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Okay, I know I should be working on many other stories...but I love Helluva Boss, and after someone already did a Loona de-aging fanfic (that sadly had very few canon things there, but it was still a very good story despite that), I had to get on mine, since Loona's my favorite. For those paying attention to Helluva Boss, a fair warning: this story occurs a bit after Loona gets her Hellbies shot, so some of the other things that have happened aren't going to happen in this story. I've taken a few liberties with some of the Sins that haven't appeared and Loona's past as well (as we don't know exactly what happened), so take that into account as well. Anyway, as a warning, this is Hell, so there's going to be a lot of complicated content warnings for this story that I urge you to take heed of in the tags. I promise to warn you when they come, but I do want to warn you ahead of time. Anyway, on with the show! - Chapter One: Expectations. - Octavia was tired of hearing her parents fighting, especially when it involved her. Stolas and Stella - her father and mother - were screeching at each other like homicidal demonic barn owls (don’t ask her how she knew that; some things weren’t meant for living human minds), barely paying attention to her, and yet…custody. Fucking custody. Over her. Just…why? It wasn’t fair. Yes, Loona had said that families were complicated, but this right after she had run away the last time… The owl-like Goetia heiress froze. Loona. The hellhound was definitely a bit rough around the edges, definitely sarcastic and rude, but she could talk to her, maybe? The last time, when she was lost on Earth, looking for a meteor shower she had waited years to see, it had been Loona who found her…and unlocked a side of her she thought was missing. Octavia felt like - in Loona - she had a sister, an elder sister she could confide in, someone braver than she was, someone whom she could…look up to, maybe? Her fucking emotions were getting the best of her, maybe, but hell with it. Lucifer, what if I’m being…no, time to be brave, Via, show Father and Mother what a mistake they’re making. She was going to go to I.M.P., maybe read from the Grimoire, maybe find a way to placate her parents, somehow, maybe talk to Loona, see what she thought. She had no idea Loona was already having a bad day. - Loona was pissed at Moxxie. Fucking fatass (he wasn’t really fat, she admitted to herself, but she needed another reason to hate the smug little prick.) imp was beyond late to work along with Millie, his wife. Bad enough she had five fucking years worth of her yearly Hellbies shot (She hated shots. Shots in the pound usually meant…euthanization for the hellhounds who aged out…like she had nearly been before Blitzo - known to all as “Blitz”; the “o” was silent - had adopted her. Blitz had lied to her twice, by the way: it was not “one little prick”, and her ass was still sore from it, so he lied about not feeling it as well. Thank Lucifer the cone was off, at least.) a week ago, but now he was pacing the halls, trying to figure out where they were. “Goddammit, if you could be any later, Moxxie, I’d need a fucking stopwatch to fucking time you…” Blitz muttered. If his voice didn’t clearly show his annoyance, the tic of him scratching the white and black, curved horns on his bald head certainly did. Loona knew that if the imp paced any more, he was going to wear out the floorboards - and they had survived a fire from hellectric eels (don’t ask), so she personally knew how tough they were to destroy and/or wear out. She flicked her bluish-gray hair fur to one side, her red eyes firmly focused on her most prized possession: her H-Phone 666 LX, a gift to her from Blitz for her twenty-first birthday a year ago. Then Moxxie and Millie broke down the door - quite literally. “You know that’s coming out of your paycheck, fatass,” Loona said, not even looking up from her phone as it played VoxTube videos. No response. She raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t like Moxxie to not defend himself from her taunts. “Okay, why are you two fucking hours late?” Blitz demanded. “We were supposed to be using the Grimoire for our target, and-“ “Sorry, Sir, but…” Moxxie twirled a strand of his white hair nervously (not that Loona was paying any attention or cared what Moxxie thought; it was clearly phone time). “We’re expecting!” Millie finished excitedly in her Wrathian drawl, her yellow eyes gleaming as Moxxie brushed her glistening black hair. “What, like a prize for being late?” Loona snarked, not even looking up from her phone. “No, silly: a baby!” Millie giggled. Blitz’s eyes went as wide as full moons, as he looked at them, doing a