapults the grenade and, as predicted, the explosion doesn't interrupt them. Too much. The ground shakes and flaming clouds reach towards them, but by the time they're approaching the heat, it dissolves to thick clouds smoke, through which Sloane can make out a hole in the gate. 'I'm such a freaking ace. More people should be like me.'

Anyway, with the barrier broken and freedom only steps away, she can't help but to wonder what they'll be doing after to celebrate. Sloane was promised something better than a kiss, but she's no creep. After all, her companion might be, and she shudders thinking about this, straight. It then occurs to Sloane that this woman still doesn’t know what she looks like. ‘What if she thinks I’m… a man?’

Well, she would ask about the other's sexuality and all that, but more pressing things are abound. Like the next wave of guards pouring from the exit she just created for them. It also seems the council is concerned about them killing their entire living stock of meatheads, because they’ve sent the droids to greet them this time. Whatever, they’re honestly easier to deal with and less smelly. Like, droids don’t piss themselves when they die.

“Yeesh, you’d think they’d get the hint. Should I have sent in my two weeks notice, you think?” She snorts, finding it in herself to joke during these trying times. “You want me to light ‘em up this time, babe? Or do you want to?” Sloane's shaking her remaining grenades like they’re little prizes and not highly dangerous. "Oh, and I should mention that I'm gonna need your help getting this armor off when we're far enough away. They freaking screw it in place or some shit so we don't, like, rebel and shed it or whatever. Can you even imagine trying to rebel against these assholes? I'd only do that if I wanted to bet on a losing dog."

 

[Syntra]

Quinn didn't want to be praised. Not for being an accomplished killer! That was perhaps the last thing she wanted, on the very, very long list of things that she didn't fucking want. Still, there were other factors at play. Factors such as, hm, brain damage? Had to be! Because, for some reason, Quinn heard herself saying: "You really think so?" A miracle she didn't blush, like one of those corny-ass shoujo manga heroines, "From an accomplished murderer like yourself, this is nice to hear."

Yep, brain damage! Brain damage, its faithful comrade malnutrition, and trauma hidden behind a need for approval, which... was another shitshow aspect of her life that Quinn didn't really want to discuss.

Then again, what would be left without the shitshow aspects?

A big, fat nothing.

Not even her own fucking name.

"Maybe you could, um, show me how to kill more effectively later?" Yeah, and maybe she could go kill herself. She wasn't planning to, mind you; way too many people wanted to off her already, and Quinn Sullia was nothing if not contrarian. It... also felt like it wasn't for her to decide, though? Because the embarrassment was definitely going to end her. Already, the heat was rising in her cheeks, a famous symptom of the 'you-fucked-up' disease, and Quinn... kind of just wanted to disappear. The only thing worse than them being a man would be them actually being hot.

Oh, the horror! Quinn, being at her most braindead, meeting a certified fucking hottie? Not something she was ready for. Also not something too likely to happen, given fate's insistence on surrounding her with uggos. What if it decided to play nice for once, though?

Nah. Naaah, wasn't going to happen!

My heart belongs to unclesapphoe69, anyway.

Not like uncle sapphoe69 even knew that she existed, but in Quinn's book, that was the dictionary definition of perfect. As the ancient wisdom said: 'Can't fuck up what you don't have!'

"Uh huh," she nodded regardless, "We all have our DMs full of hot babes, in this tragically babe-less economy. Doesn't sound fake at all!"

And if that made Quinn sound bitter, then it was only the case because it was true. Why did all the hotties have to be a) straight, b) taken, c) some unholy combination of both?

But, yeah, there were better things to think about than her disastrous love life - such as trying to save it, via saving her life in general.

(Funny how that worked.)

"Just one question," no, she couldn't resist, "Do I look like I have literally any idea what's going on? Spoiler alert: I don't. Although, I will say that Zeus should be overthrown. A fuckboy like him shouldn't get to rule over an entire pantheon! That's how you get fuckboy issues, like... all those children. And jealous wives."

Also, yes, Quinn was running by now. She... was and wasn't, because calling what she did 'running' would have been too much of a compliment, but it was also faster than walking. Who cared that it cost her her remaining dignity?

Good thing they probably aren't hot. Sweet Athena, I would die!

