Diadora Estelle

**Cassette Recording Date: 14th December 2013**

**Location: Underground Club, London**

***Cassette tape audio starts.***

An abrupt static opens the sound of the recording, chirping away gently in the background of the audio. A delicate hum from a woman-like tone invites knowledge that a person is present and close to the recording device. Things are eerily silent before gentle tapping of heels graciously walk along a hard stone like floor; a short grinding noise meets as the balls of the person’s feet twist along the concrete. Silent again, another tone meets the wavelengths of the sound file.

A male, whimpering and sobbing louder in fear; a loud strike of what assumes to be hand to face contact fills the room with a brief echo and an uncontrollable wail bursts out of the man’s mouth and simmers down to a pant of anxiety.

“Silly little bird.” Softly whispers through the air from the woman with a soft southern british accent. Calm and mild. It continues once more… “When did we make it acceptable to touch my belongings?” The tone ended abruptly with a small agitation with a snake like hiss.

“What is rule number one?” Asked in a demanding rhetorical tone. The man takes a moment to wet his dried crusty lips, clearly wanting to answer her in a more respectful manner. Another cracked noise fills the air from a rapid hit to his face again. This causes the man to stutter in his words, hinting that the hits caused him to physically shake.

“No one did Mist-” Cut off with the woman’s voice back to a collected state, as if she hadn’t lost her composure in the slightest. “Exactly, no one. So, tell me, what happens when wild birds become out of control?” The man sits there with a breath of a panicked whine.

He had no answer. He had no idea. Any answer could land him further in shit than he already was. The only answer he knew was, he overstepped the mark and boundaries that Багровые ночи had in place. “Well…?” The barely long wait made the Englishwoman impatient and snappy. Questioning in a petulant tone.

The man takes a moment, trying his utmost hardest to compose himself to answer the woman straight. Teeth chattering as he pushes all his willpower into his words. “They are captured and locked in cages, M-Mistress.” A loose breath of panic assorts from his lips once more as she firmly uses a hand to hold both his cheeks. She repeats in a satisfied tone…

“They are captured and locked in cages. Good.” Chiming in such an approved mother-like song of joy. She lets go of his face, pushing it away to make something so disgusting keep its eyes off of her. The man, at this rate, has been degraded to tears. There was no state of how long he had been there. Just one little recording that showed his pathetic existence. He couldn’t get that right either. The woman’s heels tap along the concrete slab of flooring, only taking a few graceful steps before coming to a halt. The sound of cloth lashing the air and folding messily onto the ground. The sound of metal scrapes along steel before stopping. The woman queries, her voice more distant, as if deeper into the room they were standing in. Finding a curiosity in answers…

“And what happens when little birds are kept in cages?” As her feet pulverize against the cold floor, the man audibly begins to hyperventilate at extreme capacity. Clearly, whatever the metal sound was and her ballerina-like twirl did send him off into a whirlwind of fear. Sarcastically, the woman answers, voice lacking empathy and emotion… “They have their wings clipped… no?” The pouting tone pursued was mocking and belittling and yet she sat there laughing graciously to herself with a wicked grin settling on her face.

“Rule one. No one touches my belongings, but me. It’s a common understanding. And yet you, little bird, waltz in as if you own the place. Flapping your wings around. Your pride. Your arrogance. Your greed. And now look little bird, you’ve fallen so far from your nest and you’ve broken your neck. How deeply saddening it is to see.” A whistle twitters from the woman’s lips as two pairs of heavy footsteps drag besides the crying man. Shifts of cloth as he is further restrained in the seat he is bound too.

Almost as if she had teleported from one end of the room to the other, the woman crouched in front of the man. A scalpel held so skillfully in her long sculpted fingers, polished with only the finest colour… crimson red. The man struggles with a contending pants. As if he was going to go anywhere. The tip of the blade pushes into his skin, drawing blood from his flesh and preventing the man from fighting whatever he was doing to avoid the sharp cold metal sinking any deeper. The tool, coated in a light veil of his blood is cleaned almost immediately with the slither of her warm tongue. A moan of satisfaction lingers past her red lips. The colour match of her lipstick frighteningly familiar to the blood she so easily consumed.

