Oriena Rusayev

[Oriena]

Oriena Rusayev

Her parents split when she was eight years old.

Oriena was brought up by her mother on the poor outskirts of the city, shadowed beneath the thumb of the CCD and struggling to make ends meet. There was little to no state care for someone with mental health needs, which aside from marring her divorce papers with “irreconcilable differences” also left her mother unable to hold down a steady job. They lived hand-to-mouth on what little they could earn, steal, beg or borrow, alongside the small package of money her father wired for “maintenance” of the child he had abandoned.

Ori learned to take care of herself young; oft times caring for her mother, too. She was a sarcastic and wilful child, often ostracised by the other children for her chaotic nature and disinclination to play nice - though she was utterly devoted to her mother. Those who ridiculed the illness that drove her to manic highs and oppressive lows learned not to do so within Ori’s hearing – and that’s as true now as it was then.

When things were good she attended state school – at least when she wasn’t on expulsion for her smart-ass attitude and stubborn aversion to following the rules. Her neighbourhood wasn’t the safest for a kid her age to hang around alone; amongst the tenanted apartment blocks, derelict buildings competed with half collapsed, abandoned demolitions, and there were as many squatters as rent-paying citizens. Squint your eyes and ignore the high city rises in the distance, and it almost looked like it had been ravaged by war. Still, it was home, and Ori was full of brash, childish confidence. She was never afraid of the shadows that scuttled in empty buildings; was even curious in a morbid way, to peer at those misfortunates worse off than herself. When they came too close she knew to keep away. Better, she knew how to keep them away.

The first time she got Sick her mother was on the tail end of a low, and Ori’s fever plunged her right back into it; convinced her that death had come to claim her only child because she was a terrible mother. Her tears were hot on sweat-soaked skin, but they didn’t burn as much as the anger in Ori’s gut. This was the CCDs fault. Medication would have aided her mother’s moods. Psychological treatment would have taught her to cope in a way a fourteen year old couldn’t teach her. With those two things, they could have earned enough to make a decent living. Oriena pulled herself up from bed out of sheer bloody obstinacy to wrap her arms around her mother’s heaving shoulders. The first time she got Sick was the last time she got Sick.

Life continued in a volatile stream of ups and downs that passed for normal.

When things were especially rough, they survived almost exclusively on her father’s monthly pay-outs, until the day Ori became a legal adult; then the burden of finance fell on her shoulders. She bounced between jobs, mostly bar-work in the city centre, and kipped on the floors of various acquaintances when it was too late to take the metro home. Her life had little structure, which she more or less thrived on, though she hated leaving her mother unattended at home. In her spare time she studied business through use of old textbooks and the internet, too poor to afford the tuition. It wasn’t ambition so much as general restlessness, particularly with the order of the world. The realm of business was so deeply systematic and regulated; she hated it. So she wanted to understand it.

It was while working in the prestigious Manifesto bar that she met [name omitted], a prominent CCD official with an errant grin and sly sense of humour. What started as a battle of charm and wit propelled headfirst into something else, and it was with foolhardy recklessness that she threw herself into an affair with a married man. Secrecy and lies weren’t difficult things for her; she slipped into the deception like old skin, and felt no guilt. The guy even had kids. And like most who rode the apex of the civilized world alongside Nikolai Brandon, he also had an obscene amount of wealth. His attempts to lavish gifts always ended poorly, though he persisted despite her quite blatant disinterest. For him, at least, it was the epithet of his affection. So she tolerated it. For that. Money, after all, is the key to so much in Moscow.

Nearly two years passed before things unravelled.

She made the mistake of falling in love.

Ironically enough, when the shit hit the fan, it was not discovery of the affair that ended it all, but Oriena’s discovery that she was not the only mistress. She was mortified by her own naivety; it had been foolishness of the highest calibre, and she was disgusted with herself. Not that she wasted time wallowing in self-pity; there’s little more fearsome than the wrath of a woman scorned, and Ori has never been the type to let an insult pass. Corruption among the upper echelons of the CCD was and is no real secret, but it has its limits. Discretion is paramount if a man wants to keep his reputation, and it’s surprising what a man will divulge in pillow-talk. She threatened to expose their sordid secret, and he did what most men in his position chose to do; he bought her silence. It cost him. It cost him a lot. Not the price of a broken heart, though it was broken, but the vicious extraction of retribution. Enough to set herself up, and to soothe the sting of her own stupidity. Enough to twist the knife in his stupidity.