More grenades flew through the air, and more corpses followed. Quinn was pretty sure she should have felt more than just vaguely annoyed, but... she didn't? Somewhere between all that cheering for her death and her becoming a mass murderer herself, her empathy had checked out.

"Eight out of ten," she said dryly, "Could have used more badass one-liners."

Soon enough, it turned out they had compay -- but her companion's brain cells were not among them.

Do they... not realize we are rebelling?Eh, better not point that out! Otherwise they might realize how fucked they both were, and decide to reduce the amount of people fucked by this situation via fucking her over.

"I mean," Quinn said, "I'd love to, except I don't really know how this god thing works. Do I just... point at stuff and--"

Zzzzap!

The answer was yes, apparently, and the machines fell on the pavement with that pitiful sort of clunk. Millions of dollars worth of research, gone in an instant!

(So much for 'capitalism always wins.' The true winner, as it turned out? Sheer fucking chaos.)

Quinn winced, "Remind me not to point at you. Or most things, really. I don't want to destroy most things, just the system. And Philomena's face."

There was more running, because of course there was. The winding streets of Haven were both ideal for that and not, in the sense that it wasn't too difficult to lose pursuers but you had to do it at the expense of knowing where the fuck you were yourself. Which... Quinn kinda didn't know? At least not anymore? But the good news was that the voices did quiet down, somewhat.

Aaah, there it is. The oasis!

By which, naturally, she meant the public restroom. A small and drab-looking one, but that also translated to it being empty. No prying eyes anywhere! Without saying anything, Quinn dragged her rescuer inside, and... gave them a look.

"We should get rid of that costume of yours." A uniform, technically, but-- "C'mon, I wanna see if that face of yours really is such a babe magnet. How do I help you?"

The real reason was that the Executioner's garb stood out like a sore thumb, even if Quinn could admit to herself she was also somewhat curious.

 

[starboob]

“For the love of—” Sloane bites her tongue on whatever comment might have come out of her mouth, perhaps deciding that she shouldn’t insult the woman she’s trying to lay with, but it takes herculean strength to not comment on her pathetic attempt at running. A headless chicken could do better. “You really do fucking suck at running. That’s impressive considering that you have the gods’ blood pumping through your heart. I think I’m going to need to teach you how to fucking run before I can teach you how to kill.”

Not that Sloane really thinks the newest mass murderer in Haven needs lessons.

Even if that were not the case, it's not that hard. You just stab or punch someone enough times and in the right places and they die. Or you break the important bones. Truly, human anatomy is an architectural travesty in that it’s so fucking fragile. She gets why the gods smite people so often. It must be amusing, she imagines, to squish things that are so squishable. Like bugs.

She pats her hand reassuringly. “It’s okay. Love should make us both sharper. You can teach me zingers if you’re so fucking smart and I can teach you how to not be so much of a weenie.” For the record, Sloane does believe she’s pulling a lot of weight here, given that she’s a huge fan of her zingers and one liners. Her 64.5k followers on Twitter would also agree.

Anyway, in the safety of a restroom that Sloane once consecrated with lewd activities, she peers down at her uniform. Huh. How does she get it off? “Uhh, blunt force trauma ought to work?”

Like, yes, this was her idea to get out of the armor but now she’s not quite so sure how to do so. She’s never actually tried to break out of it before. There’s never been a reason as powerful as wanting to sleep with one of her assignments. She scratches the top of her helmet, then looks at the seam that runs down the side of her armor where the screws are located. She tugs on the armor, jerking it around to no avail. “Yeah, blunt force. Or a screwdriver.” A screwdriver would work against a screw, she assumes. She never took any shop classes. (Or classes at all.)

Not that she has a screwdriver on her. All she has are her daggers.

‘Oh. Lightbulb.’

Without explaining, the executioner begins pulling out all of the daggers she has on her person. The first 13 might have been funny, but when she hits lucky number 36 it just seems excessive. They’re scattered around her feet in a pile that she then starts to sift through, pulling out the ones she thinks will fit, testing them, discarding the losers, and then finding a different one. (Don’t ever ask Sloane to explain why she had to unsheath all of her knives for this. Never ask Sloane to explain anything ever, in fact.)

“Alrighty, here,” she hands over a knife. “Do I need to teach you how to undo a screw?”