The man is in a different state of consumption. The consumption of shock. Completely mortified. The woman lifts herself back onto her feet, standing proud and straight as she pats her lips with a handkerchief to clean any ‘mess’ she made. “Shame.” Her half assed tone spews before a large blood curdling scream fills the air and tape recording. The woman had hurdled the scalpel deeply into his caput longum and mediale in a constant saw-like motion until they departed from his arm to the floor.

The nightmarish yells for help eventually became silent as the man went through psychological and physical shock horror. The woman drenched in blood from her hands and over her flawless décolletage, cleaned herself like in such a cat-like manner or child eating cake batter from their fingertips. Her behaviour was terrifying and unrealistic. Straightening out her Gucci jacket, a humble smile atoned to her perfectly painted face.. even with blood specks decorating it. A voice wisps along the happy sigh she lets out.

“Broken little birds never leave their cages once their wings are clipped.” The woman picks up the slabs of meat without a disgust to it. Piercing the limp flesh onto meat hooks attached to chains. The man weakly screams in such a traumatic rage… “You fucking bit-”

***The recording abruptly ends.***

**Casette Tape #2**

***Time of Recording: 12.04pm BST***

***Cassette Recording Date: 23rd January 2014***

***Location: Underground Club, London***

***START OF TAPE.***

The audio starts with the familiar ear piercing white noise before soothing into the atmosphere surrounding the recording of the cassette tape. Club music pounding against the walls outside of the room and transferring that into a mumbles. A night life invited into the dreary atmosphere which felt all so familiar. A customary British woman’s voice playfully sings along with nothing else but the feeling of disturbance, danger and lung clutching anxiety.

“Melody. Sweet darling Melody.” High heels clicking against the concrete floor with a strut so soft, it mimicked a lioness prying on it’s prey with such elegance and audacity. The striving of the catwalk soon halted to a complete stop; everything in the room silent but the soft booming of club music raging through the solid walls.

A sound so familiar to the last recording introduced with one large difference. A woman, sounding in an assumption young and terrified. Trying the utmost to hide her distressed whimper of tears with gritted teeth and poker face. “I guess, sometimes, deals are meant to be broken. I said I would be nice, but you caught me on a bad day.” The barely hidden fear increased to jolted breaths of panic spat from saliva. The British voice gives off an opportunistic tone of voice, desired with a faux empathy and delicacy.

“Do you want forgiveness?” The devastated woman, caught like a bird in a cage, had clearly responded with a non-audible nod. “I said, do you want forgiveness!?” Impatiently demanded from the same Southern British voiced woman, an appeal for a vocalized answer from the babbling girl. A sudden response from a younger sounding woman replies.

“Yes, Mistress Estelle!” A snake-like smile creeps onto the blood red lips of Mistress Diadora Estelle. Owner of club Karminovy Noci. A repeat of the girl’s words play back from the dominating woman’s voice, glorified and satisfied with a delightful hum in the air and sigh of joy. "Yes, Mistress Estelle. Good.”

The toxic sound of Mistress Estelle, identified from the recordings, continues to venture further into the conversation. “I’m a woman of second chances. Mistakes should not be made twice. Right, precious Songbird?” As she declared more pet names. Heavy boots appeared rough on the audio, almost as clubbing the ground as to show a person of substantial stature arrived. The metal chair being dragged on the concrete ground creating an ear-piercing nail against chalkboard sound; enough to make one's flesh crawl.

The woman in question, clearly the victim in the whole situation, had been bound to chair during the whole interrogation. It was until the hefty broad male leaned the chair forwards into the wall and floor of the room. The room giving off a pungent rotten smell, thick layering of mold of some sort only distinctly in the corner she faced. Mistress Diadora Estelle squats down beside Melody the Songbird with such an optimistic luxurious clap. A disgusting wicked smile beading amongst her face.

“Well, an introduction is at best!” And yet only three people in the room are present. Melody, the henchman and Mistress Diadora Estelle. The tearful girl squelched in her chair as she felt insecure from the bindings holding her. Confusion arising at bay whilst the Mistress snapped blue latex medical gloves on her ageless hands.

