Chapter Text
Come, she whispers, come and listen to what the dead man has to say.
Death manifests in many forms. There are many ways to die, even more to kill. And despite what most people might think, a physical death is not the only death, nor is it the most cruel. No, there are many things worse than a heart that no longer beats. In fact, some may call it mercy. Benevolence, for a life lived lonely is worse than a life no longer lived.
Its better to die, she says flippantly, words thrown over her shoulder as leaves to the wind, than to survive like the dead.
How can this be? Surely this must be wrong. Surely it must be better to be alive than to descend into the horrifying depths of the darkness in which there holds no answers nor questions and oh! She must be lying! She lies when she says that death is mercy and benevolence and generosity and honour and—
Sh.
Do you see it? That slender finger pressed to a cheeky smile, her bright green eyes glinting with mischief.
Her wrist that protrudes with the rounded dips and valleys of bone, and her skin, tanned and warm, the blue streams of veins streaking underneath. And that cord, that bright red cord that encircles her wrist. Oh how it winds, captivating, around and around, an entropied mess until it crawls up her hands, drapes in swoops and loops from her fingers and finally, anchors around her pinky before it drops off her person entirely.
Follow that thread, follow that striking blaze of red that calls as sirens call, follow and follow and follow until you
Stop.
Stutter to a standstill, and see, as that red string binds the wrists of a man together. The man who breathes and no longer lives as he slumps to the ground and slowly parts his hands to see…. Blood. No. Is this just a mess of crimson thread? Or is it blood? Or is it both or are they one and the same and we will never really know the difference because what is fate but blood bonded and what is destiny but shackles to fate and—
No.
She kneels, she whispers, come on then, lets find out, what the dead man has to say.
A delicate hand raises to his cheek, draped loose with crimson thread, a taunt against his scarlet fettered wrists.
So, levi. When did your life go absolutely to shit?
And the man with glassy, empty eyes will look up, and then he will say, “I don't know.”
Liar. Just as a bullet hits glass, as the fractures splinter from the point of impact, even the most complicated web of entangled fates can be picked apart, followed and traced back to one common coalescent point.
He knows when his life went to shit. And whenever the question is asked, he will think back to that day. Back back back in time he will fall, through his memories and through his mind, funnelled to that day in the Sunken City.
To her.
To the girl who comes as smoke.
“Hello, sunshine.”
That's his last warning before a hand slams into his throat. Levi wheezes, tries to drag air into his lungs to right the rare misstep that he is forced to take. He switches immediately to the defensive. He has been snuck up on. There is only a handful who manage to accomplish that. She is one of the few. She is one of the dangerous. Shes here.
Protect. He must protect what is his. This book in his pocket must not leave his person. The punches launch instinctively.
Agile and nimble as ever, she weaves under his punches that are underloaded as a result of the surprise attack. The kick he launches narrowly misses her head by mere wisps of hair. Fuck.
She strikes a counter attack, her jabs sharp as vipers. To the throat, the eyes, the groin, she's not afraid to play dirty and neither is he. He uses size and weight to his advantage, the next time a punch comes by, he intercepts her arms and twists them up against her head, slamming her into the grimy walls of a nearby alleyway. Hands above her head, his arm pins across her throat. They are both heaving.
“This is not a joke, Rhea,” he rasps, “we need this job.”
“And we don't?” her arrogant smirk inflames a burning hatred. He seethes. He might punch her in her perfect teeth.
“Brother!” Isabel yells. He casts a quick look over his shoulder. Rhea’s own friends have Isabel trapped. Literally. She dangles from a net, her gear on the floor. Furlan is smarter, and Rhea knows this. She does not bother trying to trap Furlan. Instead one of her men exchanges punches with him to keep him busy. Levi must help them, but the document in his breast pocket brands through his clothes. He has to keep the document safe. Has to. This is the book that the client wants, and will be their ticket to dinner for the next month. Without it they will starve.
“Looks like your friends are in trouble, pretty boy,” a dimple flashes with her smile, wrists still pinned above her head. “So what's it gonna be? Abandon them? Or shall we dance a little longer?”
He cuts his hateful glare back at her. “You want to dance?”
“Waltzes with you are always my favourite.”
She brings a knee up to launch an explosive kick against his ribs. Pain blooms but his hold yields not. She will not win this. She cannot win thi-
Her lips press to his.
His mind short circuits, and it is enough for his hold to loosen on her. Her hands slip out, her grin is smug as she sinks down the wall. His wits come back too late, her light steps and even lighter hands have brought her entire weight slamming into him. Rhea makes quick work of this split second to run her callused hands all over his body, knows that whatever advantage her body weight has wont last against his inhuman strength. Luckily for her and fuck all for him, split seconds are more than enough for her to fish the book out of his pocket.
