Many, who catch perhaps a glimpse of her out of the corner of their eye on a WestEnd night, assume they have encountered an apparition. They are to be forgiven if they nervously finger whatever amulet, talisman, cruciform, or weapon embodies their beliefs. For, though she is rapidly coming to think of herself as WestEnd girl, she appears on the surface to be out of place here, a cupcake in an abbatoir.
It is not only her youth, for great cities and other nodes of darkness have always trapped their share of the young. She is a precocious twelve, but there is, you see, this sense of health that seems to radiate from her tanned, athletic limbs, from her lithe and capable sportsgirl body. Stranger still, in this place, at least, are the tennis whites that she chooses to wear, whether playing or not, in ironic tribute to the woman her mother named her for. Then again, the racquet that is often in her hand is not the sort of weapon likely to reassure most wandering these streets alone. Martina knows, however (and she much prefers the shortened Tina, thank you, in part at least because she thinks it irritates her mother), that speed and accuracy, rather than steel and stropped edge, will most often win the point.
And so, white clothes stobing in the darkened streets, she is studying to haunt this place, letting her feet learn the streets and identifying its denizens. She finds she much prefers its ever evolving strangness to the failing shell of normalcy still found at the motel where her mother lives, on the outskirts of WestEnd where Artsblood clings to precarious electricity as if to memories of a world she will never see again.
Parents, go figure.
And so the girl's huge gray eyes, the only hint to her geneology, notice things as she moves through street and alley. Signs that an abandoned theater may have a new tenant will bear further exploration, as will a sudden flurry of messages carried by the lost youth of WestEnd, their deliveries paid for with silver and with fear. Her mother's lover is here somewhere, as well, to be found and stalked and studied; to be hated, almost surely, but fairly studied first.
And there are the games. She has watched the gangs and noted the evolution of their sport. And sport is in her nature, after all. It was easy enough to let a small pack of Makos catch sight of a white skirt flaring as she rounded a corner ahead of them. It was child's play to string them out, always just a little faster than she seemed to be; listening for the cough and ground-glass rasp as one and another gave up the chase to stand, hands on knees, and choke after air that seems suddenly too thin. It almost came to naught; for a moment it seemed they would all abandon the chase. She had to let herself stumble, brown knee abraded on dirty asphalt enough to scent the air all coppery, in order to lure the last one along. Only when she had lead him far enough from the others did she let herself be cornered.
As she had imagined, he was a simple cutter and no magepunk. Breathing hard, stinking of sweat and rut and drugs, he seemed to fill the alley as he closed in.
Her first stroke, a quick backhand, broke his nose, the carbon fiber frame of the racquet crushing its bridge and sending a spray of blood that half soaked his shirt before he knew he was hit. He bellowed then, hand to his face, and charged. The overhand smash caught him behind the right ear and took him to his knees. She was dancing now, light on her feet like Navratilova awaiting serve. A lucky swing, half blinded by pain, ticked her arm with the blade tip, drawing a hot line. Furious at herself, she put her shoulders into a two-fisted forehand that crushed the bone over his right eye.
The pretty little brunette went a bit mad thereafter, as any preteen can suddenly change from a playful child to a hormonal nightmare for no seeming reason. At some point the frame of her racquet broke, turning it from smoothe bludgeon to ragged hook; and gobbets flung from it with each stroke. She was sobbing before she finished, flushed and barely knowing what she said as she swung again and again.
"This is for my mother," she screamed, raining blows, tears scalding, "and for her whore...for her whore...for her whore."
She felt better when it was over, exercise always had that effect upon her. She was a little proud, too, that she hadn't stained her clothes. New daylight was finding bruise colors in the wakening sky, and she walked easily away from the mess in the alley. A WestEnd girl, now, welcoming another WestEnd day.
It is not only her youth, for great cities and other nodes of darkness have always trapped their share of the young. She is a precocious twelve, but there is, you see, this sense of health that seems to radiate from her tanned, athletic limbs, from her lithe and capable sportsgirl body. Stranger still, in this place, at least, are the tennis whites that she chooses to wear, whether playing or not, in ironic tribute to the woman her mother named her for. Then again, the racquet that is often in her hand is not the sort of weapon likely to reassure most wandering these streets alone. Martina knows, however (and she much prefers the shortened Tina, thank you, in part at least because she thinks it irritates her mother), that speed and accuracy, rather than steel and stropped edge, will most often win the point.
And so, white clothes stobing in the darkened streets, she is studying to haunt this place, letting her feet learn the streets and identifying its denizens. She finds she much prefers its ever evolving strangness to the failing shell of normalcy still found at the motel where her mother lives, on the outskirts of WestEnd where Artsblood clings to precarious electricity as if to memories of a world she will never see again.
Parents, go figure.
And so the girl's huge gray eyes, the only hint to her geneology, notice things as she moves through street and alley. Signs that an abandoned theater may have a new tenant will bear further exploration, as will a sudden flurry of messages carried by the lost youth of WestEnd, their deliveries paid for with silver and with fear. Her mother's lover is here somewhere, as well, to be found and stalked and studied; to be hated, almost surely, but fairly studied first.
And there are the games. She has watched the gangs and noted the evolution of their sport. And sport is in her nature, after all. It was easy enough to let a small pack of Makos catch sight of a white skirt flaring as she rounded a corner ahead of them. It was child's play to string them out, always just a little faster than she seemed to be; listening for the cough and ground-glass rasp as one and another gave up the chase to stand, hands on knees, and choke after air that seems suddenly too thin. It almost came to naught; for a moment it seemed they would all abandon the chase. She had to let herself stumble, brown knee abraded on dirty asphalt enough to scent the air all coppery, in order to lure the last one along. Only when she had lead him far enough from the others did she let herself be cornered.
As she had imagined, he was a simple cutter and no magepunk. Breathing hard, stinking of sweat and rut and drugs, he seemed to fill the alley as he closed in.
Her first stroke, a quick backhand, broke his nose, the carbon fiber frame of the racquet crushing its bridge and sending a spray of blood that half soaked his shirt before he knew he was hit. He bellowed then, hand to his face, and charged. The overhand smash caught him behind the right ear and took him to his knees. She was dancing now, light on her feet like Navratilova awaiting serve. A lucky swing, half blinded by pain, ticked her arm with the blade tip, drawing a hot line. Furious at herself, she put her shoulders into a two-fisted forehand that crushed the bone over his right eye.
The pretty little brunette went a bit mad thereafter, as any preteen can suddenly change from a playful child to a hormonal nightmare for no seeming reason. At some point the frame of her racquet broke, turning it from smoothe bludgeon to ragged hook; and gobbets flung from it with each stroke. She was sobbing before she finished, flushed and barely knowing what she said as she swung again and again.
"This is for my mother," she screamed, raining blows, tears scalding, "and for her whore...for her whore...for her whore."
She felt better when it was over, exercise always had that effect upon her. She was a little proud, too, that she hadn't stained her clothes. New daylight was finding bruise colors in the wakening sky, and she walked easily away from the mess in the alley. A WestEnd girl, now, welcoming another WestEnd day.