Roxy waited until that Saturday to put her plan into action. The weekend usually meant more freedom at the orphanage, assuming you didn’t get in trouble with the staff.
Knowing that, Roxy stayed on her best behavior both in school and at home. And by the end of the week, once eyes were off of her, she made her move.
Light rain misted the air around her as she crouched on the roof of a closed-down laundromat, kitted up in full costume and full of nervous energy.
This place had been on her radar for almost two weeks now. It was a squat warehouse tucked between a row of run-down businesses. The place looked like nothing from the outside, abandoned like everything else around here. But she’d seen enough people and cars coming and going to know that things weren’t as they seemed.
A few days of scoping it out had revealed a pretty large operation, at least compared to the crack houses that Roxy normally tackled. A classic chop shop, with maybe a little extra on top. Either way, big money for her.
Perched on the edge of the rooftop, Roxy hefted her Sonic Lance. Rain plinked against her helmet, and she could hear the sound of thunder rolling in the distance. She knew from experience that it would be raining pretty hard in only a couple minutes. The noise would work in her favor.
She checked her equipment one last time, making sure everything was in working order, before hefting her rifle and making her move.
She crouch-walked across the rooftop, staying low until she reached the edge closest to the warehouse. The building was only one story, flat-roofed, with a skylight set into the top. She could hear voices drifting up from inside, easily heard over the rain even at this distance. She waited, listening intently. At least six people, maybe more. They were speaking a mix of English and what she thought was Vietnamese, though she couldn’t be sure.
Disregarding them for the moment, Roxy eyed her target: a junction box mounted on the side of the building’s exterior. The door was practically brown with rust, and it was clear that maintenance wasn’t a word it had heard in a while, but it was still feeding into the building and that was all that mattered.
Roxy dropped down from the roof, landing softly on the balls of her feet, and slinging her Sonic Lance across her back as she crept toward the box. There was a cheap padlock strapped to the outside, but she had a fix for that.
Reaching into her pocket, Roxy pulled out a pair of small devices. They were long and thin, with blocky handles and angled tips. Carefully, she pressed them into the lock, making sure to keep them apart until they were in at a good depth, at which point she pressed the tips together.
The picks vibrated violently, literally shaking the lock until the internal mechanisms fell apart under the strength of the vibrations. Roxy pulled, and with a broken snap, the lock clicked open.
“Hello gorgeous,” she whispered, stowing her gadgets away and pulling the cover free. Inside was a mess of wires, but her eyes instantly found the ones she was looking for and she reached in, grabbing the leads for the building’s internal PA system.
It was a relic, something the previous owners had probably installed back when the place was a legitimate business. The ABB had likely never even thought to use it. Why would they? And that was about to come back to bite them in the ass.
Roxy pulled a small device from her belt, slipping it into the mess of wires and connecting the ones that needed connecting. It wasn’t much, just a simple gadget she threw together literally yesterday, a transmitter that would hijack the PA system and let her play around with it while she played around with the mooks down below.
She hummed a little tune as she worked, mouthing alongside the song playing in her helmet. The people down below were still chatting away, completely ignorant to what she was doing, hopefully until it was too late.
As the last piece snapped into place, Roxy grinned as she stepped away from the junction. Her transmitter blinked happily as she held up the remote, thumbing the big red button on the side.
“Alright then,” she giggles, turning to the edge of the roof. “Let’s get this party started.”
Her thumb squeezed and there was a beat, before music suddenly exploded through the building’s speakers at an almost deafening volume.
Being a Tinker specializing in modifying frequencies gave one interesting tastes in music. This specific song was one she’d mixed herself, layered over so many times that nobody but the most devout audiophile would be able to appreciate it. The bass was loud enough to rattle the walls, and the high notes were sharp enough to make most people flinch. To her, it was beautiful. To everyone else, it would be nightmare fuel.
In her little soundproof bubble, she heard the reaction immediately in the shouts of surprise, cursing in multiple languages, and the sound of chairs scraping and tools clattering to the floor. The music was so loud it was almost certainly blowing out the speakers, but she didn’t care. That was the point.
