Post by chaingunsamurai on Nov 9, 2018 4:17:20 GMT -7
September 27th; 2145
The girl stood in the middle of the small room. It was a white, sterile lab room; the furniture consisted of a toilet, a desk with affixed chair, and a thin metal cot., all of which was made of chrome and bolted to the floor. That was to ensure they did not make handy weapons. One wall was a reflective surface, a large two-way mirror to observe the room’s occupant. She was a young girl, around ten years old. She wore a peasant’s clothes, scratchy wool sweater, a corduroy skirt, wool socks, and sturdy boots. The only thing that was in any way remarkable about her clothing was the heavy leather jacket she wore. Worn and black, it had the insignia of the 83rd Lance Corp. A rampant griffon clutching lightning bolts.
The girl herself was dirty, grimy, unclean. Her exposed legs showed a welter of scratches and cuts and what appeared to by bites. Her long chestnut colored hair was tangled and snarled. Her face was smudged with dirt and what looked like blood. Her eyes were hazel, but the irises were becoming milky, as if suffering from glaucoma.
She stood in front of the mirror, knowing there were people behind it. At least two were present. She could hear the murmur of voices. If she strained her eyes, she could almost see their outlines. She knew she should be afraid. There was, in fact, a small knot of icy cold fear had settled in her stomach, but it was not acknowledged. This place, wherever she was, could be no worse than where she was. There were, at least, no ghouls here. She had seen her friends, her family, everyone she knew taken by a ghoul-pack. She, herself, was bitten multiple times. She knew what that meant. But there was no fear.
As she gazed in the mirror, she saw her eyes, already filming over. She knew she was infected, she knew what that meant. But again, the fear was secondary.
She was resigned. There was courage in the acceptance of fate, no matter the outcome.
Two men stood on the other side of the glass.
One of the men was in a lab coat, simple scrubs under them. His face had a hawkish cast under thinning hair, glasses perched on his nose. His name was Doctor Miles Abraham, Director of the Center of Human Advancement, simply known the Facility, was one of the men. The other man, dressed in tailored charcoal grey suit, was impeccable in every way.
His name was Monahan Pickett, a Company Man, A Reclamation Specialist. In war torn areas like Serbia, the Companies sent out troops, called Peacekeepers, to aid the civilian populations. While it certainly sounded altruistic, orphans such as this one was often claimed as spoils of war and used for all sorts of experimentation by the Companies. These Companies paid huge donations to keep the Facility up and running with cutting edge technology, as well as specimens such as this one for experimentation.
“Where was she found?” Abraham asked, without preamble. His manner was abrupt, curt. This was not out of any dislike for Pickett; it was simply how he was. Conversation wasted time. Better to get to the relevant facts
“Serbian Demilitarized Zone” Came the smooth reply. “83rd Lance Corps found her in the ruins of a farmstead. Lone survivor. Family missing, presumed dead. She was the only living thing on the farm”
“What’s her designation?”
“PDC says Ekaterina Zagoyev. Serbian national. Daughter of Svetlana and Andrei Zagoyev. Age eight” Pickett replied.
“Excellent.” Abraham said. “Any known relatives?”
Pickett nodded, the gesture unseen, “Aunt and uncle in Serbian Zone 9.”
“See that they, too, fall prey to ghoul attack, Mr. Pickett.” Abraham said. “Oh, and Mr. Pickett? What is the highest concentration of ghoul packs in that area?”
“Around the southern border.”
“See that the 83rd is deposited there. Some sort of executive extraction... and Mr. Pickett, see that there are no survivors.”
Pickett frowned, “There is a substantial dollar amount attached to the 83rd, Doctor”
“No survivors.” Abraham repeated. “That will be all, Mr. Pickett”
With a last glance at the girl, Pickett left.
Standing alone in the room, Abraham didn’t know how long he stood there, staring at the glass, at the girl beyond. Eerily, it seems that their gaze was locked. She was staring directly at him, her eyes on his. A shiver ran down his spine momentarily at the coldness of her gaze. He had the impulse to summon Spikings and have done with the girl. Too late for that, though. Events were in motion. Ten heavily teched and decked men were on their way to a suicide mission, but he had a feeling about the girl. He only hoped the trouble was worth it.
It was the opening of the door behind him that snapped him from his reverie. April Downing, his assistant, came in the room and stood diffidently by the door. Ms. Downing did everything diffidently around him. Out of sight and earshot, she had the reputation as a tyrant that evoked his name to gain what she needed when she needed it. It amused him for her to so, so long as it furthered the Facility’s goals. In every instance, her motivations seemed to be business oriented, and not personal, which suited him fine.
“Preliminary results have determined the girl is positive for Hartnett’s”. The thing Dr. Abraham liked the most about Ms. Downing was that she did know when his attention was focused on her. She knew from the moment she walked in, he was paying attention.
“Anything else?” He asked.
“Negative, Doctor. All tests come back nominal for one in her condition. Records show that there are no risks for inherited diseases, following back three generations. She is, after all said and done, a healthy specimen.”
“Excellent.” Dr. Abraham replied.
Ms. Downing stood in the background, saying nothing. She had not yet been dismissed, and as was often the case, Doctor Abraham would have some task to set her upon. This time however, was unusual.
“Ms. Downing, please come here.” He instructed.
There was a hesitation before she started walking. He heard it in her step. She moved to his side, looking up at him expectantly, but his eyes were on the young girl in the room; had he not been looking, not been expecting it, he would not have seen it, but her eyes flicked over to Ms. Downing before returning to him. She could see him through the glass.
“Extraordinary.” Doctor Abraham murmured.
“Doctor?” Ms. Downing asked.
He hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud. “Nothing, Ms. Downing. You may go.”
He heard her footsteps lead out the door, the door closing behind her.
