Have you see the OVA or read the manga series of Hellsing? Any and all, sadly including the anime.
NOTE: This sheet contains quite a bit of profanity towards the end. If you find it offensive, please don’t read. If you are a mod and wish to read without the cursing, let me know and I will post a ‘clean’ version.
Name: Eliška Resnik
Moniker: Senka (shadow) or Višnja (sour cherry)
Age: 26
Gender: Female
Race: Human all the way, sweetheart.
Organization: The Cult of Bad-Assery (Unaffiliated)
Rank: CEO (None)
Physical appearance: Two things about this woman never fail to get her noticed: her cobalt-blue, blindingly unsettling eyes and her nearly frost-white blonde hair. Of course, her sharp tongue and abrupt nature also have the tendency to get her noticed, although they are not so much her appearance as, well…bad attitude. Those previously mentioned, almost neon coloured eyes fluctuate from nearly lifeless to a blazing, furious cold in seconds. But whether strung out, knocked flat, counted down or held on high, the woman’s bright orbs never lose their strange sense of total awareness.
These dark-glinting orbs are framed by a messily chopped froth of frost-blond hair, it length varied from mid-back to feathered bangs. Occasionally streaked in blue, pink, or orange, her hacked-at mane gives the distinct impression that Resink alone ever touches those locks, though upon the rare moment that a ‘competitor’ grasps them, it means the end to whatever confrontation is at hand. No one touches her tresses unless they want a wild-cat on their hands. But regardless of her personal views on the subject, her brilliant eyes and near-white hair cause her to stand out in almost any crowd.
As for the rest of her, well…some would call her erotically dangerous, whilst others would perhaps call her overtly confident. Milky skin, kissed by the sun, glides smoothly over firm, unyielding muscle, though it is pulled in places by the remnants of unprofessionally-stitched wounds. There is very little – if any – fat to the 1.8 meter (6') tall woman, though if it is due to the constant hard living or the drug abuse is a tricky question. Always hunched at the shoulders, the woman should appear meek: she is far from it. This posture lends her body the manifestation of a tightly coiled beast, one that prowls rather than walks, one that snarls rather than speaks. The sum total of this bestial form is manifest in Resnik's complete and utter awareness of her body, and the space around her. Surprisingly enough, this same-said hard living hasn’t yet reached her stunning – yet cold – façade. Below those electric eyes is a pert nose and full, pale pink lips. Her face would perhaps be beautiful were it not for her dark expressions and constantly down-turned lips.
To round out her mish-mash of style, Resnik sports a black tattoo on her right shoulder. Its long, spidery form is taken from Salvadore Dali’s Les Elephants. As far as anyone not Resnik can tell, the tattoo is just one more thing to add to her image; to Resnik, it is a portrait of what she once thought she could be.
Clothing of choice: So she is a fighter. So she gets into the ring with men – and women – twice her size. So she lives in cold climates.
She is damn well going to wear whatever the fuck she wants.
Sporting a flamboyantly coloured bra and barely-there, thin white t-shirt, Resnik makes it quite clear she doesn’t care in the least what others may think of her dress. Speaking of which, a much-worn, shredded skirt hugs her hips and upper thighs – but nothing else. Perhaps if in cooler weather, the woman will don jeans that have seen better days, though who knows if they actually do anything to keep warmth in. Of course, to give her some semblance of ‘cold weather wear’, Resnik is never seen without a fur lined, ragged jacket, which has followed her around for as long as she can remember – which isn’t long, on some days.
Rounding out her general wear are a pair of beaten leather steel-toed boots that have most certainly seen better days. Just as her jacket has been considered a companion for years, so too, have these boots become a part of her very being. In most circles, those two items are nearly as famous as she.