He tries to tug her back but she flees the moment she gets what she wants. That's what she always does. Skipping backwards, her midnight dark hair falls about her in a mess to frame that disgustingly pretty heartshaped face of hers. The cloth bound book dangles from her fingers.
He swipes the back of his hand hard against his mouth as he remembers to hate the very essence of her being. He tries to spit out the feeling of her lips on his, but she might as well have branded his mouth as hers.
“Playing real fucking dirty, Rhea,” he spits. “Real fucking dirty.”
“Dirty is my middle name, sweetheart.” Her emerald eyes glitter with her taunting smile. “Do you want to do it again?”
Revolting. She disgusts him.
“We need that book.” his teeth grit so hard they may crack, eyes darting around frantically searching for any solution to salvage this mess.
“Oh, you mean this book?” she sticks it down the front of her shirt. “Come and get it.”
“Don't think I won't.”
“I know you will. That's what I love about you.”
Her whistle cuts through the air just as he dashes forward. Her men react instantly. They dive after him as he breaks into a sprint. He needs that fucking book. They need the patronage of the client or else they will starve. It's the same for her, that much he’s aware. It's the same for everybody underground. Dog eat dog, eat or be eaten. No rules come into play in this godforsaken land.
She legs it down the alleyway while her men desert Isabel and Furlan to redirect their energy towards stalling him. He knows their tactics, their gangs clash often enough. Deploying his wires, he launches into the sky, attention firmly trained on the figure in black streaking down the alleyway. His hips twist to angle the grapple into the wall, rapid fingers calibrating the trajectory of his tackle. One chance. He has one chance. This girl is the most slippery amongst the band of thieves that run the underground. One single misstep and she will fall right through his fingers.
He pulls the trigger. Wires drag him downwards, striking her fairly across the small of her back. She sprawls unto uneven dirt, sewage spraying up her face. Flipping her onto her back, he hesitates for a split moment for what he's about to do. The underground is merciless but he has always tried to keep to whatever remained of his morals. Violating a woman was not part of that.
“Brother!” Isabel screams from behind.
That is enough to strengthen his resolve. There are people he's responsible for, mouths that he must feed. So, jaw clenched unbearably tight, he rips her thin cotton blouse right down the middle. She wears a plain black bra. Her necklace, that bright green stone hanging upon that scarlet cord, rests against her pale skin.
And there is nothing else.
“Well damn, at least take me out to dinner first,” she drawls. Her head drops back against the ground, pillowed arrogantly against one hand. “But, I am not opposed, just so you know.”
“Yeah, Levi, at least take her out to dinner first,” calls a new voice, almost boyishly playful.
He snaps up to see a man perched on the rooftops. Cassian, Rhea's right hand man. Of course, she’d passed the book to him. His growl rumbles deep as he springs up from her. She scrambles away but that's the least of his concerns. His new target is the man sprinting along rooftops. Does Cassian really think to outrun the man wearing odm gear? Levi shoots his grapples.
Just as the metal embeds in concrete and wires whir loudly, something is tossed from Cassian's hands to Rhea’s. The book.
“Fuck!” he roars. He dislodges his hook mid flight to twist his body towards the girl who was dipping into the shadows. He aims right for her head. She gives him a wave, a smile. And her eyes, ever alluring and sharp as cats’, winks.
And then she sinks into darkness.
The gear cuts him over to where she was just a split second ago, but nothing is there except a hole in the wall that he is too big to get through. Gone. She’s gone.
The rage has him pummelling at crumbling walls until his hands are bloody and sore. Not again, not again! He has lost her again. Debris pelts down around him. His groan strangles in the back of his throat. She always does this! Is there no honour even amongst thieves!
The sound of footsteps behind him ceases his outburst, resting his fist against the pitted granite walls.
“Please tell me you got her,” Furlan says grimly.
“I will kill her,” Levi growls.
Her name is Rhea Hetian of the underground, and she is known as the ghost who steals from thieves.
—
Ask him now, several years later, one simple question: Where did it all go wrong? Ask him to sieve through memory to pinpoint the zenith of the splintered fractals of tragedies that have warped the very course of his life, and he might fail to give an answer. Where to even start, he might scoff, and then sneer something about needles and haystacks, chickens and eggs.
But even then, even with every branch that bleeds out from the possibilities that the mere question poses, he knows that every path will lead back to this day. That everything will lead back to her.
She may not have ruined his life, but she sure has centered herself in the eye of the hurricane. This had been where everything went wrong.
Yes… that had been where his life began.