Killing Women To Motivate Male characters Is Sexist (Cutie)

It was nighttime and raining. Always raining. In the seedier parts of San Francisco's China Town there were places to go for men with appetites, or men who just wanted to forget. One such place was Madame Lun's, a self-titled "Leisure Club" and fairly classier place a step above a common brothel. The ground floor looked to be a modern, glass walled-facade with opaque frosting, teasing passers-by with the silhouettes of women and smaller, suggestive pictures of tonight's performers.

Once inside it felt like your modern day, classy Chinese run Casino and restaurant. The clientel here drank diet alcohol or expensive bottles, and smoked cuban, while dressed in suits and tipped the victorian-burlesque girls serving and dancing all around. Gambling rooms echoed with laughter, fortunes won and lost at a dice roll, and men trying to be men, having scantily clad women at their sides. Said women of course, left them when they ran dry- and they always ran dry in the end. After all, the house always wins.

In the back rooms, where the girls dressed or undressed, put on make up or took it off, a plump woman in a luxurious Chinese qui pao oversaw her 'stable', though she was flustered over one seat being empty. The girl who was supposed to be dressed by now came in past her check in time, a plain looking Asian-American girl who wouldn't be out of place in one's neighborhood church group.

"Alma, girl, You're late! Some of your clients are already leaving! You look like crap, by the way." Lun said, observing Alma's extremely haggard look.

"I'm sorry mama Lun. It's nothing, just had some day things to take care of." She said, apologetically, in a hurry. She heads to the lockers to leave her things, then gets out of her clothes in a superhumanly quick manner.

"Let's just hope we have some walk ins then." Madame Lun said, helping Alma out of her plain-jane clothes and into the exotic clothes of Scarlet, the red lady of the East. Scarlet wanted nothing more than to just finish her shift and get home and lock the door... but for now she had to conjure up the stereotypical seductive Asian lady persona, and that extremely stereotypical Asian accent.

The rain is coming down heavily when Clayton steps into the smoke filled, dimly lit atmosphere of Madame Lun’s “Leisure Club”. From what Clayton remembers about the place, the crowd right now is what it usually is; not too crowded but certainly not empty. A dull roar composed of laughter, cursing, and conversations in multiple dialects of Chinese and English fills the building as groups of men gather around their pai gow tables while others gather around the stage or at the bar to leer at women hopefully prettier than their wives, whether they’re currently occupying the stages or fluttering around the room in clothing that straddles the line between sexy and harmfully stereotypical. Got a problem with that? You probably should.  None of them pay him much mind as he makes his way across the floor toward the back.

The weight of the briefcase in his hands reminds Clayton that he’s here not for pleasure (not that he considers himself desperate enough to come here for that,) but for business. Once he brings this cash to Madame Lun, his debt to the cow will be paid off, and he’ll have one less thing to worry about.

Clayton stops at the heavily lacquered, red Chinese style double doors for a moment. The wood work is outstanding, because while she may be cruel, Mama Lun is anything but cheap, at least when it comes to appearances. He sighs, this is a lot of cash to be just giving up, but still, Madame Lun and her family busted him out of China (where he was arrested on some very real charges that he was definitely guily  of) when no one else would. It’s not every day you find friends like that, even if they extort a far greater sum from you for the act of kindness than they actually spent on the act.

He grasps the handle of one of the doors. pulls it open and nearly walks directly into a woman on hurry to get out to the floor. He can tell right then and there that she’s the most beautiful human being in the place. Not because of the make-up, or the revealing outfit, but what he can see beneath it all. And it’s not her cleavage we’re talking about here, but her features in general. They’re utterly plain. To him she looks like the kind of girl that wouldn’t be out of place in someone’s church group. She looks like several people you’d walk past on the street on any given day; utterly unremarkable. Clayton isn’t sure why but he finds that fascinating at this moment. She stares at him, and he stares back at her in awe, like she's some cutting edge piece of technological equipment. (black lips are tight ok? - cutie) This second is over almost before it starts, though, as Clayton moves himself out of the way so she can make it to the floor to make her money, while he goes to give away some of his. He doesn’t wanna seem like a creep, after all.

There are multiple girls in various stages of dress in the back room. Some greet him with glares and gasps, but most are used to people coming. There are two men dressed in dark suits on either side of the room. Lun’s security. Each man reaches into their jacket, as if he didn’t know they were armed. He remembers his father telling him never to keep your gun on a shoulder holster unless you wanna telegraph to the world that you’re holding a weapon, especially when you’re reaching for it, so good luck shooting first. Not to mention the rate of accidental discharge. The knuckleheads.

Madame Lun notices Clayton and motions to the men to keep their dicks in their pants.

“Clayton, my friend!” She says and puts on a smile
“Mama Lun.” Clayton greets her in return.

“I see you brought my money. You know, I was beginning to worry, and when I worry-“

“They worry, and they don’t handle that kind of stress as well as you, Mama, I know, but it’s all here. Go ahead and count it if you don’t trust me.”

Clayton puts the briefcase down on the nearest dressing table, and opens it, spinning it toward the older woman.

“Of course I trust you, Clayton.”

She snaps her fingers and the smaller of the two men rushes to the briefcase to count it for his boss. He picks up the case and brings it into an adjacent room to put it through their counter.
There is a nearly palpable tension in the room, and nobody says a word as they await his return.  Finally the goon returns and gives a nod to Madame Lun, Everything is clear.

“A pleasure, Mr. Wray. If you have anything left over, why don’t you go out there and enjoy yourself, hm?”

“You know, Mama Lun, this time, I just might.”

He exits the back and begins his exit of the entire building itself. After a brief stop at the bar, of course. He leans against the bar with cash already in hand and orders a rail whiskey, because who does he have to impress right now? Nobody, that’s who.

A couple of hours pass and patrons come and go, girls serving drinks, food and sometimes themselves. Lun didn't have any hard-and-fast rules at her place. If you could charm one of her girls, you'd have the privilege of paying for... special service. Alma, as Scarlet, had her fair share of creeps pretending to be gentlemen, but she too felt a connection with Clay, giving him more than a few glances that night. She thought about taking a chance with one of Lun's debtors.

That was when a trio of Japanese boys with bodybuilder physiques and sharp, formed hair came into the establishment. Alma recognized them first. It was now or never, as she quickly made her way to Clay's side.

And not a moment too soon. The trio spotted her under her costume, and the lead man said something totally sexist in Japanese. "Oiiii, Josei nē! koko ni kimasu. Watashi wa anata o sagashite imashita. (Hey woman, come here. I was looking for you.)"

Feigning that she'd been talking to Clay all night, she wrapped her arms around his. "Sorry Hanzo, not tonight. I found myself a nice, white boy-next-door who's good to me. Not to mention his is bigger than yours... wallet." She responded to the clearly Japanese fellow in the Chinese place.

"Anata wa sonoyōni watashi ni hanasu koto ga dekimasen. Anata wa koko de anzenda to omoimasu ka?! (you can't talk to me like that. You think you're safe here?)" He said angrily. Lun's goons from earlier heard the commotion, and this time weren't eyeing him up, but rather this Japanese punk. The Yakuza and the Triad enforcers squared off, but considering who had the home advantage, the Japanese are tied up explaining themselves.

Alma leaned her head on Clay, her body as close as possible to his. He reached up to kiss him lightly on the cheek, then whispered, in a completely normal american english accent, "Please... play along... Hanzo is dangerous. Let's just get out of here."

She struts past Asian bodybuilder with her boytoy in tow, then guided Clay over to Mama Lun, minding her books for the casino and show floor. With a cheery Asian accent, she tells the madame. "Oh mama Lun, Mister Wray here wants a take out order."

"Oh really... Wray, you sly dog. I knew you couldn't keep your hands to yourself for long. You kids have fun then!" Lun gave Alma a trenchcoat. She then gave Clay a scowl. "You bring her back in one piece, you hear. And no freebies for friends."  She took what was left of Clay's money, leaving them just enough for a cab. The Japanese had their samurai- the Chinese had this innate ability to find money.

Clayton silently glared daggers into the brash Yakuza. He knows enough to know when to keep his mouth shut.

