tampered | Log, Complete

Log, Complete

When; July 11th [Near Midnight--Prohibit This!].
Rating; R [Language; Violence; Death].
Characters; Alfons Heiderich [

opfern] & Tayuya [

violentflutist].
Summary; While the underdogs have their bloodbath, the leaders have their own rumble. HEAVEN OR HELL! Irish!Tayuya and Sicilian!Alfons reveal a history before providing an ending you only see in the movies.
Log;

If you shut out the sound of gunfire and screams that echoed down the alleyways, it was actually a beautiful night. The children and the lady had offered their kisses, and of course the Don was pleased with the apples brought to him.

In the midst of war and bloodshed, Alfons was seated on a bench so that he could lean back and admire the stars. Even in a city as corrupt as this, the stars would never change. The two picciottos with him seemed rather uncomfortable just standing there when there was a bloodbath going on not five blocks down, but of course they had their duty.

Was he waiting? What did he have to wait for? He knew, even if they didn't, and there was no way some mick was going to sneak up on him. He would have been able to smell it a mile off.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

She had a reputation in the Irish district. It was the rare woman who could be trusted in a crew in a position other than a hooker or a flapper informant, and yet she’d fought her way through the ranks to the head of her own gang, to a leader respected for her power, for her hot-headed nature that she would always back up. It was something she’d worked for, something she’d die for.

Tayuya almost had.

The two picciottos fell silently, slumped down with small gurgles, the throwing knives embedded in the bases of their skulls. A sneer on her face, another dagger lazily tossed up and down in between nimble fingers, brown eyes level. Cold.

“Capo.” The redhead limped forward, her left leg dragging noticeably behind her other step, right arm, chest, and neck up to jaw discolored, evident of recent burn damage.

“You really should think about who you keep.” Her stance was tense, alert, but not overly aggressive. In fact, her gaze wandered up briefly to those same stars, before falling back down, accompanied by the distant sound of gunfire.

Well what else had he expected? Had he expected them to smell her a mile off? Of course not. He wouldn't have expected anything remarkable out of these footmen.

Still, it was rather disappointing how quickly they fell, without even getting a chance to lift their firearms. Not to mention, the back of his coat was now splattered with blood that was hardly clean...but it was the blood of the family, after all, meaning he had every right to be disheartened by their deaths.

"Perhaps. But their company was pleasant. They didn't yammer my ear off like some. And at least they were dressed nicely, which is more than I can say for you."

Smoothly standing, Alfons shrugged off the stained coat to drape it over the back of the bench, just beside one of the bloodied corpses that had fallen. It was a warm night, anyhow. He didn't need that coat.

Having pulled the pack of cigarettes out before folding the coat, he pulled out the last one to perch between his lips and light up while he eyed her. She was a mess, it was true... This whole damn thing was a mess. And it could have been avoided if Sakura and Kimblee had just done their job right.

"Come to get me, rag-a-muffin?" he murmured, appearing keen on the situation despite how bizarre it looked. Him with his dead flunkies and her looking like she'd just been hit by a bus.

"We can't all have the money for snazzy dressing." It was a sarcastic snap of a comment, her dagger still tossed idly between thin fingers, fingers that were accustomed since an early age to handling shivs, to picking pockets and locks.

She liked knives. They were much quieter than guns, and when handled correctly, just as deadly. Not that she was a dumb woman, she had a small piece tucked in the back of her pants beneath the back flap of the worn leather vest over threadbare button-down shirt, more knives sheathed along the same suspenders.

"Besides," Tayuya limped one step closer, squared her stance, and stood, proud eyes and a proud lift to her chin even though it bared further burns not yet scarred. "Who said I came here to kill you, hmm?"

That made him chuckle a bit before pulling the cig out so that he could blow a thin stream of smoke right at her. "No. You'll save the money for the smart ones who know how to make it, isn't that right?"

Despite the sharp commentary, Alfons was offering out his cigarette in an almost absent manner as he glanced back up to the sky. It was like he wasn't facing off against a ruthless woman who probably had more knives on her than he even knew how to count. But oh, he was paying attention, even if it didn't look like it.

"It was cloudy the night we came over. Summer nights are the clearest... But I hate the heat."

Tayuya's stance never relaxed. She never relaxed. To relax between Pearsons and Cartier meant a dagger in the back, meant someone aiming to take your spot, your glory, what little you had in the world.

She wasn't going to risk that, no. But she almost sighed, a sort of wistful noise, stilling the dagger in her hand, running a calloused thumb over the blade.

"It rained at Ellis." The crewboss murmured, allowing herself to think somewhat fondly on a voyage to golden oppurtunity.

"You were so goddamned short." But he had a good few inches on her now, on her smaller, weaker looking body that barked out the words in a hyena sort of laugh, a wince disguised when the leg, broken in three places, moved unplanned.

It was tempting to circle her, just to see if she would let her back be turned to him. It didn't have a damn thing to do about trust... All that mattered was if she thought she was quick enough to get him first, whether she was facing him or not.