Actually, she might need more help undoing the screws on her side of the armor, because she goes righty-tighty several times before she even thinks to go in the opposite direction. Whoopsie.

Eventually, all of the screws are undone and Sloane is quick to shuck off her armor. She valiantly tries to dispose of it in the garbage, though it doesn’t fit, obviously. Whatever.

Without the armor on, all that’s underneath is her black bodysuit. Black form fitting bodysuit, to be precise. The kind that doesn't leave much to the imagination. “Fuck, I feel light as a feather now." She twists her torso and stretches her arms over her head. "Now, are you ready to fucking see why I have 64.5k followers thirsting after this ass?” She does, indeed, slap her buttcheeks for dramatic effect.

She presses the release on the side of the helmet and lifts it. (Teeth clatter to the floor, but Sloane doesn’t seem to be aware of that.) Tossing it to the side, she then undoes the low bun and shakes out her long bleached white hair, threading her fingers through it with a cocky grin, showing off her abnormally sharp canines. (Those weren't like that before...) “Bet you never woulda guessed that _unclesapphoe69 is such a fucking legend.” She puts a hand on her hip, leaning dangerously close to the other woman, her pale gray eyes staring intently into her. “You gay? You a friend of Sappho's? Or am I not getting that kiss I was promised for rescuing your ass?” She leans back. “Who even are you anyway? Is Philomena a jealous ex who got you sentenced to the cause?”

Ugh, did she just get herself involved in some weird lesbian drama?

 

[Syntra]

Sigh. Wouldn't it have been better to die?

More than likely, the answer was yes! Because then, at least, Quinn wouldn't have had to listen to people criticizing her fucking running skills, out of all things. Corpses weren't expected to run. Mostly, they were expected to rot in peace, and while she also didn't have a lot of experience with that, Quinn believed she would have nailed that.

Well, unless someone resurrected her?

With her luck, that totally would have happened.

"You know," she began, "I think you're glorifying it a bit. Only cowards run away! Both from their foes, and from their problems. Which one are you running away from?" Ah, good old reversal! Counterattack, ignore the very valid point, and hope that your opponent's attention span was short enough for them not to notice shit.

"And just for the record," Quinn added, "If you teach me how to kill, then I won't need to run. They will be running from me."

That... is not an observation I should be making. It wasn't illogical, no; the thing was, that was the entire problem. She shouldn't be leaning into the whole killing shtick! Murder was bad, even if it admittedly got things done. Even if a little bit of it had saved her. Every functional society ever had forbidden it, so Quinn shouldn't be trying to re-invent the wheel here!

Right. Right, no murder.

Well, maybe some of it, as a treat? After all, revolutionaries couldn't afford to be--

The armor. Focus on the armor, you dumbass. It was a convenient thing, in that it was terribly inconvenient and had to fucking go. It had to go now, too, and that... well, that meant that Quinn didn't really have the time to address other, more complicated issues.

Such as, you know, her personal values crumbling to dust!

"I can also teach you how to not use profanities every five seconds," Quinn added dryly. "It's rather simple. Just... forget the word 'fuck' exists. The prospect is scary, I know, but the heights you can reach with more creative insults are absolutely worth it."

An insult, or an actual tip? Sometimes, the boundaries could be blurry.

Either way, yes, Quinn did know how to use a screwdriver. She just... wasn't sure knives were ideal for this purpose? But as she watched the weapons pile at the Executioner's feet (what the fuck), she figured there were problems way, way bigger than an instrument not being a perfect fit for its job. "You keep those for emotional support? A substitute for your mother's love, perhaps?"

And no, it wasn't weird at all that Quinn associated that with knives. Just move along.

Screw number sixty seven, sixty eight, sixty nine... Indeed, Quinn did count them, because there wasn't much else to do. That way, she could also pretend that she, herself, wasn't screwed?

Because, yeah, the Executioner was a woman. A smoking hot one, with actual curves and muscles.

Did I embarrass myself in front of a babe?

Maybe not! Maybe not all was lost. The chick could be missing a few teeth, or have a... rare medical condition that caused tentacles to grow on her face? Even if Quinn could imagine a few uses for those.

The hope was blooming in her heart, regardless, until--

No fucking way.

_unclesapphoe?!

Her life was over. Maybe not officially, since her heart was still beating, but what was even the point to that? _unclesapphoe had heard her say... all those things! All those braindead, mean things!

