POV: Your best girl robs you at gunpoint… or, something like that.
So you’ve been well on your way for some minutes now on your shortcut to make it home. The alleyways on this side of town aren’t the stuff of nightmares, but it seems like the city executives squeeze all of the city's lack of effort into spaces like these. Trash everywhere, rats all about one’s feet—the works. You just hold your breath whenever you can and think about your family whenever you can’t.
About halfway through your third alleyway, a young girl with raven hair that flows without end emerges from a dumpster. Her eyes are so deep in their violetisms that you find your legs capable of little besides keeping you upright.
It's... it's your Best Girl, Rinko Shirokane.
“D-don’t… move, please…” Comes her words that you must strain to catch. “I don’t want… t-to hurt you, b-but……”
She removes her hands from behind her back to reveal that she is holding a rubber toy hammer. It glistens in the darkness and you feel all of your color leaving your body. Haven’t toy hammers been outlawed? Such dangerous weaponry is—
“G-give me, um…” You watch her as her eyes drift off, and she seems unable to hold prolonged visual contact, if any at all. “All of…. your money, p-please…”
Surely this young girl is as scared of you, as you are of her. She may not expect a surprise. Steeling yourself, you turn on your heels and make for a mad sprint.
Which seems to be working, until you hear thundering footsteps from behind. You look back and despite your head-start, the young girl is upon you.
She smashes her toy hammer into the back of your left leg, and immediately you feel the bones there shattering into an irreparable mess. A cry, muddled by gurgling from shock, escapes your lips as you collapse onto the alleyway floor.
The young girl stands over you. “I-I, um……” She looks away again, folding her arms behind her back and tilting her head a little. You can see the head of the bloodied hammer peeking out over her shoulder. “T-told you not… to m-move…”
You begin crawling away, despite knowing it’s no use. She walks after you and smashes your other leg with the toy hammer. Rolling onto your stomach in an automatic response to the agony, you realize your legs have been crumpled and bent beyond recognition.
You’re phasing in and out of consciousness as she kneels down near you.
“P-please give me…. your debit card t-too, and… any c-credit c-cards that… you have…”
You have taken too long to respond, as she is now rummaging through your Gucci purse. “N-nice purse, I… I think I’ll, um…. Take it, like… Y-yoink,” comes her self-produced sound effect, as she hoists your purse strap around her shoulder.
A seemingly brief moment of blackness is broken up by the sensation of your noise being pinched. It’s the young girl, leaning even closer now while still gazing elsewhere.
“W-what’s your… um… social s-security number…?”
You beg her to leave you in peace, but she holds the toy hammer above your head.
Your eyes turn to the size of marbles and you plead even more, but she only does that maddening head tilt once more. “U-um, if you know… what’s g-good for you, then…. Er….”
In fear of her retaliation, you tell her. In fact, in your rabid fear, you tell her all of your social media logins, your bank account password, and even, to your greatest shame, the Krabby Patty secret formula.
“T-thank you… have a g-good day, I’ll call…. for an ambulance…” And off she runs;
the last thing you hear is hear is her boots along the ground and the distant jingling of your Gucci purse, before you fall into what feels like a fuzzy slumber.
