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Description
Intro: Sacrifice

Location: Mt. St. Helens, Oregon, USA

The inside of the volcano roars and shifts, pulling and stretching and testing its boundaries in the deep black of the planet's core.  The stone rumbles, impatient, reaching out with Hephaestus's fiery wrath.  It seeks out the sacrifice that has been sent, hungrily lapping at an innocence so powerful, it's like a shock to the heart.  To the volcano, innocence is a favorite flavor, hope like a foggy drug.  It instills corrosion and despair with something akin to delight, shrieking to the sky as its sacrifice falls beneath its power and is reborn in a death made of ashes.

01: Black Magic Woman

Location: Somewhere in Washington, USA

It's raining.  Again.  Rains all the time up here.  I could get used to this.  I could get used to the pitter-patter of water on my tiny house at night.  I could get used to the lush green of the woods.  I could rest here.

I haven't had insomnia in the two weeks that I've been here.  There are no words to describe how nice that is.  I've even taken off my boots and rolled up my gray cargo pants so I can walk out under the trees, feel the earth under my toes.

Rain cascades down from the crown of my head, slicking my short black hair down over my mismatched eyes, shivering down pale skin, over my bare shoulders, down long arms, dripping blissfully off my callused fingers.  Fingers that have held knives ever since I can remember.  More rain slides down my neck and collarbone and soaks my white tank top, cooling the burn scar that holds the left side of my chest captive.  I haven't been out for five minutes and the icy tears pouring from the sky have drenched my whole body, revealing the black-winged Kite tattooed on my back and the white sports bra that I don't bother to cover.  For starters, who's going to see me out here, and for seconds, who the hell cares?  I don't.

I don't care.  Those three words have been the truth over and over and over again... and they've saved my life on more than one occasion.  I don't care that I can't remember my past.  I don't care that I don't have friends.  I don't care that I'm about to kill someone, right here, right now.

Huh. Guess someone will see my bra.  But not for long.

"You're early, Janice," a voice like honey says next to my ear.

It's all I can do to keep from rolling my eyes, even if I am supposed to be playing the part of the seductive secretary.  Speaking of eyes... I hope I remembered to put my contact lens in.  Otherwise my target will be seeing a blue eye and a green eye instead of two blue ones.

The owner of the honey-voice steps around me and then I can see him, all six feet, 160-pound greasy politician of him.  Slowly, the satisfied smirk that's plastered on his stubbly square jaw melts away, and a horrified expression takes over.  "Your eyes.  What – your eyes..."

Damn.  Forgot my contacts.  Oh well, cat's outta the bag.  "Yeah, maybe I should tell you," I reply lightly, although originally I had no intention of talking to him.  "My name's Kyte, not Janice.  Kyte, with a 'y'."

"Kyte?  What's the meaning of this?"  He's in lawyer mode now, getting set to talk his way out of trouble when he sees the silver glint of a blade in my right hand.

A sigh slips out and I resist the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose.  "There's a price on your head.  It's my job to collect the money.  Nothing personal... just doing my job."  Actually it is something personal.  I like watching sleazy politicians die.  But I'm not about to tell him that... it would ruin the fun, somehow.  My other knife is in my left hand then, slipped out from inside the waistband of my cargo pants, and my feet are gently silent against the ground as I advance on him.

"Kyte, calm down.  Let's talk about this.  I can offer you more money than whoever happens to be paying you, I guarantee it."

I pretend not to hear and lean up against him until he's backed against a tree, stroking my blade against his neck, staring innocently into his black eyes.  He doesn't have time to say another word; in one quiet, fluid movement, he's pinned to the tree with a knife through his throat, choking, bleeding out.  "Now how sweet is your silver tongue?"  The question snaps out next to a snicker that doesn't sound like it could possibly come from me.

Then I am disconnected from any emotion that might've touched me, and it doesn't bother me, although I know it should.  I flick my wrist and twist the blade, then slash outward, and his head rolls off with a crimson squelch.

My eyes half-close as blue, smokeless fire – Py fire – shoots from my fingertips, not dampened by the rain, leaping hungrily at the disgusting body of yet another assignment.  All the evidence is gone; I'm safe.  In theory, I could stay in this peaceful place forever.  But now that I've killed someone here, I won't allow myself to.  I've tried before and ended up getting a total of about ten hours of sleep in a week.  (I don't take jobs in Arkansas anymore.)

My knives slip gently into my waistband again, remaining my most intimate companions.  I don't work with anyone, I don't get close to anyone.  I hardly pay attention long enough to acknowledge anyone's existence anyway, so I don't think it matters.  It's better this way; I'd rather not worry about protecting a "partner".  'Enjoy the freedom while you can, little Kyte', a voice whispers musically in my head, and I ignore it, opening my mouth to catch raindrops on my tongue as I amble back out of the woods, hands shoved deep in my pockets to resist the temptation of lighting everything else in the entire world on fire.