Doctor Abraham remained where he was, scrutinizing the girl in front of him.
Hartnett’s. He knew that already. The eyes told the story. The scratches and the bites on her only sought to prove what he already knew. Those bites, looking weeks old, were most definitely made from a human jaw. Oh, the punctures were from enlarged canines, typical in ghouls.
Onset time of Hartnett’s is typically ten to fourteen days, on the norm. There were those who succumbed after a longer period of time, but not usually with one this young. It was a virulent disease; later it would be called VITAS, but for now, it was still named after the doctor that first identified the strain.
The eye clouding told him that she was only a few days afflicted, four days at the very most. But the bites looked much older. Weeks old, from his initial observation.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, saving this particular puzzle for another day.
October 11th, 2145
The girl stood in the same place as before, in the same sterile, white lab room. It was two weeks later, and her clothes were replaced with a utilitarian jumpsuit of navy blue, over which was the leather jacket given to her by one of the members of the 83rd. Instead of the long hair she had, it was now shoulder length and lustrous.
She stood as she did before, now fearless in truth, her eyes studying the glass in front of her. She knew now some of the names.
Abraham.
Spikings.
Downing.
But there were others in there that she did not know. At least one; she believed more. Her gaze focused on the mirror, on her own eyes. It almost caused her to shiver. A bolt of pure electricity shot down her spine as she studied her own eyes. The irises had all but faded, leaving nothing but white behind; her pupils… her pupils were what caused that shock. They were elongated, narrow in the middle, with two bulbous ends, like a lazy Mobius strip. It was downright creepy, knowing her eyes looked like that.
Most of the people she was exposed to would not meet her gaze. Security, doctors, orderlies… none of them. She could smell their fear. It was like cinnamon, spicy and strong; it made her sneeze on more than one occasion. The only time she did not smell fear was with Abraham. With him, only curiosity. To him, she was a puzzle to be solved. Pieces to be taken apart and then rearranged. She did not like the way he looked at her. A curious object.
She remained still. She knew they were observing her. She knew they expected her to interact with her world, to rant, to rave, to lash out; she did none of these. There was a calmness to her. A predatory waiting that did not suit her age.
Doctor Abraham stood on the other side of the glass as he had done hundreds of times, with hundreds of specimens, but this one… the one was different. Beside him stood Ms. Downing, back and to his left stood. Security Chief Spikings. Jonah Spikings was a squat man, barely five foot eight, but wide with muscle. His barrel chest was lined with slab muscle as was most of the rest of him. He was more human than human; a recipient of augmentation. He had a blonde crew cut and green eyes that looked like marbles. Most of security had minor tech alterations; mostly to protect them from their charges. Spikings had more than just that. He was jacked with a suite, lacing his bones with ceramic, lining his musculature with titanium webbing, and reinforcing his skin to protect from most small-arms fire. Near the door was Gavin Holcourt; Spiking’s ‘attaché’. Abraham allowed the man his little extravagance. Little men were often impressed with such things.
Spikings may have been insecure about his height, but he had seen his share of war, and came out alive, and with a Major’s rank. He knew what he was doing when it came to security. In this, Abraham had every confidence.
The three (Holcourt didn’t count) were waiting for the arrival of a fourth.
All three stood studying the girl. Abraham was motionless; Spikings continued shifting his weight from foot to foot; Downing pensive, one arm across her stomach, the other arm resting the elbow upon it as she tapped her chin with a pen. Something she did when she was thinking.
All three were studying the girl’s eyes in particular. Abraham found it to be oddly compelling. He did not know how this piece fit in. She was an enigma to him. The door opened, and he knew that the last member of the group arrived when Spikings sighed, “About damn time.”
The fourth member was Wanda Defresne. She was tall (taller than Spikings by at least two inches) and athletic, a swimmer’s body. Her skin was the color of mahogany, and her long black hair fell down her hair in cornrows. She walked smoothly, confidently. Her dark brown gaze settled on Spikings, and he looked away first. There was no love lost between the two.
Spikings only concern, Abraham mused, was the security of the staff of the Facility, and managing the hundreds of specimens monitored there.
Long had there been rumors of brutality at the hands of the various security personnel. The boys under his watch were often controlled one of two ways; they were systemically beaten until cowed, or they were given rewards.
The girls were often much easier to manage. They were not beaten, if misbehaving. They were simply given over to groups of boys. It was rumored that the members of security partook in this particular activity; even Spikings himself, if the rumors were to be believed.
All that stopped with Defresne arrived. Within a week, she was aware of the situation. Within hours of being made aware, she took steps. Overnight, that particular activity stopped. Defresne made some abject lessons of those she discovered to be guilty. Most of those men survived more or less intact; a few did not.
Abraham did not care all that much about the rumors, it was the results that mattered. It was, however, a distasteful practice.
Wanda Defresne was a practitioner of The Way. She could harness her own body in ways that most could not. While most called it magic, she called it meditation, self-mastery, and discipline. She had intense control of her body and her Chi, and she could use both to do incredible things. Abraham knew she was of the Old Blood, and was born in the Swamp States, down in the Confederate States of America. Abraham found Defresne’s presence an annoyance, and felt that there was nothing the Way could do that science could not do better… but she had her own ways of controlling her pupils, and they were very often the best-behaved specimens in the facility. No, he did not like Wanda Defresne, but he could not deny that her methods got results.
Defresne sauntered across the room, in no particular hurry, unperturbed by the stares of Downing and Spikings. Abraham did not bother to glance her way. There would be no particular point. She moved up to stand beside him, directly in front of Spikings, which caused him to have to step farther to the left.
“She has the spark.” A gunshot could neither have been more shocking, nor louder in that room right then.
Spikings’ mouth hung open. There was a light ‘ticking’ sound as Downing’s pen hit the floor, falling out of her hand.