However, when in her element, all clothing becomes nothing more than a hindrance. The jacket, shirt and occasionally the bra are removed for complete movement – and to keep them safe from the blood splatter. The jeans – or skirt in some instances – remain, as do the boots. Something new, is added, however: tape. White and perhaps the most expensive item she owns, the tape is used on nearly every occasion her knuckles meet flesh. Wrapped about her wrist and fingers, the tape keeps her hand from breaking on solid hits, and her fingers from cracking when she chooses to land a particularly mean blow to a hard surface, i.e. a man’s face.
Somewhere, in all this mess of clothing, there is room for her two ‘weapons’ of choice, though she does tend to keep a couple more toys in a battered nylon duffle bag.
Weaponry of choice: Her body. Fists and feet and hips and frame: all of it is utilized in a vicious, cruel fighting style that borrows ‘moves’ from a myriad of traditional martial arts. Most of what she knows has been learned the hard way, by receiving punishment in a hundred different fights, by watching the ‘professionals’ have at one another, by meeting the right sort of people, and by following one simple rule: the fight is not complete until one person is on the floor – either you or your opponent. Usually, this means someone is dead.
But and however, when the situation calls for more than just a fist – or it is more fun without – Resnik generally falls back to her trusted friends: two worn ‘Bowie’ knives. They aren’t as readily available as her more…accessible items, but they are and always will be her go-to blades. The first is a sleek version of the classic design, with hardened steel and wooden grip making up the majority of the weapon, it doesn’t hold up well in the ‘beauty’ category. It was a sweet little present, almost left between her ribs by a loving admirer; good thing he gave gifts almost as well as he bet on fights. Since then, the handy Bowie has travelled with her from country to country.
The second of the two is a tad bit tattered, affectionately held in Resnik’s grasp since her teen years. It was a parting gift from her now deceased father (See: History), though not in a traditional sense; she didn’t so much receive the knife as she simply…retrieved it from his dead body. The stained blade has long history of violence and abuse, and it nearly radiates a sentience, an understanding of being that says ‘You think you are different from all the rest I have sundered?’. It’s as though the long years have left an impression on this tool that can’t be scratched off or scrubbed away.
Over and above it all, however, are a pair of blades that have become synonymous with her name, the most plain of which being a fixed-blade karambit. Nothing fancy, nothing pretty, the blade is designed for function alone. Traditionally a peasant weapon of the Philippines, the blade nonetheless entered her possession much in the same way as her newer Bowie, although it took some time to learn the proper technique for its use. Yet once skilled in it, Resnik was capable of wielding the blade with extreme efficiency.
Last – but certainly not least – is a blued switch blade she repossessed from a ‘dumb bottle-blonde bitch’. What can be gathered from what is now nearly folklore, is that the blade was clutched desperately in the hands of a woman on her way to being beaten by a handful of not-so-friendly gentlemen. Unfortunately, Resnik happened to be walking their way; any other time, the Ukrainian would have simply ignored the altercation. The men refused to give way…and paid for their obstructive acts. Most were left broken, dying on a cracked concrete street; the rest simply died. For her kindness in saving the useless woman, Resnik liberated the knife from her and considered it payment. Of course, now that story has been told countless times, so who knows how many men there were, or even if there was a fight at all.
Abilities: Resnik is human. She has no strange genetic mutations, no outrageous ‘special’ powers, no amazing gift. What she does have, however, is a hardened steel-like body and a cut-throat attitude. The Ukrainian woman has a rather good grasp of the more brutal tactics of combat (See: Weaponry of Choice), but her knowledge of the finer points are still a bit rough; then again, she doesn’t particularly care. Resnik’s method is efficient, though not at all pretty, partially due to the fact that she has had no formal training, and more than a bit because her body has allowed her to get by on her natural – and harshly learned – skill. It is her ability to take physical punishment that, oddly enough, makes her so dangerous. A trained, professional fighter (MMA, Boxing, Traditional Martial arts) has the capability to take powerful blows to the body and head while still retaining their composure and capacity to continue; Resnik seems to take this skill to the next level. Over and over her thin frame has taken savage beatings, and over and over she has stood back up to lay into her opponent. This is her true talent: she waits for her opponent to tire, to wear themselves down throwing hit after hit, before stepping in and cruelly rending the person(s) before her. [NOTE: I would consider her ‘toughness’ to be that of a Category D vampire. This is not to say that she can regenerate, or take large (or any) gunfire without pause. Blades are not turned aside either, but her body’s ability to withstand infection, bruising, and scarring is higher than the average person’s, so much so that it is rarely seen in the human population. She is able to endure large amounts of blunt-force trauma; her body is capable of receiving blows thrown even by a Category F vampire, though a D would most certainly put her on a level playing field. This is what makes her so hazardous in the human ‘boxing’ world.]
