solveig long // d2 // fin

SOLVEIG LONG.

Tonight, I've got only one goal: Find Mom. After years of sleepless nights spent searching for clues, days spent speaking with all sorts of gang members and underground cult leaders, and far too many fights to count, I think I've finally got a solid lead. A bartender they call Junior—he's got a reputation for being the best pimp in the neighborhood and a rap sheet to match. But apparently he knows everyone. And if he doesn't know you, he can find you.

So I guess tonight is the night I'll finally find out where Mom went. It's difficult even for me to get my hopes up though. Every good lead I've had has ended the same exact way—with me, still motherless.

I shouldn't complain. I should definitely stop looking for her. But I haven't quite grown up yet. I've still got a childhood dream I'm chasing and I really don't know how to let go. And how can I when the dream is someone I love?

The bar is completely full, bodies pressed together as music blasts over a hightech speaker system. The bass beats in time with my heart, shaking the floor and the atmophere around me. It's hard not to get caught up in all of it as I push my way through the crowd. A few drunken souls reach with heavy hands for my waist and I let them, spinning around them for a song or two, sweat dripping down my spine and across my browline.

Life can't be all gloom, doom, and seriouness. It's easier just to have fun. Live a little.

When I finally break free of the crowd and find my way to the bar, I can already spot a guy who looks like he'd be willing to buy me a drink. I lick my lips and brush away the hair sticking to my forehead. I put on a winning smile, leaning suggestively over the bar.

"Strawberry Sunrise, no ice."

And because I never order a drink without one—

"Oh! And one of those little umbrellas."

Plus it's bound to grab anyone's attention when a pretty girl orders a drink with an umbrella.

He turns to me and I recognize him from the picture I was shown. He's already got those eyes that tell me he's intrigued—"Aren't you a little young to be in this club, blondie?"—though his words are anything but flirtatious. Which is fine; I didn't come here to flirt.

I giggle like an idiot and take a step closer—"Aren't you a little old to have a name like, 'Junior?'"—glad to see a flash of surprise in his eyes as he leans back against the bar. His eyes rake over my body and I raise a brow in his direction, the grin dancing behind my lips getting more difficult to hide.

Boys are idiots.

"You got a name sweetheart?"

I run my fingers through my hair, other hand reaching for his chest, fingers dancing over his collar and down the length of his tie.

"You can just call me," I pause, my lips hovering over his with a smile as my hand closes roughly and painfully around his tender ones. He yelps in pain, keeling over almost immediately. "Sir."

It's a shame I don't sleep with criminals; he's got a lot going on down here.

"You've got a reputation for knowing everything that goes on in this district,"I growl, pulling the only picture I have of my mother out of my pocket. "Tell me where she is and maybe I'll let you go with your boys still intact."

He complies as best he can, though it's not the answer I'm looking for.

"Never seen her before," he groans as my grip tightens.

Of course he hasn't. Only my uncle and dad ever have. When I bring it up with dad, he never answers. When I ask my uncle, he just tells me to stop mentioning her, to quit looking, and to stay well enough away. It's always so useless getting my hopes up. Should've known better than to put so much faith in this scum.

I let him go. His voice cracks when he threatens me, so much so that I feel anything but threatened. I laugh and follow him as he straightens his tie, glancing around the room to see which men he's hired to keep guard over him. I count at least four—sounds like fun. I've never tried that many before.

"Oh, come on Junior," I whisper in a sultry voice, looking up at him through mu lashes. "How about we kiss and make up, hm?"

Such a weak and foolish man to agree and hesitate for so long. When he leans in and his eyes close, I greet his waiting lips with my fist. The crack my knuckles make against his jaw sends a shot of energy through me, my grin turning into a full on smile as his body hits the floor.

The music stops and people around me start screaming as his little henchman pull their weapons from inside their coats. A few gunshots go off, though none are in my direction. Homicide isn't something these people want to end up in the Detention Center for.

Which is exactly what I was banking on.

I'm thankful for the bit of time I have to slip my brass knuckles on before the first guy lunges for me. I kick him in the knee and he falls before me, aware that he's already in a compromising position when I tighten my fingers in his hair. He raises his hands in defeat,clearly knowing that he's already beat as I stand poised with a shiny brass knuckle over my shoulder. I decide to take it easy on him, kissing his forehead before pulling his face into my knee.

Boxing is my thing. Born and raised that way. As soon as I could walk I had boxing gloves on my hands and a punching bag in front of me. My Dad couldn't have been prouder—he'd always wanted a sparring partner who preferred a fight without weapons. I didn't train in an academy like most Careers do and I'm certainly not the smartest when it comes to plant memorization or math equations. During the day I lived in a boxing ring. At night I danced around in underground fight rings.

People who know me best learned a long time ago not to fuck with me if they wanted to walk away without a couple of broken bones. I try not to brag, but I know I'm good. So a couple of brutes in a bar? I'll barely break a sweat--

I screech as a pair of hands latches onto my hair, pulling me to the ground and dragging me across the floor.

"Told you, sweetheart," he says, pulling me to my feet just so he can look me in the eyes before his fist connects with my face. "You're gonna pay."

It's blurry only for a second. I've taken hits before. This one was no different than the rest of them. I don't bother spitting the blood from my mouth or swiping it away from my lip. I've got only one thing in mind—and that's beating this shithead into a bloody pulp.

"The hair is off limits, bitch."

Dad calls them tantrums. Says I never really grew out of them. I hate when he says that, acting as if I'm still a child when I can knock the biggest men out cold with one good hit.He says I lose focus, that strength doesn't always win, nor does unbolstered rage. I've yet to see any evidence of that. And this is no exception. I hit him until he finally decides to stay down, his face torn to shreds, his blood dripping from my knuckles.

I breathe heavily, spitting blood at his unconcious body with a grin.

"Nice talking to you, sweetheart," I pull my lighter from my pocket, put a cigarette between my lips. "Let's do this again sometime."