The first thing she did was buy a motorbike. The second was to flip [name omitted] the finger in the most caustic way she could think of.

She used the money to set up a business. Specifically, she used it to set up a Burlesque House.

It had a pleasing sort of irony, since [name omitted] had relegated her to little more than a whore, and she’d been the idiot who let him. Taxation was too high to take the “fuck you” to the highest extreme of a more clandestine enterprise, and she’d be damned if she was going to funnel more cash than necessary into the heart of the “liberal” CCD. Viciousness sharpened her mind to the task; now a young woman, Oriena knew exactly how to get what she wanted. And what she wanted was for [name omitted] to never, ever be able to forget his mistake.

Kallisti House of Burlesque is a high-end establishment in downtown Moscow, and its grandiose begins right on the doorstep; it occupies an imposing stalinesque building that naturally draws the eye from its neighbours on the street, and keeps it there. During the day it is a building without marker; at night, lights flood its front so even shadows may not thieve its grandeur. It cannot be ignored. The interior within is lavish with nods to the wickedly decadent, its complementary mix of soft and severe differentiating it from the seediness of a strip joint. The main area comprises of a bar and small stage, with a separate room for the restricted performances (this is set up more like a theatre), and its motif is the seductive portrait of a burlesque dancer biting into a golden apple.

As a business model it shouldn’t really work. It operates a strict no-touch rule, but bends the tease to scandalous levels; it delights, titillates and seduces, then smiles and says no. Kallisti’s performers are untouchable, beyond the reach of the nouveau riche and CCD giants alike - despite every last dollar to their name. Strangely, this has made it more popular; it plays right into the current elitist conscious.

Since its opening three years ago, Kallisti has grown a solid reputation for offering the highest calibre entertainment in the most exclusive setting and is renowned for pushing the boundaries of risqué (and for its rather beautiful performers), but never tips into the territory of a strip-club. Among the city’s young billionaires it is a popular haunt; particularly to kick a night off. Given its prime reputation and offer of privacy, it’s not unheard of for important members of the CCD to visit either.

It cannot be ignored.

Thus it kind of served its purpose. Despite forming the entirety of her present income, Ori is not precious about her business. She pays someone to take care of the day-to-day running, and glances from time to time at the paperwork and accounts that come her way. Most would not even know she was the proprietor, unless they were privy to the name on the lease. Occasionally she works the bar and toys with the patrons. One thing she’s learned from years of bar-work is how easily people will talk when in their cups, particularly when soothed by the comfort of the non-disclosure contract Kallisti asks of its staff. As such, she has more than a few of them vised by the balls. Just in case.

Ori's of average height and slender build, with dark hair and blue eyes. There’s usually something quite sardonic to her expression, though she is capable of sincerity. Casual confidence marks her demeanour, pushing towards the boundaries of haughty arrogance at times. Despite the nature of business she’s in, her tastes in fashion and make-up usually err towards the understated classic.

Uncompromising, stubborn, and wedded to a front of apathy. Though still young, Ori’s a world-weary soul. She generally finds the company of other people lacking in both intelligence and interest, and views most of her relationships as a means to an end. As such, she’s free with money, though this should not be mistaken for generosity; she’s largely indifferent to its elitist value, and has an inherent understanding of using it to get what she wants; in the CCD, money means respect.

She’s charming when she wants to be, though her idea of banter occasionally cuts close to the quick, and particularly when bored or disinterested by her company she pushes to get a reaction. She’s the type to take risks just to see what will happen. Natural charisma gets her out of most scrapes, though when it doesn’t she’s hard pressed to step down from a challenge.

Difficult to read at the best of times, her sense of humour errs towards the satirical, and her temper is generally even. She has the façade of someone pretty difficult to ruffle, though in reality it’s just a slow burn; once sparked, her temper comes without warning, often disproportionate to the insult. Her trust, once earned, is usually pretty firm; there are plenty who think they have it, though, and don’t – they shouldn’t be surprised by her betrayal, but they generally are; she marks that down to being a good actress. Those who cross either her or someone she has a reason to look out for can expect retribution; forgiveness comes rarely, if at all.