But Alfons stayed right where he was, instead shrugging and taking another drag. The wince did not go unnoticed. It was just too bad both legs hadn't been broken.

"Well, you're still as vulgar and homely as ever. The more things change, the more they stay the same." With his half-finished cigarette flicked off to the side to bounce against the curb, Alfons let his hand drift back so that his fingers could curl around the rough grip of his pistol. He didn't draw it, though. He was too busy watching her hands.

"I think it's about time this came to an end, don't you? It's not too flattering for the image to have an Irish rat stuck on me," he offered with a sweet smile.

"Oh, you wish, Alfons." Tayuya intentionally threw his name out. She hadn't called him by that name in years. Hadn't seen him without trying to spill his blood in years. No, the last time she'd called him that their families had seperated after registering at Ellis and she'd waved.

"But I understand." He hadn't circled, but she did, began to stalk around him in a wide circle that slower grew tigher, her limp prominent, the expression on her face strained. But she was exaggerating somewhat, trying to lull him into making the first move.

"Must look bad, on the family, when your boys fail to bump a," She grinned, an almost feral smile, "gutter rat green, ah?" The dagger tossed again, her shoulders hunched, long, vibrant red hair, a mark of her heritage, unkempt behind her.

"Must look bad, or, will, to find the Capo with a shiv in his throat."

That got a flicker of irritation to dart it's way across his azure gaze.

Not her saying his name... Did such things matter here where naught but the street signs and boarded up windows could hear their names whispered? No, it was the fact that she was right. His own boys had messed up, and it had put the entire family at risk.

Until she was dead, it would continue to stay messy, and he couldn't let this draw out too long. He certainly didn't feel like dancing with the bulls tonight of all nights.

"Ah, your concern is appreciated, Tayuya, but they certainly got their just dues for such a blunder. At the very least, they softened you up so that I could be the one to bump you off. It's more fitting this way, don't you think?"

He moved then as well, intent on circling right back, and keeping his distance. He wasn't going to be the one trapped at the center, oh no. He looked down on her now.

"You'd like to think you're quite the bearcat, am I right? But you're nothing but a balled up piece of trash by now." A smirk tugged at his lips, and his shoes clipped against the ground as he sped up. "Rats vomit you out."

"Rats, Alfons?" Another short, harsh bark of laugher, a voice that had gone raspy form screaming earlier, from biting down on a dirty wad of cloth when the almost-Doctor snapped her leg back into place, peeled burned clothes from sizzling skin.

"Better rats than shit out a corrupt politician's ass, eh?" She licked her lips, a nervous tell, and sized him up for the tenth time. In a fisticuffs, she knew, she was the victor. She was all harsh angle, muscles from hard work, from training and fighting, where he was softer, the only thing soft about her the curves of a woman, of breast and hip, not even lips to vouch for feminitity, parched and dried.

"But, if it makes you proud-" She let herself trip, catch herself on the dragging leg with a gritting of teeth and a too hard clutch on knife hilt, tring to smirk, "Go ahead. Take advantage of your boys' fumble and off me." She spread her arms, exposing her chest and the most expensive thing she owned, the rosary around her neck. "Shoot me?"

The tension in the air was something that could have been cut with a knife, and that wasn't just the humidity. The sweat on his brow was from nerves.

After all, just because he was ready to die for the family didn't mean he wanted to. He had more to fight for...more to live for. And what did Tayuya have?

She had nothing.

The grip on his pistol relaxed, and eventually his hand slid free, dropping to reveal that it held nothing. Slowly, he walked closer, narrowed eyes staring at her as he moved, both of them suspiciously unguarded for the moment--at least in regards to their steel. But he was careful of the smells and the sounds, even that of her breaths as he drew close and reached out.

One hand settled against her collarbone, thumb grazing the rosary. "In the end... This is all you are. And as soon as you walked onto our turf, it became ours."

Gripping the necklace, Alfons gave a hard yank to rip it free just as his other hand flew back to pull his gun out. He'd already had it cocked, so all he needed was to trust that he was faster. She was injured. He wasn't. Simple as that.

And yet he was surprised when he heard his own gunfire.

She'd stood, stiff and proud, chin raised. Tayuya knew what this was. This was called a definitive moment, the moment this had been heading in to.

It had taken an effort to still her hand for the moment, to lessen the sneer of disgust on her lips, of the too heavy feel of his breath in her face.

The beads of the rosary were what she saw when she began to move, not his gun. The flash of metal, the smoke of gunpowder and the scent of discharge were nothing. She was watching the rosary, the small, ivory beads spinning through the air, the first ones beginning to clatter to the ground.

The Irish woman had known she'd come here to die. She couldn't have hoped to win this with her arm burned to hell, her chest and neck, with her left leg splintered. No. She'd come here to take him out, and she'd come here to die.

Her left shoulder slammed back when the first bullet hit, burst clean through, and her hand followed through, the fine steel knife flying from her fingers and towards his chest even as the other bullet he'd fired ripped into her right breast.

