|| Karmic Retribution || (Skylar!)

He walks with a sure stride, head held high and suit immaculately pressed. Briefcase made of faux leather paired with a sense of obscure arrogance, his presence fills the room that makes everyone but the wealthiest Capitolite glance, even if just for a moment. With hair slicked back he flashes a charming grin at the receptionist, before disappearing around the corner. My eyes track the tail end of his suit as he disappears from view, non-blinking as the elevator doors slide open a moment before hissing shut. After sliding up from my seat and tossing a few coins from the table, I flip my hood up over my smoothed hair and begin the short distance to the polished chrome doors.

A bony finger presses the call button as I patiently watch the numbers tick progressively higher, each level passed indicating a raising of status. Finally, at the 34th floor it grinds to a halt. Satisfied with knowing he was the only one in the steel cage I stuff my hands into my pockets, and duck my head down to the immaculate tile flooring as a wealthy woman struts next to me in her scarlet red heels. I can feel her eyes but pay no mind, knowing that she probably won't take a second glance at a short girl who looks like a teenager.

"Aren't you a bit young to be here?"

But I've been wrong before.

I weigh answering her as opposed to flat out ignoring her presence. The latter seems like a better idea and I choose not to reply, flicking my eyes to the rapidly scaling numbers flashing inside the ornate brass plating. She stares like one would at an accident and slowly shuffles away from me, nervously checking her complexion in a mirror.

"Oh, are you an Avox?"

Just as I'm about to let my first words of the day leave my mouth the elevator dings and whistles open; I take the opportunity to step in. She hesitates, and in that moment I allow myself the barest hints of a smirk as my finger jabs the 'close' button and hides her from view.

In my pocket the taser is cold, a prickling weight against the smoothness of my fingers. My memory makes a faint whirling sound as I go through the images of his profile, studying the deceiving outlines of his face and his business. Decent, a family man. Gives to charities, helps out in the community, sponsers the Careers; but underneath he's been a bad man. Being a financial adviser is fine on the surface and it pulls in quite a decent pay - if the hotel is anything to go by - but swindling from my father's account won't stand. But he's too gentle to do anything himself, so it seems I need to pay him a visit.

When the thirty fourth floor comes up with a resounding ding, I instinctively step over to a corner and scan the hallways, noting with satisfaction that they are completely deserted. From what I overheard his room was number 666 (fitting, I suppose) and I begin trekking towards his door. Soft soled sneakers make light tapping noises on the plush carpet, muffled by the delicately woven strands. Hn, what a waste of money. However, there is a scraping of the lock and I duck for cover, crouching silently in a groove of two doorways. Out comes a girl whose features betray her for no older than ten, though the way she carries herself must be much more aged. But what draws my attention is the bloodied knife she clutches firmly in one first.

Click. The photo snaps in my mind, permanently engraving her presence into memory. Click. The faded green, yellow and worn sneakers. Click. Young face with a hidden something deep in her eyes. Click. Knife dripping with blood, held as casually as one would a drink or backpack.

A twinge of annoyance as this means that I most certainly won't be able to get the information out of him now. When her steps fade into the distance, I gingerly ease myself out of hiding and make a mental note to track her down.

Well, looks like I'm going to have to talk to you instead.

---

It had taken some doing and the manipulation of strings, but days later I'm staring down at the birth certificate of one Soyala Delaire; pronounced orphaned at age nine. The piece of paper gave no explanation as to why she was orphaned, but after the casual way she held her knife I was starting to get an idea. Absently I placed with the lapel of my jacket and frowned down at the slip; how was I to go about this? While she had most certainly done bad by me and needed to be alerted to who she screwed over, I can't exactly kidnap anybody in my personal state without potentially injuring myself.

Looking back on the scene I flick through the files of my extensive memory, noting with some interest that despite the fact that her cloths and hands were covered in the red substance, her hair was held far from the source of the liquid. She took extra care in swivelling her head, making sure none of the stray ends touched her stained face. With a glance at the knife sitting innocently on my desk, my fingers drum a complicated pattern as I stare off solemnly into the night.

---

Until now, I hadn't appreciated how hard it was to track down a moving homeless person. Their haunts were less known, less documented. The more snooping around you did the more likely they were to notice, and vanish into thin air. And it's with that thought that I proceeded with utmost caution, not daring to do more that ripple the waters. My progress was slow and tiresome, but I am nothing if not patient.

Two weeks later it paid off in the form of where she goes at night, long past the moon setting down to rest. Donning my usual gear I laced up my thick soled running shoes (padded for decreased chance of microfractures) in case of emergency and set off into the night. The air was crisp and I pressed a thin hand to the bridge of my nose, feeling the metallic implants throb with each lungful of air. Glaring at the sky I continued walking the route I had memorized with a mere glance, massaging my bone gently. With a sigh I fingered the taser that once again sat faithfully in my pocket, not expecting to use it; but at this time of night, I'd prefer to take no chances.

Soon enough I slowed my steps and peered into the rapidly adjusting gloom. There were alleyways and trashcans, but no girl-shaped figure. But wait, what's that? There, walking along the sidewalk. My brain instantly compared that face to the one I saw in the hotel, and it gave a resounding thud as it fell into place. Good. Leveling a neutral stare that betrayed no emotion or anticipation I began walking in that general direction, feeling the blade of the knife run smoothly inside my jacket sleeve.

(OOC: My god, Sky. I swear it won't take that long after (though it might not be as long either...), but I needed to get the flashback out the way. Yay for post?)