Roxy crept toward the edge of the roof, peering over just as the first of the gangers came pouring out into the parking lot, confused and angered by the disruption. A few had guns drawn and were spinning in circles, trying to figure out who was responsible for the noise.
And just as she thought, they were so disoriented that not a single one of them thought to look up.
“Morons.”
Roxy lifted her Sonic Lance, bracing the stock against her shoulder. She adjusted the dial to mid-power, then took aim at two of the men near the back of the group.
The dark face of her helmet made it a bit hard to aim, but she had been practicing this all week. Keeping her breaths short and her arm steady, she got a bead on them, held for a moment to make sure they weren’t going anywhere, and squeezed the trigger twice.
The rifle shrieked, the sound swallowed by the music still blasting from inside. Two invisible lances of compressed air tore through the rain and slammed into the men like sledgehammers. They flew backward, crashing into a stack of old tires and collapsing to the ground in a heap.
The rest of the gangers spun toward the sound of the impact, but Roxy had already ducked back behind the roof’s edge, her heart pounding with excitement. Barely containing a manic grin, she skittered along the roof, repositioning.
Below, she could hear the gangers shouting to each other, their words garbled by distance and the music still screaming from the speakers. They were panicking, their confusion layered over with genuine fear. They hadn’t seen her and they had no clue where the attack came from.
Roxy scrambled toward the side of the building, where she had come up, using the rusted ladder clinging there to head back towards the ground floor. The metal rungs clanged loudly against her boots, but the sound was lost in the chaos. She dropped the last few feet onto a dumpster and hopped down, landing in a narrow alley between the warehouse and the neighboring laundromat.
There was a side door just ahead. It was solid metal, heavy looking, and probably locked. Luckily, Roxy had the key.
Roxy strolled up to the door and placed her palms flat against its surface, right near the handle. Bass built in her Thumpers, echoing the music booming around them. It built and built, before exploding outward hard enough to force Roxy herself to take a step back from the recoil alone.
The lock broke and the door slammed open with a deafening bang that was absorbed into the cacophony of sound pouring out of the building. Roxy shook her tingling hands and stepped inside.
The interior of the warehouse was massive. A large open floor dominated the space, filled with dismantled cars and auto parts. Tables lined the walls, cluttered with tools and parts that Roxy knew belonged to the cars. The music was even louder in here, rattling her bones even through her helmet’s noise cancellation.
She pressed herself against the wall, tuning her ears and listening.
Her helmet’s audio suite hummed to life, letting in a sliver of sound. The music faded to a distant thrum as the system filtered it out, and suddenly she could hear everything else. Footsteps. Heavy breathing. The clatter of someone knocking over a toolbox. A voice cursing in what was definitely Vietnamese.
There were four... no, five sets of footsteps. Moving cautiously now, spreading out through the building.
Four deaf idiots against one badass cape. I like those odds, Roxy thought, fighting a smirk.
Roxy kept low as she threaded between the husks of stripped cars, clutching her Sonic Lance to her chest as she kept an eye and ear out for any approaching footsteps.
A thump and a curse echoed between the workbenches ahead of her and she froze, pressing against the frame of a half-disassembled sedan.
She waited until he stepped into view, a stocky Asian man with a pistol gripped tight in both hands. He was looking the wrong direction, toward the front of the building. Roxy lifted her Sonic Lance and fired.
He heard the whine but the blast caught him in the chest before he could turn. He flew backward, slamming into a workbench and crumpling to the ground. The pistol skittered across the concrete, disappearing under a pile of parts. He groaned, clutching his ribs, and Roxy kept her weapon trained on him, ready to blast him again if he tried to rise.
Luckily, her shot either broke something important or he decided it wasn’t worth it because he curled up into a ball and didn’t move again apart from some light shuddering. Roxy eyed him, before moving on.
This was easy. Easier than she’d expected, even. All those weeks of preparation seemed like wasted time as she cleared the next area with just as much ease as the first. She caught the next two men by surprise as they huddled behind the minivan and sent them sprawling just like their buddy.
One left.
Roxy was grinning like a lunatic by now. This was everything she imagined. The power, the control, the absolute dominance over people who thought they were tough—it was incredible.
