Cherie was a slave to her passion. Though her body ached, and her mind was murky, she forced herself to smile and wave at the cheering thousands of people spread out in front of her. Breathing heavily, she bowed and blew kisses to the crowd, soaking in their applause. She picked out a few in the crowd who had tears streaming down their cheeks, and her heart swelled with a happiness she hardly found anywhere else. That she ever found.

As the curtains began rolling, and the applause died, the smile plastered onto her face vanished. The brilliant hum of adrenaline in her chest dissipated. And she was left standing behind the curtains, alone in the darkness behind it. The withdrawal from their love was instant and sickening; a chill that filled her veins with arctic waters and carved away whatever sense of being she had garnered over her two hour long performance crumbled. Cherie swallowed, feeling the strange sensation of her throat healing.

It was both a blessing and a curse, this Spartan gene flowing through her body. Sometimes… she wished that her voice would remain horse so she could escape the too bright lights and the too dark shadow the curtains drenched her in. But what then? She didn’t know how to do anything but sing. And kill. But she’d given up that life, exchanging it for the life of a show pony. Singing and dancing, but for a different audience.

“I am grateful,” she whispered, tracing a finger over the tattoo covering the 05 barcode on her wrist. Grateful for her life. For another chance at being something other than a butcher of humankind.

“Miss,” a runner called to her. “Security is waiting.”

She smiled at the young boy, her cheeks aching. “Thank you.” Forcing herself to walk onwards, despite the pain her heels stabbed into her ankles, she elegantly floated down the stairs to meet a team of people. Cherie was draped in a fur coat, padded down with foundation to conceal her sweat, and ushered towards the end of a corridor.

Passing rooms full of showgirls smoking cigarettes. Of flirting and kissing and the bliss of youthful love. She yearned for their life, but she’d seem insufferable to them, cooing for their lives. Cherie had money; she had men and women possibly waiting for her to whatever she pleased to them, so she should be happy, right?

So why do I just want to die? Cherie thought as the doors were pushed open for her. She smiled a brilliant, wide smile at the waiting crowd, calling for autographs and pictures and for her to sign this and that and so many questions berated her it was as if she was back in Afghanistan, with machine gunfire roaring, bombs dropping, and the wails of dying men around her. And for a second, as her heels snapped on the red carpet, as flashing cameras blinded her and left her squinting, she was right back there.

Right back to the dust churned by blood. To the mud she slipped and fell in, carrying her fallen comrades to an Evac-helicopter that never came. Bullet after bullet slamming into her back, forcing her forward like the guiding hands of her security resting on the small of her back. But she smiled and waved and blew kisses, just as she always did, and entered the black SUV waiting for her at the end of the isle–she smiled to herself; one sort of evacuation that came this time.

Her manager laughed, his pot belly pushing against his purple shirt as the car lurched forward. Drunk, judging by the bitter smell of his breath filling the dark cabin. “Look at this, kid!” He pushed a tablet into her hands, showing figures she didn’t understand. “I made nearly a hundred million on this tour!”

We, she thought. “That’s great.” Putting the tablet down, she reached for a bouquet of roses sitting between them. They were beautiful. Their petals were scarlet and eye-catching. Their thorns were sharp and dangerous. She held onto one, purposefully pressing her thumb just to feel something. Her blood was akin to the rose’s petals, but in seconds the wound healed, leaving her with only a memory of the pain.

“Of course,” he said, “you’ll get your five percent.” He chuckled and lit a cigar that filled the cabin with an ever fouler stench than his breath. “Not like your kind has any use for money. I mean, what’re you gon’ do? Probably buy a gun and blow your own damn head off your shoulders!” Barking laughter followed, and Cherie tuned out.

Staring out the window of the SUV, she watched the world pass her. The island of Dolordiso had been something quite unique, being that she actually had rights here. She could buy a house. She could own land, go to school, and even vote. Spartans were accepted here, and she’d simply been a passive observer of the world past the tinted window. Watching the Spanish style homes blur into one moving mass, the river of people buying, selling, and loitering on the sidewalk. It was like the island was alive, with sounds she couldn’t hear, with an energy she was numb to, and with a voice she was deaf to.

