Ok, I'm a showoff...

[LiteraryFarce]

Here's a little excerpt from a previous SL that I was a part of, introducing my lovely lady Jynx.
***************
The light was going too quickly, and while she had yet to finish up her work, she couldn't help but think that she should be heading home soon after. Quick, emerald eyes focused on the setting sun as it sank slowly behind a skyscraper across the way. Slender fingers slid through a lock of her dark auburn hair, pulling it gently away from her eyes and face, tucking it behind her ear to keep it from her gaze. She had caught herself daydreaming a moment ago, and still with so much work to do. Shaking her head slightly, the tiny figure grunted in displeasure, tossing the remaining butt of her cigarette to the ground with a dispassionate manner. It had seemed, especially lately that even her favorite things were met in much the same fashion. A sort of lassiez-faire manner had overcome her, and while it was not necessarily strange for such a mood to grip her, it was unusual for it to linger as long as it had.

Easing slightly sideways in her crouch, the woman leaned against the wall nearest her perch and sighed softly, considering the mourning doves which were roosting near her without much caution or hesitation about her proximity. She couldn't help but consider their soft, dusty gray feathers, their red-rimmed dark eyes, which were staring just as curiously back at her as she was staring at them. There had always been a strange sort of peace between she and the avian creatures of the world... perhaps there was some deep-rooted psychological message there, but she would, if asked, merely pass it off as both creatures' love of shitting on others. The crunch of snow beneath their feet was nearly silent, but their little coos and the flap of their wings was audible enough. Audible to her only, perhaps, as she was by far the only person around to hear it. Did the tree falling in the forest make a noise? Did doves on a rooftop 90 stories above the street make noise?

After a few more lingering moments of staring at and attempting to understand the creatures, she repositioned herself slowly, slinging one arm over the edge of the rooftop. Her clothing was white tonight, per usual for this time of year in her line of work. Microfiber gloves continued the theme of camouflage on her body. Easing her left hand slowly against the grip of the rifle, she steadied her arm against that concrete block upon which she'd set up shop. Lips pursed slightly and were wet by an eager tongue. She needed that last bit of light from the sun, which was quickly reddening and sinking ever-faster behind the skyscraper whose shadow she had picked for her safe-zone. If she wanted this to go off without a hitch, there had better be a tall dark and mostly handsome man rounding the corner in the next few minutes.

As luck would have it, a definitely male figure cut the corner of the opposing skyscraper. A slow smile curled the edges of her lips upward. A Cheshire smile, as one of her co-workers had dubbed it. Perhaps they were correct, but it was far from a full smile tonight. Too much either way would cause the flesh to pull against that delicate thread and pull the stitches apart before their time. It wouldn't have been the first time, certainly, but it wasn't a pleasant feeling and she wasn't a masochist. Still, she couldn't help but be in a slightly more pleasant mood as she watched the man walk purposefully toward the revolving door of the large building in which he worked. His hands were tucked in his pockets, and thanks to the magnification of her scope, she could assess that he was in his evening best. Tux and tie. Perhaps he had a dinner date.

She eased up fully into position now, allowing her left index finger to settle against the trigger. There was no safety, as she did not intend to fire more than once. . . and she did not intend to take this rifle with her either. A deep breath was taken as the man neared the door. Her orders had been very specific. Near the door, not inside, not outside... but near. She hadn't asked why, just nodded and exited that very fragrant room with the plush leather chairs and the mahogany desk.

Index finger began to squeeze as the man's gloved hand pressed against the door. She could not see the warm vapor it might have left, but imagined it as her finger squeezed in that one, committed motion, pulling the trigger backward. The gun's recoil had been braced for, leaving the little woman leaning as she had been a moment before, watching through the scope as the man beneath fell into the revolving door. His lifeless foot was caught in the automatic motion of the door, just as she had hoped. Not inside, not outside.. but near - just as had been specified by her employer. The door just kept backing up and rushing forward, having sensed that there was someone within, its function was to turn. . . but the man's body was disallowing the motion. She pondered this for a long moment before she saw the building's security guard rush up from inside, panic stricken and already on his radio.