Description
Intro: Sacrifice

Location: Mt. St. Helens, Oregon, USA

The inside of the volcano roars and shifts, pulling and stretching and testing its boundaries in the deep black of the planet's core.  The stone rumbles, impatient, reaching out with Hephaestus's fiery wrath.  It seeks out the sacrifice that has been sent, hungrily lapping at an innocence so powerful, it's like a shock to the heart.  To the volcano, innocence is a favorite flavor, hope like a foggy drug.  It instills corrosion and despair with something akin to delight, shrieking to the sky as its sacrifice falls beneath its power and is reborn in a death made of ashes.

01: Black Magic Woman

Location: Somewhere in Washington, USA

It's raining.  Again.  Rains all the time up here.  I could get used to this.  I could get used to the pitter-patter of water on my tiny house at night.  I could get used to the lush green of the woods.  I could rest here.

I haven't had insomnia in the two weeks that I've been here.  There are no words to describe how nice that is.  I've even taken off my boots and rolled up my gray cargo pants so I can walk out under the trees, feel the earth under my toes.

Rain cascades down from the crown of my head, slicking my short black hair down over my mismatched eyes, shivering down pale skin, over my bare shoulders, down long arms, dripping blissfully off my callused fingers.  Fingers that have held knives ever since I can remember.  More rain slides down my neck and collarbone and soaks my white tank top, cooling the burn scar that holds the left side of my chest captive.  I haven't been out for five minutes and the icy tears pouring from the sky have drenched my whole body, revealing the black-winged Kite tattooed on my back and the white sports bra that I don't bother to cover.  For starters, who's going to see me out here, and for seconds, who the hell cares?  I don't.

I don't care.  Those three words have been the truth over and over and over again... and they've saved my life on more than one occasion.  I don't care that I can't remember my past.  I don't care that I don't have friends.  I don't care that I'm about to kill someone, right here, right now.

Huh. Guess someone will see my bra.  But not for long.

"You're early, Janice," a voice like honey says next to my ear.

It's all I can do to keep from rolling my eyes, even if I am supposed to be playing the part of the seductive secretary.  Speaking of eyes... I hope I remembered to put my contact lens in.  Otherwise my target will be seeing a blue eye and a green eye instead of two blue ones.

The owner of the honey-voice steps around me and then I can see him, all six feet, 160-pound greasy politician of him.  Slowly, the satisfied smirk that's plastered on his stubbly square jaw melts away, and a horrified expression takes over.  "Your eyes.  What – your eyes..."

Damn.  Forgot my contacts.  Oh well, cat's outta the bag.  "Yeah, maybe I should tell you," I reply lightly, although originally I had no intention of talking to him.  "My name's Kyte, not Janice.  Kyte, with a 'y'."

"Kyte?  What's the meaning of this?"  He's in lawyer mode now, getting set to talk his way out of trouble when he sees the silver glint of a blade in my right hand.

A sigh slips out and I resist the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose.  "There's a price on your head.  It's my job to collect the money.  Nothing personal... just doing my job."  Actually it is something personal.  I like watching sleazy politicians die.  But I'm not about to tell him that... it would ruin the fun, somehow.  My other knife is in my left hand then, slipped out from inside the waistband of my cargo pants, and my feet are gently silent against the ground as I advance on him.

"Kyte, calm down.  Let's talk about this.  I can offer you more money than whoever happens to be paying you, I guarantee it."

I pretend not to hear and lean up against him until he's backed against a tree, stroking my blade against his neck, staring innocently into his black eyes.  He doesn't have time to say another word; in one quiet, fluid movement, he's pinned to the tree with a knife through his throat, choking, bleeding out.  "Now how sweet is your silver tongue?"  The question snaps out next to a snicker that doesn't sound like it could possibly come from me.

Then I am disconnected from any emotion that might've touched me, and it doesn't bother me, although I know it should.  I flick my wrist and twist the blade, then slash outward, and his head rolls off with a crimson squelch.

My eyes half-close as blue, smokeless fire – Py fire – shoots from my fingertips, not dampened by the rain, leaping hungrily at the disgusting body of yet another assignment.  All the evidence is gone; I'm safe.  In theory, I could stay in this peaceful place forever.  But now that I've killed someone here, I won't allow myself to.  I've tried before and ended up getting a total of about ten hours of sleep in a week.  (I don't take jobs in Arkansas anymore.)

My knives slip gently into my waistband again, remaining my most intimate companions.  I don't work with anyone, I don't get close to anyone.  I hardly pay attention long enough to acknowledge anyone's existence anyway, so I don't think it matters.  It's better this way; I'd rather not worry about protecting a "partner".  'Enjoy the freedom while you can, little Kyte', a voice whispers musically in my head, and I ignore it, opening my mouth to catch raindrops on my tongue as I amble back out of the woods, hands shoved deep in my pockets to resist the temptation of lighting everything else in the entire world on fire.