Only Abraham did not outwardly show any surprise. He bit his bottom lip for a moment
“Are you certain?” He finally asked.
“I can feel her from here” Her voice had an odd cadence to it, she was of Cajun blood, and spoke in their dialect. Often hard and thick, it was a musical sound coming from her lips, nonetheless.
He did not doubt her. She had never been wrong. “She will report to you tomorrow, at your convenience.”
“How does… nine AM sound?” She replied.
“As you wish.” Abraham would definitely have preferred that young Kat did not go to Defresne. She was clearly dangerous enough in her own natural state; learning the Way would make her exponentially more so.
As Abraham understood it, Adepts like Defresne were only limited by what their bodies could supply. They could certainly attain superhuman traits, and bolster those traits further for a short while, but they were still human. Kat was not human. The upper limits of her abilities were unknown. They would not be, could not be, until she matured.
He did not like having to defer to Defresne. She was a subordinate. But in this, Mr. Pickett had final say; and the Company said to see that she reach her maximum potential, no matter the cost. Abraham had his orders. He would follow them.
October 25th, 2154
She stands in The Room. In her mind, that is what she called it. She knew she came here to be viewed. She looked much the same as she did two weeks before, however, the color of her irises was completely gone. She also had two pupils. Side by side, they were roughly the same size and a millimeter apart. The inside pair were her ‘human’ pupils. With them, she could see as she normally could, although more acutely. The other pair, the pair on the outside, were her ‘ghoul’ pupils. With those, she could see far more. Darkness and shadows did not affect her vision; nor did such things as smoke or fog. Her sight was such that she could read seven-inch letter at half a mile with no problems. The downside, she found was in the fact that she was blinded by bright light, such as from the glare of the lights in the room. She was also distracted by, and attracted to, sudden movement. Oddly, she found that she could shunt the input from one pair to the other. She could only see out of one of the pairs at a time, completely blocking the input from the other pair completely.
Her sense of smell was also highly acute. She could track by scent, and identify individuals by their scent. She could even sense certain emotions, by the pheromones they released. Her hearing was extremely acute, reaching into both the subsonic range for human. Things such as a dog whistle, she could hear normally. Her hearing was also much amplified. The voices in the next room, for example, were heard with crystal clarity. She knew who most of them were by their voices.
Abraham.
Defresne.
Spikings.
Downing.
If Spikings was there, that meant that Holcourt was also there.
There was a fifth, present.
Pickett.
She remembered him. It was he that brought her there. She shunted her human gaze over to her ghoul pupils, narrowing her eyes at the sudden brightness that only before did not affect her. She searched quickly through the glass and identified him, locking her gaze onto him before shunted her gaze back to her human pupils.
She stood at ease, hands behind her back, feet slightly apart. She was using her breathing techniques to control her emotions, the fear and anger held at bay. There was only calm. She was taught to be a buoy on the ocean. The things around her may toss her two and fro, but she would remain afloat, unaffected.
Abraham immediately noticed the shift of her attention. She always stared at him when she knew he was in the room. He didn’t know how she knew, but she did know. He glanced over to Pickett to see if her realized; but the man hadn’t.
Pickett stood to his right, Downing next in line; to his left stood Spikings. Defresne leaned cross armed and amused against the wall. Abraham knew that she realized Kat’s attention shifted. Defresne had also mentioned that Kat tended to stare at him when he was in here. Defresne was no fool.
Abraham shifted his attention to Spikings. “I thought I told you to take that jacket.” He didn’t need to say more. The leather jacket she wore was a bone of contention. The specimens here had no possession. They were possessions. Kat’s PDC had been removed. Personal Data Chip. It told of her name, age, region and date of birth. It told her parent’s names, and their parent’s names. It contained a GPS signal, so that she could be located anywhere across the globe.
She was now persona-non-grata.
“Sir” Spikings began, “We tried. I sent five men in to restrain her and remove it. She had two of them down before we even knew what happened. She bit two more. The fifth barely escaped.” It was not said that the two men whom were bitten were put down; to make sure they would not be infected.
Abraham narrowed his eyes, “She had two down, HOW, exactly?” His tone was dangerous.
“We simply do not know” Spikings replied, mystified.
“Doctor Abraham?” Ms. Downing began.
Abraham turned his head slightly to allow her into his field of vision, “Yes, Ms. Downing?”
“I may be able to clear that up for you.” She said, “The two men were tested; there was some sort of agent in their bloodstream. We are not sure how it got there, or in such similar amounts… “
“This clears nothing up.” Dr. Abraham pointed out.
“We did further testing, sir.” She offered.
“Oh?” He had turned slightly to face her better, one eyebrow raised in question.
“We tested the Specimen.” She replied. “Her… saliva… contains an agent, a soporific; the same agent found in the two security guards.”
Abraham turned to look back at Kat, subconsciously mimicking her stance.
“We believe she spat in their faces.” Downing proffered.
“What. The. Fuck?” Spikings blurted. He blinked in surprise at his own outburst. “Sir.” He added belatedly.
“She is a weapon, that one.” Defresne announced to no one in particular.
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December 11, 2169
It was the morning sun streaming through my window that woke me up, that and the joyous songs of the birds outside my window.
“Ugh… turn off” I groaned, pulling one of my pillows out from under my head to cover my face, waiting until the sun disappeared. I counted to ten slowly, listening to the fading song of the birds.
It wasn’t really the sun. I can’t even recall the last time I’d actually seen the sun. When I pulled the pillow off my face and tucked it back under my head, the light (if you could call it that) coming in from the window was the color of molasses. [Burnt Umber, maybe?]