They catch a cab to the dumpy hotel Clayton has been living in for the past few days. The ride is completely silent as he waits to ask Alma about the men, herself, or anything at all, really, until they arrive at the dumpy hotel he’s been living at for the last week or two. Part of the silence is out of concern for her safety; you don’t want to just go blabbing about any of these things where someone can hear you, especially a goddamn cabbie, but mostly the silence is out of bewilderment at the situation. Clayton  has that gut feeling he gets when something  significant is happening. He quit worrying about whether it's the good kind of significant or not a long time ago and learned to just appreciate the heads up his body gave him.  Besides, what could  be so terrible about spending the night with the most attractive woman he's seen in awhile? He reminds himself that she did just cling to him to escape a creep, and that her boss is making him pay for the privilege.

Something  really is happening. It’s been longer than he can remember since he last felt such an immediate connection to a woman. There is something special about Alma. He can just feel it. It isn’t like him to catch immediate feelings for a stranger, especially one who has barely spoken five words to him, but here he is.

The whiskey in him can’t help but wonder if it would be in poor taste to ask her about doing what he’s paid Ms. Lun to assume they’re doing. What this Hanzo character was most likely wants to be doing with her right now.
The human being in him shuts that idea down immediately and wonders the fuck is wrong with him.

“So how do you know those charming young men?” He asks in as polite a tone as he can. Any annoyance in his voice is directed toward them, and her employer.  He just hopes she’s empathetic enough to pick up on that.

He presses his key to the door. The red light flashes green and allows the two of them to enter the room. It’s a simple room. Little more than a bed, a tv,  a lamp, and one of those shoddy desks with the broken swivel chair they all seem to have. He flips the overhead light to the room on. The florescent above head flickers to life and floods the room with a huge outpouring of bad, off white lighting.  He can see her even better now, and she’s still beautiful. He feels like the contradictory make-up and clothing only further emphasize her natural looks.

“Hell,” Clayton says, “I don’t think I even know your name- but maybe I shouldn’t, you know?”

If he knew she wouldn't be waking up tomorrow, he would want to know her name, but he doesn't know that. Clayton doesn't know a god damn thing.

"I don't want to talk about them." She said, going through the trouble of double checking the doors and windows. She loses the trench coat. and everything else. "I'll tell you everything tomorrow. Right now... I want to forget. I want to be... free."

Well, Clay got what he paid for. But there was more cuddling though. And then ninjas.

MORNING

Cutie may as well enjoy it, because the next morning came quickly, almost like fast forward. Alma lay on the bed under the sheets. She was still, and quiet. Far too quiet. Her skin was pale, the color gone from her lips. Before things could make sense, there was already a banging on the door, followed by an angry, forceful voice.

"POLICE! OPEN THE DOOR!" The banging grew louder and more forceful.

The commotion at the door slowly hammers its way into Clayton's head. Once it finally passes through that thick skull of his each knock echoes through his brain. He knows he didn't drink too much last night, so why does his head feel like it's in a vice? He tries to lift his head from the pillow to see who is knocking so early and why. That's when he realizes his pillow is wet. Not just his pillow, but a lot of the bed is wet with a thick liquid. His sense of smell begins returning to him now. The smell is a combination of iron and something worse, and it's very familiar. The realization hits him like a freight train. He's lying in blood. A lot of blood.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

Knowing what he's going to see when he opens his eyes doesn't soften the blow at all. There she is, the poor girl. Her throat cut open like that right next to him while they slept. Being familiar with death is not the same as being comfortable with it. Between the sensory overload and the raw emotion of the situation, too much is occupying Clayton's body right now. It decides to do something about that. He turns over the side of the bed and his stomach empties itself onto the floor.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

He reaches up to his neck to the source of a stinging pain and pulls a small dart from his jugular. That answers one question.

The next question to answer itself is the question of who's pounding on the door.

"POLICE. OPEN THE DOOR!"

Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.
No time to mourn just yet.

Clayton shoots out of bed attempting to bring himself to his feet. The effects of the sedative still linger in his blood, making motor skills a bit difficult. He sways heavily to one side trying to get balanced.

"OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR OR WE'RE GONNA DO IT FOR YOU."

He scrambles to put his jeans.

"ONE!"

He catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror on the wall, while he pulls on last nights t-shirt. The side of his face is red and his hair is matted with dried blood.

"TWO!"

