Sever | Abigail

The dingily mediocre warehouse office reminds Abigail of a hundred generic hotel lobbies down to the crispy whisper of stiff old carpet under her boots and the scorched dust smell of bad heating vents in the floor.

It seems right for this pit stop. Practically nostalgic. Donny and her father did go way back.

Some idiot spots her halfway to Donny's office and pulls a gun on her. Abigail takes it out of his hand as she walks by, leaving him in a blank-eyed heap on the floor.

She may be a little less restrained about her power than she usually is, but they'll all live. Abigail is many things, but she's rarely a murderer. Corpses are almost never worth the trouble they cause in the long run.

That's an old family life lesson. This is another.

Abigail pushes open the door of Donny's office. Donny, older and balder than she remembers him, glances up from his ledger.

"Oh, Jesus fuck me Christ," Donny blurts, the color bleeding out of his florid face.

"Not my name," Abigail says dryly, the gun dangling carelessly at her side like a half-forgotten toy. It helps with the aesthetic impact of it all.

"Ha. Right, Abigail." Donny queasily plasters on a grin. "Long time no see, kiddo. What can I do you for?"

Abigail cocks her head at the discordant blare of his dumb panic. For the hell of it, she clicks off the gun's safety, and her ears ring with phantom noise as Donny's terror crescendos.

"You don't really care about what happens to you anymore," Abigail tells him, like she's breaking distant bad news, snips though through his sense of self-preservation. Donny slumps like a puppet with cut strings.

"Sorry," Abigail says with flat insincerity, circling around his desk to perch on its edge. "I just wanted to skip the small talk. You know why I'm here, Donny."

"Yeah." Donny nods, his eyes unfocused, arms boneless at his sides. "It's about your brother."

Abigail lifts the gun thoughtfully and rests the barrel on the curve of his eyesocket, close enough to make him blink.

"I think I hit you a too little hard," Abigail says conversationally. "You saying that shit to me right now. You're smarter than that. So I'm going to let it go this time." She nudges the barrel closer to his, watches another blink. "And you're only half-right."

She pulls the gun back, then leans over to flip the pages of his ledger. He's drooling a little, which is just embarrassing for him.

"I'm here for the rest of them too," Abigail tells him, skimming entries. "All the people my dad helped you 'fix up'. The wives, the girlfriends, the wayward family members...everybody you helped make just that little bit easier to 'handle' for a fee. And I'm even going to let you keep the money. All I want from you, Donny, is to get out while I steal your client list. Think you can do that for me?"

"Sure thing, Abby," Donny says dully. Abigail doesn't watch him stagger out, just listens to the buzzing of his bewilderment fade.

But even when he's gone, she can still hear someone.

Thirty seconds later in the doorway of the room next to Donny's office, Abigail is almost exasperated with her lack of foresight. Of course Donny is the kind of guy to leave someone tied to a chair next door while he does his accounting.

Abigail looks at the captive for a while in silence, weighing her options. They're not her problem, them and that glassy eyed look of theirs. Her father probably had nothing to do with this.

It's about your brother, Donny said. Half-right, but right enough.

She crouches with a paper-thin sigh and puts the gun down on the carpet, then straightens up and shuffles over to the stranger, as non-threatening as she knows how to be. She's had practice. It didn't make her any better at it.

"Hey," Abigail rasps quietly, stopping short of their chair. "Any lights still on in there, or am I going to have to wheel you out of here in Donny's shitty office chair?"

The dingily mediocre warehouse office reminds Abigail of a hundred generic hotel lobbies down to the crispy whisper of stiff old carpet under her boots and the scorched dust smell of bad heating vents in the floor.

It seems right for this pit stop. Practically nostalgic. Donny and her father did go way back.

Some idiot spots her halfway to Donny's office and pulls a gun on her. Abigail takes it out of his hand as she walks by, leaving him in a blank-eyed heap on the floor.

She may be a little less restrained about her power than she usually is, but they'll all live. Abigail is many things, but she's rarely a murderer. Corpses are almost never worth the trouble they cause in the long run.

That's an old family life lesson. This is another.

Abigail pushes open the door of Donny's office. Donny, older and balder than she remembers him, glances up from his ledger.

"Oh, Jesus fuck me Christ," Donny blurts, the color bleeding out of his florid face.

"Not my name," Abigail says dryly, the gun dangling carelessly at her side like a half-forgotten toy. It helps with the aesthetic impact of it all.

"Ha. Right, Abigail." Donny queasily plasters on a grin. "Long time no see, kiddo. What can I do you for?"

Abigail cocks her head at the discordant blare of his dumb panic. For the hell of it, she clicks off the gun's safety, and her ears ring with phantom noise as Donny's terror crescendos.

"You don't really care about what happens to you anymore," Abigail tells him, like she's breaking distant bad news, snips though through his sense of self-preservation. Donny slumps like a puppet with cut strings.

"Sorry," Abigail says with flat insincerity, circling around his desk to perch on its edge. "I just wanted to skip the small talk. You know why I'm here, Donny."

"Yeah." Donny nods, his eyes unfocused, arms boneless at his sides. "It's about your brother."