The sun could never quite burn through the layer of smog that brooded over the city like a miasma, and most of the sky was simply blocked out by the scrapers of Boston arcologies. There were three major arcologies within the city limits, and many smaller ones that dominated most of the landscape; between the arcologies were the slums and the ‘burbs. In the arcologies, civilization reigned supreme. In the slums and the burbs, it was the strong that made the rules, and everyone else tried to make their way through life.
As a concession to the government [hah!], the arcologies paid for security forces to patrol the areas between them; Knight Errant was the law in Boston.
Let me back up a little bit, here. Even though there was an active government in the UCAS (United Canadian/ American States), the corporations are the ones that really run things. Nothing happened without the corporations allowing it to, and one of those things they wanted was the privatization of law enforcement; it made things much easier for the corporations, and much cheaper for the government. Everybody won, except the people that lived outside the arcologies. Knight Errant wasn’t the worst of the worst. They had a reputation for being mostly honest.
I slowly sat up, scrubbing my face with my hands, and swung my legs out of bed. I pushed myself out of bed and padded barefoot over to the bathroom to manage my morning ablutions and take a long, hot shower.
I took a moment to look in the mirror, staring at my reflection. Anyone that looked at me, the first thing they’d usually notice was how white I was. I had Hartnett’s Disease. I was a carrier of a strain of Human/ Metahuman Vampiric Virus. I wasn’t like other ghouls, though. I was an anomaly. For one thing, I had hair. My teeth were naturally sharper, but not overly so. I could subsist off of raw meat from animals, as well as their blood… but I could also digest “normal” food. It wouldn’t give me all the nutrients I needed, but I could still eat it. I required raw meat to survive though. That much hadn’t changed.
I had absolutely no pigmentation in my skin or hair. The sclera of my eye was a jaundiced yellow, the veins standing in red contrast. The irises were also white, and I had two set of pupils, both black as night, but the outer set reflected light like the eyes of a cat or owl. I had two sets of vision; one was equal to that of your average human, the other set allowed me to see in almost complete dark and was drawn to motion. I could see variations of light much better through opaque or semi-opaque surfaces, say like a two-way mirror. Those pupils were extremely sensitive to light, however. I could ‘switch’ from my human sight to my other sight whenever I wanted to, so I usually stayed to the human vision. To hide my eyes, I always wore mirrored wrap-arounds.
I turned the water on, then looked back in the mirror. My features were a little on the sharp side, but definitely feminine, with a too wide mouth and full lips. My nose was small and a up-turned, giving me a punky look. It irritated me. I was thirty-four years old, but because of my condition, I looked ten years younger. Allegedly, I was going to have a very long life.
With a frown, I stepped into the shower and let the hot water flow over me. I leaned by head back to wet my hair, and then just stood while the scalding water seared my back. Luckily for me, I healed quickly. Another legacy from Hartnett’s. I healed fast. Very fast. Except from injured sustained from silver.
I turned around and let the water hit my chest and belly, turning my skin pink from the heat. I ran my face under the water for a brief second only because for some reason I didn’t like hot water hitting my face. It was just one of those things.
After about a half an hour, I stepped out of the shower and dressed. Black leggings, a black tunic that went to mid-thigh, and I slipped my feet into spongy-soled sneakers. I pulled up the sleeve of my tunic and strapped thin, single edged knife with an eight-inch blade that was more of a shiv than anything else. And then my mirrored, wraparound glasses when on.
I left the sword in the corner.
My flat was only about four meters my five meters all told, pretty much all one room except for the bathroom. The hallway that led to my flat was all industrial steel, maybe two meters wide, and ten meters long. My flat was on the eighth floor. I got to the elevator, pushed the button and waited.
It didn’t take long. Out in the lobby was Missus Shen. A dwarf of either Japanese or Chinese descent. I didn’t know which, I didn’t ask. Her English was atrocious. She spoke excellent Mandarin, and a smattering of Sperethiel.
She wasn’t a ‘dwarf’ human. She was a dwarf. Lord of the Rings style.
“Good Morning, Ms. Zegoyev.” She said with a cheery smile.
“Good morning, Missus Shen.” I replied with a small wave. I must have told her a hundred times to call me Kat. She always nodded and said yes, then called me Ms. Zegoyev, anyway. Yes, it was my name, but I preferred Kat. Or Kina.
Out on the street I went, and the minute I opened the door, I was hit by the sounds and smells of the neighborhood. There weren’t many cars, because there just wasn’t any room. There was a crowd. Hawkers, vendors, street people; they were everywhere. All these people had jobs outside the arcology, what they were, I didn’t know. I didn’t care. As long as they didn’t cause any trouble.
As I walked down the street, there was a subtle shift in the currents around me. People gave me a little bit of space, partly out of fear, partly out of respect.
This was my neighborhood. Literally.
It started out small, really. About three years ago, after I got my ass out of WuXing, I tried to find a little place to settle down and stay low. That, of course, didn’t work.
I’d headed into a little place called The Mousselier’s to grab a cup of kaf and relax. It was late at night, and they looked like they were about to close for the night, but the light was still on. Mousselier’s is an open air kafé on my street. The furnishings were nu-mahogany inside, with little wrought iron chairs and tables on the outside.
As I walked in, there were three punks facing the man behind the counter, and the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. The counterman was handing over something to one of the punks when I’d arrived. Seeing me, he stopped. The punk said something to him, and then told me to sod off.
Long story short, I beat the living hell out of the three of them and then I sincerely apologized for the damage to the place. I felt a little bad, because I got a little enthusiastic.
The man thanked me, and gave me a free kaf. (I’ve never had to pay for kaf there, and I go every morning.] Santi was extremely grateful.
He's a small, brown-skinned man with dark hair and eyes, probably from the Peshwar Consortium, in the Indian continent.
