Dark Kisses and Bloody Smiles
People said darkness presses in, it doesn’t.
To Medusa, darkness holds her close and whispers the thrill of the hunt in her ears. The darkness is her best friend, it's creative and forgiving, flattering and cool. Darkness became her favorite thing once she was able to spot it when she was no longer confused by day and night. Once she learned what she feared and what she wanted, the darkness went from her worst nightmare to her greatest ally. She unlocked her cage and let her skills step into the light or, well, the shadows.
As a young child, she used to wake in the dead of night and wish for the scarlet of the morning sun. The darkness worried her, her imagination supplied many beasts with fantastical jaws to lurk just beyond the range of vision. But now, she embraces it. The night provides cover from the flesh and blood monsters of the day. The monsters that walk the streets, and flash countless, meaningless smiles at cameras.
Even on the most moonlit of nights, she blends into the city shadows, staying clear of those pools of yellow light that flowed from the street-lamps. The neon and white lights that used to flood from the bars and restaurants are extinguished. The only reason to venture out at night is to join the game, the game where everyone can lose and the only prize is knowing you fought. So wrapped in the familiar darkness, she races towards her destination.
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The well-worn doorknob softly clicks as the door to the office opens with the quiet squeal of constant use. As a short man, with an equally short temper entered. The room was made of shapes in monochrome, of course, the daylight would bring it to light but that was over 3 hours away, but for now, it could be a scene from a black and white movie. The silhouettes were already more discernible than they were only a short while before and he gazed from the door towards the bolted window and out into the sleeping city, so much for the city that never sleeps.
The sound of shuffling feet fills the quiet room as he feels away through the darkroom to the desk. Dropping his brown leather briefcase with a muffled thud on the carpeted floor and the rustling of the papers he sets on the desk, he fumbles with the short metal chain of the desk lamp as he pulls on the chain to bathe the room in light. A cold and sharp burst of air blows his papers from the desk all around the room, they dance around just out of reach, like teasing children in a game of tag, before drifting to the ground without another sound.
The man whirls around and rushes to slam shut the window mumbling “I could have sworn it was shut” as he secured the iron bolt.
“Hello Mr. Anderson,” said a soft, feminine, voice. It flowed like poisonous honey, dangerously sweet and smooth.
With an undignified shriek that sounded like a combination, the squeal of a pig and nails on a chalkboard, Anderson turned from the window to see a distinctly feminine figure. She wore aerodynamic compact armor with rivets of a soft and almost calming blue glow. Her heeled armored boots stretched up to her rich pink skirt embroidered with deceptively delicate gold. On her face was an eerie cyborg-esque mask with glowing blue eyes and a hood hiding the rest of her features, causing the blue eyes to take on an anonymous appearance. “W..wh..what do yo-you want...t?” he stuttered out in a voice that despite its apparent struggle to be used, made the question sound like it was spat at something vile.
“Miles, Miles” she tsked “is that any way to greet an old friend? Or at least the person you will say your last words to?” she stalked forward, a predator toying with her prey.
Miles scrambled backward, trying to press himself through the bulletproof glass of the window he had, moments earlier, secured. He held a trembling hand forward “If it's money you want, I have lots!! If you let me live, I will give you as much as you want!! And if it's not enough I can get more for you!!! Let's be reasonable here! I can help y----” his rambling was cut short, eyes bulging as a blade of cold Vibramium metal danced and spun through his stomach. The blade was moved with a bloody squelching noise as his fate was sealed.
As Miles Anderson convulsed on the floor, gasping for air that never seemed to reach his lungs. His nerves burned and froze all at once, as his blood turned to an ashen sludge, and his muscles slowly and painfully seized. His last breath drawn as his face twisted in agonized expression, one he would wear until his body was reduced to the dirt he was. The figure turned, a drawer slid open as a procured flash drive was placed among the rest, it would be found when the police learned of the unfortunate fate of Miles.
A dainty, well-manicured, yet strong and calloused hand slid up the intricate mask as the other placed a small piece of paper, not much larger than a business card, on the corpse's chest, a warning made, a message delivered, a promise kept. The last thing miles Anderson's unseeing eyes saw were cold and calculating amber eyes and a bloody smirk. The figure turned on her heel and left the room, if it wasn't for the body, it would have appeared as if she had never been there at all.
The next morning when the district would rouse to the screams over the body, the police would see the symbol emblazoned on the paper, the head of a woman with unseeing eyes resting in the nest of snakes growing from her head. They would see and they would know, the case would never be solved. And they would never try.