double-take at them. “Wha-WHAT?!” he stammered. “So, you were-“ “Well, I took the test, showed red, then went to the doctor who confirmed it!” the female imp gushed with excitement, as Moxxie wrapped his small, gentle arms protectively around his wife’s stomach. “Oh, that’s, uh, congrats!” the head of Immediate Murder Professionals (hence the name “I.M.P.”) said, his eyes gaining a semblance of…warmth? An unfamiliar emotion was growing in the pit of Loona’s stomach. She didn’t know what to call it, but she didn’t like it one bit. “So, Sir, we all have a lot of back pay from our jobs, so…” Moxxie began. “First kid’s always worth a break,” Blitz said with a jovial laugh. “Loony-Toony might have to join us later on while Millie handles the Grimoire, but-“ Loona barely heard the excited imp talking because she recognized a different, yet all-too familiar emotion bubbling up to the surface: anger. The hellhound had a nice job as the secretary of I.M.P. Yeah, going out in the human world for occasional work was fun and all, but her job was simple: open a portal to the human world, listen for when the three imps needed to get back, reopen a portal back. She had a routine. She had time to go on her phone, go to the latest Sinstagram pics and VoxTube videos, get a cup of coffee, and wait by herself, with no one’s problems but her own bugging her. And now this…this was threatening the entirety of that safe routine. And she was realizing the unfamiliar emotion was very familiar, after all: envy. A fucking imp baby with Millie replacing her job, and judging by Blitz’s expression, replace his affection for her. That’s all she was, when it came down to it: replaceable. Even after she told Blitz that she’d be there with him, she was still replaceable. The next words tumbled out of her mouth before she could take them back. “How do you know that they’re telling the truth? I mean, are you sure Moxxie can even have kids?” Loona immediately realized she had said something wrong with the immensely hurt look in Millie’s eyes, a pulsing vein throbbing dangerously in Moxxie’s temple as he drew his pistol, pointed it at her and shouted furiously, “YOU TAKE THAT BACK, YOU BITCH!” But the worst was Blitz looking…disappointed, as he said, “Now, Loony, you need to apologize to Moxxie and Millie.” “How about he apologizes for calling me the b-slur?” Loona snarled at Blitz without even thinking, her rising anger taking over. “LOONA, you will apologize to Moxxie and Millie.” Blitz’s voice was surprisingly stern, even a bit angry - a tone that, to her knowledge, he had almost never taken with her. “Oh, so you can replace me with the little brat, huh, Blitz, be a real dad as you stalk them in their private lives like you usually do? Well, guess what, Blitz: you aren’t a fucking real dad! You aren’t their kid’s dad, and you aren’t my fucking dad either!” She felt a vile concoction of satisfaction and guilt course through her as Blitz looked as if she had hit him. It almost would’ve felt better to her if he had hit her back, if he said anything at all. Even Moxxie was stunned into lowering his gun. “I-is this a bad time?” a new voice asked. Octavia Goetia had made her appearance, all four of them looking at her in simultaneous shock, the same look the demoness had on her face. Loona took the Grimoire from the safe, and Blitz didn’t even protest, the hurt look in his eyes saying all that needed to be said. “C’mon, Via, we’re crashing at my place,” Loona said darkly, as she held the Goetia heiress’s clawed hand to the demoness’s shock, leaving the job, the silent absence of a protest echoing in her heart. - Hope y'all enjoyed~ I don't know if I'll have a regular schedule for uploading; I never do, but I'll do my best every week, I think.
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Well, this is a new story (I swear, I'm not abandoning any of my older stories! I just have bipolar mania, and when I'm manic my mind flits to other ideas, and I can't control where it goes.) set in Hong Kong in 1995 for...political reasons. This is about a granddaughter of the head of the Sun Yee On Triad who is a Red Pole (basically, a commander in the organization) who goes undercover in a high school to root out drug dealers. Things don't turn out well, even though she makes six new friends. As such, there's going to be heavy topics that I promise to warn you about. About critique, feel absolutely free to tell me what I'm doing wrong; in fact, I encourage it with all my heart! I want to publish this under my pseudo penname in books for AR/AB stuff, and in order to publish without mistakes and errors, I absolutely need to know what I've done wrong. If you can't find anything wrong, then tell me what you liked, please! These things make me a better writer. I'm not soft when it comes to critique, and I'll always listen to it. Now, without further ado, let's get into the story (and I apologize in advance for the first chapter being shorter than others I've done): - Prologue: Lockpicks are a Girl's Best Friend - The early summer moon was beginning to rise in the sky over the Kowloon District of Hong Kong. It was the first day and night of St. Joan’s Secondary School, and Mandi Jiang couldn’t sleep in her dorm room - although, technically, she wasn’t supposed to be there because she was a year older than the oldest students at nineteen years of age, lying that she was two years younger. She was undercover for the Sun Yee On, one of the Triads of Hong Kong. The Mountain Master - her grandfather - had tasked the Red Pole commander with a mission that only she could do: infiltrate a school where opioids were being illicitly sold to teenagers, something that he absolutely refused to tolerate. To her grandfather, white collar crime - harmless vices - was the way of the future. Counterfeiting, money laundering, insurance fraud, stuff like that was acceptable. But a fair few of the Red Poles - the people in charge of the day-to-day parts of the Triad - still thought that the old ways of prostitution, drugs, and even human trafficking was quicker, cheaper, more lucrative. Even then he was lenient…so long as the victims were adults. He refused to allow children to be harmed by the Triads that were supposed to be quietly in the life of Hong Kong. Mandi stretched her tiny 121.92 cm. frame. Small though she may be, young though she may have been, she was respected and feared amongst the Red Poles, and not because of who her grandfather was; she was cunning, pragmatic, and ruthless toward her enemies. She was not known to police and the underworld as “Little Dragon” for nothing. Ironically, the police didn’t know her English name, and that was the saving grace of her being undercover. The school insisted on silly English names to differentiate the various girls who came from all over Hong Kong, from many different country backgrounds to this school. Not that she was a part of any school for very long, she mused as she curled a strand of wavy black hair away from eyes as dark as teak; she had dropped out at a young age…to be closer to her grandfather. He had probably secretly desired for her to be educated, to not be forced into crime like he was, but school bored her. What use was mathematics when she knew how to disassemble and reassemble mechanical devices as easy as breathing? What use was history to a woman who already had a body count of opposing Triads when she turned fifteen? Why should she care about making friends at school when none of them knew her for who she was? Of course, the typical male response was this: woman = housework. She sucked at housework. She could burn a simple seafood soup, she was more interested in taking the vacuum cleaner apart than actually vacuuming, and the only thing she bothered cleaning in a house was herself. And raising children? HAHA, no. But her grandfather never showed any disappointment towards her for the life she chose, so long as she was willing to accept it for everything it was. He loved her unconditionally, and she loved him with the same fervor, ever since… No, that’s in the past. Never look to the past when the present moment is there to be seized. Mandi looked out the window in boredom, and something immediately grabbed her attention: six silhouettes in the rock garden, clearly not supposed to be there. Well, looks like my job got a lot easier. I was supposed to just find out who the dealers are and report back to the Mountain Master, but if they’re right there, and I can catch them, easy. She snuck out of the dorm room with a gentle use of her trusty lockpick (never leave home without one…even if you’re undercover at a secondary school) unlocking the various doors in her way. Soon enough, she was in the rock garden, as well, close enough to see…six girls, all of whom were at the same school she was infiltrating, given the uniforms they were all wearing: an emerald-green blazer with ties signifying their ages (they were in the seventeen age-range, judging by the ties), white blouse, knee length black skirt, black dress shoes, and black tights. She could also tell that while they weren’t drug dealers (dealers wouldn’t be bitching about the day and which girls were acting like what bitches to each other): just clearly looking like they were troublemakers at heart…like herself. “Hey, you!” Mandi swore under her breath as one of the girls - clearly Chinese Uyghur - saw her, causing the other five to turn around and take in their breath. They all looked to be from different ethnicities, and she could tell from her first glance that their families had been as broken as hers was…before her grandfather stepped in. “I’m not here to bust you or whatever,” Mandi said calmly, stepping into the girls' sight. “Unless you happen to be dealers.” “What? Those assholes?” A Vietnamese girl was the speaker as she snorted contemptuously. “Nah, I wouldn’t touch what they’re selling with a twenty-meter pole - and you shouldn’t either.” “Fair enough. What are you doing here?” Mandi asked. “First, your name,” a Thai girl - one Mandi nailed down to be the leader of the group - snapped. “Mandi Jiang.” “Oh, the new girl!” a Cambodian girl said excitedly. “Hey, we don’t know anything about her!” the Thai girl protested. “If she’s out here, she’s liable to get in trouble like us,” a Hmong girl said. “How did you get out of the room?” a Burmese girl asked. “You’d need a-” “Lockpick?” Mandi finished, holding out her lockpick. “Come on, I’m not going to out you girls. I may be new, but I know when people are on the margins…like I was.” The Thai girl sighed. “Fine. I guess you could hang out here. Not much we do anyway aside from talking freely.” “Can I have your names, now that you have mine?” “Not the stupid English names,” the Vietnamese girl groaned. “I hate when they make us-” “Not that bullshit,” Mandi said bluntly. “Schools like this, they just want to get rid of culture. Personally, I prefer the English name I was given by my grandfather, but I won’t use the English names given by the school when you clearly prefer your own.” The Thai girl gave Mandi a smirk. “In that case, I’m Achara. Achara Noi. Call me ‘Angel’.” “Phượng Hà,” the Vietnamese girl said calmly. “Known to my friends as ‘Phoenix’.” “Veasna Keo, or, ‘Destiny’, if you’d prefer,” The Cambodian girl nodded her head. “Duabntxoo Fang,” the Hmong girl said quietly. “Shadow.” “Thang,” The Burmese girl shook Mandi’s hand. "These girls call me ‘Storm’.” “Aynur Cebrail, or rather, ‘Moonlight’,” the Uyghur girl introduced herself last. “Well, if we’re going by nicknames already…Dragon.” Mandi knew she was taking a risk revealing a bit of her identity…but she felt a kinship with these girls, as she forgot all about what she was going to ask and just…talking to them about the school, the other girls, everything except what she was here for. These girls are like me. Broken homes, awful parents, cast aside like they were nothing. Snap out of it, Mandi, an inner voice chided. You’ll forget them as soon as you’re done with this assignment. They’re younger than you, minors, kids. So was I when I joined. They’re…me. Me at a younger age. She knew that she shouldn’t think that way. She was ruthless to all, pragmatic, not prone to sentimentality with anyone but a few. So, why them all of a sudden? Why them? - Hope y'all enjoyed~
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Welcome to yet another new story of mine~ This one takes a bit of similarity from other stories on here where stuffies come to life as protectors, but aside from that, it's very much different from them. Also, unlike some of my other stories, there's going to be a first person narrator on this story, and she's...an interesting character, if I do say so myself. This also focuses on the sector of private military companies - in this case, the company the MC and her friends worked for. As such a thing can and has been used for good or evil (look no further than the PMCs that have committed serious war crimes), I will not shirk away from the violence that comes with them, so consider this and the content warnings above as your only warnings in this story as well. Also, yes, the stuffy mentioned is a bat stuffy, so if you're scared of bats, I don't recommend this story to you, even if he's as wholesome as a sweet pecan pie. About critique, feel absolutely free to tell me what I'm doing wrong; in fact, I encourage it with all my heart! I want to publish this under my pseudo penname in books for AR/AB stuff, and in order to publish without mistakes and errors, I absolutely need to know what I've done wrong. If you can't find anything wrong, then tell me what you liked, please! These things make me a better writer. I'm not soft when it comes to critique, and I'll always listen to it. So, with all of that said, do enjoy~ - Chapter One: Living Nightmare - I woke up in a panic, my sea-green eyes flitting around the dark room with terror, before immediately recognizing my room, my safe place. I breathed, slowly at first, always take things slowly, my heartbeat slowly, slowly returning to normal. My strawberry-blonde hair was all over the place. I wanted to keep it long, the only thing the company I now worked for allowed me - not that I wanted any of it. I breathed, a familiar, affronting smell in my nose. Angry tears leapt unbidden to me, and I screamed out each rage-filled-word (thank holy God that my room was private as all get out and that I lived alone - the one good thing about security for an oil company heiress was that the pay was good enough for it) as I punched my pillow. Fuck Belarus and everything about the country. Fuck Mythic Company and everything about them. Fuck my treacherous ex-coworkers. Fuck my jerkass current coworkers. Fuck the heiress I was protecting, all of her condescension. Fuck the heiress’s father for being a typical rich bastard. Fuck my therapists - all of the many I had gone through. Fuck my medical condition depriving me a chance at a normal life. Fuck everyone. Fuck everything. Every “fuck” was accented by a punch, the pillow worn down by plenty of nights like this - worn by every night I woke up with night terrors and a piss and shit-filled diaper. At least this time, I didn’t vomit, even though I really wanted to. I balled my now-badly-stained badge of shame, threw it into the trash can. Before I could put on another one, get it over with like I wanted to, I knew I had to take a shower. Sometimes I didn’t even want to get out of bed, the thoughts were so crushing. But I had a job to do. Another fucking security job to do. After everything with the now-disavowed private military company I was a part of, after Belarus, I never wanted to do security ever again, especially since I hated the company I was currently working for. But I was good at it, and the heiress’s father wanted me to protect his daughter. And I owed him. I owed him and her everything. The water was warm. It couldn’t be too hot nor too cold, or my PTSD would strike again. I felt the drying shit from my ass pool into the drain, knew a few bits must’ve fallen on the floor on my way to the shower, but I didn’t care to clean it up. I didn’t care about anything; caring was just too much at this point. I noticed myself peeing in the shower like a young toddler, but I had grown all too used to that as well. I scrubbed every part of my vaginal area with soap twice over, just to make sure the heiress wouldn’t make a “motherly” comment about the smell. Not that it even mattered in the end; given my medical condition, I had the exact same ability to hold in both number one and two as an infant, and I’d end up shitting and pissing in my new diaper no matter what I did. At least I didn’t cry like one when I was confronted with it. I finished my shower, shivering from the cold of the air on my body, drying myself off with a towel, getting back into the room. I lay down, put the new diaper on myself with disgust on my face. The time on the clock was 1:51 AM. I sighed, knowing I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep, not caring about covering my small breasts, as I lay down on the bed, looking at the bland white ceiling, at the bland white walls, at the hardwood floor. My room. My gilded cage. I had no idea how long I stared at the ceiling, left alone with my thoughts, only interrupted by the blare of the alarm clock. 5:15 AM. I sighed before changing my now-soaked diaper with a fresh one. My work clothes were laid out on the dresser to the side and simple enough: a blouse, a knee-length skirt, and work boots, along with a bra. Normally, I wouldn’t be caught dead in any girlish clothing (I had always been a tomboy), but company policy - enacted by the heiress, no less - insisted that all women working for the company had to wear at least a skirt. At least I didn’t have to wear heels or flats. And a skirt this long would hide my diaper well enough - unless Wharton decided that the five broken fingers on his right hand wasn’t a sufficient enough deterrent trying to grope me again. I put on all of the clothes, now sufficiently dressed up (with a SIG Sauer pistol in a holster attached to my right thigh) and ready to go with my two bags. One of them was my medium-sized purse with ammunition, work ID, wallet with cash and driver’s license, my iPhone, car keys to my beat-up Hyundai Santa Fe, a 135-ounce stainless-steel water bottle filled with water (a true necessity where I lived), and various other things a young woman might need. The other was a tote bag, a glorified diaper bag filled to the brim with diapers (as I learned early on, there was absolutely no such thing as too many diapers for an outing) and baby wipes. I sighed and walked out of the bedroom and out of the bland, boring one-story house to the stupid-hot summer of Taos, New Mexico, my lips drying up immediately after I stepped outside. To say I much preferred Copenhagen’s weather would be a massive understatement. But hey, Taos was where I was