Chapter Text
Her eye was a grey white, ivory colour. Irritated flesh encased the orb, with tendrils of skin folds stretching itself over her brow bone in a painful mismatched stitch, curling around her cheek bone to the left corner of her mouth, before it suddenly gave way to healthy clear skin.
Some of the more stupid farm hands would talk about it, coming up with all kinds of wild conspiracies when they were certain the woman wouldn’t hear.
“I heard it was an acid attack!”
“No it’s, clearly a cow poke!”
“Boiling water mixed wida’’ suga’ - like ma’ maa’ did to ma’ paa’.”
Revvy wasn’t sure. She was just as curious, but she wasn’t as stupid as to dwell on it.
She’d seen men shot for less.
Revy took one last draw of her now limp embers before she dropped them, crushing the cigarette under muddy boot.
It was a morning much like all other mornings in the mountains.
Cold. Foggy.
Dew drops had gathered on lush green grass, with spider webs merely weaving patterns between lush towering trees.
Some would call it peaceful.
“Revy! Job!”
Revy knew better.
She sighed, drawing a calloused hand down a limp face, before sauntering off in the direction of Dutch.
He’d likely been hiding out in the wooden shop next to the cows.
Bounty hunters didn’t often work in tandem, but Black Lagoon made the exception.
Her metal capped boots made a dragging, crunch, crunch, drag, noise against the polished wood floor.
Dutch’s lip twitched in annoyance but he managed to not lecture her for the hundredth time. He knew she’d never stop slouching everywhere.
“We got’a job?”
“Yeah. Big one.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“Tch’.”
Revy wasn’t one to call the shots, nor did she really care too. She just preferred to seem like she had control. They both knew she never did.
“Who’s it for?”
“Does it matter?”
Her hands unconsciously crept towards her twin pistols. Handles made of bone, skulls etched into the side, black metal. One of a kind.
She smiled.
Dutch smiled back, cheeks rising behind his dark glasses.
“Balalalika.”
Revy’s smile dropped.
“Dutch, no.”
He kept smiling at her.
“Dutch! No!”
He grinned more.
…
Revy grumbled to herself as she saddled the horse, legs thrown over. Her daisy dukes always itched against the leather saddle but she’d be damned if she was caught wearing longer pants.
Dutch didn’t say anything, he merely started off down the gravel, not glancing back to check she’d followed.
They both knew the way into town anyway.
It’d be hard to get lost on the way to the Russians bar.
A wooden wrap around veranda, three stories, a bar, a brothel, a gambling den, all wrapped into one. It’d take a blind man to miss it.
A huge fire roared inside no matter what time of year. Some said it was to hide the stench of the dead bodies they’d drag out every morning.
‘Or the sex’, Revy wrinkled her nose in disgust.
The pair slowly made their way around the back towards the stables.
Sliding down the horse, she gestured for the Dutch to take the reins. The least he could do was tie up the horse, after saddling her with such a shit gig.
It was still early morning when she threw open the double doors to the den, so only half the town was inside. Two mean faced men nodded at her as she stepped into the foyer.
More of the towns folk would file in as the day dragged on, but for now, most of the inhabitants appeared to be last night's affair.
Brown eyes quickly surveyed the ground floor. Large polished bar with a green velvet trim. Red walls, maybe velvet? Either way it screamed money. One couple was rutting against each other on the semi-raised stage next to an abandoned piano, while a lone man sat and wept on the steps beside them. At the bar a white haired man appeared face down in his glass.
Revy edged closer, nearly tripping over a stray bottle. On closer inspection, red was oozing down his neck from a deep hole beside his ear.
“Revy, come with me.”
A thick Russian accent greeted her, just as his wide hand gripped her scrawny shoulder.
Boris. A towering man, whose thick work boots did nothing to work against his threatening stature. He could’ve been a handsome man, but his nose had clearly been broken more times to count, with three definitive ridges jutting out across the bone. A thick, ugly scar ran from eyebrow to dimple, a nasty cut that likely would’ve killed a lesser man back when it had happened. It was clearly healed now, but the stitching had been hasty, even years later the skin looked dry to the touch.
Revy nodded, swatting his hand away, but began trailing behind him nonetheless.
She really wished she’d waited for Dutch.
The pair climbed the velvet stairs one after another, up two flights to the highest level.
Passing by the second floor, the hunter had spied many curtained rooms, unwittingly catching a glance at a woman in just her corset and a man hog tied.
Revy blushed scarlet before hurrying to catch up with the russians retreating form.
Finally the pair came to a stop in front of an unassuming door. Metal, similar to a jail cell. Expensive, but only because the materials would have been a bitch to carry. There were no frills to identify this room.
Balalalika’s office.
“You may enter.”
He stared blankly, waiting for her to knock.
Last time she’d seen Balalalika had not gone well.