(That _unclesapphoe seemed to be kind of braindead herself didn't register to Quinn at the time.)

"Of course I'm gay," she said, because that was something she could reply to even in her dazed state, "Have you seen men? I have, and I do not recommend the experience. But! How come that you are _unclesapphoe? I thought you lived off ads, and money your simps sent you!"

(Quinn... might have sent a few checks herself. What? When you were as rich as her, you didn't have to worry about making ends meet.)

"How come you actually work? Explain yourself!"

Yeah, her brain had definitely checked out.

"And no, gods. I'm Quinn, and Philomena is a friend. I was... kind of trying to have a revolution over here, but it didn't work out. Too much bread, and too much circuses."

Don't stare at her, don'tstaredon'tstaredon'tstare!

For the record, Quinn totally was staring.

 

[starboob]

‘Got ‘em.’ Once again, another poor woman swoons and faints in the awesome presence of Sloane Slivers, who was most likely blessed by Aphrodite herself.

Okay, that's not exactly what happens, but Sloane feels her edits capture the essence of the confirmed gay disaster in front of her.

The Executioner (status pending?) smirks, running her tongue over the small scar that runs through the right corner of her mouth. “No need to be so starstruck. You’re a stunner, too, babe. I wasn’t lying about that.”

However, when the woman mentions a revolution? In this economy? She takes a step back, throwing her head back, laughing. What even is there to revolt against? Life is fucking great. Grand, even! (Thanks to her talent as a mental gymnast, she remains unaware of how her recent actions are going to affect her.) “Yeah, yeah—I see that you’re the entire clown show for that circus you were talking about.”

She wipes a tear from her eye as she recovers, though fits of giggles continue to interrupt her. “Damn, shit." She is, in fact, taking Quinn's advice to try out words outside of "fuck." It's pretty goddamn nice. "You live under a rock? 'Cause no way was that ever going to get launched off the ground. What makes you think those braindead idiots want anything changed? Haven is a fucking haven. It's in the name and, since you like words so much, I assume you know what that one means."

Check-fucking-mate, bitch!

“And, to your earlier question... Both. I was running from both.” She answers the question earnestly, not all sensing that the question had been a disguised way of calling her a coward. In fact, she even clarifies that point. “But I wouldn’t say I’m a coward. I just happen to love life and understand where my personal limits are in a fight.” Or it’s her crippling fear of death, fading into insignificance, and never discovering a higher purpose, buuut that’s not something she’s going to mention on their first date. That’s, like, for marriage. Or never. Whichever happens first! “Maybe if I weren’t so hungover, I could have taken them, but that just wasn’t in the stars today.”

“And just for the record,” she mocks Quinn’s know-it-all tone, “even I know I’m not a one woman army. Being a master killer—an artiste—can only get you so far. You still have to fucking run. Achilles was a known for being swift.”

"Now," she takes another step back from Quinn and bends to collect her knives, "help me pick these up." It visibly pains her that she won't be able to take all of her babies with her, but, like every mother, she has her favorites. Is it safe to be sticking so many in her boot at once? Maybe not, but that is for a later Sloane to deal with. Or not! Life is full of surprises and her life might as well be that box of chocolate or however the old expression goes.

“Anyway, I didn’t actually think people would send me money when I asked.” It’s true, she mostly did it as a joke because the Council refused to clear her tab at one of her favorite bars. “Then I was like, ‘Well, why not? It’s not like I’m threatening to murder them.’ So I kept at it and made a decent salary.”

The Council wasn’t exactly pleased with her drawing such attention to herself, but they also didn’t outright tell Sloane to stop. (They did. Multiple times.) No harm, no foul. (They’re pissed.)

Unfortunately, that aforementioned hangover? She can feel it coming back with a vengeance now that the adrenaline is gone from her system. Like a jackhammer to her skull. ‘What a mood killer.’ “Celebratory shots for my sweetheart's first massacre?" Hair of the dog is the gods' cure-all, after all. "What’s your drink? Wait, no. Let me guess. You’re a messy tequila bitch aren’t you?” Ah, but Sloane somehow doubts that. No way someone who believes in revolution could actually be fun. 'I bet she counts her drinks or some shit. Weenie.' "Whatever it is, we'll need clubbing outfits. So I guess we'll have two reasons to celebrate: sweetie's first massacre and her first mugging." She grins and hands the woman her 13th favorite dagger. "You ready? I'm dying to see you in something," she licks her lips, doing an obvious once-over, "fun."