She has little respect for authority, and despite being Russian-born dislikes the totalitarianism of the CCD. Her record is littered with minor infractions, usually of the disorderly kind, but she has little interest in actual crime; she just bends the rules to either suit her purposes or in knee-jerk reaction to the idea of being ordered about. Her opinion of the nouveau riche, despite forming a proportionate number of her clientele, is very low; most of them are the sort of imbeciles who’ve never done an honest day’s hard work in their lives. And yes, she revels in the hypocrisy of that judgement, since she didn’t exactly do much to earn the basis of her own wealth. Likewise, her view of CCD officials is poor, though since these people have generally earned their positions via merit, she treats this on a case by case basis.

She does love her cat, though.

---

RP Threads

• <li style="display:none">
  
• Kings of the Castle (Jaxen, Jon Little Bird)
  
  
  
• A Blind Eye (Jaxen, Hood, Spectra, Silas, Yuri, Drayson, Ascendancy)
  
  
  
• Amends (Alone/Luka NPC)
  
  
  
• Promises (Alone)
  
  
  
• Calling in Favours (Claire, Takeo, various NPCS)
  
  
  
• Choices (Giovanni, Nox)
  
  
  
• Blood Sport (Giovanni, Marcus, Hood)
  
  
  
• The Spoils (Alone/Kasun NPC)
  
  
  
• A Wicked Game (Alone)
  
  
  
• Pawns in the Game (Jaxen, Manix)
  
  
  
• Triumphant Return (Jaxen)
  
  
  
• Glass Houses (Claire, Raffe, Ilesha)
  
  
  Edited by Oriena, Jan 20 2018, 03:52 PM.
  
  

[Oriena]

2036

There were plenty of places to disappear in this neighbourhood; not that Oriena was hiding so much as avoiding. She didn’t want to go home. Not yet, anyway. But, with no money and no viable destination, her options were pretty limited; she slunk through the derelict quarters of Zamoskvoreche, dwarfed amongst the grey, square-faced buildings and their crumbling facades, smothered by the poverty, looking for quiet. The people here were distant; squatters and misfortunates who watched with cautious, red-glazed eyes from the shadows of the hovels they’d claimed their own. Disinterested. Most of them, anyway. Ori was careful to elicit no unwanted attention; she might be reckless, but she wasn’t naïve. She kept herself sharp, but her gaze turned away.

The day was dim even though it was only mid-afternoon; the sun suffocated behind thick grey clouds, and the air was swollen with the promise of rain. Ori ducked into the half-subsided entrance to an old apartment block and picked her way through the debris, careless to the possibility it might cave in on her head. Honestly, she was probably in more danger from the local drugheads than structural collapse, though both risks were met with little more than consummate adolescent apathy. Somewhere to sit in peace for a few hours; that’s all she wanted. And the best way to find it was to slink inside one of these empty-tomb buildings, to squeeze into the crevices adults could not fit, and disappear for a while.

Inside it was cool where the sunlight never touched, and it smelled faintly of earth and decay. It was very silent. Until a shuffle sounded behind her. Ori spun, startled. It took a heart-thumping moment to adjust to the gloom; to hone in on the source of the noise. Thick rags covered the stranger’s body, pulled up in a hood over their head, and shadows obscured any hint of features – but for the faint glint of eyes. Instinctually a vibration thrummed in her chest, shooting waves of warmth that spread unconsciously from her body and shimmered out in dizzying tendrils.

She’d dealt with shadows before, and she knew how to protect herself from them.

But the feeling of power shook loose when she realised it - he? she? - was cowering from her, literally pressing itself into the join between wall and floor like it might disappear. Coolness washed her out. The impulse did not come from principle. Nor shame. Instead it was surpassed by a disgusted sort of curiosity, and such a lack of fear that the control fled entirely. The patterns she had woven, locking the stranger in, faded, and with it her awareness of the room dimmed. Still, nothing moved. It really might have just been a pile of rags.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”
Irritation bled into her tone; her lips pressed tight, and her hands fisted onto her hips. Truthfully, she did not know what she had been about to do, but she meant no harm now. The stranger did not move. Ori could barely make out breath beneath its heavy covering; no hint of skin or face, scarcely even of form. “I said--”


“What are you?” The voice was breathy, indistinctly male or female, but pitched high enough to mark a child. Orphans weren’t exactly uncommon, and it didn’t mean Ori was safe – well, not from some crimes – but she felt some tension release anyway. It was just a kid, creeping about the abandoned parts of Zamoskvoreche. Scavenging, probably. Even without the burning fire in her chest she could defend herself if things turned nasty; so, keeping a sensible distance, she sat down amidst the dust and muck, back against one of the walls. And frowned at the question. “I’m Ori.”