From there, others like Missus Shen came to me with stories of the gangs demanding protection money. Each time, I’d address the issue and by the time I was done, I had a three block by five block territory in south Boston. I’d taken a bite out of Roxx territory. Their old boss got put in the river by Dougal O’Rilley, son of Conor O’Rilley, head man of the O’Rilley family. There were two major forces in South Boston. The Irish mob and the Italian Mafia, and eventually anybody else got ground up in between.
The made man whose territory I moved in on was an Irish elf by the name of Folo Durayne. Durayne and I had an agreement. He didn’t muscle in on my neighborhood, and I didn’t kill him. It worked out for the both of us. Every month, I’d take a jander over to his place of business (The Foxy Loxy, a ‘gentleman’s club’) and pretend to bring him a percentage of my earnings, to let him save face. I didn’t care. It kept him happy and alive. O’Rilley wouldn’t be very understanding to know that Durayne lost so much territory forcibly. That’s a sign of weakness, and weakness lead to dead.
Once I took over and word got around, there was a sudden influx of metas in my area. I wouldn’t tolerate racism. I didn’t care who you were. If you lived here or worked here, you were safe, because I made it so.
The business owners tried to pay me a tribute. I didn’t want it. I did once make an observation that a noodle kitchen for the orphans that ran the streets wouldn’t be a bad idea. Within a week, one was opened. A place where the street kids could get something in their stomachs for no cost. Everyone that owned a business chipped in a little, and everyone was happy.
On the way to The Mousselier’s, I walked past one of the regular street vendors who offered me a kabob with meat of questionable origin skewered on it. I graciously declined. Another offered me a noodle cup, and again I declined. I didn’t really like taking things for free. (Missus Shen didn’t charge me rent, and I graciously accepted that. My presence gave her a certain amount of face in the community. She was a nice of lady, and it made her happy.)
I went into The Mousselier’s and grabbed my morning cup of kaf, holding the ceramic cup of warm kaf under my nose, inhaling the aroma. I smiled, and thanked Santi (yes, he still owned the place, and took it as a point of pride I was there every morning.)
I sat down in my usual chair in the roped off area of the sidewalk, and watched the people go by. Eventually, I pressed the little holo projector mounted in the table, to watch the morning’s news. Fear, Greed, and Misery. I wondered if ever there was a time when the news wasn’t about those three things.
Across from me, someone sat down, and I raised my gaze to see whom it was. Anyone that had a problem knew that this time was reserved for exactly this kind of thing.
When I looked up, the first thing that struck me was his chrome eyes. Like someone pulled out his eyes and replaced them with golf-ball sized ball bearings. He had a strong jaw, good cheekbones, and he was bald by choice, as opposed to nature. He was older, probably nearing fifty, but he still looked strong. His expression was mostly neutral, except a slight tightening of his eyebrows.
[Fucking company man.]
“I didn’t do it, and I don’t know who did.” I said to him, silently wishing I’d brought my sword. He looked like a Company Man. Capital Cee. Capital Em. A wetworks specialist that would be sent out to eliminate any freelancers that encroaching on Arcology territory, when those freelancers were looking to steal something proprietary. I could tell he was a company man, because I used to be.
“I want your help.” He said.
“I already told you,” I said patiently, “I didn’t do it, and I don’t know who did. I’m not sure what else you want from me.”
“You don’t even know what I’m asking.” He replied evenly.
“No, no I don’t.” I told him, “and I don’t want to.” Then it hit me. I knew who he was. “No. No way.” I said emphatically, “Not gonna happen.”
“Don’t you at least want to know what I want to ask you.” He pointed out. His expression never changed throughout the entire exchange, but now knowing who he was, I didn’t expect it to.
“No. I don’t. because I know who you are, and I don’t want any part of it.” I was getting irritated. This was shit I didn’t need in my life.
“What’s that got to do with it?” he asked, slightly puzzled.
“Because I’ve spent the last three years being neutral territory, that’s why.” I snapped back. “I haven’t gotten involved with any freelancers or any companies since I left WuXing.” I leaned back, opening my arms to encompass the area around me, “I stay in my own little slice of the city and stay the fuck out of politics, and you being here talking to me, is dragging me right the fuck back into everything that I’ve been trying to stay the fuck out of, so no. I don’t want to know what you want from me, because it’s all sorts of bad news that I do not fucking need.”
He leaned back, looking at me with those unblinking chrome eyes. It was eerie.
“Kina!” called a high-pitched voice, “Kina! Come quick!” The voice belongs to Tino, one of the many orphaned children that lived in my territory. He was a Spanish ork, not much more than ten years old. He was a good kid, a little thin, and he was starting to outgrow his clothes. I had to make a mental note of that. Probably new shoes, too.
“Slow down, Tino…” I said, slowly standing up. I noticed that the company man stood up along with me, straightening his tie as he did. The poor kid was gulping for air, and I just held out a hand to gesture for him to take his time. Finally, he got his wind back, “Somebody died, Kina, over by Mama Olivia’s.” [Shit.] That was a block in from Durayn’s territory.
“Okay, Tino, let’s go.” I said to him. He headed off in a half jog, already getting half a block ahead of me. I kept to a business-like walk. I didn’t want to seem to concerned anymore than I wanted to seem uncaring. If they thought I was in control of the situation, then there wouldn’t be any problems, but I had to make it look like I had everything under control… even though my mind was racing.
I felt more than I heard the company man behind me. His name was Cassavetes. Lucian Cassavetes. They called him ‘Iceman’, because he never showed any emotions on his face, and he had a very nasty reputation. He had zero compunctions about killing people.
I walked a block and a half, then stopped, letting my shoulders slump and letting my head loll back. I stared up into the muddy-honey colored sky for a long moment, then let my chin drop as I turned to face him.
“Why are you following me around like a lost puppy, Lucian?” I growled.
“Professional curiosity.” He replied quietly. There was a slight quirk to his drawn down brow. The first expression [if you can call it that] on his face.