But not only is she capable of withstanding pain: she is quite able to deal it out. Packing one hell of a left hook, Resnik hits like a freight train run amuck. Her total body awareness combined with a bone-crunching strike has left many an opponent sprawled unconscious (or dead) in front of her. Trying to toy with the blond is risky; trying to tangle with her is most likely fatal. [NOTE: Resnik lands a punch with the force of a Category D vampire. However, this is the limit to her strength, and her hits are not consistently at that level; at her peak, she is capable of reaching this ability, but she is still only human, and cannot stay at said level for extended periods of time. (Actively four posts; can be spread over eight posts.)]
On top of her brawling, use-anything-at-hand method of fighting, Resnik is quite adept at utilizing her four knives in combat. Most often her choice falls to the two older Bowie knives, sometimes singly, sometimes as the pair. Her ‘style’ with these weapons is the same as her unarmed combat: vicious and efficient. Not usually one looking to garner grace and elegance points, the woman strays from the flourishes seen in the more refined techniques. Instead, she carves her opponents with a ruthless style born from a life spent wondering if the next day coming could be her last. In other words, she attacks in the same manner as a wild predator, using her body and blades in the same manner as an animal looking for a kill.
The same, however, cannot be said for the karambit. This blade’s use alone is the only technique she has ever been taught, and even then her unwavering personality has seeped into the traditional method. Due to it being a weapon requiring more finesse than her previously mentioned pair, the karambit alone spotlights her remarkable reflexes. She is not a sprinter, or a world class runner; she is not a ‘speedy’ person. Instead, her agility falls more into the combat category. The Ukrainian brawler reads body language and relies on instinct, taking out the human tendency to over-think a move while retaining a subtle cognizance of the fight. [NOTE: This ability is around a Category F vampire’s. I would think this is quite possible for someone of Resnik’s aptitude as a fighter. It stems generally from a heightened spacial awareness; in other words, she is conscious of the space around her and how her body relates to that space. She isn’t great at the 50 yard dash, nor is she going to win any medals for dodging bullets. This sort of ‘speed’ is relegated to her dodging of punches instead.]
On the flip side of the coin, one can find a more mature, intelligent woman. Her life spent living day to day in a dozen different countries has given her a particularly broad education in economics and politics. With a family that relied on lies and fabricated lives (See: History), Resnik quickly found out that knowing the rules and laws of the city (and country) she temporarily resided in was essential to survival. Her constantly updating knowledge of the previously stated economics and politics gives her an edge on deciding where to head next; it is also handy when conning business men. Feeding into this handy ability to con a drowning man into buying water, is her wide range of languages, though most don’t help her outside of Eastern Europe: Ukrainian, Russian, Romanian, and Hungarian round out her more consistently used languages (though she is also well versed in a few of the more obscure Slavic languages, including a Lwów dialect of her home town and the street formed Bałak jargon). English was a language learned a bit later in life, and even though she is quite fluent, her accent has never dulled. Italian and German are also practiced, though to a slighter degree, therefore making her less than proficient in them.
Lastly is Resnik’s penchant for ‘reading people’. She knows a lie when she hears one, and bluffing to her face takes the skill of a long-practiced poker player. Her ability is not perfect, but it is good enough to spot most lies told from a seasoned pro. This single ability, above all others, is what kept her alive; before her father died, before her mother succumbed to addiction, Resnik was taught by application, utilizing this skill to protect herself and her teetering family.