In an instant, she was on her way to the roof access door of the building, and as her gloved hand touched the doorknob, her ears picked up a strange crying sound. Brows furrowed, slightly tearing the stitches on the right side of her face, opposite those that held the corner of her mouth together. Turning slowly, she sent her glance wholly around the scope of the building's roof, but found naught but the doves, who also seemed disturbed at the noise.

Despite the initial instinct to sink to her knees and sob at such a sweet and whole sound, she opened the door and casually stepped down the stairwell until the 70th floor. She had stripped of her gloves and white jacket, leaving her in a dark green long sleeved shirt and a pair of torn-up blue jeans. The white clothing was shoved into a trash can in the hallway of the hotel, and buried underneath someone's business papers. She had thought that the sound would fade while she was inside. . . but it kept nagging at her, resonating in her brain as though she were the soul source of it. Shaking her head, she muttered quietly to herself "Get downstairs"

Get downstairs. Perhaps this crying was not in her head, perhaps others could hear it. The doves had, why not other people? If so, she had hit a stroke of excellent luck, as the confusion about the sound would no doubt give her more time to put distance between herself and the scene. So she walked to the end of the hallway and pressed the elevator call button for 'down.' While waiting, she glanced at her reflection in the standard mirror that always seemed to reside outside the elevators of every hotel and casino in the world. Past the fake flowers that doubled thanks to the mirror, she saw a pale woman with dark auburn hair, a slight dusting of freckles, sharp green eyes, two sets of stitches and tears streaking those cheeks. She hadn't even noticed those tears, and knew not why they were there. Her chest began to move with deep, almost sobbing breaths but again she was not aware of their cause. This was disturbing, to say the least.

Thankfully, the elevator's bell snapped her attention to the mechanical device. Thrusting her hands into her back pockets, she entered the elevator alongside a couple. Male and female both were blonde and in their mid-twenties. They were clutching each other, looking heavenward, as if looking for an explanation. Good. They heard it too. Maybe she wasn't completely insane yet. She gave them a sort of half-smile and the other woman in the elevator returned the look with a sort of winsome, sympathetic glance. Fair enough.

She was in the lobby quickly enough and headed out the door, with her hands remaining in her pockets. People on the street seemed to be reacting to the noise, and the whole place seemed to have gone 'round the bend. Even better for her getaway, but she wished the blasted noise would quit! Hands to her ears as she ran down the street, she went unnoticed by every man, woman and child who were all thinking the same thing. What was it? When would it stop?

Before too long, her keys jingled in the lock to the front door of her flat, and inside she went, suddenly rushed, panicked, desperate to make the crying stop. Her hands covered her ears and she screamed. Wordless agony, terror... but suddenly it was gone. Not the sound, but the fear. There was once more, no explanation of any of the events, but she suddenly felt as though a weight had been lifted from those slender shoulders. Every ache and pain, every arthritic joint, every cigarette-induced cough was gone... Her eyes opened, and revealed openly flowing tears now. She was sobbing, soundlessly, on her knees in her apartment with the door shut tight. Knee-deep in empty pizza boxes and Chinese take-out cartons, the little Irishwoman stared at the ceiling as the revelations came at her in waves.

There was more.

There was a past.

There was an electric feeling coursing through her veins, but it was not alarming. . . it was calming. The feel of a chill curled slowly up her spine and she gasped softly as a flood of memories that were hers and yet not hers spilled into her brain, overflowing her consciousness, washing it in the blood of those innocents she had spilled with a sword, with a flintlock, with a bow and arrow. Even in the past, she had been too busy with her own self loathing that she'd been willing to take more lives than she'd helped.

The realization caused her gut to twist, and the contents of her stomach to spill out onto the hardwood. Hands went out to either side of what had once been general tso's chicken. She was shaking, sobbing... lost. There was so much more. There was meaning, but the knowledge of more than her tiny sphere of the world had caused something much deeper in her. Things that she had not allowed herself to absorb, to feel or think of came in with those memories of her sordid past.

The question was . . . Was "more" enough?