“Go away,” I told him, “You’re pissing me off.”
I turned back around, spotting Tino as he was nearly bouncing on his toes. Once he saw that I was ready to follow, he moved again. I don’t think it occurred to him that I knew exactly where Mama Olivia’s was. Didn’t matter, it made the kid feel like he was doing something important, so I didn’t want to bruise his ego. I started walking. Cassavetes followed.
It didn’t take long for us to get to Olivia’s. Tino darted down the alley next to Olivia’s, and I rounded the corner and headed toward the back, near where the dumpster was. Standing by it were two humans, one male and one female. Both of them were in inexpensive suits and long overcoats. I recognized the both of them. The auburn-haired woman was Moynihan; the blond haired and blue-eyed male was Syfrid. They were Knight Errant detectives.
Moynihan was about my age, thick but not fat, with hazel eyes and freckles covering her chubby face. Syfrid was probably five years younger than me, with the chiseled good looks of his Norwegian ancestors.
“You fucked up, Zegoyev.” Moynihan said, with more than just a tinge of malice.
“You still mad I turned you down?” I quipped. She’d never hit on me. I knew it, she knew it. Syfrid and Cassavetes didn’t.
I saw her jaw clench. We didn’t like each other, and we both knew it. Syfrid stepped in almost immediately to head off any wrangling.
“Miss Zegoyev.” He said is a friendly voice, “Could you tell me where you were, say… twenty hundred hours, yesterday?
“She was with me.” Cassavetes replied, before I could even open my mouth. My eyes narrowed dangerously, “Like hell I was.” I growled.
Syfrid frowned, looking from me to Cassavetes and back. “Which is it?”
“She was with me.” Cassavetes replied.
“He’s lying.” I said, almost simultaneously.
“Maybe it would help if we knew who you were?” Syfrid prompted.
Cassavetes held out his wrist, and Detective Moynihan ran a little scanner over the flesh right at the base of his palm. There was quick beep and I’m sure she was getting a reading on a HUD projected onto the inside of her eye. I’m sure she had at least one cyher-eye. Both of them did.
She frowned, then so did Syfrid. She probably transferred the info to his HUD.
I could just imagine he was coming up black. Not much more of an identification than he works for the company, making him pretty much untouchable to them. They’d have to have a damn good reason to arrest him, and lying to them wasn’t good enough.
By default, I was just as untouchable, at the moment.
The two of them look like they just ate lemons.
“I was at my flat. Alone.” I informed them. The two of them pretty much ignored what I said, Syfrid turning to the dumpster. He slid on a glove and opened the lid. The first thing that hit my nostrils was the metallic tang of blood, my mouth watering in response. I filtered that smell out and then there was decomposition of flesh and other organic materials, but it was the flesh that caught my attention. I had to filter that out, too.
“His name was Ulbern Pinero. An Aztlan hobgoblin. Street name was Dash.” Syfrid was looking at me as if the name should mean something. It did.
Dash was one of Durayn’s flunkies, and I said as much.
“Any arguments with him?” Moynihan asked. She still had a hair across her ass with me; I could tell by her tone.
“As long as he didn’t try to sell any of his shit in my area, no.” I replied evenly. “I don’t let the dealers do their trade in my territory. He wants to come in for a bite and enjoy the scenery, s’all good. He wants to push his shit, then me an’ him gonna have words.”
“And did you have words with him?” Moynihan pressed.
“We have in the past, yes.” I admitted, “but not recently.”
“He has slashes and stab wounds.” Syfrid informed me, “consistent with a katana.” His look spoke volumes.
A katana was my favored weapon. Everyone knew it.
“Where’s yours?” Moynihan asked.
“At my flat.” I told her.
“Can we see it?” She asked.
“I don’t know, can you?” I shot back.
“We can get a warrant.” Syfrid offered.
“Unnecessary.” Cassavetes interjected. “She was with me.”
The three of us stared at him. [Fucking asshole.]
“If you have anything to add, Miss Zegoyev, please get in touch with me.” Syfrid said, he knew he was defeated. For now. He handed me a little holo-card with his title and name, with a contact number. Like I was going to use that.
“Sure, sure.” I agreed.
The two of them took one last at the body, then left the alley. I stood there, the smell of blood filling my nose. I had to get out of there. I followed the two detectives out, with Cassavetes still in tow.
“You’re killing me.” I told him.
“I want your help.” He repeated.
“Weeping Messiah.” I swore. “Okay, look, if I tell you I’ll think about will you fuck off? I have shit to do and I can’t get it done with your nose up my ass.”
“Will you seriously think about it?” He asked.
“Yes.” I snarled, “I’ll think about it. Now hit the bricks.”
He gave me one last look, then nodded. I turned and started heading in the direction of The Foxy Loxy.
“Where you headed.” It wasn’t a question. More like he expected an answer.
“That way.” I pointed.
“So am I.” He told me.
“That’s nice.” I said. “Bye.”
“Wait.” He said. I was about to tear up one side of him and down the other when he reached in to one of his pockets and extended a holo-card. I took it more out of reflex, than anything else. I gave a quick look, jammed it in the pocket of my tunic, then walked away.
It was about fifteen blocks to the Loxy. I walked. I had to cross pretty much all of my own territory, and the delineation between Durayn’s little piece of the sprawl and mine was visible. Gone were the easy-going crowds, and in were the furtive movements of the hunted and the hunters. Cramheads, worn out prostitutes, and the defeated trawled the streets looking to get what they can without losing what they already got.
Like in my own territory, I had a bubble around me that nobody entered, but unlike in my territory where it was a mark of respect, it was more along the lines of fear of the unknown.
I carried myself like I owned the streets, and I pretty much did. Nothing short of a troll was going to slow me down, and even then, not for long.
The streets were dirtier, lit by the neon signs of the businesses that were Durayn’s meal ticket. The sign to the Loxy was pink neon, with a holo of a few naked women; by the silhouettes, they looked human and elven… I didn’t know of too many troll gentleman’s clubs, and orks were anything but gentle.
I pushed the door open and walked in. The place was full of smoke, the lights dancing in the clouded room hypnotically. There was a dispirited dancer on the floor, half naked. She looked too skinny. Probably hooked on Bliss. There were a few bouncers around the room, and one of them headed over to me. An ork, probably born and raised right here in Boston. I looked him up and down in irritation. He walked right up to me, way too deep in my bubble. I took an immediate dislike to him. There were a few others collected around the door, watching him and me with amusement.
“There’s a cover charge.” He told me. He moved a little bit, showing me the grip of a pistol tucked in the front of his belt, like somehow I’d be intimidated. [Asshole.]
“I need to talk to Durayn.” I replied.
“Durayn’s busy.” He informed me.
“Tell him to get un-busy.” I said. I was already irritated, and I sure as hell wasn’t in the mood to play games with this asswipe. My day had turned to absolute shit, and I needed a few answers.
“Can’t interrupt him. It’s business.” He said with a grin.
“Fine.” I relented. “Then can you at least bring him a message?”
“Sure, dollface.” He said with a smirk, “Anything you want.”
“Good.” I said with a smile, “Tell him that he’s got about five minutes before I kill every motherfucker in this place. With my bare hands. Starting with you.”
His eyes went wide and he reached for his gun with his right hand. My left hand moved faster and clamped down over his right wrist and took a step in to trap it between us even as my right hand came up and locked on his throat, my nails digging in slightly to his thick skin. Orks had natural layer of dermal armor, but I was pretty sure I could punch through it if I had to; I was definitely sure I could squeeze his windpipe until it collapsed… their thick skin didn’t do much against suffocation.
“What’s it gonna be, big boy?” I asked, “Take the message, or take a dirtnap? All up to you.”
I felt his wrist flex, loosening his grip on the pistol. His buddies were all standing, guns out, but I didn’t care. It would’ve been a huge inconvenience, and I probably would’ve gotten my ass kicked; but I’d have been back. I took a step back and gave him a friendly smile. “See? It’s all good. Go talk to your boss. I’ll wait.”
I glanced around at the others, smiling at them as well, even though they still had their guns out. “Put those away, boys. You won’t be needing them… and you’re gonna make me feel unwelcome.”
They did. They did it slowly, but they tucked their guns away. [Smart.]
I watched Big Boy as he crossed the bar, headed to s a dark, unmarked door in the corner of the room. He rapped out it, three times in quick succession, then waited. He rapped again. Then he opened the door and went in.
I glanced over to the three bouncer what were still trying to watch me and the rest of the room at the same time; but mostly they were trying to keep an eye on me. “So, you boys have any high-grade parts I can pawn?” I asked. “You know, if it winds-up I have to kill you?” I gave them a sunny smile. They were trying to frame a suitable reply when the door in the corner opened up, and I glanced at the trio, “Nice talking to you boys. Gotta run.”
Out the door came an elf girl, she looked pretty young…. Probably not even forty, which was barely above eighteen in human years. She was wearing a filmy teddy and a chain choker with a pretty little cameo on it. I flicked a glance over to the girl on stage and saw she had one on, too. I got a sinking feeling.
Big Guy followed the girl out and waved me over, which wasn’t necessary because I was already halfway there. He held the door for me, which I guess was him trying to be polite. He stepped out as after I stepped in, closing the door behind him.
I was always a little surprised by Durayn’s office. There were a lot of muted earth tones, mostly browns and greens; not really ostentatious.
Durayn was standing behind a big, dark brown Nuhogany desk, a thickly padded leather chair behind him. On the desk was a trid-screen and a keyboard. Off to the side was a flat tridscreen hand-held, with what looked like a ledger document on it. He was tucking his shirt in his pants, waiting for me to sit down, which I did. Across from him in front of his desk was a deep armchair that I flopped down in. I hand my legs crossed because the desk was in my way, but I was slouching deep in the buttery soft Fauxskin leather, my fingers interlaced and resting on my stomach.
“How’s your sister’s first day on the job?” I asked him politely.
He gave me a flat, hostile stare. “That’s na me sister.” He growled, his voice a lilting sing-song. I opened my mouth and he pointed a warning finger at me, “Don’cha be bringin’ me blessed mum inta this, now.” He said it fast, and in his lilting voice, making it sound like all one word.
I barked a crude laugh, because that’s exactly where I was going next.
He took a deep breath, finished tucking in her shirt, and he sat down, resting his elbows on his desk, hands clasped under his chin.
“S’always a joy t’ see yeh, Valkyrie.” He said with feigned enthusiasm, “T’ what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I’ve asked you not to call me that, Durayn.” I reminded him bleakly.
“How bout ‘bitch’ then?” He said with a grin, to which I shot him a warning glare. He rocked back in his chair, holding his hands up in surrender, with a look on his face that was saying ‘if the show fits’…
“So, your friend Dash is dead.” I told him bluntly. He gave me a blank stare.
“Dash.” I repeated. “Hobgoblin. One of your couriers. Kind of stupid.”
“Ohhhh” he said with a snap of his fingers, as if a light went on, “yeah. Dash.” He gave me a firm nod. “And?”
“In my territory.” I added.
He rolled his wrist and waved his hand like he was expecting me to get to the point.
“I’ve had a very bad day so far, Durayn. Don’t jerk my chain.” My voice had an edge to it, but I hadn’t changed position. This chair was crazy comfortable.
“I don’t know what t’ tell ya, darlin’.” He said with a shrug, “Dash left me employ bout three months ago. Hadn’t seen hide nor hair since.”