Tayuya wasn't quite sure if she screamed, or if it had been a tiny gasp, but she fell back, landed rough and hard on her side, neck out. She bled. But she was not dead, no, not yet. So she watched, vision blurry, hazy, painful as her rosary beads hit the ground, small splashes of red on pure white ivory.

He had expected her to react quickly, of course, but not quickly enough to matter. It wasn't until his second gunshot that he realized just what she'd been doing, and it made his lips part with an irritated, though breathless groan.

Bitch was in it to die from the start.

That was when he realized that she wasn't the only one falling. The gun powder and the look in the woman's eyes had been just enough to distract him from the pain. Shock, also, was a factor.

Definite shock.

The pistol was dropped, but he had yet to hear it hit the ground, and he tried to reach for something--anything--to keep his footing, but there was nothing other than the stars way up high.

"Merda," the Capo swore as he hit the ground with a thud that sounded far too final. He couldn't even move. Couldn't even look at her... All he could do was gaze at the stars, as if they held all the answers. He wouldn't last five minutes like this, and he had just enough breath to offer a bitter laugh at nothing.

"The women always...go for the heart."

The voice was faint, her own breath far too faint, a worn, work-shod hand pressed against her breast to try and slow the blood seeping free.

"Didn't think ya had one." The Irish woman spat, she hadn't mean to spit, but there was blood in her mouth and she had to speak around it, rolling over with a groan onto her stomach, pressing harder on the wound in some half hearted attempt to last longer, to live, despite having thought herself prepared for death, eyes caught on the cross from her rosary that lay near the Italian's hand.

"... Hey, Alfons?" She had quieted even more, a bare gasp of a whispered wheeze from shattered lung, eyes vacating, but slowly, slowly.

The voice made him wince and shut his eyes, as if trying to shut her out. Mick. What did she know of the women he kept?

Even more irritated by her intrusion on what was supposed to be a peaceful death, he lifted a shaky hand to grip the knife. It was hard not to bite right through his tongue from the pain as he yanked it free, and he couldn't hear it clatter when it hit the ground... Just like he hadn't heard his gun. Just like he couldn't hear the shots and screams.

It was all just so...grey, and fuzzy, and weak.

His hand dropped to his stomach, and Alfons barely had the energy to turn his head to try and glance in her direction. That required lifting his head a little, though, which was damned near impossible at this point.

"What?"

Tayuya wheezed a little in breath, shoulders forced forward and back to squeeze air into her lungs, through a mouth gaping, hidden by the long red locks that hid her burned face, blood dripping slow. Drip. Drip. Drip.

"Why-" Stubborn, always too damned stubborn for her own good, she pressed a palm against the pavement to try and rise, got a few shaky inches before she hit the ground again with a bit back cry.

"... were ya' looking at the stars?" It was pointless, but it was life. Life still lived until her heart quit, or her lungs finished filling with blood, but it was still her being alive.

The question was pointless. He would have laughed had he the energy.

Not desiring to make a fool of himself like Tayuya was, he just let his head rest back against the ground--still. Peaceful. The Capo di Tutti Capi was not going to be found looking like a scared little girl trying to crawl away from death.

No he didn't want it, but he could accept it with open arms. ...Partially opened arms.

"Because, you daft bird," he wheezed out, only to choke on the blood that had managed to bubble up and become too much of a weight. The coughing fit that resulted somehow felt familiar, but Alfons couldn't place why. He had never been sickly.

"Because...they're the only things...beautiful enough to be looking at. And I'm fairly sure..." Blue eyes became grey and glassy, and his voice became weaker as he fought to remember why he was even here. "...I won't have a moon roof in Hell."

"... Ah." The explanation was meaningless to her at this point, as he body began to settle. She stopped testing, stopped trying to see if she could raise herself, stand and live. Her breast was covered in blood, that was that, her breath a gurgling in her throat. It was cold, her cheek, but she wasn't sure whether that was the pavement or the grip of death.

"... Well-" Her eyes blackened but she settled them on the cross lying on the ground between them, almost reached for it but stopped herself. She didn't deserve it.

"I'm... gonna off' ya again... when I see you there, bastard." The last part was a small escape of breath, her last breath, before her heart stopped, before the breathing ceased and her eyes, still open, became lost, head lolling to the side and hair falling away from her face to reveal her expression.

She still couldn't wipe the proud expression from it.

He tried to answer, to struggle for a witty response to offer the corpse of a woman too proud to know when to quit. But when Alfons closed his mouth in an attempt to clear his throat, it didn't open again. There were no more words to be said out of either of them.

The bodies lie strewn, and a warm breeze sent the beads scattering. The Irish woman in her second rate rags lay face down, and the Sicilian man in his sharp suit lay face up, but both of their hands stayed near the cross--almost on the verge of reaching it, but not quite.

In life they had fought to be different, to rise to power in their own ways, but the night had snuffed out that power.

Life was never equal, but death always would be.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Log, Complete

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject