CalamityQueen
There's a hellhound on my trail...
There came a point, and it wasn't a point that many people reached, when one just had to accept the fact that things had been fucked up to such a heinous degree that there was simply no going back.
Reaching this point was extremely unfortunate for Lenore. She had a good life. Well, she'd had a good life.
She graduated from a venerable institution at the top of her class with a double major in accounting and finance.
The job market was competitive though, and Lenore really, really liked having nice things. The sort of money she wanted to make was hard to come by, and so when she had been headhunted and recruited by a massive criminal organization to become one of their auditors, accepting the job was the only natural choice for someone with an appetite for the finer things in life and very few morals to speak of.
The rate they were offering was unbelievable, and she wanted the best.
It was like a match made in heaven.
She had never met her boss or their boss, and so forth. There was no mindless office chat, cubicle, or coworkers to deal with. She worked wherever she was and traveled throughout the American Southwest and occasionally to Mexico in her brand new Maserati, just her, her laptop, the numbers in front of her, and all of the delightful things she bought along the way.
She had no idea who she worked for, and she didn't care. She was just an anonymous worker bee in a massive hive living it up.
Her life was full of spa trips, luxury hotels, highrise apartments, exclusive restaurants, and designer clothes.
It all would have been fine. She would have been fine, fucking primo if she hadn't gotten greedy.
Now that she was turning it over in her head, she wasn't even sure what exactly had possessed her to start skimming.
She didn't even need the money. She already lived like a fucking Roman senator, and she'd even been up for a promotion.
She threw it all away for… what? A bit of a thrill? Some Freudian death drive impulse?
Well, she was fucked.
She'd been found out, or at least, they were onto her, and she had no illusions about what would happen if they got to her.
Now?
She was on the road. Speeding down the Alaska Highway. Fifteen hours and several energy drinks in. The heater was turned all the way up, she was wearing three layers, and Tchaikovsky was rattling the frame of her car.
Lenore was a creature of the sun. Born and bred in sunbaked Arizona, transplanted to SoCal. She was a sunbather, perpetually tanned, a beachgoer, someone who cruised with the top down and owned sixteen pairs of sunglasses.
What in the fuck was she supposed to do in Alaska? Pick up a drug habit? Was there even shit to do there?
That was where she had been told to go, though. Working in such a sector, she had come into contact with a few people who knew how to make someone disappear, not in the one-way trip to the morgue sense, but in the leave it all behind sense.
She was in a new car, a Subaru because apparently, those were good for driving in snow. (Lenore Morgan driving a fucking Subaru? Seriously, her life was over.) She had a new haircut and color, new clothes, contact lenses, a new phone, and an alias.
Oh, fuck yeah, that was the icing on this whole cake of shit; her new name, as printed on her brand spanking new license, credit card, social security card, and passport, was Francis. Francis Dole.
She was beyond pissed about that, but it wasn't like she had many palatable options at the moment.
There was also a gun in the glove box. Why wouldn't there be? She was, after all, literally on the run. She knew without a doubt that the people who would be looking for her would be armed, so she felt the need to (symbolically) even out the playing field.
She didn't know how to use a gun! She was a fucking accountant. Even if she managed to use it successfully, it'd be like someone getting shot by a deer.
The landscape was already getting uncomfortably… arctic. She had never driven on snow. She wasn't an amazing driver anyway, as evidenced by her ludicrous insurance rates. It was absolutely plausible that she would end up wiping out and ending this entire insane run for her life before she even made it to her destination.
Though incredibly ugly and basic, the Subaru had been outfitted with what she had been assured were the finest snow tires, and so at least she had that consolation, but it wasn't much.
It was nearing midnight, and Tchaikovsky and the various energy brews she had consumed weren't doing it for her anymore, so she had to find a place to stop soon.
Somewhere in this frozen hellscape.
Eventually, she arrived at a run-down little motel with a neon sign buzzing audibly in the snow's stark silence.
It was too quiet here, too cold, too open, too rugged.
At the front desk, she clicked her perfectly manicured nails against the stained wooden counter as she waited for whoever was running the place to appear. Flies buzzed around a heat lamp in the corner of the room. She wanted to gag.
Eventually, a little man with an exceptionally well-groomed mustache appeared and sold her one of their undoubtedly squalid little rooms for the night.
She handed him her credit card and winced when he asked for her signature—the sheer indignity of having to sign as Francis Dole threatened to kill her right then and there.
She pressed the pen to the paper and got F-R-A down before the clerk interrupted her.
"Alaska is beautiful this time of year! I hope you're ready for the cold!"
The pistol she had inexplicably tucked into her waistband (seriously, what was she going to do with it, shoot someone?) beneath an extremely unflattering orange puffer jacket dug uncomfortably into her skin. She felt her eye twitch slightly; whether it was from the caffeine, stress, or the sheer level to which she'd been pushed beyond her limit was anybody's guess.
She heaved a sigh. This was it. This was the beginning of the rest of her life.