Silence answered.

She sighed viciously and pulled her legs up tight to her chest, toying with her shoelaces. What are you? Not who. Her brows dipped low over her eyes, until she was scowling at the dusty tips of her boots. Different. Like her mother, but in a distinctly unnatural way. Outcast, exile, freak. Of course, she was too prideful to take offense. Whether it had been an exclamation or an accusation, Ori’s dignity flared defensively bright. Which was why she had stubbornly answered with her name, and ignored the inference. Her eyes peeked up from her glower, testing the edge of her self-righteousness against this stranger’s judgement. But she couldn’t tell if they were even looking at her.

Then faint movement caught her eye. Ori had the distinct impression the child untangled more than shifted, for it had a distinctly inhuman resonance. She blinked the absurdity away. There was not enough light by which to make out much, and though sometimes her senses were sharper than they had any right to be, it was not something she could call upon on whim. She squinted a little, though it didn’t really help. Deformed maybe, or disfigured in some way. Moscow was not kind to such people, even children. Explains a lot. A little of her indignation faded at the realisation.

“It felt like rope. But... you didn’t touch me.”

A pause. Discomfort prickled Ori's skin, though only for a moment. She was not ashamed, but she was suddenly wary. People rarely reacted well to strangness, and what if she had been wrong? What if the kid wasn't alone? A quick glance found nothing substantial in the shadows, but just in case she reached for the feeling, tried to drag it back into her grasp. She might as well have stood on tip-toe and spread her fingers up to catch the sun. She could feel it, though; that sweetness, just beyond her senses.

“Look, I’m not going to apologise. You took me by surprise.”
The words were matter-of-fact rather than affronted; steel edged and sure. She hoped the confidence made an impression, and had been about to say more, but the child interrupted.

“You should be careful.”

What if it wasn't a kid? It sounded like one. But it didn't speak like one. “What are you?”
It came out like a demand; childish and surly and offended, because she was unsure if a threat was wrapped in those words. This wasn't the expected reaction, and she was irritated that this stranger presumed to give advice. They had been as startled as she, to begin with. But no longer. Cautious, yes; it was palpable, the strain of uncertainty. But not quite afraid; their voice had been steady. The calm was unsettling; they didn't find her strangeness strange.

More movement, and Ori tensed. But the stranger was folding back, still pressed against the wall, edging slowly away. She let them go.

“They hunt those like us. Those different. You should be careful.”

Then, gone. Ori scrambled on her feet to follow, grasping at the wall for sudden support when the darkness below her feet grew black. A hole. A hole the stranger had slipped down. Chunks of plaster fell off in Ori's hands, chalking the air cloudy, but her footing steadied. Curiosity and indignation scalded her thoughts in equal measure... but; reckless, not naive. No way she was going down there.

[Oriena]

2040

It was an unspoken understanding not to ask questions; that there were those here who, for whatever reason, shouldn’t be. But it cost pittance to crash for a night when she had nobody else to rely on, and it was safer than walking Moscow’s streets alone in the early hours. The hostel might not boast luxury; simple cot beds, shared facilities and a grey, sombre interior, but it was secure. And probably safer than sleeping on some stranger’s floor; because if you messed with the patrons here, disturbed the other guests, or broke the peace – well, depending on which rule you broke and how badly you broke it, you learned not to make it again. Or you didn’t come back.

She’d gotten the tip from an acquaintance, and she was pretty sure the whole rig was illegal; so many of the old buildings in and about the city had basements that thrust deep roots into the Undercity, and they punctuated right to Moscow’s heart - or they did if you put your ear to rumour, anyway, and there were plenty of rumours. Oriena didn’t care much for the place’s moral standing, of course, and whatever business went on beneath the surface she was content to turn a blind eye to. The price was right, and the location was convenient; it had a roof, walls, privacy, and, in the depths of Russian winter, it was warm.