Surrounding hills were covered in lush greenery, the actual city of the island in the greeneries palm. As if mother earth was protecting her occupants.

“Hey, bitch.” She jerked away when her manager pressed the cigar’s butt to her arm. She liked the pain, but only when she was the one to do it. Not the pig who sat in his own… she let go of the negative thoughts. “Hear what I said?”

“I’m sorry. No.”

His eyes narrowed behind those dark sunglasses she’d been forced to buy for him during his birthday last year. “We’re stayin’ the night at the Poppy Hotel. Five stars. Course, you’re going to sleep on the couch in my room–damn place is charging five thousand dollars a night.” He spat a glob of dark saliva onto the floor of the car as they took a turn, slicing through foot traffic. “Owned by some Russian whore. And you know the commies. Sharin’ bastards, pumping up prices like they won the Cold War. Hey, didn’t you fight ‘em?”

“Only for a few months.” She absentmindedly reached for dog tags she no longer wore. “Special ops. It was—“

“Didn’t ask for details, sweetheart.” He puffed out. “Just keep yourself smiling. That’s all I’m asking out of you. Hell, it's damn near the only thing you're good at.”

She clenched onto the hem of her dress. “Yes.”

His eyes lingered on her, and she braced for the uncomfortable, sweaty, saliva slathering kiss he used to force her into place. Her shoulders remained tense throughout, her hands clenched into fists, and a deep fire of hatred blazing in her chest. But she snuffed the inferno in her chest with a song she sang in her head. A childish song from her youth that her father used to sing, before he sold her off to become a whore for the US government and later on Sunlight Records. Always someone’s property. For once, she wanted to be… wanted. Loved. At least, when she sang for millions, they were happy, and in turn, so was she. Because she wasn’t an animal when she was singing, she was simply a woman who was loved… but not liked.

Cherie wished to die, and as the car began climbing the gravel pathway towards the Poppy Hotel, she hoped that whoever had been killing her kind would kindly come for her next.

Mary danced along the shores of Dolordiso, her feet kicking up sand as she swayed with the music pulsing into her ears. It tickled the bottom of her feet and got into her veil of black hair; filled the air and glimmered like brown diamonds in dying sunlight. The sun was going down, paving a marigold road to the horizon across the glittering sea. Number Five was a pretty wonderful singer. So lively and full of life. At least, it sounded like that to Mary. Maybe she’d ask her to sing for her before killing her.

Picking up her heavy briefcase, she adjusted her white tie and hummed as she walked towards an ice cream stall. A child being pulled away from it by a sorry-looking mother broke her veil of fantasy, where the music in her ears painted the world a brighter, more vibrant landscape. But now, she noticed the prostitutes standing on corners, coming out for a night’s work. At the beer bottles kicked into alleys. At the dead fish laying on top of the sea’s shushing waves.

Putting her red sunglasses up, she gestured for two ice creams, giving one to the small child, and eagerly licking the next as she watched a convoy of black SUVs roar past. They threw ever present dust into the air, tossing Mary’s hair to the side. Five cars, possibly five guards in each, barring the car Number Five was in. Twenty-four in total–easy. Besides, the only problem was Five herself. The lesser the value of their numbers, the harder they were to kill.

Callsign: Canary. Mary was one of her biggest fans, and she’d be the end of her. Hefting up the heavy briefcase, Mary pushed through the crowd going against her, her ears full of different languages. Spanish, Japanese, Mandarin, and English. Dolordiso was… what had the Doctor called it so many years ago when he was constructing it? A boiling pot.

Mary thought herself as the fire as she watched the convoy climb the winding gravel road to the Poppy Hotel. A winding river of gray, soon to be slick with blood. The Russian Mafia would hate such an attack, but Mary wasn’t one to care. As long as Number Five was dead by midnight, before the last boat in the harbor left before the coming storm raged, then it would be fine.

Everybody’s gotta die, she thought, singing along to the song in her head. And dead Five would be, along with anyone else who got in her way.