Sentimental Criminal :: [△K + R⬡yal]

i fuck with savages
you're a fuckboy
you can't hang

By night she is a menace, a mercenary, a vandal and, as of late, a thief. Open windows are an invitation, no matter the floor; locks are a challenge, a dare; stuffed pockets demand to be made a little lighter. And should something that catches Royal's eye happen to oh-so-casually wander down a dim alley — well, that temptation is too strong to ignore.

It was the gun that she'd wanted that night, but her sucker punch had rendered her mark unconscious, and Royal Hardt wasn't going to just leave a thick gold chain lying around. She'd pocketed the firearm, the necklace, the wad of cash, and casually strolled from the scene of the crime. It wasn't until she made it home to examine her haul that the second-rate ruffian realized the necklace wasn't set with diamonds — they weren't any gemstone at all. Dawn came with a cold sweat realization that, shit, these crystals were precious to someone, and a good deal more valuable in the luxury items district than the stones her father mined.

It wouldn't be a matter of if someone comes looking for the illicit trinket, but when.

Still, she can't see any sense in waiting around for someone to hunt her down and string her up. By night she is a menace, but by day Royal Hardt has responsibilities. Which, unfortunately, means she can't bunker down in the freezer with one hand clutching her new treasure and the other thumbing the necklace like a set of gangster's rosary beads. Not that she would want to. Boring.

Leaving the house, leaving the shop, there are only so many precautions she can take, but she's got a new a nervous habit of triple-checking that the handgun is tucked away in her front pocket. And with no better hiding place in mind, she'd stashed the necklace under her pillow, waiting for some meth-fairy to turn the gold into her own smashed out teeth in her sleep.

As the days since her grand theft wear on, her paranoia waxes and wanes. Every far-off shadow that follows her trajectory for too many blocks (one and a half) is clearly out for her blood; every time she recoils at a body brushing past, she scowls at the spike of adrenaline that thumps against her chest. Stupid. She's fine. She's got a pistol in one pocket and a filet knife in the other, and even if she's never fired a gun before, any average idiot can do enough damage just waving it around. Besides, ready, aim, fire couldn't be that hard; an above average idiot probably didn't even need the first part.

Behind the counter of the butcher shop, she is worse than a sitting duck — she is plucked and strung up by her feet, hanging in full view in the window display. But she's got a block of cleavers, her back to the wall, and one dark eye glued to the door at all times. Home field advantage counts for something.

Even so, when someone finally does come for her, it takes the butcher far too long to recognize that this is the thug who's come to collect on her ill-advised mugging.

Nothing about the girl who's leering at Hardt through the window is subtle.

If she weren't still sporting the shiner from their last run-in and staring Royal down with enough focus to suggest she might be quizzed on the subject later, the butcher would've written this girl off as one of the local hooligans here to pilfer the iron t from the store front. (As it was, the sign above her mother's shop seemed to spend more time reading Hard Meats than Hardt)

But the swollen eye is positive identification for vengeance or retribution or whatever other synonym for Royal's blood she might think to use, and the butcher isn't looking to add her own to the collection of scarlet stains splattered across her apron. She disappears from the window's view, edges up to the door —

only to be greeted by the bell as her stalker barrels through the front of the shop —

only to be greeted in turn by the barrel of the very gun that Royal had swiped from her not two weeks prior.

And only then does Royal's heart start thrilling in her chest, the adrenaline finally setting in. With the gun to the other girl's head, she feels half a deity. Destruction is pressed in her palm, and never before has she given such equal weight to making life and taking it away.

Intoxicated with the power she's never come close to having, Royal Hardt brandishes a newfound bravado.

"The fuck are you," she doesn't ask. Despite the ease that the threat-not-question spills from between her teeth, every muscle in her body is rigid. She changes her mind. She doesn't care. Dead, maybe. "The fuck do you want." Her eyes leave her hostage's for a second, tracing the girl's nose up to the metal of the pilfered pistol.

A wry grin breaks over her face, her tongue clicking against the back of her teeth, her head shaking negatory. "Uh-uh. Winner takes all. This is mine now." She taps one finger against the trigger guard, taps the barrel of the gun against her captive's third eye. "Bang."

tags - L△LIA