born, where I lived more than half of my life, and where I was going to die, so I had to make the best of things. Fortunately, the Santa Fe had air conditioning and was in the garage. The bad news was that it took a while to come on, and it was still stupid fucking hot when I entered the driver’s seat, and turned on the ignition, blasting on the air conditioner (which was still mostly hot air). I waited for the temperature to cool down as I got out my stainless steel bottle and drank deeply before the AC kicked into gear.. Time for another sucky day at work… I pulled the Santa Fe into gear, backed out of the garage (making sure to close the garage door electronically), and drove out of the cul-de-sac I called home. Traffic was surprisingly lax today; normally, it was a bitch and a half to get from my home to the company. Soon enough, Blades Oil's large building had appeared in the distance, and I had gotten to the security gate in seeming record time. The security guard behind the booth looked serious as I rolled down the window and gave him my ID. He gazed at my tote bag, and I thanked whatever god existed that there was a zipper to hide what was in it…before cursing whatever god existed when his next words were, “Can I see what’s in the tote bag?” My face flushed, as I felt myself wet my already-soaked diaper a little bit more. “No, you may not,” I replied bluntly. “The only people who need to know are the COO and myself.” “Ma’am, while I appreciate your wish for privacy, you don’t have to lie about the COO,” the security guard said with a sigh. “I’m the COO’s security guard,” I interjected. “You can ask her yourself.” “Ma’am, I don’t want to turn you away, but-” A call echoed from his radio, and he answered, “Yes?” I saw his face pale. “O-of course, ma’am, I’ll get right on it.” He waved me onward, saying, “My apologies, Ms. Bjornsen. Private parking, row one.” Must be the COO. Even now, she can’t stop looking after me like I’m a child… I drove my Santa Fe towards the private parking section in an indoor parking space. I saw the older woman immediately, her long, curly red hair perfectly resting on her large breasts, her eyes warm like the morning Taos air, as she drank from a stainless-steel water bottle like mine, her red nails immaculately manicured. I turned off the ignition and took out my bags when I got out of the car, as Beryl Blades gave me a quick hug. “Bree-Bree, you brought your diaper bag, just like I asked! Such a good girl!” she cooed. My face flushed like a bed of roses. Yes, my name was “Breezee Bjornsen”. I hated my first name, and somehow, this woman had made it a million times worse. “It’s just a tote bag…” I muttered, looking down at the ground. “Before we go anywhere, do you need a quick change?” A sudden, horrible smell caught my nose’s attention, and my eyes filled with tears as I realized that I was definitely more than just wet, realized that I hadn’t even known about it until now. “Of course you do. It’s okay, you can’t help it, Bree,” Beryl said sympathetically. “The private restroom is available. We’ll go there.” She led me by the hand like I was a toddler, as I silently cursed myself for my life getting so fucked, wondering just how bad the day was going to get. Had I known just how bad, I would’ve stayed in bed. - Hope y'all enjoyed!
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Well, this is my first ever story for a contest - in particular, this is for Kasarberang's fourth contest, and I'll post the link at the bottom. Anyway, without further ado, welcome to the show! - Chapter One: Sentencing - Ferne Beliveau had presented her closing arguments this Sunday of the capital murder trial with confidence, poise, and the expertise of a long-time professional - which was shocking, since she was the youngest (and newest) District Attorney in the history of Louisiana (all of Louisiana, not just New Orleans, her district) at the tender age of twenty-nine, having been in law school since she was seventeen. She was certain the man before her would be convicted by the jury, who had finished deliberations and were standing before the judge. “Have you reached a verdict?” Judge Anderson, a tired old man with little shock-white hair remaining on his nearly bald head, asked. “We have, Your Honor,” the forewoman said. “What say you?” “We the jury, in the case of the State of Louisiana vs. Hedges, find the defendant unanimously guilty on the charges of capital murder and armed robbery in the first degree.” Ferne looked at Tevin Hedges, a Black teenager, who mouthed, “I ain’t done nothin’,” in disbelief, tears pouring from his eyes, the defense attorneys bowing their heads in shock and guilt. She loved every moment of it. Crushing the hopes and dreams of