Turn myself in, she scoffed derisively, checking the charge on her rifle. Fucking idiots. They don’t know who they’re talking about. I’m destroying these idiots and they dnt even know what’s going on!
She’d like to see those guys on PHO call this luck.
The last ganger was hiding in a small office at the back of the building. She could hear him muttering something through the thin walls. Probably calling for backup, or maybe just pissing himself.
Roxy kicked the door open.
The man inside scrambled backward, knocking over his chair. He was older than the others, grey streaking his hair, and his hands were empty. No gun, at least as far as she could see.
He held his hands up and started babbling in broken English. “Please, please, I don’t—”
Roxy raised her rifle and fired before he could finish. The blast caught him in the stomach and he folded, wheezing as he hit the ground.
Done.
She stood in the doorway, surveying her work and listening for anymore movement. After a few moments, nothing came back but the groans of the men she’d already taken down and the tools shaking on the tables from the bass she was still pumping through the building. She was clear.
“Easy peasy,” she muttered, lowering her rifle and reactivating her helmet’s noise cancellation, plunging the world into blissful silence once more.
As her personal playlist resumed, she turned her attention to the room itself. It was a cramped office space, cluttered with papers and old filing cabinets. A desk sat in the corner, drawers hanging open. On top of it, she could see a small safe, the door already ajar.
Roxy crossed the room, stepping over the groaning man on the floor. She pulled the safe door open and whistled low at the sight. Stacks of cash stared back at her, more than she had seen in one place since... ever, actually. Much more than she already had.
She grabbed the money and shoved it into the bag she brought, not bothering to count it. She also spotted a few guns in a cabinet against the wall. Nothing special, just pistols and a sawed-off shotgun. Those could be fenced for extra cash.
She was halfway through stuffing the guns into her bag when the wrench hit her.
It came out of nowhere, slamming into the side of her helmet with a crack that echoed through her skull. The face of her helmet fractured instantly, spiderwebs blooming across her vision. She reeled, stumbling sideways, her ears ringing from the impact.
Through the cracked glass, she saw the old man she had just shot stumbling on his feet, one hand clutching a wrench and the other holding his ribs. His eyes were wild, pain and fury battling for dominance as he approached her.
“You think...” he slurred. “You think you can just—”
Roxy’s sense returned to her in the middle of his sentence and with a snarl, she shoved her arm toward him, activating her Thumper.
The blast caught him square in the chest, sending him flying with the same amount of force she has just used to damn near blow a steel door off of its hinges. He crashed against the wall and then straight through it, passing into the space between wood panels and slumping without a sound. He didn’t get up.
Roxy stood there, her chest heaving. The cracked visor distorted everything in her vision, but she could see from here that he wasn't getting back up. She could also feel a bruise forming where the wrench had connected, even through her helmet's padding.
It had happened again. As if in a mirror to just a few days ago, she let her guard down and nearly got killed for it. What the fuck was wrong with her?
She stared at the old man's crumpled form, her stomach churning. If he'd had a hum, she'd probably be dead right now.
It won't happen again.
Roxy grabbed her bag, now stuffed with cash and guns, and turned to leave. But a thought made her pause.
She stepped onto the main floor and looked around, making sure to move quick in case of reinforcements. When she found what she was looking for, she grabbed it and ran back to the office.
Paint hissed from the spray can as Roxy brought it back and forth over the wall in sweeping motions. When all was said and done, a bright music bar with a music note in the center was plastered on the wall.
Now they'll know who did this, Roxy stepped back to admire her work. You know, once I hit a few more places.
She took a moment to admire what she'd accomplished, the bodies shed left and the money she'd acquired. As she stepped out of the warehouse through the same door she came in, rain was pouring from the sky, painting the world in shades of grey.
Let's see what they think of this, she thought, grinning so wide the new bruise along her hairline ached.
[Tone]
The next morning, Roxy sat in class with her chin propped on one hand, staring blankly at the whiteboard. The bruise on her face had bloomed overnight into an ugly purple splotch just below her hairline, partially hidden by her red hair but still visible enough to draw looks, which it definitely was.
