Hazel Mehrotra -D9- Fin
Nov 11, 2020 3:24:00 GMT -5
Post by charade on Nov 11, 2020 3:24:00 GMT -5
H A Z E L
Eyes like two unlit pieces of coal and just as dangerous when they were on fire. That was the first thing most people noticed about Hazel. It was a quiet burn, the kind that peeled away flesh and bone to stare into a soul. But Hazel was never one for talking much; she’d always found that it was better to let her fists do that for her. Actions were worth a thousand words. Imposing wasn’t the right word for her, but there was a quiet sense of danger that hung around her like smoke. Not quite visible, but there.
While her hair was long, she kept it up, often in a bun underneath her hat. She was lean muscle wrapped in black leather; her vest embossed with a pair of wings that marked her as a Valkyrie, one of the enforcers for Odin’s Warriors. An older name, but respected. One that kept out of the spotlight, having found a niche providing bodyguards and fixers to powerful people. Rough and tumble when they wanted to be though, and more than a few of them were known for their knife work.
She was one of them. At twenty years old, she was making a name for herself in certain circles. But she never let that give her a big head about things. District nine was a very large pond, and she was a small fish. One with sharp teeth perhaps, but not much more than that. Besides the knives she kept in her pockets, she kept a piece tucked into the back of her jeans. Expensive and used sparingly. Bullets were not cheap, and they made a hell of a lot more noise than a blade.
It made a statement though. She was not a person to be trifled with. She never suffered stupidity; something her parents and the big boss had drummed into her head. The other people in the bar she was in were aware of that fact. There were a few faces she recognized. Not all of them friendly. But bars were meant to be neutral ground when they were in neutral territory. Or close enough to that. As long as none of them tried anything, neither would she.
The boss had given her new orders anyway. She was on track to becoming a lieutenant because of her loyalty and leadership qualities. She commanded respect, had for a long time. It wouldn’t be long before she was in charge of her own crew of enforcers, of that much she was certain. Her own squad of Valkyries. It had been a dream of hers for several years. The next logical step in the path she’d been traveling since she was a child.
Hazel had been five years old the first time she saw her father kill a man. She’d snuck out to the shed when she was supposed to be asleep and stood on top of a crate to look in the window. The strange noises that floated to her room had long piqued her curiosity. In the years to come, she would wonder if she’d have gone into the family business if she’d stayed in her room that night. Perhaps married off to a family running a different syndicate.
When she was of reaping age, she’d asked her father if she could learn how to fight. He’d been only too happy to oblige. Her mother had been wary of it at first, but she’d known what she was marrying into. And so Hazel had learned to fight and maim and kill. The world was a brutal place and only the strong survived. Strong like her parents and their position in the gang. They taught her that few things mattered in life other than family, money and respect. The trick was to balance the three.
It was her past she was ruminating on at the bar counter. Or trying to at least. The problem was that there was a commotion. Someone making a scene. She’d been an official member of Odin’s Warriors from the time she was sixteen. Long enough to become a frequent patron of The Cloak and Dagger. Long enough to know when someone wasn’t a regular.
Hazel drained what was left of her gin martini, savoring the hint of vermouth as it went down and popping the olive garnish into her mouth, crushing it between her front teeth. Trouble had just walked in and history had taught her that paying attention paid off. She pulled out a cigarette from the pack she kept in her jacket at lit it up, spinning on her stool to watch the show.
And if necessary, step onto the stage.
While her hair was long, she kept it up, often in a bun underneath her hat. She was lean muscle wrapped in black leather; her vest embossed with a pair of wings that marked her as a Valkyrie, one of the enforcers for Odin’s Warriors. An older name, but respected. One that kept out of the spotlight, having found a niche providing bodyguards and fixers to powerful people. Rough and tumble when they wanted to be though, and more than a few of them were known for their knife work.
She was one of them. At twenty years old, she was making a name for herself in certain circles. But she never let that give her a big head about things. District nine was a very large pond, and she was a small fish. One with sharp teeth perhaps, but not much more than that. Besides the knives she kept in her pockets, she kept a piece tucked into the back of her jeans. Expensive and used sparingly. Bullets were not cheap, and they made a hell of a lot more noise than a blade.
It made a statement though. She was not a person to be trifled with. She never suffered stupidity; something her parents and the big boss had drummed into her head. The other people in the bar she was in were aware of that fact. There were a few faces she recognized. Not all of them friendly. But bars were meant to be neutral ground when they were in neutral territory. Or close enough to that. As long as none of them tried anything, neither would she.
The boss had given her new orders anyway. She was on track to becoming a lieutenant because of her loyalty and leadership qualities. She commanded respect, had for a long time. It wouldn’t be long before she was in charge of her own crew of enforcers, of that much she was certain. Her own squad of Valkyries. It had been a dream of hers for several years. The next logical step in the path she’d been traveling since she was a child.
Hazel had been five years old the first time she saw her father kill a man. She’d snuck out to the shed when she was supposed to be asleep and stood on top of a crate to look in the window. The strange noises that floated to her room had long piqued her curiosity. In the years to come, she would wonder if she’d have gone into the family business if she’d stayed in her room that night. Perhaps married off to a family running a different syndicate.
When she was of reaping age, she’d asked her father if she could learn how to fight. He’d been only too happy to oblige. Her mother had been wary of it at first, but she’d known what she was marrying into. And so Hazel had learned to fight and maim and kill. The world was a brutal place and only the strong survived. Strong like her parents and their position in the gang. They taught her that few things mattered in life other than family, money and respect. The trick was to balance the three.
It was her past she was ruminating on at the bar counter. Or trying to at least. The problem was that there was a commotion. Someone making a scene. She’d been an official member of Odin’s Warriors from the time she was sixteen. Long enough to become a frequent patron of The Cloak and Dagger. Long enough to know when someone wasn’t a regular.
Hazel drained what was left of her gin martini, savoring the hint of vermouth as it went down and popping the olive garnish into her mouth, crushing it between her front teeth. Trouble had just walked in and history had taught her that paying attention paid off. She pulled out a cigarette from the pack she kept in her jacket at lit it up, spinning on her stool to watch the show.
And if necessary, step onto the stage.
M E H R O T R A