It was also where she discovered Cara.

The first time they met had been perhaps the third or fourth time Ori had used the hostel for refuge. She’d exchanged the cash, received her key, and was stumbling down the corridor, yawning and brushing the hair back from her face. Stale cigarette smoke permeated her skin, mixing toxic with the stink of alcohol; she hated that remnant smell at the end of every shift in the shit-holes she worked, but at least the rules in such places were loose. Her head swam pleasantly from the shots she’d shared with some pissed-up gap-year tourists exploring the famed heart of the CCD. At their expense, of course.

She didn’t see the woman hovering in the shadows of a half-open door. Not at first. Her lips pursed when she did – she vaguely recognised her, a regular face here; distinctive enough to remember, with dark hair curled tight to her head and night-dark eyes. She had the hollowed out look of an addict, and ghosted this place with the cautious slink of a cat. Always looking, always staring, with the coal-red glow of mistrust to her gaze. Harmless, at least if she valued her residence here, but what the fuck was she doing loitering at this time?

Oriena shouldn’t have paused – it wasn’t even worth the aggravation – but something felled her footsteps anyway, and propelled her to run her gaze up and down the stranger. Her brows rose in confrontation. Maybe an antagonistic flame to her blood; the alcohol? or something more intrinsic to her nature. Tension shot through her muscles when the woman stirred in response; faster than Ori would have anticipated, or maybe she was just too damn drunk. She yanked her left arm, twisted it, and shoved up her sleeve to the elbow all before Oriena could blink. Fury burned at the shocked indignation, but the moment the sweet sensation of power flooded through her veins the other woman looked up; looked her dead in the eye, like she felt it. “What the fuck?”
Ori snatched her arm away, though the woman’s grip had already slackened.

“Well shit.” Her dark eyes widened and she stumbled back, though it only took a moment to compose herself. Then her brows slashed deep over her eyes and her body stiffened; she seemed poised between fight or flight. Yeah, the woman was grade A crazy. It was 3am; Ori was not in the mood to be the target of some trashed druggie’s idiotic high. Her stare was flatly unimpressed as she shouldered past into one of the empty dorms. “I’m not a junkie, and I’m not helping you score. Don’t bloody touch me again.”
The door slammed shut; the lock twisted with a click.

[Oriena]

A couple of hours rest and a blissfully hot shower later, and Ori was ready to move on; she’d pick up her mother’s meds on the way home, study for a bit – if she could be bothered – and by then it’d be time to start thinking about getting ready for her afternoon shift. Just another day. And just like any other day, she expected the corridor to be empty. Nobody was usually up this early. Except today, obviously.

Perhaps she’d been roused by the slap of water against the tiles in the communal shower-room. Or the clank and moan of the pressure system as it geared itself up to usefulness. But it look an awful fucking lot like she’d been waiting. Ori’s brows drew down in scrutiny; the woman was leaning against a piece of wall between the dorm doors, hands thrust deep into the pockets of a hoodie, back hunched, but her eyes were alert. She straightened when she saw Oriena - pushed off the wall with a moment’s spark of confrontational energy, before she appeared to change her mind and wrapped her arms about herself instead.

“You,”
Ori said flatly.

“I almost wish you were one of them. At least then I could -- but, ugh, this is worse.” There was something tightly contained about her, like every facet of her being was under strict control, but there was also agitation; nerves in the way her eyes never settled, like she’d been watching her back for a long time. Her arms were folded tight, and their grip about her ribcage seemed to tighten every time her gaze clashed with Ori’s. “And I don’t like it.”

“Forgive me.”
Oriena’s tone was polite; too polite. It erred to a shade of sweet sarcasm. “For being a fucking annoyance.”
She made a vague gesture like she wanted to get passed, though her eyes were trained intensely on the woman in front of her. She could feel the power bubbling beneath her skin, like an extension of her irritation, and through it she could smell the lingering scent of shampoo in her own still-damp hair, could see every eyelash rimming the other woman’s cautious eyes. The whole world was a shade more alive, more vibrant. And the moment Ori walked away it’d be gone, taking the flush of sweetness with it. “If you have something to say, say it.”