She’d covered it as best she could, parting her hair differently and keeping her head down. But there was only so much she could do. The orphanage matron had noticed it at breakfast, taken one look at her face, and rolled her eyes.
“Fighting again, Roxanne? One more incident and you’ll be grounded for a month.”
Roxy hadn’t bothered to explain. What was the point? The woman had already made up her mind, just like everyone else always did.
She shifted in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position. Her ribs still ached from the wrench, not to mention the other bruise still healing along her ribs. Pain flared pretty much every time she shifted, but none of it could touch the feeling bubbling in her chest.
Six thousand dollars, she thought, fighting back a smile. I’m actually going to get out of here.
The night before, she’d counted the money three times just to make sure it was real. Six thousand, two hundred, and eighteen dollars. Enough for a deposit on an apartment, first and last month’s rent, maybe even some furniture if she was smart about it. She’d be free. No more curfews, no more crowded rooms, no more matron breathing down her neck about “incident reports.”
Now all she had to do was find a place that wouldn’t mind leasing to a thirteen-year-old. So the easy part, basically.
The bell rang, jarring Roxy from her thoughts. She grabbed her bag and joined the flow of students heading for the door, when a voice called her name.
“Roxy, wait up.”
Welp, there goes my good mood.
Roxy turned around to find Missy Biron hurrying toward her through the crowd of students. There was a concerned frown on her face—as usual—and Roxy didn’t slow down even as the girl sidled up to her.
“What do you want?” Roxy asked as the other girl fell into step beside her.
Missy was undeterred by her curt greeting, her eyes flickering to Roxy’s temple and the bruise visible along her hairline. “I wanted to check on you. What happened to your face?”
“Got in a fight,” Roxy said flatly. “At the orphanage.”
Missy’s brow furrowed. “Are you okay? Do you need to see the nurse or something?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? That looks pretty bad. Maybe you should—”
“I said I’m fine.” Roxy could feel her temper flaring and fought to remain calm. Why was this girl always so damn pushy? “Just drop it.”
Missy’s expression shifted, her lips pressing into a thin line. But she didn’t back off. “I’m just trying to help.”
“Why?” Roxy stopped walking and turned to face the other girl. “Why do you even care? We’re not friends, but you just keep showing up and sticking your nose in my business like you’ve got a crush on me or something. Hate to tell you, but I’m not interested.”
Students around them giggled and Missy scowled. “I’m literally just trying to make sure you’re okay. I’d do the same thing for anyone who showed up to school looking like they lost a fight with the shower drain.”
“Well go check up on someone else and leave me alone,” Roxy started walking again, her shoulders tight. “I don’t need your help.”
Missy hurried after her. “What is your problem with me? Seriously? I’ve been nothing but nice to you, but every time I even so much as say your name, you bite my head off like I’m the one making your life miserable.”
Roxy stopped and turned, her expression flat even as an angry ache pulsed behind her fresh bruise.
“You want to know what my problem is?” she hissed. “My problem is that you don’t leave shit alone. You always have to be everyone’s friend, poking and prodding, always trying to ‘help’ people who didn’t ask for it. Don’t pretend you give a shit about me. You just want to feel good about yourself for trying.”
Missy stared at her. For a moment, she looked genuinely hurt, then her expression hardened.
“Fine,” she said, her voice clipped. “I won’t bother you anymore.”
“Thank God,” Roxy muttered, watching as the girl turned and walked away without another word. Frustration boiled in her chest from the encounter, and she turned with an angry huff, making her own way out.
She hated people like Missy. Idiots who thought they had everything figured out just because they had families who gave a damn and did everything they were supposed to. They went to school, made friends, got good grades, and when they saw someone who didn’t or couldn’t do the same, there was suddenly something wrong. Suddenly, here was someone they could swoop in and ‘save’ with a few kind words and a smile.
She doesn’t know anything about me, Roxy thought, turning in the opposite direction.
She adjusted her bag on her shoulder and headed for the exit, putting school and all that bs behind her for good. She had money now. Real money. The kind of money that could change a whole lot of shit if she put it to the right things. One perfect idiot didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.