 

[Syntra]

'Never meet your idols.'

Quinn had, of course, heard the line before; it had turned into something of a cliche, the way everyone repeated it like gospel, and while she could acknowledge the truth inherent in the statement, she also thought it was a bit overblown. Too dramatic for it reflect reality, or at least not in any meaningful way.

Well, guess what?

It fucking wasn't.

I can't believe _unclesapphoe is like this! And I had all those cottagecore fantasies about us, too.

Pretty much all of them were set in some Unspecified Point in the Future, after Quinn had toppled the government already. An alarming number of them involved _unclesapphoe baking for her, too? Not that anyone really did that anymore, but it had been a staple of wholesome relationships back on the Earth, and so Quinn's brain had, of course, supplied it.

In hindsight, perhaps she shouldn't have hoped for a wholesome future with someone whose handle was _unclesapphoe, of all things.

Then again, hindsight had never treated Quinn all too well. The whole failed rebellion thing... kind of proved it.

"Oh?" she raised her eyebrow, not too sure whether she was more annoyed with the other woman or herself, "Do you also believe that cotton candy is made from actual cotton, just because it's in the name?" Someone calling something a certain way did not fucking make it so, and Quinn knew a thing or two about that.

(Calling herself happy hadn't made her happy, either.)

"Truly, you are the intellectual that our era desperately needed."

Had Quinn heard the compliment? Yes. Was she too pissed off for it to register? Also yes! Say whatever you want about Quinn, but she did, actually, value her little pet causes.

"And if I am a clown, then you," quick, a good enough insult! "You don't even get your own performance. What you are is the clown's main cheerleader. You do realize you made it look as if we're accomplices, right?"

'As if?'

No, it was more fucked up than that, and Quinn knew it.

They were accomplices, for all intents and purposes.

Accidental accomplices, sure -- but accomplices, still.

Sweet Athena, have mercy on my soul.

Of course, Quinn didn't actually think it was going to happen; gods had done nothing but fuck her over for most of her life, and there was no reason for that trend to change, now. If anything, things were probably going to get worse!

They are definitely going to get worse, Quinn thought, as she watched her savior/(former?) crush/disaster supply more exuses and stupid, stupid ideas.

"Are you out of your mind?" A wrong kind of question, most likely, because it implied that she had ever been in her mind. So far, Quinn wasn't exactly convinced of that, "We shouldn't draw attention to ourselves like this. Gods, we've just angered the entire council! No need to draw even bigger targets on our backs."

Our backs, not just her back. Something told her that, when she looked back on her life decisions at some vague point in the future, this would likely be the moment she'd pinpoint as the Beginning of The End. Still, Quinn didn't quite have the energy to fight against the inevitable now.

"Murder isn't something to be celebrated," most of the time, anyway, "And if you want me to wear something fun, stop being a coward about this and give me your clothes." It took Quinn approximately half a second to realize how this must have come across, and she turned beet red, "Not what you're wearing now! I just... figured you had some safe space at your disposal? A haven where we could regroup? And that's where I could get... those clothes..."

You know what, she did deserve this. That was what Quinn got for trying to play her stupid games, dammit!

But, to be fair, it also seemed rather obvious to her that _unclesapphoe wouldn't listen to actual, non-memey logic. So, uh, those so-called 'good choices?' A lie all along, baby!

 

[starboob]

Quinn’s face might be the color of the red light district—the only sacred thing kept from the old Earth culture—but Sloane’s is draining of all color, making her pallid features appear near translucent. ‘An accomplice?’

The Executioner rewinds the events of the last hour, carefully combing through at what point she accompliced (?) her sacrifice. It could have been when she made the verbal observation about her sacrifice’s hotness or maybe when she imagined all the functions of her lips.

Or was it when she injected her with ichor?
Or could it have been when she blew up those guards?

Slowly, she’s beginning to see an incriminating pattern in her most recent behavior.

