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Don’s overwhelmingly crushing fascination for Fixers has always been a constant in her life, collecting various memorabilia and repeating their highly-marketable (as well as often parroted) catchphrases. Mayhaps that was why this child had joined the ranks of the Cinq Association, hoping to help the downtrodden. Inspired by a similar force in her heart, her insatiable thirst for justice remained a steadfast force, usually running parallel with her idea of Fixers — valorous Fixers who fight for justice and equality. On very little occasions, it played a devil’s advocate — it opposed her beloved Fixer ideals. At such an impasse, Don finds herself conflicted, unable to proceed. From which route shall she take, o’ brave knight— to uphold the ideals perpetuated by her idols, or to believe the nagging voice in her heart — or to swerve entirely, into the darkness? Nay, this is a redundant question! For a heroic knight like her, shall hold steadfast to her beliefs, despite the world’s vehement disapproval, she shall prevail, through the fog of lies and clear a path of justice!
—or so she believes.
“You Cinq are a special bunch. All the same, the heroes they think they are. But you’re all no different than the rest of us, rabid dogs itching to draw blood. Only pretending to do it in honour.”
The reality remains: her body crumpled on the floor like a wet towel, all fours like a wild animal, Don’s forehead touching the cold red carpet. Her tinted glasses on the floor, clumped into a pile of useless plastic. Sweat beading down her entire face, flowing right onto a damp patch of the rug, her limbs trembling, nigh complete collapse at a single feather’s touch. Every time she inhaled her breath — she could hear her heartbeat, thundering away anxiously — only to be whisked away back into the current circumstances by a pungent cigar smell, seeping deep into her nostrils. A clean, newly shined dress boot sat on the top of her head, its owner intentionally exerting a borderline lethal amount of force onto her skull. It was unfortunate that beneath its shiny exterior, the boot’s sole had a strong smell of blood, mixing with the smoke in the room, tingling her ringing head with every exhale of her heavy breath.
“But I know that you honor your duels. A contract cannot be broken, and must be respected by both parties.” The deep voice spoke, a small gasp heard from his lips—a cloud of grey, she could see from out of her peripheral, blooming into the room.
Swallowing nervously, she dared not speak, lest she disturb the tiger further.
“So you understand, resistance is out of the question.” The man leaned over, digging his heel into Don’s head further. Her forehead pressed into the floor, the hardness beating on her brain.
“Haah…” He exhaled again. The stench of blood and nicotine was nauseating. Don dared not move an even single inch still, her trembling body remaining stationary.
“Stand up.” The Capo ordered. The thunderous command echoed through the room.
She stood up straight like a deer in headlights. There was no time to dawdle. Her golden eyes peered downwards to the floor, darting across the ground rapidly. Arms wrapping behind her waist, twiddling her thumbs nervously. She wrestled with a desire to look at him, both out of curiosity and a primal fear—like a rabbit caught in a trap, one must face its predator; imminent death. However, that price would not come without a tongue or ear lopped off clean.
The Capo held up his weapon. Its end heated up with a soft glow, radiating a dangerous warmth. He kicked the blunt end, pressing against her neck. She could feel the heat growing against her skin. Perspiration from her forehead swelled, trickling down her face like faux tears.
“Now, honor your loss valiantly.” —beneath him.
Hours prior—the day was shining o’ so beautifully, the fluffy clouds lightlessly flowing in the azure sky. ‘Twas another near-perfect day, another contract successfully fulfilled. The client had requested a duel with some roughhousing debt collector in the districts near H Corp, and with the jade bangle that dangled around her wrist, she made quick work of him. Still, it remained a disappointment that her opponent barely put up much of a fight, despite being a bully. There would have to be repeated requests, she wonders, as her opponents hardly give up at just one setback. Staring into the swollen eyes of the man, his heart swelling with hatred and anger; she knew he would not be a one-time encounter. It didn’t provoke any sense of dread or fear, quite contrarily, she thought it ‘thrilling’ to have a villain, just as any hero would have, persistent—but failing—in defeating the hero. Of course, the hero always prevails—at the very least, in her storybooks.
Life in the streets was harsh—if they didn’t have power, or money to cough up power, they were just as good as dead. That was why she, forbye the urge to scratch the itch for the thrill of fight, to assist those who needed it the most—in exchange for a worthy sum, of course. After all, there was no greater price to pay for the safety of one’s life.
