Chapter Text
Here's the thing: Victoria still feels faint at the sight of blood.
Every time. Every. Single. Time.
Seeing it now, her tongue feels weirdly warm inside her own mouth. She breathes out slowly, tries to control her queasiness. It doesn't help that she's crouched in an alley, surrounded by garbage. She can taste the smell of sweet rot just as sharply as the smell of blood. When she presses a knee down onto the pavement it's warm and damp, even through her denim.
There are ways she could do this bloodlessly, she knows, but she insists on making a mess. She wants to build up a tolerance.
She knows she can get better at this if she practices enough.
The body in the alley with her is still; she's confident that he must have mostly bled out by now. The front of his t-shirt (for some band that Victoria has never heard of and won't bother looking up later) is a raw meat mess. She hadn't even met him, really, besides letting him follow her like a prey animal. But she feels like she knows everything about him.
He is the pervert who had once touched her hair on the T while his other hand was down his pants.
He is the guy she'd tutored who'd blocked the doorway after their session and refused to let her leave the room. Who'd told her she had beautiful eyes.
He is the administrator at tutoring services who told her to grow a spine after she'd tried to drop that guy's contract.
He is every classmate she'd ever had who'd made her feel like an imposter.
He is every person ever who'd made her feel like she didn't belong.
He is her mother.
A bubble of blood and spit forms between the body's lips. Victoria glances down at him, surprised.
"Please," he whispers. The bubble pops when he speaks.
Victoria feels for the knife that she knows is somewhere down by her bent knee. She doesn't know what kind of knife it is — she doesn't know anything about blades that aren't surgical — she just knows that it's large and sharp and folds down neatly enough to fit into the inside pocket of her jacket. She'd found it in the garage; she doubts either of her parents have noticed that it's been missing.
"Please," the body says again. Her fingers find the knife next to her and wrap around the handle. She looks away from his eyes, the way that they beg, as she drives the blade upward behind his ribs. She pulls the knife back immediately, hates the way that muscles try to contract around the blade.
When she's sure it's over, she lets the knife fall from her fingers and shuffles back from the body until her back is against brick. Then she cries ugly, gulping sobs.
Why am I like this? her brain screams,
Why am I like this?
Why am I like this? but also: but I didn't faint this time.
Then she twists to the side and vomits onto the ground.
"Are you okay?" the voice that interrupts her retching is familiar, but she can't place it. Then there's a hand on her shoulder that makes her jump.
She looks up and sees McKay, in her Street Team gear, a bag slung over one shoulder. Recognition morphs quickly to shock.
"Javadi?" Then she recovers composure. Sees the barf and the blood. "Are you hurt?"
Victoria realizes that she's shaking. This is the worst possible thing that could have happened. She opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes out. She ends up just swallowing hard and shaking her head.
Then McKay turns her attention to the body next to them. Her gaze flickers back to Victoria as she pulls a nitrile glove out of her pocket and pulls it on to press her fingers to the body's carotid. For a terrible second, Victoria worries that some thready pulse might still exist, that he might still be saved. But McKay blows out a breath that lifts her bangs off her forehead and peels off her glove.
Their eyes meet, but Victoria can't read McKay's expression. She guesses that she probably wants to know what happened, because that's the most human response that she can come up with, but she doesn't ask.
"The others are just around the corner," McKay says gently. The rest of the Street Team on shift, Victoria realizes. Not the type of work that you could do solo. "We can get you taken care of. Call this in."
The realization that she has to be part of a formal report crashes into her and she starts sobbing again. After a moment, she feels McKay wrap her arms around her, pull her against her chest. Victoria starts to worry about messing McKay's jacket up with her snot and tears, but decides she's too upset, actually, to care. There's messes that can be cleaned up and messes that definitely, absolutely cannot.
"It's gonna be okay," McKay says into her hair, still holding her tight. "I'm just glad you're alive."
Victoria lets herself get helped up, lets herself get walked out of the alley, one of McKay's arms still wrapped around her shoulder. Her mouth feels sour and her mind is reeling.
She's been found out.
Maybe. Probably.
But…maybe not?
One thing was certain: she hasn't been careful enough. She has to be more careful now. She's always known that getting caught could cost her everything she'd worked so long for. She should swear it off. She could swear it off completely, surely. Surely?
Maybe.
She feels the weight and warmth of McKay's arm leaving her like loss. But McKay is still next to her. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a plastic water bottle, unscrews the top, and hands it to her. She takes it, numbly. Doesn't drink. The kindness feels undeserved.
"Is there anyone you want me to call?" McKay asks softly, like she might bolt, "Your mom, maybe?"
"Not her," she croaks out. She clears her throat again. "Please. I'll — I'll find another way to tell her."
McKay gives her a long look, but she nods. "Okay," she says, "One thing at a time."
It sounds so reassuring, Victoria lets the words wrap around her like a blanket or a hug. But the things she needs to do just right to save herself now are many and, even tackling them one at a time, she doesn't know where to start.