Personality: It should be no surprise that this physically kick-your-ass woman sports a similar attitude. Her long life on the streets and in combat has imparted to her a hard and harsh façade. True to her nature, Resnik comes off as a rough, calloused woman to practically anyone and everyone she meets. And although her words can cut quicker than one of her blades, Resnik typically restrains her more venomous snipes for the rats and snakes in her profession of choice.
Them, and anyone else on her shit list.
She has no sympathy for those who can't deal with life on their own, who are incapable of caring for even themselves; she has even greater dislike for those proudly strutting peacocks of men, and the insipid clingy machinations of women. Both are to receive equal punishment in her eyes, though Resnik has an ingrained tendency to ignore all types of weak-willed individuals whenever possible. Of course, her definition of ‘weak’ strays into the territory of ‘easily manipulated’, as well as ‘incapable’. The Ukrainian woman’s outlook on life and those existing within it most likely (definitely) branches out from the long road of misery, alienation, and violence called ‘the past’ (See: History).
Generally speaking, Resnik is a woman who carries about a great amount of hubris as well, which should create quite the hypocritical individual; in this case, that is not entirely true. She knows what she is capable of, and she knows just how far her limits go; this doesn’t mean the woman has a serious case of humbleness. Her wicked tongue will lash out at the nearest trash-talking idiot if within earshot, though occasionally she doesn’t require words to know a person is talking larger than they can prove. Those certain individuals, who take it upon themselves to boast, brag and generally trump up their abilities will quickly find that the blond brawler will stoically demand they put their money where their mouth is. As with all things in life, however, occasionally Resnik will misjudge her blustering opponent and engage in a fight not altogether in her favour.
But hey, a fucking fight’s a fight, no matter the outcome.
This in mind, it is no surprise that the woman – who can take a hit and give one right back – takes on whomever stands in front of her with the same desire to break bones and bloody faces. She isn’t a stone cold killer type, but neither is Resnik an undisciplined hellion; instead she enters each fight with a balance of poise and fury. The Ukrainian isn’t perfect, but she isn’t going to allow that to stand in her way of a good beating. On the flip side, however, the woman is a total self-preservationist. Don’t ever find yourself in a burning building with only Resnik for help: just sit and pray that either the smoke kills you first, or your caring firefighters will rescue you in time.
Above all else, Resnik is surprisingly silent on her personal life (although most of her past and present are open for the world to witness – See Below), giving no answer to most probing questions, or a flat out left hook to those inquiries that prod a bit too far. And though there is an underlying need for someone to feel close to, or even a true lover, it is something she has never acknowledged to herself, let alone another human being. Canines and birds, however, are a possibility.
Lastly – but in no way the least – is Resnik’s legendary talent for being fabulously and famously self-destructive. Swimming in a world of drugs, booze, fast men and women, all wrapped up with dirty violence, the blond scrapper can be at the top of her game in one city before falling magnificently into cocaine-induced oblivion the next. Knowing what shape she will arrive in (or leave in, for that matter) is anyone’s guess; even Resnik isn’t privy to such information. More than once, she has arrived at a fight completely incapable of remembering just her name; this little set-back has never stopped her from climbing into the ring. Then again, one should never assume that betting against her in such a state is a sure thing: not simply on occasion has she put her rival on the floor, or left him for the carrion to care for. Even for all her strength of will, this is one habit she has never kicked for long. Oh, the Ukrainian is quite capable of giving up her addictions (sometimes for more than a year), but there is a sense that she doesn’t want to; Resnik is fully aware of the dangers such a lifestyle brings, and yet she refuses to let go of this deadly habit. Again, it isn’t that she is incapable of tearing away from the stuff – her steel will can damn well power through any lingering need – it is the fact that she doesn’t care about the long term effects. Life is short and shitty, so why not enjoy the little things, regardless if they kill you sooner? [NOTE: Resnik has been clean for the past year due to help from Reiji Sanada (See: History)]
Biography: [This is incredibly poor writing.]