Regardless of the harsh cycles of the world, her mission completed and its status reported to the higher-ups, she was skipping happily across the streets, looking for some grub to chew on. Usually, it would be black bean noodles, or perhaps numbing spicy noodles… Howbeit! Her heart, unfazed by routine choices, elevated by the post-fight glow, would rather choose something new. Don’s upbeat gaze darted around, observing the people scattering about, their heads held low. Rows of restaurants before her, her indecisiveness caused her to pause her step, stopping in front of a dingy establishment. The run-down bricks and debris surrounding it indicative of its age. Still, it housed many customers, so there was still some hope for the food it served. The doorbell chimed as she walked in, ordering a platter of pajeon. She opted for a seat near a window, as the air conditioning flowed right directly below that seat. It was a terribly hot day after all.
One can never be not too vigilant. Despite the window seat, her view was into a dark alley. To this child, staring into the gloomy backstreets never ended well—only in more bloodshed, fruited by her pertinacious nature. Lazily munching on the chewy pancakes, Don’s mind wanders. She toyed with the bangle on her wrist, restlessly twiddling and moving it across her arm.
There is no place for peace in the City, restless cogs turning and twisting in the machine. To those that foolishly believed in the good of its people, tragedy in waves of disaster would only follow. Don’s fleeting moment of calm was rudely interrupted by a sight in the peripheral of her eye. A cliche, a scene straight out of one of the fairytales she so dearly loved, there was a group of men, shadows, villains—the difference was insignificant, really—they were kicking down a man, one lesser than them. She couldn’t get a grip of his face, but all that registered in her mind—an act of villainy was currently unfolding in front of her two eyes! As a good hero devoted to saving the lives of the weak and the defenseless, such a crude scene could not be committed without her saying a final word. With no moment to spare, she tossed on her leather jacket, leaving behind her crumpled payment on the table, the pajeon still freshly hot. Surely, a fearless hero like her could be able to remedy such a situation.
Howbeit, as she paced down the alleyway restlessly, a dilemma was at hand—her nature as a hero, and her status, as one of the honourable East section of the Cinq Association, a fight between her and her enemies was unable to be commenced unless a duel was to be declared. As she currently stands, nothing could be done, a wall of obligations and contracts standing in between her and her justice. Balling her fists, her black gloves scrunched up in her fingers. Her heart wavered anxiously, the pendulum in her mind flicking between letting go of the situation safely, or holding onto her own justice as she so desired to enact. Perhaps it could be an act of pro bono? Nay—there were no such things in the City. It was a dog eat dog world.
The group of men, dressed crudely in black, gold and a deep, iconic red. One look, and any seasoned Fixer would recognise the fact—that they belonged to the Thumb. Upon closer inspection, it would be safely deduced that they were merely Soldatos, lower-ranked foot soldiers. Still—! Their status should not have excused their ruthless behavior, acting as deviants, bullying a single defenseless man. It was a loathsome sight, beating the man senselessly with their boots, hearing the squelch of flesh and blood being coughed up. Vermillion liquid pooled around them, blossoming, sustenance for the rats that lived off human flesh and blood. Don chewed on her lips anxiously, her boots crunching on the dirty asphalt floor, strewn with sewerage. The decision to be made turned ever more unflattering, potentially setting off the Thumb with her callous actions. It would bring unnecessary tension between two factions. There was no settlement to be made, without victims and bloodshed. Surely, she could do something to ail this unfortunate display of aggressiveness.
Taking a bold step forward, one of her boots accidentally snaps a can wide open. A loud crunching sound resonated through the whole alleyway, alerting the Soldatos. They turned to see Don in unison, cocking their bayonets at her.
“Who goes there?” One of the men demanded, staring down Don with a burning glare. She swallowed nervously, steadying her heart—and her fist. Her jade bangle lit up with a glowing warmth in preparation. Bullets in the City were difficult and expensive to come by—she could have the advantage of close combat.
“Prithee, gentlemen! ‘Tis merely a humble Fixer, I, Don Quixote! Ahem—” she coughed, to mask her anxiety, “I demand to be enlightened ‘pon why thou villains are beating thine fists on this poor soul?”
“That’s none of your business,” one of them snarked. “Who are you to get involved, anyways?”
“Well—well, hm, for starters, thou must know that I strive to be someone deserving of being dubbed a ‘hero’, being a Fixer, of course, aids in that quest—nonetheless, I simply cannot dawdle whilst thou enact such violence onto a defenseless man! It is simply against mine justice!” Don readied herself in pose, looking down on the bloodily beaten victim, but to no avail, as they had seemingly already passed out from their injuries. Still, it would do no good—no good indeed, to leave him alone.
