The world weighed heavily upon her thin frame. More heavily than usual were the ghosts of her past lurking in the corner of every room. She clung to her flask like a crutch guiding her through the shadows of darkness. Without it, her hands are shaky and weak -- a signal to those around her to come in like a vulture hunting its prey. These last few weeks a wind of paranoia circled around her vast apartment, recent mistakes piling in front of her with the putrid stench of body bags. The hologram of the twelve o’clock news still rang in her ear, “ found dead”. Found dead, found dead---found. A mistake in delegating her inferiors to get the job done. Now more journalist would poke their nose in the corners of the underbellies she helped create. Nothing more those pests loved more than a martyr. No matter the number of their colleagues she sent to their early deaths, the more popped up seeking justice. Fools. She was justice and executioner and she would be promised.
Edith did not dream of exposing herself on such a busy night, where half the city would gather like roaches to the same place. Feasting on a measly hundred credits to forgive their government for their corruption, how simple people were. She smirked at the President’s gesture, how brilliant. It still didn’t make her hate the bitch who sat upon her throne any less, the fires from her failed election still fanning within her. Yet still she bid the dirty work of President Steele, for a price of course. Tonight was no different. There was business to be conducted, but not without pleasure first.
She dressed rather unassuming. Only fools stand out and only idiots try to hide. Her body adorned in synthetic silk. A black modest neckline with what looked like tiny mirrors sewn across the fabric that draped her clavicle. New tech developed to obscure faces with any recording device. She walked in six inch heels to increase her short frame, bringing her from just five feet for five foot six. Shortness was a perceived weakness and she would have none of that. Inside the heel a hidden distress button to unleash the various security she had stationed amongst the venue. Those who would help bend the world to her will, but none loyal. So even she kept her own disarming device in the shape of a french pin in her hair, just in case.
The Inferno smelt of despair and greed the moment she walked inside. Her lips were gathered in a perpetual smirk as she looked around the gathering of people. Average folk amongst the rich, for there only lay one door to enter the underworld. She held the digital wallet in her hands while she approached the black jack table, waving it over the kiosk and watching one hundred credits deducted. Her eyes fluttered as she watched the dealer throw out cards.
With eyes locked on the person beside her. Her intimidating blue eyes looking upon them menacingly, hungrily. Her lips part with the wetting of her tongue, “Hit me.” She sits at sixteen.