Precisely why she didn’t want to take this job. Exactly why she didn’t want to be here alone.
She really shouldn’t go in there. Her hands began to shake.
Maybe she should just leave. They could always come back another time-
“Enter.”
A crisp feminine voice lilted out from behind the door.
It left no room for discussion.
Like a hanged man, Revy cast one more look around for Dutch. He was nowhere to be seen.
She stepped inside.
First, the scent of rose hit her nose. Sweet. Then something sour, like bile. The contradicting scents seemed to match the visage before her.
Blood and (presumably) vomit stains littered the plush carpet office. There’d clearly been an effort to clean them, but it seems it was in vain.
On the coach sat a beautiful woman.
Blonde hair cascaded in long ringlets down her back. Maroon corset and long garter belt stockings made for a visage of want. Red lipstick, black mascara. One blue eye, one ivory.
Revy felt a throb of want.
Her eyes zig zagged across the other woman’s form feverishly before landing on the haunting mess of red scarring.
The unseeing eye glared at her.
She’d been caught.
The pair stared at each other as smoke curled in a corner of the room, a discarded cigar leeching into the stagnant air.
The Russian was lounging on a dark leather couch. Her pale, almost translucent, skin stood out against the grain. She was wearing heels, Revy noted with a silly smile before realising her mistake.
“It’s good to see you, Rebecca.”
“You too Sis.”
The mob boss stared at her, eyes crinkling around the edges.
“Come here. You are so like a shy puppy,” with a lazy flick of the wrist, the siren beckoned Revy closer.
Unwillingly, Two Hands stepped further into the room, aware of the sweat gathering at the nape of her neck.
She fumbled for a second, before grabbing a nearby wooden chair, its legs screeching as she wrestled it into a position to face Balalaika.
The blonde grimaced, but didn’t shoot her. This was going well.
“I’d like your services."
Revy tried to will her blush away. It hadn’t been too many years since she worked at this establishment, just one floor below. At the time it had been owned by someone else, a fellow by the name of Pigeon. Who had since… Disappeared as the venue underwent new management. She really hoped Balalalika didn’t know she was an ex-employee.
The blonde took a crumpled stack of yellow paper out from behind her, smoothing the creases with a large hand. Almost unthinkingly, she licked a long manicured finger, pink tongue flicking the pointer before rifling through the pages.
Revy felt a ping between her legs again.
“Here. Dead or alive, your choice,” the Russian shrugged, tossing two pieces of paper at her, “but I’d prefer blood.”
Revy nodded, reaching for the paper.
“We’re both the same in that way,” Revy chuckled, thumbing the pages with none of the grace the Russian had shown, “Huh, what do you need with the cattle boy?”.
Balalaika had turned to grab some matches from the desk behind her, lipstick red lips closed around a fresh cigar. The movement had lifted the hem of her corset impossibly higher, exposing more thigh. More red scaring. Revy’s eyes were fixed.
She could feel mismatched eyes burning into her skull.
Revy's eyes snapped away from the patch of skin, but it was too late.
A hand shot out, crushing her windpipe in one grip, nails biting the soft skin under her jugular.
Revy wheezed, the air in her lungs suddenly cut off from supply. Her toes dragged on the floor as her seat rocked, desperately trying to keep from being pulled off her perch, while fighting for air.
Her blunt nails scraped against the offending arm but it was no use, it was thick as steel, with muscles wound from years of unknown labour.
Balalika was inches from her face, inhaling the cigar.
A beat passed. Then two. Before she simply blew the smoke in Revy’s face, letting each finger pop off the woman’s neck theatrically.
The corresponding gasp was all nicotine and tar, the otherwise quiet office now filled with Revy’s hacking.
A soft laugh echoed somewhere from above, before her chin was suddenly snatched again. Balalika was standing, Revy dragged with her.
“Why do you stare so much? All of you Americans, always staring!” She was smiling, but her cleavage heaved against her maroon corset with adrenaline.
It was uncanny, like watching a shark sniff blood.
Revy had to deescalate this and fast.
Her chin was being pinched between the woman’s thumb and forefinger and reaching for her beretta’s would surely mean sudden death. Money didn’t mean anything to this woman (not that Revy had any). Death was the only thing she cared about. Or… ?
“Because we want sex.”
Balalalika blinked at her. The wind taken out of her sails.
Her lips stretched into a sour frown.
“This is true. You and your American obsession with it. It is quite profitable atleast…” Balalika sighed, “But the cleaning bill…” the last part muttered more to herself then Revy. “And what about you little Rebecca? Are you like the other American’s?”
It was a cruel joke, the taunting tone to it.
Clearly, she had gotten some records on who’d worked there previously.
Revy snapped her head to the side, momentarily breaking the other woman’s hold on her, before crushing her lips into the older woman’s.
Chapped lips smacking violently against red painted.