Her words did not disarm the opposing party, but to rouse them up with confusion and anger. “Lady, you’re speaking weirdly, and if you’re a Fixer, you should recognise our uniforms by now, and know that we’re not to be—”
“Tell her.” A baleful voice from the darkness spoke, as heavy footsteps trotted forward. Don and the Soladatos turned to look in unison for the source of the sound, and the smell of a fragrant smoke permeating through the alleyway. Don pulled down her tinted glasses, a sweat beading down her cheek. A man, clothed in the same colours as the group of soldiers, but with a completely different impression. His black hair was neatly slicked back, his eyes shadowed by tinted glasses. A Capo, ‘twas not a slither of doubt about it. Her heartbeat began to fasten—after all, such an admirable Fixer was standing right in front of her—equivalent to a Grade 1 Fixer.
“Ah, sir—” One of them began to speak, fumbling with his words. Red. In one instant, he fell to his knees, gagging at his throat. A bleeding fleshy piece fell to the floor. A tongue. His tongue. Don stepped back in surprise, immediately turning her gaze to the ground. No. This was beyond her pay grade.
“One. Do not look your superior directly in the eye and speak. It is disrespectful.” He spoke, taking a drag of his cigar. “Two. Answer this persistent Fixer. Tell her of this man’s deeds.” He kicked the passed out man thoughtlessly with his boot, causing him to cough up a pile of saliva mixed with blood.
The mood evolved from a menacing situation into something, far, far beyond what she could have imagined. Still, she dared not look. “Well, y–ya see… This man we’re beating up… He’s the father of a person that owes us a large debt. Approximately 1 million Ahn. It’s no good if we simply let that big of a debt slide, so,” the now timid Soldato swallowed, as if he was being judged on his next words, “We have to make an example out of him. It’s just how it is.”
“This is our justice.” The Capo spoke, breathing out a puff of smoke beyond his lips. His voice, barely wavering above monotone, held an air of lazy interest. “You’re insistent on yours.”
Don swallowed nervously, keeping her head down. She knew if she met his gaze, one of her appendages would not survive the next second. “Speak. Tell me why we shouldn’t have his limbs blown off.” He commanded, and she shot right back up, staring at his side, her gaze lowered slightly.
“If this may be her last day, then so be it, defending her justice. “‘Tis… tis simply cruelty to subject a person to punishment that does not belong to him—! A misdeed is a misdeed, and should wholly lie… on the… sinner themselves…” Don trailed off, sweating bullets. “If such punishment is due… an example should be made of themselves… not innocent victims… it might… cause less… customers for the organization.” She’s really in a world of trouble now—curse her and her immense sense of heroism, and her impatience.
“I see.” A moment of silence, anticipation as she expected a blow to a swift death—nay, such insolence could not be granted the mercy of a swift death, only endless, endless, endless, torture. How she has blundered! Oh, Red Gaze, she’s really in it now…
“I know of you, Don Quixote.” Still, her death has yet to come. “I have heard of an overtly-ambitious and zealous Cinq Fixer in the Eastern branch, with her own rigid moral compass. I have wished to witness it myself.” A chuckle? She couldn’t have possibly heard a chuckle from him, couldn’t she?
“I request for a contract, Cinq Fixer of the East. A duel between me and you. If you manage to make me use one of my Tigermark rounds, you win this duel. This man’s son—his 1 million Ahn debt will be forgiven. If you fail to do so…” The Soldatos were taken aback, not that Don noticed them—she was too engrossed in the circumstances of her fate to notice their surprised faces. She winced. “My justice prevails over yours. It will be a valuable lesson to my soldiers.”
At such an impasse, she was in no position to reject him. On some other day, she would be honoured to be in the presence of such a Fixer, to be challenged to a duel, much less. Yet only fear permeated through her body, a foreboding sensation of danger, screeching at her to run. That she was surely outmatched, and must make a desperate retreat. ‘Twas only natural, that a hero like her should be able to shoulder the sins of the needy—yet! Nay, nay, she shook her head. It was her chance to prove herself worthy of becoming a hero, a gallant Fixer like in the tales of the heroic Siegfried.
“I… Hm, I accept.” Throwing her jacket to the floor, her jade bangle emitted a stronger glow. A smile quirked on her lips, excitement sparking in her breast. “I hail from the third section of the Cinq Association of the east. I, Don Quixote, accept this duel!”
Surely, with her strength and her passion, she shall prevail!
But this is reality.
Bloody corpses scattered around the room, disembodied limbs and mutilated flesh. Crimson splatters crudely spread across the walls. The air thick with a stuffy feeling of sweat, blood and smoke. Manner lessons taught in violence—their signature. Her limbs rigid, a prey caught in a trap.
“Strip.”
Whatever was demanded of her, Don had no choice but to obey. With haste, she unfastened her black and blue qipao, feeling embarrassment and a level of self-awareness she never thought she’d possess rush to her cheeks. A mix of fear, curiosity and shame tingled in her fingers, knowing his eyes were on her, but unable to verify it herself.