Abigail lifts the gun thoughtfully and rests the barrel on the curve of his eyesocket, close enough to make him blink.

"I think I hit you a too little hard," Abigail says conversationally. "You saying that shit to me right now. You're smarter than that. So I'm going to let it go this time." She nudges the barrel closer to his, watches another blink. "And you're only half-right."

She pulls the gun back, then leans over to flip the pages of his ledger. He's drooling a little, which is just embarrassing for him.

"I'm here for the rest of them too," Abigail tells him, skimming entries. "All the people my dad helped you 'fix up'. The wives, the girlfriends, the wayward family members...everybody you helped make just that little bit easier to 'handle' for a fee. And I'm even going to let you keep the money. All I want from you, Donny, is to get out while I steal your client list. Think you can do that for me?"

"Sure thing, Abby," Donny says dully. Abigail doesn't watch him stagger out, just listens to the buzzing of his bewilderment fade.

But even when he's gone, she can still hear someone.

Thirty seconds later in the doorway of the room next to Donny's office, Abigail is almost exasperated with her lack of foresight. Of course Donny is the kind of guy to leave someone tied to a chair next door while he does his accounting.

Abigail looks at the captive for a while in silence, weighing her options. This stranger is not Abigail's problem, her and that glassy eyed look of hers. Her father probably had nothing to do with this.

It's about your brother, Donny said. Half-right, but right enough.

She crouches with a paper-thin sigh and puts the gun down on the carpet, then straightens up and shuffles over to the stranger, as non-threatening as she knows how to be. She's had practice. It didn't make her any better at it.

"Hey," Abigail rasps quietly, stopping short of her chair. "Any lights still on in there, or am I going to have to wheel you out of here in Donny's shitty office chair?"

The dingily mediocre warehouse office reminds Abigail of a hundred generic hotel lobbies down to the crispy whisper of stiff old carpet under her boots and the scorched dust smell of bad heating vents in the floor.

It seems right for this pit stop. Practically nostalgic. Donny and her father did go way back.

Some idiot spots her halfway to Donny's office and pulls a gun on her. Abigail takes it out of his hand as she walks by, leaving him in a blank-eyed heap on the floor.

She may be a little less restrained about her power than she usually is, but they'll all live. Abigail is many things, but she's rarely a murderer. Corpses are almost never worth the trouble they cause in the long run.

That's an old family life lesson. This is another.

Abigail pushes open the door of Donny's office. Donny, older and balder than she remembers him, glances up from his ledger.

"Oh, Jesus fuck me Christ," Donny blurts, the color bleeding out of his florid face.

"Not my name," Abigail says dryly, the gun dangling carelessly at her side like a half-forgotten toy. It helps with the aesthetic impact of it all.

"Ha. Right, Abigail." Donny queasily plasters on a grin. "Long time no see, kiddo. What can I do you for?"

Abigail cocks her head at the discordant blare of his dumb panic. For the hell of it, she clicks off the gun's safety, and her ears ring with phantom noise as Donny's terror crescendos.

"You don't really care about what happens to you anymore," Abigail tells him, like she's breaking distant bad news, snips though through his sense of self-preservation. Donny slumps like a puppet with cut strings.

"Sorry," Abigail says with flat insincerity, circling around his desk to perch on its edge. "I just wanted to skip the small talk. You know why I'm here, Donny."

"Yeah." Donny nods, his eyes unfocused, arms boneless at his sides. "It's about your brother."

Abigail lifts the gun thoughtfully and rests the barrel on the curve of his eyesocket, close enough to make him blink.

"I think I hit you a too little hard," Abigail says conversationally. "You saying that shit to me right now. You're smarter than that. So I'm going to let it go this time." She nudges the barrel closer to his, watches another blink. "And you're only half-right."

She pulls the gun back, then leans over to flip the pages of his ledger. He's drooling a little, which is just embarrassing for him.

"I'm here for the rest of them too," Abigail tells him, skimming entries. "All the people my dad helped you 'fix up'. The wives, the girlfriends, the wayward family members...everybody you helped make just that little bit easier to 'handle' for a fee. And I'm even going to let you keep the money. All I want from you, Donny, is to get out while I steal your client list. Think you can do that for me?"

"Sure thing, Abby," Donny says dully. Abigail doesn't watch him stagger out, just listens to the buzzing of his bewilderment fade.

But even when he's gone, she can still hear someone.

Thirty seconds later in the doorway of the room next to Donny's office, Abigail is almost exasperated with her lack of foresight. Of course Donny is the kind of guy to leave someone tied to a chair next door while he does his accounting.

Abigail looks at the captive for a while in silence, weighing her options. They're not her problem, him and that glassy eyed look of his. Her father probably had nothing to do with this.

It's about your brother, Donny said. Half-right, but right enough.

She crouches with a paper-thin sigh and puts the gun down on the carpet, then straightens up and shuffles over to the stranger, as non-threatening as she knows how to be. She's had practice. It didn't make her any better at it.

"Hey," Abigail rasps quietly, stopping short of his chair. "Any lights still on in there, or am I going to have to wheel you out of here in Donny's shitty office chair?"