The Executioner squeezes the handle of her favorite dagger—a bowie with a serrated back—contemplating whether or not it’d be poor form to murder her here. She probably wouldn’t earn herself any points, being that the venue is so private, and she’d probably drop below fucking Ethan, but maybe the council won’t beat her hide blue?

Fat fucking chance.

Well, it’s Quinn’s lucky day then, because Sloane isn’t interested in getting fridged.

She slips the dagger into her belt and starts to unzip the stop half of her suit—not to offer Quinn! While she would be comfortable walking around in her skivvies, that’s not tonight’s vibe. She’s just shrugging out of the top half, because that’s the vogue style. And her bra is, like, super cute! It’s sparkly and bright pink. There are also little space cats on it.

Mourning the loss of her beloved knives, she dumps the ones that don’t make the cut (ba dum tss) into the overflowing trash bin while Quinn rejects her totally awesome idea and asks to go back to her place. And she has a feeling it’s not actually for sexy reasons. Ugh. Boring.

“I gotta place a few tiers up, but, you dumbass, you mass murdered a bunch of fucking guards, kidnapped a poor Executioner,” yes, this might be an angle she can use to her advantage when (not if) they eventually get caught, “and failed to perform your civic duty as a sacrifice to Kronos’s unending appetite. I’d sooner wear Lady Gaga’s meat dress in front of Cerberus than go back to my place.” Damn, she’s gonna miss her bong, though.

Maybe it’ll be worth the risk?

No, no. It won’t. Getting fridged is not fucking worth Spacey Kacey (her bong). But is it worth her stash?

She thinks over this long and hard, fist tucked under her chin like The Thinker. The gears visibly turn behind her thick skull, steam is starting to come out from her ears—

Nope. Definitely not worth it. Good thing she knows a sucker she can freeload off of.

“How do you feel about grand theft auto? I got a friend close to the upper tier.” Not realizing Quinn is a Sullia, despite the surname being blasted over her left tit, making it all the more shocking Sloane hasn’t noticed, she fails to mention the upper tier doesn’t mean the upper tier but upper tier for the plebs and poors. The highest anyone can go without the proper chipping. (Speaking of chipping… She’ll need to remove hers. File that under: Later Sloane Problems, Fuck That Hoe.)

Regardless of what Quinn thinks of committing more crimes on her first night out of prison, Sloane doesn’t seem to be open to suggestions. The second she’s out on the street, she’s pulling on car door handles, searching for one that’s unlocked. She finds an open old beater that she claims, “is pretty lucky, because they’re super easy to hijack.” She even provides Quinn with a tutorial.

The engine sputters to life, the vehicle groaning as it lifts over the ground, then screaming when Sloane cranks the elevator to get it to fly. (See: it launches into the air at the speed one would hope for on a rollercoaster, but certainly not their own personal vehicle.) The grin on Sloane's face says that this is the exact thing she was hoping for and she wastes no time zigzagging them up through the city, taking sharp turns, and narrowly avoiding other flying objects and pedestrians alike.

One of the many privileges of being Sloane (aside from all of them) is that she’s long since learned all the porous parts of Haven and is able to expertly navigate the city without running into any cops and their silly little checkpoints. The route she has to take to achieve this is longer, but gets them to the Ethan's megacomplex all the same.

They arrive at an impressively large structure made up of thousands upon thousands of stacked shipping containers, repurposed to serve as moderately sized (tiny) dwellings. She parks the vehicle in one of the landing bays near the top and exits. “Casa de Dumbass is a few floors up." In that moment, another wave of nausea bathes over her. She staggers, though she hadn't even moved that far from the vehicle, and has to grab the still open door before she falls over. "Shit."

Whatever the fuck she took last night is trying to claw out of her fucking guts and that isn't an exaggeration. When Sloane stumbles around to Quinn, it's clear that something rope-like is slithering beneath her skin and it's probably not her intestines becoming sentient. (That, at least, might have been cool.) "I need a beer." No, that's not true. "Three beers. Ethan's place is on level D, room 441." The thing writhes, swelling like it's about to burst. She punches it, trying to put it back wherever it's from. It stops moving. "A 30-rack. Let's fucking go."

Except Slaone's legs have decided to rebel against her, like the rest of her traitorous body, and she collapses, almost as stiff and still as she had been when she first met Quinn an hour ago. "Just... Just give me a second... I'll be up in a... a minute." Highly unlikely.