She’s a hellion raised in anonymity. Her body was born in a city called Lviv; her soul was created in the grifter world of shadow and lies. There is no record of her birth, of her young life, other than the string of criminal activity carried out in her name, or those borrowed for the occasion. Her father was a decent enough man, always attempting to ‘put food on the table’, and her mother was a decent enough person to always try taking care of their small family.
Unsurprisingly, they moved quite often; though one must first have a residence to move from and to. They had no ‘home’ for longer than a few months, however there was a city in Russia that allowed them to hover in the seedy underworld of the place long enough to consider it home. For two years, their band of misery lived off stolen goods, fleeced foreigners, and the occasional legitimate business transaction. The girl called Višnja became quite adept – at the age of 7 – at lying, cheating and being cute all to the end of making a ruble or two. These of course are abilities her father found quite useful; useful enough to exploit his sweet little girl at any available moment. Never was there mention of actions that slanted sexual, but as the years rolled along, this concept became very real. At eleven, her and her mother’s life became commodities freely traded by Resnik’s own sweet father.
The man had begun to drink – heavily. His attitude spiraled down as quickly as his life, a swirl of drugs and alcohol mixing into a heady concoction that drove him to discover his more violent tendencies. Upon reaching a wised age of eleven, both women found a fist, a belt or a combination thereof lashing out at the smallest provocation. Cigarettes were finished on skin, drunken and high outbursts brought about literal lashings, large betting tabs let loose a mean encounter with anything at hand.
In other words, the usual. Nothing special.
But then there came a day that little Resnik – now 13 – could not withstand. She tiredly forced her way through the warped door to the family’s rubbish apartment to find her father beating mother. However, this wasn’t like any time before; her father fully intended to end mother’s life. There was a rage unleashed that the girl couldn’t fathom, but she knew who she would side with. Without a word, the young teen reached out to the heavy cast-iron lamp that dimly lit the small room, wrapping her lithe fingers around the top and unceremoniously swinging the trust old lamp into her father’s head. His body immediately slumped over mother, who was managing to weep through her stunned expression. It was then that Višnja reached a revelation: we are all dead. Everyone dies, even those we think powerful. Everyone dies. Looking down at her weak mother, she could only think that this woman would die too, one day, and no one would lament it. Just as no one would lament her father’s death. Or her own.
And within this moment, she also realized that she alone was going to keep the wreck of her family together.
She did well for a few years, watching as her mother spiraled down – just like her father – into a drug induced haze that left her unresponsive for days on end. This life lead to a more steady form of business: prostitution. Of course, Resnik wasn’t going to set foot into another pay-by-hour motel or a back alley with nothing for privacy other than a few moldy cardboard boxes. No, she wouldn’t, but her mother certainly found the profession to her liking. It played hand in hand to her addictions, and no matter how Resnik pushed and pulled, her mother refused to do anything other than whoring and drugs. Of course, this act couldn’t last. When her mother finally succumbed to the horrible, dirty, lonely death that befalls all weak willed, the fifteen year old Ukrainian girl struck out to carve – brutally – her place in the world. The messy, passionate murder of her father left a distinct mark on the girl, one that settled deep into her psyche and rooted into place.
Country hopping became her newest money maker, travelling about on rail lines and stopping off long enough to make a bit of cash and then back on to the next city. Of course, this little trip cost her a few years in countless prisons, though the worst was most certainly a year-long stint in a Slovakia ‘camp’. She had been convicted of a murder charge, though it was eventually dropped due to the surrounding events. This was the start of her infamous underground fights.
She had finally found her niche, and it was born in blood and violence and pain. And she loved it. Craved it.
So falling head first into a dirty, filthy world, Resnik’s new addiction drove her deeper and harder into the sport, where she discovered the appeal of her mother’s and father’s cocaine love affair. A brutal world opened up to her, and she lived it fast without reservation. At the age of twenty-three, the Ukrainian woman had made a name for herself in over eight countries, and not for good behavior. Also at this time she fought her first ‘creep’, a thing that wouldn’t go down until she had ground its brains into the concrete floor. It was strange, but not entirely disconcerting.