"No, not even a little bit," she muttered, finishing the signature with a falsified flourish.
Reaching this point was extremely unfortunate for Lenore. She had a good life. Well, she'd had a good life.
She graduated from a venerable institution at the top of her class with a double major in accounting and finance.
The job market was competitive though, and Lenore really, really liked having nice things. The sort of money she wanted to make was hard to come by, and so when she had been headhunted and recruited by a massive criminal organization to become one of their auditors, accepting the job was the only natural choice for someone with an appetite for the finer things in life and very few morals to speak of.
The rate they were offering was unbelievable, and she wanted the best.
It was like a match made in heaven.
She had never met her boss or their boss, and so forth. There was no mindless office chat, cubicle, or coworkers to deal with. She worked wherever she was and traveled throughout the American Southwest and occasionally to Mexico in her brand new Maserati, just her, her laptop, the numbers in front of her, and all of the delightful things she bought along the way.
She had no idea who she worked for, and she didn't care. She was just an anonymous worker bee in a massive hive living it up.
Her life was full of spa trips, luxury hotels, highrise apartments, exclusive restaurants, and designer clothes.
It all would have been fine. She would have been fine, fucking primo if she hadn't gotten greedy.
Now that she was turning it over in her head, she wasn't even sure what exactly had possessed her to start skimming.
She didn't even need the money. She already lived like a fucking Roman senator, and she'd even been up for a promotion.
She threw it all away for… what? A bit of a thrill? Some Freudian death drive impulse?
Well, she was fucked.
She'd been found out, or at least, they were onto her, and she had no illusions about what would happen if they got to her.
Now?
She was on the road. Speeding down the Alaska Highway. Fifteen hours and several energy drinks in. The heater was turned all the way up, she was wearing three layers, and Tchaikovsky was rattling the frame of her car.
Lenore was a creature of the sun. Born and bred in sunbaked Arizona, transplanted to SoCal. She was a sunbather, perpetually tanned, a beachgoer, someone who cruised with the top down and owned sixteen pairs of sunglasses.
What in the fuck was she supposed to do in Alaska? Pick up a drug habit? Was there even shit to do there?
That was where she had been told to go, though. Working in such a sector, she had come into contact with a few people who knew how to make someone disappear, not in the one-way trip to the morgue sense, but in the leave it all behind sense.
She was in a new car, a Subaru because apparently, those were good for driving in snow. (Lenore Morgan driving a fucking Subaru? Seriously, her life was over.) She had a new haircut and color, new clothes, contact lenses, a new phone, and an alias.
Oh, fuck yeah, that was the icing on this whole cake of shit; her new name, as printed on her brand spanking new license, credit card, social security card, and passport, was Francis. Francis Dole.
She was beyond pissed about that, but it wasn't like she had many palatable options at the moment.
There was also a gun in the glove box. Why wouldn't there be? She was, after all, literally on the run. She knew without a doubt that the people who would be looking for her would be armed, so she felt the need to (symbolically) even out the playing field.
She didn't know how to use a gun! She was a fucking accountant. Even if she managed to use it successfully, it'd be like someone getting shot by a deer.
The landscape was already getting uncomfortably… arctic. She had never driven on snow. She wasn't an amazing driver anyway, as evidenced by her ludicrous insurance rates. It was absolutely plausible that she would end up wiping out and ending this entire insane run for her life before she even made it to her destination.
Though incredibly ugly and basic, the Subaru had been outfitted with what she had been assured were the finest snow tires, and so at least she had that consolation, but it wasn't much.
It was nearing midnight, and Tchaikovsky and the various energy brews she had consumed weren't doing it for her anymore, so she had to find a place to stop soon.
Somewhere in this frozen hellscape.
Eventually, she arrived at a run-down little motel with a neon sign buzzing audibly in the snow's stark silence.
It was too quiet here, too cold, too open, too rugged.
At the front desk, she clicked her perfectly manicured nails against the stained wooden counter as she waited for whoever was running the place to appear. Flies buzzed around a heat lamp in the corner of the room. She wanted to gag.
Eventually, a little man with an exceptionally well-groomed mustache appeared and sold her one of their undoubtedly squalid little rooms for the night.
She handed him her credit card and winced when he asked for her signature—the sheer indignity of having to sign as Francis Dole threatened to kill her right then and there.
She pressed the pen to the paper and got F-R-A down before the clerk interrupted her.
"Alaska is beautiful this time of year! I hope you're ready for the cold!"
The pistol she had inexplicably tucked into her waistband (seriously, what was she going to do with it, shoot someone?) beneath an extremely unflattering orange puffer jacket dug uncomfortably into her skin. She felt her eye twitch slightly; whether it was from the caffeine, stress, or the sheer level to which she'd been pushed beyond her limit was anybody's guess.
She heaved a sigh. This was it. This was the beginning of the rest of her life.
"No, not even a little bit," she muttered, finishing the signature with a falsified flourish.
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