Damn Harley. Damn Harley and her flagrant inability to articulate anything even nearing acceptable directions. And, furthermore, damn the highly temperamental cab driver and his extremely hygienically unsound duct-taped monstrosity that had spouted a grotesque plume of smoke with every pulse of the gas pedal. Isolt's cab fare, and thusly her chauffeur's limited patience, had been exhausted about a mile back, leaving the young redhead to meander about the rarely-visited southern limits of town. Upon her request for further direction, she had been met only with the spitting of curses and an admittedly rude series of obscene hand gestures. Despite the not-inconsiderable portion of time that she and Harley and resided within the city limits, the petite crimson-haired girl could not recount even a singular occasion upon which she had seen fit to venture into this proverbial jungle of disintegrating concrete and twisted, towering metal. Even now the long shadows of the totem-like metal skeletons seemed to prod at her with their spindly fingers, pointing out her glaringly obvious discomfort in this foreign space.



The timely thud of her soles against the pavement ceased for a time, some eternal faith in her dearest friend having caused her to extract the cell phone wedged so neatly into the back pocket of her jeans, the luminescence of the screen casting a beautiful halo of light upon her already angelic features as a dainty hand runs absentmindedly through gossamer copper curls. So absolute is her concentration that she does not hear him as he draws ever nigh to her, the rubber soles of his shoes mere whispers against the pavement, the looming darkness of the hour his partner in this, his stealth a beautiful and a dark thing. So absolute is the brilliance of his maneuver that the young woman does not know of his lingering presence until he is upon her, one clothed arm coiled around her neck whilst the other swivels to his back pocket, his lips murmuring something that is undoubtedly lost in the chaos of what follows.



It is, perhaps, by virtue of a childhood spent in the presence of her elder brother and Harley that Isolt reacts as quickly and with as much agility as she does, her slender body maneuvering in such a manner that she slips from the grasp of his heavily muscled arm. Instinctively, surprising to the young woman even as she does it, her hand raises, a coiled fist aimed decisively at the towering fellow's jaw. The blow connects solidly, a fleeting look of surprise flickering in his muddied brown eyes before even that is consumed, swallowed in its entirety by the rage that pulls taut every muscle in his body, bleeding its shadow into every drawn line of his face. Before she can but slide from him, Isolt is subjected to the kiss of his own fist, a collision that is shocking in the sheer force it exerts upon the tenderness of her face. Her lithe form is sent backwards, colliding harshly with the callous pavement at her feet, smooth palms scraping sickeningly against the grated surface as she seeks in vain to reclaim the footing he has robbed her of. The obscenity he growls at her falls upon deafened ears; Isolt's eyes, her mind, only for the flash of light upon chrome... evidence of the thing he has finally succeeded in extracting from his pocket as he draws ever closer to her.