Finally, this wildcat stumbled over a man that she could not take lightly, a man that gave just as good – and more – than he received. Reiji Sanada became her second half, a shadow she knew would always be there, but not always supportive.
This made it easier to imagine him dead.
RP sample: [Note: Please keep in mind this sample is from four years in her past.]
Social and Combat: The sooner she could dump this shitty, piss-poor run slaughter house, the better. But Christ, for the life of her, she couldn’t remember if this was Donetsk or Minsk; every rotten, violence-driven warehouse she’d had the pleasure of visiting began to look the same years ago. They all smelt of hard liquor, blood, sweat, rust, and drugs, the kind that came in any form you could want, from powder to rock to pill.
In another room, just on the other side of a sheet-metal wall, she could hear the heavy, sloppy snap of flesh hitting flesh. Ten minutes ago, that sound had been up close and personal – then again, so had the accompanying crack of shattering bone been present. Rocking back in a decrepit folding chair, the woman allowed her head to loll against the corrugated, cold wall, hoping its touch would ground her thoughts. It had been three weeks since her last hit, since her last trip, and her body had begun to rebel in protest. Hell, she hadn’t made it past the first round when her face hit the ply-wood floor, though the blow seemed to readjust a bit of her body’s previous thoughts of revolt. Her mind had shook free from the murky unease it had been swimming in, and the rest of her…well, the rest of her felt the rush of adrenaline it adored.
There had been only two more actions after that: a snap kick to an already injured knee, and a rapid-fire follow-up blow to the temple. The slab of beef called ‘Impervious’ Ivan had impacted the same floor with a sickening, gloriously wet slap that left his favourably betting crowd in an uproar. Well, what the fuck did they think would happen? A woman was in the ring – oh no! she couldn’t possibly endure even a round with the muscle-bound piece of meat they had thrown her to. They were nothing more than gathered cockroaches on crack, carting around money and drugs and hoping for a payout on a sure thing.
Speaking of which…her mind found focus again as it stumbled over the mention of both money and drugs. Where the hell was her share? A rat had approached her with a deal: forty-five hundred rubles to fight, and whatever money she could make from the gate receipts. Forty-five hundred. Doing the math in her still ear-ringing head, that came to about one-fifty…US. That piss amount was enough for a couple days’ worth of fucking blue velvet and a train ticket to somewhere other than where she was. God, she hadn’t had good stuff in months, so perhaps swinging by Romania wasn’t a bad plan. But where the hell was the rat?
Through the buzzing in her ears, the sound of hesitant footfalls could be heard. Sliding one non-swollen, cerulean eye towards the noise, she caught blurred sight of a young, ragged girl shuffling in her direction. Closing both eyes as the kid got close, the blond inhaled through a miraculously not-broken nose to feel the sharp pain of bruised ribs as they protested against the act. Christ, a kid. Here. And right when she least wanted company. Except for, of course, that goddamn rat who’d scurried off after the fight.
And then came the fucking inevitable one-sided conversation.
”You’re Resnik."
So it would be Russian. All the girl got was a half-hearted grunt.
”Saw you fight today...”, a slight hesitation followed, as though the brat was trying not to tell a secret,”…and I saw you last month.” Now there was definite awe seeping into the kid’s voice, causing the woman to inwardly roll her eyes and pray for the unpleasant child to just…go away. Then a thought hit her: what the fuck? Re-opening her good eye, the woman took note of the not-so-startling-yet-offending age of the kid. Ten maybe, eleven, but a horrible age to stand in the blood and coke and misery. Then again, she’d started around that age. A small – very small – portion of her soul claws its way to her mind to hoarsely shout ‘this is wrong!’, but it is shouldered aside by the utter uncaring of her heart. And so, with a clearing of her throat, the blond acted on this uncaring.
”So…what? You come to look at me again?” She closed her eyes and flexed one crimson-stained, taped up hand, taking note of how her left index finger appeared to be out of joint. ”Fuck off, baby doll. Go fawn over somebody that ain’t me.”
The kid looked like she’d been popped across the jaw. Fitting, because if she didn’t actually fuck off, that might be what happened next. Jesus Christ. Go. Away. But before the rag-doll could come up with anything more imaginative than ‘I…you’re…’, the wobbling staccato noise of uneven strides beat on her eardrums. Lazily diverting what little attention was being paid to the stuttering child, the blond finds her bleary eye resting on a sight that was simultaneously uplifting and loathsome.
It wasn’t hard to tell the dirty man was nervous, his bulging eyes darting from her to the narrow corridor, back to the woman who was in all likelihood jonesing for the chance to skin the worthless fucking hide from his pasty, boney body. Not that it wasn’t warranted. And by the goddamn Holy, the blond was going to get paid. This shitty excuse for a fight had taken up time that she could have used to fleece a couple mindblowingly idiotic American tourists. As things stood now, the blue-eyed Ukrainian was mulling over just how much she could grind out of the rat scurrying down the hall. Stretching and flexing the scarred fingers of her good hand, the woman allows her head to fall back to its resting place against the cold steel wall, waiting for the disgusting dipshit to reach her.
Eventually her limited patience was rewarded with the summation of her thoughts spoken aloud.
”I can’t pay. Resnik, the betting…the door fee…it wiped out what I had.”
Oh, ho, ho. Really now. Holy Jesu, it’s about fucking time. Rolling a shoulder, the brawler feels the satisfying snap of joints, muscles, and god-knows-what-else sliding back to where they were intended. His heavy accent bordered on absurd, and it ground down her dangerously low tolerance to near nothing. Closing that one good eye, the boxer exhales shortly through her not-broken-nose. ”Course not. Not like I expected a piss-brained cockjockey to hold to a deal.”
Suddenly, her body rocks forward, tilting the rusted folding chair down to all four legs; though muffled, the clack it created bounced along the passage. The bruised and bloody wildcat dropped her elbows to her thighs, sinking her weight on them until her head hung below her shoulders and the ugly swelling of her face hid behind a froth of white-blond hair. She listened with tired enjoyment at the sounds the rat made as he found his voice. ”What…what? No. No, I won’t go back on it. Never would on you.”
But abruptly the harsh, muddled accent turned sharp.
”But a deal’s only a deal when you’re alive t’keep it.”
Heavy boots pound closer. Heavy breathing to match. A big body was moving her direction and it didn’t matter. It didn’t fucking matter because she was pissed. At the end of her patience. And her muscles were tired and her body was cooling from the fight, giving out for free the aches and pains gained from overuse. So what better to heal them than a little more goddamned punishment. As that heart-warming thought passed between her ears, a meaty, sweaty and abnormally large hand grabbed neck and hair and hauled her out of the dilapidated chair.
Its just as meaty, sweaty, abnormally large counterpart impacted her throat and started to squeeze. This man, monster, slab of substantial beef, had easily pasted her to the corrugated wall; the dips and uneven rises put an entirely different pain in her. And too, his sausage fingers were no picnic. They completely enclosed her neck, tightening together like a nun’s legs, and what a fucking nun she must have been. The air was seeping ungracefully from her lungs in gasps and occasional bubbles, colourfully telling her the condition of said organs. All in all however, the woman hadn’t spoken – to hell with the son of a bitch who had her now. Though both tape-wrapped hands had fixed themselves onto his wrist, she made no more to pry him away. And to her eye…he was just as ugly as the man she had previously brought pain to in the ring. Fucking family. So that’s how it was. The goddamn rat had sold her out to the brother of the most-likely dead man lying on the blood and piss stained floor.
All this mess for some coke and shine.