As she let her loose white pants drop and crumple into a pile of garments on the floor, her bra and her boxers exposed to the cold stillness of the room. Silence means disagreeing—and disagreement means dishonouring her deal. She moved to unfasten the clasp on her bra, only to be interrupted by a hand touching her waist. She shuddered, unaccustomed to the warmth of skin. She let him take the lead, his hands grasping—with a surprising tenderness, unfastening her bra. Her tits were perky—and of respectable size. He made short work of her panties, leaving her completely bare.
A checkmate.
The Capo patted his lap. “Sit.”
Don swallowed nervously, all the situations wherein she ended up with one limb less attached to her body rushing to her mind, but simply obliged. She couldn’t get a grip on him–whether he was excited, bored, or upset. Her bare body against his velvet clothing, her waist touching his hard buckle was uncomfortable to her senses. She tried not to struggle too much, lest she earned a more stricter punishment—she had heard stories of decades of torture and mutilation, for as so simple as transgression as a wrong look.
“Hmm… This will do.” The Capo muttered under his breath.
It confused Don, up until the moment where she saw that he was gripping his podao. Oh.
“Spread.” She gritted her teeth, swallowing nervously, and did as she was told. Her legs widened, as far as she could—she used to pride herself on her flexibility.
He shifted the blunt end of the podao to her entrance, and with no warning, plunged it inside of her.
“Ah–!” Don winced in pain, her body trying to adjust to its size. She clasped her hands immediately over her mouth, muffling her words. Her insides shifted and stirred uncomfortably. With little regard for her reactions, he continued, twisting the handle further into her. Heat rushed up in her body, firing her nerves with a jolt. Pain slowly melded into pleasure, as he shifted its position inside of her. Humiliation filled her senses, as wetness pools around the handle of his podao when he pulls it out, a sticky string of white connecting her pussy and the handle. The Capo brushes the sticky substance away on the handle with a gloved finger, watching the overhead light shimmer in its translucence.
He forces that finger into Don’s mouth, the taste of herself on her tongue as he ruthlessly continued to thrust the podao inside of her. His thrusts were in a steady rhythm—as expected of a methodical man. It rubbed against her insides, filling her with a deep warmth. The heat scorched her soul, both from the pit of her stomach and the weapon. Such recreational use with a weapon; there would be some degree of admiration—should she not be on the receiving end. Yet, she couldn’t deny elation caused by the stimulation, her stomach twisting in knots and her mind rendered numb. Her cries were muffled by his fingers, her hips began to instinctively grind on it—a beg for release. She couldn’t tell what his gaze was like beyond those shades—yet he fully understood the harmony of her actions and his, letting out a guttural “mmph” as acknowledgment, resuming his vicious pace. A man of very few words, straight and direct to the point—in contrast to the wet, sloppy mess that Don Quixote was in this situation.
The time passed came as a shadowy memory, whether it were seconds, minutes, hours—a nonstop furious pace of penetration, leaving no spare moment for her to breathe in between, before he thrust it deep inside of her again.
Drowning in ecstasy, their cooperation drove Don crazy, she could practically bounce off the walls. Her mind foggy with pleasure, she felt her mind go blank, raised as high as the ceiling—her groan muffled by his fingers still, the taste of old leather in her mouth. A deeper flush spread across her cheeks, feeling a wave of high crash onto her. Her body, trembling in his lap, the warmth of the handle still churning inside of her. The Capo slowly pulled his podao out, a mess of translucent liquid running down its precious build, letting it drop to the floor. A small damp patch pooled where the handle hit the ground. Until her heartbeat finally quietened, and her breathing came to a steadier pace, he pulled his fingers out of her lips, her saliva drenching the thick leather, her laboured breaths warm on his palm.
Don breathed heavily, trying to ride the ecstasy down, while the other remained unfazed; exhausting a puff from his cigar. When her mind finally cleared past the pain, pleasure and humiliation interweaving together, she noticed her wetness had been dribbling down her thighs, all the way to the Capo’s pants. Unbothered, he set down his cigar to the side.
The Capo shut his eyes, and relaxed onto his seat. Don, partially dumbfounded by how at ease he was, despite the mess she made in his lap. Practically vibrating under him, she still had yet to meet his eyes—her justice shattered underneath his.
“Kneel.” At this point, a good dog should bark yes. Her bare knees hit the floor, her head hung low, her lips warm and wet. His gloved hand grabbed her chin, tipping it closer to meet his gaze. Still, her golden irises averted, a sign of respect and submission.
“It seems I still have much to teach you about. Mm.”
The tiger bellowed, his prey under his claws. For this hero, her story shall temporarily conclude in this room—naked, bruised, caught under a predator’s gaze.
Of such a nice, beautiful day, she didn’t expect it to end this way.
Of her justice—perhaps she should learn the art of patience.