these men was sweet nectar and ambrosia to her. So what if they were innocent? It looked good on her record. Besides, they deserve nothing less for being criminal scum. “Thank you, Jury, for your service today. Court is adjourned.” Ferne left with the various legal documents in her hands, a bounce in her step, her heels clicking on the floor, as she strode towards the exits. She had almost reached it before she was bumped into, a foul-smelling liquid spilling on her expensive white pantsuit. “Watch where you’re going!” she spat at the offending party: a tall middle-aged woman with long straw-blonde hair and green eyes that were glaring at her coldly. “Perhaps you should be more careful, young lady,” the older woman said in a dialect that was clearly Irish, the glare not leaving her eyes, a familiar look. Ferne huffed a bit, ignoring the woman (had she seen her before? No matter; she had more important things to worry about.) as she went to the restroom to clean up. Whatever liquid (probably liquor) was spilled on her had absorbed itself into her skin, and yet…it wasn’t wet. Definitely going to shower after this, she thought furiously, as she washed her hands, peering into the mirror to see her beautiful light brunette hair smartly tucked in a bun, her twinkling ice-blue eyes, the smug look on her face like the cat who ate the canary. The only thing she hated about her appearance was her size: she was barely 4’10” with a small bust to match. “Hello, Ferne,” a voice said next to her. She was joined by her, well, nobody was exactly a rival to her, but her closest competitor, Taneka Stevens, her ebony complexion, long braids, and still-heavyset figure and giant bust from a very recent childbirth contrasting sharply with Ferne’s toned alabaster skin. The other woman was already washing her hands. “Well, hello, Tannypack,” Ferne replied snootily. “Glad I could have your help on the Hedges case, for what little you did.” Stevens didn’t back down, annoying the younger woman. She was the only one who didn’t back down from her “Bitch-mode” amongst her subordinates - something she was going to have to change. “You know the kid was innocent, right?” Stevens said with a sigh. “We’re not the ones to decide guilt; that’s the job of the jury,” Ferne chided. “Maybe having a kid sapped a bit of your brain in the process?” “Why are you the way you are?” She brushed off the question, ignoring how much it hurt inwardly. “You mean a successful head District Attorney in Louisiana’s biggest parish? Maybe you should try it sometime, Tannypack; it might make you less stupid.” “Never mind. I see how you’re choosing to act.” Stevens left, leaving Ferne to her thoughts. What a stupid whore, choosing to get knocked up over the opportunity of being District Attorney. Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her ruined pantsuit, and she looked at the text. Her stupid ex, Mae Jung-Sook, was the guilty party. Hey, I need you to come to court for child services. Urgent, much love! She rolled her eyes and responded. Did you drink bleach? We’re both women, and there was no child. Fuck off. The next text quickly showed up. It’s about guardianship, power-of-attorney. If you back out now, they’ll assume the child isn’t old enough to be their own legal guardian and POA falls into my hands. Please, dear, last chance to back out. Ferne rolled her eyes. Classic manipulation tactic. You can do whatever the fuck you want with your brat, bitch. For the last time, fuck off! It’s over! In fact, I don’t think there ever was anything between us! Goodbye! She blocked the number on her phone. If Mae was going to be manipulative, she didn’t need her in her life. What a fucking day… Ferne decided to go back home to change; she couldn’t exactly go out for a night on the town in a dirty pantsuit. She saw the Irish woman standing outside the bathroom, her stare making the DA feel a bit uncomfortable, and once again, she had the strangest feeling she had seen her before. Doesn’t matter where I saw her. She’s not my type, anyway. She strode confidently into the parking lot, heedless and uncaring of the other people who were in her way, no matter who they were, as she got out her keys. Her Lexus was ready to go, the front door automatically opening for her (thank God for the money from her job). Ferne sidled in and closed the door, opening her purse that she had hidden in the backseat. It would be the biggest mistake of her life. She checked the open purse, making sure everything was there, seeing an odd canister spewing an odorless gas, barely feeling her eyes droop before everything went black. - Well, here's the link, as promised. Hope you enjoyed the first chapter:
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