A moment’s silence reigned, in which a furrow deepened on the woman’s brow and Ori sighed, hefted her bag and made to move passed.

Fuck this.

Only it felt like a hand braced against her shoulder, holding her back. The woman hadn’t moved. But it wasn’t that, nor the sudden swinging open of a door, that stopped her dead. It was the overwhelming sense of recognition, like a clink of sudden harmony in the discord. That caught her attention. Little surprise registered on her face; you didn’t survive Oriena’s brand of upbringing without the self-contained discipline to shut others out, but she did draw instinctively deep on that sense of strength in reaction. So much it felt like her veins might burst through her skin, until her grip faltered and failed, and the light winked out.

The woman’s eyes grew horrendously large in her gaunt face, and even without her extra sense Ori could taste the fear. Old fear, well-worn and shabby but still incredibly potent. She looked uncomfortable, like the force of Ori’s gaze pinned her to somewhere vulnerable; maybe that was all that was keeping her here, because she certainly looked ready to run. Not that sympathy persuaded Ori to let up - she was utterly determined to root out even a hint of lie. But she did finally speak. “What is it?”


“Death.” The answer was immediate; resigned. Her face was bleak, even though her lips curved in a cold little smile. Her fingers brushed over her curls. “You have no fucking idea.” When she lowered her hand it was trembling, and she squeezed it shut slowly. “You walk around sparking up like a lightbulb, and they’ll find you. They trace you here, and they find me too.” She shook her head viciously, and with a newfound surge of strength jabbed a finger at the open door. Usually the order would have rankled. Usually Ori would have told the woman where to stuff it. But one word reverberated.

They.

It was insane, but she didn’t consider walking away. Outcast, exile, freak. She had always assumed she was just her mother’s daughter. Delusional. Unhinged. She’d embraced it; had thought she understood it. Until now. A dry smirk twisted her lips, followed by a grim breath of laughter. “Oriena,”
she said by way of introduction as she entered the room.

[Oriena]

Some months later

“Cara?”
Oriena braced her hands on the edge of the bar, smirking. It wasn’t exactly a warm greeting, though by now it was a familiar one. “They let you in looking like that?”
Ice glittered in the woman’s close-cropped hair and shuddered cold droplets against the skin of her face and arms, which she was wiping at now with her frozen palms. And maybe there were some tears mixed in. A frown touched Oriena’s brow. She didn’t even have a bloody coat on. “I don’t even suppose you’ve got cash on you. I can stretch to some JD, but you’ll owe me one.”


Cara took a shuddering breath, as though the sound of Ori’s voice had pierced a fugue. Her hands dropped on the bar, palms down; they quickly squeezed into uneasy fists, and her gaze focused on them. Ori shifted her weight impatiently, frowned. Waited.

“They found me. We need to go.”

“We?”
She scoffed the word. Friendship was such an uneasy term for what they shared; their affinity was rooted in their mutual strangeness, not something so mundane as actually liking one another. Not that she disliked Cara either, but they hardly spent Friday nights braiding each other’s hair and chatting about boys. The girl was unhinged. That was fine. Didn’t mean Ori was going to up sticks on her word.

“If they found me, Oriena, they found you too.” She finally looked up, and her eyes were two great gaping pits. She was scared. The girl could click her fingers and spring fire from nothing; could manipulate objects without touch; could boil water without a kettle. And she was scared. It prickled unease in the back of Ori’s mind; she glanced over at her colleague, currently leaned in and laughing with a group of patrons, then drew closer to Cara. “I didn’t kill anybody,”
she hissed. “I can’t even--”


“It’s not what you’ve done or not done,” she snapped. “And it’s not what you can’t do. It’s what you fucking are.” Cara snatched her hands back like electricity had sparked off her skin, fear diluted by a momentary flash of chagrin. One step took her back from the bar, then two; with a glare, she turned tail.

Offended. Cara was offended. Ori rolled her eyes.

Fucks sake.

She grabbed her coat from the back, didn’t even pause to explain her disappearance before vanishing out the door. Snow swirled lazily in the glow of the streetlamps, and the cold dug like little pinpricks into every exposed bit of flesh. She flipped her hood up and dug gloves from her pocket as she caught up to Cara’s hunched-over shadow scuttling up the pavement. The woman’s skin looked almost grey; she must be freezing.