He slips on his shoes. They weren't exactly made for running, but it's exactly what they'll have to do. He braces himself for the end of the cops three count before he notices it. There's an ornate oriental dagger on the nightstand next to the bed.

No time to examine it yet, but our protagonist knows exactly what it is. The tool with which an angel's wings were removed last night. He grips it tightly.

"THREE!"

If the cops had any flair for the dramatic they would kick the door in. Apparently they do not, as Clayton hears the familiar sound of the key card opening the door. Which begs the question, why knock in the first place?

That's his cue.

The cop is cautious on his way in. Clay sees the cop's arms and gun as he checks the first two corners of the room visible to him. He runs full speed now, pushing his shoulder straight into the door, which swings straight into the cop, trapping his arms and his weapon in the room.


Clayton staggers back a step and quickly pushes his weight into the door again.

And again.

Then he lunges for the cops gun, he jabs the ornate dagger in and out of the officer's hand,  twists hard on his wrist manages to pry the gun from his hands.

Bullets burst into the room through the wall. A partner waiting outside. Clay tries his hardest to move out of the way only to end up n the floor. Whatever they poisoned him with last night is no joke.

He can see cop in the doorway now. Typical looking pig. Short cut hair, ugly blue uniform and all.  Cop's gripping his bleeding hand. He's nervous. Beads of sweat dripping down his brow, but still he's wearing a shit eating grin across his faces.

"Come on, Clay, you're already in enough shit. You really wanna pull that trigger and make it worse?"

He keeps the gun pointed at the nervous pig. From his point on the floor he can see the partner coming into position with a good shot on him through the door way. Not good.

"You know, life behind bars would be worse than death for someone like you. I guess that means in a weird way, killing you would be doing you a favor.  So, why don't you put my gun down and come with us before my partner does you a big fuckin' favor?"

Clayton takes a moment to take the whole scene in. They knew about Alma before he did, they know his name, they know who he is. These aren't ordinary cops doing their jobs. That means he doesn't have to feel bad about this.

BLAM!

Partner's lying on his back with a hole in his head. Cop gasps. His eyes go wide, he makes a jump toward Clayton.

BLAM!

More blood splatters onto Clayton's face. Cop falls forward gripping his throat, gurggling and twitching on the floor.

Clayton strains to stand onto his feet. Panting from the sheer intensity of the last few seconds, he walks over to the bed and closes Alma's eyes for her. Taking one last look at her before he hurries out the door. Every cop in the fucking city is going to be on his ass now.

Cops with heavy armor and assault rifles. Cops were always a gray area- some might be crooked, some might just be following orders. Diana was not in the mood to kill nowadays. She was still all about the fighting though. And beating people who deserve it senseless. And the sweet beats by Dre on her head as she watched the police assault unfold. She was listening to some hip hop, sitting on the edge of the roof at the building next to Clay's hotel.

Diana was being a street samurai today, with a red hoodie jacket with fierce anime vibes and wicked flame motifs, her black sports pants, and pump shoes. She watches the attack unfold, and saw the patsy. Patsy Clay was running blind, running towards one heavily armed SWAT team, the guy in front with a shield, everyone else with military grade automatic weaponry. They weren't here to detain anyone with that kind of hardware.

Fearlessly she shoots a grapple and jumps, building up the necessary momentum to do what she needed to do next.

CRASH! Diana explodes through the window and into the squad just as they were on Clayton, boot connecting to a helmet and putting it through drywall. The hallway too narrow, she leaves the sword on her back and uses her own grapple wire instead as a weapon. She disarms, chokes and smashes in faces, before the cops retaliate a split second later and try to subdue her with kicks, punches, rifle butts and tackles. Diana said "nope" and left them with concussions, broken bones and bleeding limbs. Once the fight once over, Diana was breathing heavily, then laughed.

"Okay... no one's dead, or critically injured. One point for the good guys." Diana assured herself. Good guys don't kill, and so far she'd done that.

"I'll... never play guitar... again..." One conscious cop managed to pipe up, clutching the fingers that bent in every direction except the right one.


Diana picked up a nice looking carbine she didn't damage and handed it to Clay.

"You look like shit. Come on then, you wanna blow this joint?" She piped up from behind a face mask, opening another window and setting up a zip line for them to escape.