Her ragged boots kicked at the bastard a bit, and this ‘struggle’ seemed to make him happy. He collapsed his weight against the brawler, crushing her against the pain-giving metal with no small amount of force. She assumed he was trying to either fuck her or keep her controlled – maybe both. Regardless, he stank and with his face screwed up with giddy revenge, he resembled a bull dog with rabies. She never liked bulldogs. They were messy and bad tempered and…
”You had this coming, bitch. Always a cunt, stepping on me. Costing me. But not now.”
He interrupted her train of thought to tell her what she already knew? Shit, he was more damaged than she thought. His words did seem to have an effect on her ‘assailant’: she felt a ripping of hair as he snatched away his other hand, coming away with more than a few strands of bloodied locks between his fingers. This liberated appendage did the only thing it knew how to do: it took hold of her left breast and began to massage it in that agonizing way only men knew. He was enjoying his catch, but not as much as the little rat. That man…he had no power, but enjoyed watching those who did. Particularly when said power was exercised over someone he hated.
Well, she could understand that. Didn’t mean she liked him.
The ‘fight coordinator’ had weaseled his way close, crooning his insults to her as Ivan Number Two tried to molest the boxer in the most degrading manner possible; he was bad at it. Now the rat had his face leaning against the same cold metal wall, eyeing her predicament and smiling darkly. What the jackoff didn’t know, however, is that the creature bruising her had descended into a drug-dark state before he even made it to the fight. The rat also didn’t know that her physical protestations were only to find her distance.
Big brother was twice her weight, but that meant she was lighter…
As the muscle man worked his way to her serious injuries, the brawler allowed a gasping, wild laugh to gargle out from his grip. Surprised, the man looks up in time for her to use his tightened grip for leverage. Swinging her right and then left leg around his meaty frame, the blond jerked his forearm down and away. The effect was staggering.
His body was severely off-balance from his position – having left all his weight to one hand – which caused his massive form to follow gravity. Down the fucker went, face first into the wall and then to the concrete below. Riding him the entire way, twisting his hand to breaking point, was the blond. As his jowls impacted the grungy surface, the woman made certain to complete the rotation on his wrist, snapping and cracking and wrecking that joint with unbearable pain. The giant let loose a horrible gurgled scream that echoed down the eerily silent hall. With that, she knew he wouldn’t be getting up. But to be certain…
A black, frenzied smile peeled back her lips to reveal her perfectly straight teeth. Squatting on her haunches next to the messily yowling Russian, she searches his coat-covered body for the knife she felt earlier as he felt her up. Worthless fucking Russki. Stupid. Sliding out a battered but wicked looking knife, the woman watches with a cruel smile and flat eyes as the man blubbers and bleeds and begs for his life. Fucking worthless. Brother Number Two attempted to back away then, crawling away from her at a frantic snail’s pace, but he could only find the toppled chair for protection. Just as his good arm reached for its legs, a knife found his internal organs. A scream – feral and high pitched – was ripped from his lips as his intestines were spilt to the ground.
Creep wouldn’t die, not yet. Give him time. He’ll bleed. It’ll hurt. In the end, he’ll die more alone than dear brother.
It was then that she noticed the rat was missing. Well, Christ, what did she expect? For him to hang about and wait for her to lay it on? Of course he was going to run; he would never have thought to aid his ‘partner’. Jackass didn’t know they could’ve had a real chance of bringing her down, had they acted together. Fuck him. It didn’t matter now. She’d raided the Russian’s wallet to find more than three times what was promised. Romania, china white, wait for me darlings.
Standing, wiping the red stained blade on the hip of her tattered jeans, the woman then turns to find a stunned, shocked eleven-year-old staring wide eyed at the blond. Arching a bloodied white eyebrow, the Ukrainian fighter limps towards the kid, smirking as the girl never moved. As she hobbles past, the woman tosses the knife at the brat’s feet. She doesn’t stop, doesn’t look back, but her voice floats rearward to the kid’s ears.
”Give it to your papa.”
Subject: Eliska Resnik - Complete 