“Songbird meets the Silly Little Bird that crossed me.” As the medical glove’s index finger scooped up the grime from the tile of the wall. Brain matter that had rotted and given off such a distasteful air. It clicked from the pet names of her indication and realization had struck. The grime was a person. The grime was from the person victim in the last recording. A large ghastly heave escapes from her lungs as the woman gags with disgust. The odor became worse of a smell knowing what it was. Multiple pleas escaped Melody the Songbird’s mouth in such a dire way to get out of the situation. Mistress Estelle cackles in response with such a lack of emotion for the trauma the woman was suffering. Her vicious domination snaps with bare teeth gritted like a vicious dog.

“I thought we were on the same page, Songbird! What happened? Did I not explain myself clearly? Did I fail to spoon feed you your task? I didn’t pick an idiot, did I?” The woman bursts into a flock of tears as her face turns a ghostly shade of white. The pleas stopped and turned to pure silence whilst she was scolded. “Since I’m in a somewhat tolerable mood, I’ll grant forgiveness under one exception. Clean it.”

Melody’s eyes widened with the demand, dropping to the floor like a ton of bricks as she was cut loose from the bindings. Her face punctured into the corner of the wall and floor as if forcing her to volunteer. Weakly picking herself up on her hands and knees, her breath panted as she tried to hold up any remains in her stomach. Delayed and troubled, her lips take a moment to part with hesitation before exiting her mouth to clean the tiles of the wall timidly. Forcing herself to consume the bitter goods made her regurgitate violently.

Not even halfway done, Mistress Estelle squats besides Melody, brushing her hair with such a mother-like touch. Letting in such an inhale of ‘fresh’ air.

“I lied.” The recording ends with pure static silence after a midway panicked cry for help.

***END OF TAPE.***

## The Death of Mary Oxford - Los Santos

***(A radio transmission is announced to police officers on scene with Mary Oxford hostage)***

Dear Officers,

It is finally nice to speak.

I’m sure you’ve been wondering quite a bit. Why a woman is cuffed to the pole, who I am and what the hell is going on. Meet Mary Oxford, it was quite easy getting her name from her once I broke her pinky. She went missing a while ago. I’m sure you’re quite relieved to some…. Degree of her existance. However, I’m sure you’re wondering where to start in helping Ms. Oxford.

Let me explain something quite obvious. My dearest officers, you ignored me. Multiple. Times. If this is a game to you, then this is chess. Everyone is your pawn, but your own people. You kept poor Mary here a bird trapped in a cage. Alone and scared.

Shame...

So, I assume you want negotiations, terms and conditions. Well, it’s simple. Stop ignoring my demands. Use those tiny little brains we all know you have. And if you don’t? Well, that result is simple: This will continue. Police. EMS. Civilians. Mechanics. Food workers. Everyone. Dogs, cats, birds, animals. No one is safe. Nothing is safe.

If you’re wondering who I am, where I am or what I am; that is not of importance. Yet. My rules go simply like this, this won’t stop until you satisfy me. And this means by working with me. Work against me, and we all know the results.

Now back to Ms. Oxford, I’m sure you’re all debating how to get the collar off of her neck or mask off of her face. You simply can’t. And you simply won’t. What’s going to happen, you’re not going to like, one, bit. Since we wanted to play games, I’m going to show you how serious I am. Since clearly, I have not been understood. Since we need to be on the same page. Let’s start with how serious I am…

***(Mary at the time wore an electric dog collar, handled by a mobile device. A metal face mask welded at the back to prevent her spitting out cyanide pills that were forced into her mouth.)***

I hope you understand with a grieving heart, that Mary Oxford was killed because the police of Los Santos. You are too proud and too dignified to work alongside demands. Your pride, your egos, your snotty attitudes speak louder than anything. And this is a clear example of what happens with such. Each person you failed over the years, decades and months have continued. If you so wish to prove yourselves the heroes. Do as I say, not as I do.

Death is not a game. Quit acting like you’re all invincible. Your body count is at 2. Don’t make me turn it into 3.

The demand is simple. You tell Weazel that people need to keep an eye out. You make them post photos of Ms. Oxford’s body. And if you don’t, well… You’ll see.

## Victims List

* Nameless Prostitute (Murdered)
* Mary Oxford (Murdered)
* Jessica O'Leary (Seadog | Tortured)
* Vanessa Greene (EMS | Tortured)
* Mark Davies (DOC | Tortured)