“You’re fucking crazy, you know that?”


“It’s kept me alive so far.”

A brief look to the heavens steeled Ori’s tolerance. The woman’s paranoia had always been there, right from the start; a deep dark little parasite that had sucked every ounce of vitality from her. Though since Ori contently shared the grand delusion of their “Powers”, she chose to ignore it; to accommodate the things she wasn’t sure she believed.

Frigid breath swirled out with a sigh. She’d probably lost her job tonight, just walking out like that. Place was a shit-heap anyway, and paid borderline minimum wage. She could do better. She would do better. Though she wished she’d thought to swipe a bottle or two alongside her coat; she had a feeling they were both going to need it.

“So what happened?”


“Raided.” The word shivered out, chilling Ori beneath her winter layers. Cara held up her arm and tapped her wrist, then wrapped her fingers round it as if to stifle the bad omen. The snake tattoo that marked hunters, she meant. A very specific type of hunter. A very specific type of hunter Ori had never had cause to believe in, but for Cara’s grim stories. She wished she could touch the warm light within, for comfort if nothing else. For arrogantly soothing strength. I won’t be hunted. “I escaped. But.” Her words cut off curtly, like she no longer wished to speak of it. And Ori didn’t want to hear it anyway. She didn’t need Cara to shade in the details. Bottom line, she was going to have to find somewhere else to sleep tonight. Fucking great.

They walked in silence, drifting from New Arbat to old. Shadows of snowmen, tens upon tens of them, dotted the wide street; the work of students and tourists, same as every year. It made it feel unnaturally crowded in the pooled darkness, and cold air radiated from their frozen bodies. Eerie. She and Cara picked their way through the silent sentinels, neither speaking. Ori pulled her coat close, burying her face into her hood and grimacing against the cold. Or maybe at the thought of Cara’s delusions. Hunters? Seriously? Probably better not to dwell on it. Snow crunched rhythmically underfoot, and her breath clouded in puffs from frozen lips. It didn’t matter where they were going, she supposed, so long as they kept moving. But they were going to need to head somewhere eventually, and there was absolutely no way she was taking Cara home.

Suddenly the other woman stopped. Gripped her arm, tight enough to pinch through the thick winter fabric, and Ori frowned and pulled away. Until she saw. The shadows. They were moving? Next thing, Cara jerked forward and hissed. Ori backed up into solid cold. It took a second to realise it was just a snowman, which crumbled a little as she forced herself away. Cara was spinning wildly, clutching the top of one arm.

"Ca--"
She cut herself off.

Around them the snow steamed, and the puddles began to boil. Cara's work. The garish silhouettes of snowmen loomed, watching. Silent. Melting. It was fucking creepy, and Ori’s eyes scoured for movement, her heart beating out of her chest. She found nothing, but internally she reached for strength anyway. And couldn’t touch it. No matter how hard she battled, she couldn’t touch it at fucking all. So instead she grabbed Cara’s ice-cold wrist and yanked her away. The woman stumbled. Her eyes were wide; she was breathing hard. She wrenched away.

“Don’t go back, Ori. It’s too dangerous to stick together.” She shoved her, hard, and Oriena scowled. Her heart stamped defiance, flashing bright and hot through her veins. Momentary fear had unbalanced her. Now she was just pissed off.

"What happened to we?"


For once Cara squared right up to her, and suddenly Ori could feel the power wreathing her in charged tendrils. It was not a new sensation, but for once it was a hostile one. Oriena burned bright in reply, hot and sweet as the sun and rife with challenge. Scared of fucking shadows? There had been nothing out there. Couldn't Cara see that?

Then her foot hooked on something soft and warm, and her other crunched on something bony. She almost tripped, but for chords of solid air that steadied her balance. An arm. A hand. Skin peeling and sizzling, the puddle of water still burning and bubbling at its edges. Ori didn’t look at the corpse’s wrist. She did not. But her eyes widened, and bile burned up in her throat, scorching out her taste of power. Cara's gaze was wild and desperate.

“Get. Out. Of. Here. Now.”

So she ran.