Sylvie's Lament

Dust Ball (Chapter one)

A surprised snort escaped Crimson's lips.  He threw back his head and laughed, a booming sound that echoed through the opulent room.  "Sylvie Scarlatte Romano? Quite a mouthful for a Dust Bowl urchin."
Sylvie bristled, a flicker of defiance igniting in her eyes.  "It's my name," she retorted, her voice surprisingly steady.
Crimson's smile softened a fraction.  He leaned in, his obsidian eyes glinting with something akin to amusement.  "Fascinating name," he drawled.  "And did you know your initials spell SSR?"
Sylvie frowned.  "SSR?"
A slow, predatory grin stretched across Crimson's face.  "Special. Super. Rare," he purred.  "Perhaps, little Sylvie, you're more than just a street rat who doesn't flinch at the Bloodpact boss."
Sylvie's heart hammered in her chest.  Was this a good thing or a bad thing?  Crimson continued, his voice low and serious.
"Look, kid, I need someone sharp, someone who can learn fast.  Someone with a spark.  The Bloodpact needs a new kind of agent, someone who can infiltrate, gather intel, maybe even handle themselves in a pinch." He paused, his gaze locking onto hers.  "I can train you, turn you into an SSR agent.  You'll have food, a roof over your head, and the best training Hell has to offer. In exchange..."
With a resolute nod, she met his gaze. "Alright," she said, her voice firm. Crimson's smirk widened, a predator pleased with his capture. "Excellent choice, kid. You won't regret it."  He clapped his hands, and a young maid materialized from the shadows, her black dress whispering on the marble floor. "Anneh," Crimson addressed the maid, his voice holding a hint of respect,
"show our new...guest to her room. Prepare her for a dinner tonight. We have some important introductions to make."
Sylvie followed Anneh, curiosity warring with apprehension. The young maid, with her pale skin and hair the color of midnight, moved with an unsettling silence. Finally, they reached a set of double doors.
This is your room, Miss Sylvie," anneh said, her voice a monotone whisper.  "Dinner will be at eight. There's a bathroom through that door."  She gestured to a smaller door before disappearing with a silent bow.
Alone for the first time since being snatched from the Dust Bowl, Sylvie analized her new surroundings. Gone were the rusty walls and flickering glowstone lamps; here, plush carpets muffled her steps, and street light streamed through a wide window overlooking a manicured garden.  A luxurious bed, draped in crimson silk, dominated the room, and a vanity piled high with unfamiliar cosmetics sat beside it.A nervous flutter filled Sylvie's stomach. This wasn't just training; this was a complete transformation.  Would she become a ruthless Mafia agent like Crimson, or could she retain some shred of her old self within these opulent walls? As Sylvie tentatively picked up a golden comb, the weight of Crimson's words settled on her. "Special. Super. Rare."  With a deep breath, Sylvie began the makeover. Crimson's world awaited, and she, the girl from the Dust Bowl, was about to step into it, one mascara brushstroke at a time. Crimson, resplendent in a crimson velvet suit, raised his glass in a toast. The room, buzzed with the murmur of conversation. Hard-faced imps, Crimson's inner circle, sat around the opulent mahogany table, their gazes flickering between their leader and the new arrival. Sylvie, transformed by the makeover, sat stiffly at the table, a mix of apprehension and curiosity swirling in her chest.

"My esteemed colleagues," Crimson boomed, his voice echoing in the chandelier-lit room. "Tonight, I introduce you not just to a guest, but to the future of the Crimson."

A collective murmur rippled through the room.  Eyes narrowed and heads turned towards Sylvie.Crimson continued, a predatory glint in his obsidian eyes. "For years, we've grappled with the limitations of our methods. Respect for the Ars Goetia, those stuck-up demons, has hampered our operations. Contracts with them are expensive, time-consuming, and unreliable."  He slammed his glass down, a sharp crack resonating through the room. "But what if," he continued, his voice low and dangerous, "we could forge our own weapon?  Someone who combines the ruthless efficiency of an assassin with the persuasive charm of an Ars Goetia diplomat?"

A hush fell over the room.  The weight of Crimson's words hung heavy in the air.  Sylvie felt a shiver crawl down her spine.  So, this was the real reason.  She wasn't just here to be an agent; she was Crimson's experiment, his attempt to create the perfect weapon.
"That's where Sylvie comes in," Crimson announced, gesturing towards her.  There were gasps of surprise from some, scrutinizing stares from others.
"She's young, yes," he acknowledged, "but she shows potential.  A street rat's cunning combined with the skills of an Ars Goetia…think of the possibilities."

A low murmur of agreement rippled through the room.  Several imps nodded, All eyes were on Sylvie, expecting fear or confusion.  Instead, a slow smile spread across her face, a spark of determination glinting in her eyes.
¨I like it," she declared, her voice surprisingly steady.  A hush fell over the room, so thick you could practically hear the imps blinking.  "I wouldn't mind being a weapon, if it meant getting what the Ars Goetia have and giving some back to the Dust Bowl." Crimson, taken aback for a moment, recovered quickly.  A slow, predatory grin split his face.  "Interesting," he rumbled.  "Perhaps you have more fire in you than I initially thought, little thief." Sylvie's gaze sweeps across the room, taking in the hardened face of Crimson's son – Moxxie.  Despite the crimson suit that hangs loosely on his frame, he looks out of place.his normally cheerful eyes are clouded with a deep sadness.  Sylvie remembers him – the boy with a kind smile feeding the fish. He couldn't have been much older than sixteen, maybe even younger.