Well shit.
So I sat there in Durayne’s buttery soft armchair, my right on my left knee, my fingers interlaced over my stomach, slouched about as far down as I could go, and I tried to piece it together, and no matter how hard I tried, the pieces simply would not fit. Durayne sat across from me, maybe subconsciously mimicking my posture with his right ankle just above his left knee, left hand resting on his ankle, bouncing his foot from side to side. He was looking pretty much everywhere but at me, rocked back a little in his office chair, waiting for me to leave. I knew he wouldn’t say anything about me sitting there. His attitude was a mixture of healthy fear and self-preservation. He knew damn well I could snuff him if that’s what I wanted to do, any his boys outside couldn’t do a thing about it except look for a new place to collect a paycheck.
I sat there, bottom lip between my teeth, trying for every angle to make the pieces fit, when I realized what I was seeing. Durayne was nervous. More nervous than usual.
“Durayne.” I said, keeping my tone conversation.
“Hm?” he grunted, swiveling a little to face me.
“If I find out you’re lying to me about Dash,” I kept my tone nonchalant, as if I was talking about the weather, “I’m going to come back here, and I’m going to eat you.” I still had my mirrored wraparounds on, by I was facing him and for all he could tell, I was staring strait at him, which is exactly what I was doing.
He let his leg drop to the floor and put both hands on the desk in front of him, “Alright, alright, alright..” He held up his hands in a placating gesture, “Dash was workin’ for me, okay? But I swear t’ ya… I tell all me boyos t’ stay outta ‘little heaven.’ ”
I raised a brow, momentarily distracted from why I wanted to maybe bounce him off a few flat surfaces in his office. “Little Heaven?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“Yeah.” He affirmed. “That’s what the street peeps call yer area. Little heaven, because they feel safe there with what you got goin’ on.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Yer bad fer me business.” He confessed.
“How so?” I asked.
“Because yeh have a safe lil haven for pretty much anyone that janders in. Yeh got yerself almost the perfect little corner o’ the world, because peeps are not only afraid o ya, they respect yeh as well.”
“Okay. So what was Dash doing there if you told him to stay out?” I asked him.
“I dunno.” He replied, “I truly do not.” I believed him. I don’t know why, but I did. Something was all sorts of hinky about this. I needed to go back to the crime scene.
I stood up, and he stood up with me, coming out from around the desk to lead me to the door and open it for me. I thanked him with a nod and went out, turning a bit to face him, “Fine. Fine. I’ll give you double in two weeks, okay? Just give me two weeks.”
He was pretty quick, Durayne was. “Jus’ don’chu be late, lass. I’d hate to have to damage that pretty face o yours.”
I turned around and stalked out, like I was angry. If anyone found out that Durayne and I weren’t as adversarial as we made it seem, it would cause him some serious credibility with his people, and if I had to act like I was worried about Durayne, so be it. I did not give a rat’s ass what his boys thought.
I didn’t like Durayne, and if it ever came to it, I’d happily end his miserable life… but he’s the devil I knew.
Back to Mama Olivia’s.
The girl stood in the middle of the small room. It was a white, sterile lab room; the furniture consisted of a toilet, a desk with affixed chair, and a thin metal cot., all of which was made of chrome and bolted to the floor. That was to ensure they did not make handy weapons. One wall was a reflective surface, a large two-way mirror to observe the room’s occupant. She was a young girl, around ten years old. She wore a peasant’s clothes, scratchy wool sweater, a corduroy skirt, wool socks, and sturdy boots. The only thing that was in any way remarkable about her clothing was the heavy leather jacket she wore. Worn and black, it had the insignia of the 83rd Lance Corp. A rampant griffon clutching lightning bolts.
The girl herself was dirty, grimy, unclean. Her exposed legs showed a welter of scratches and cuts and what appeared to by bites. Her long chestnut colored hair was tangled and snarled. Her face was smudged with dirt and what looked like blood. Her eyes were hazel, but the irises were becoming milky, as if suffering from glaucoma.
She stood in front of the mirror, knowing there were people behind it. At least two were present. She could hear the murmur of voices. If she strained her eyes, she could almost see their outlines. She knew she should be afraid. There was, in fact, a small knot of icy cold fear had settled in her stomach, but it was not acknowledged. This place, wherever she was, could be no worse than where she was. There were, at least, no ghouls here. She had seen her friends, her family, everyone she knew taken by a ghoul-pack. She, herself, was bitten multiple times. She knew what that meant. But there was no fear.
As she gazed in the mirror, she saw her eyes, already filming over. She knew she was infected, she knew what that meant. But again, the fear was secondary.
She was resigned. There was courage in the acceptance of fate, no matter the outcome.
Two men stood on the other side of the glass.
One of the men was in a lab coat, simple scrubs under them. His face had a hawkish cast under thinning hair, glasses perched on his nose. His name was Doctor Miles Abraham, Director of the Center of Human Advancement, simply known the Facility, was one of the men. The other man, dressed in tailored charcoal grey suit, was impeccable in every way.
His name was Monahan Pickett, a Company Man, A Reclamation Specialist. In war torn areas like Serbia, the Companies sent out troops, called Peacekeepers, to aid the civilian populations. While it certainly sounded altruistic, orphans such as this one was often claimed as spoils of war and used for all sorts of experimentation by the Companies. These Companies paid huge donations to keep the Facility up and running with cutting edge technology, as well as specimens such as this one for experimentation.
“Where was she found?” Abraham asked, without preamble. His manner was abrupt, curt. This was not out of any dislike for Pickett; it was simply how he was. Conversation wasted time. Better to get to the relevant facts
“Serbian Demilitarized Zone” Came the smooth reply. “83rd Lance Corps found her in the ruins of a farmstead. Lone survivor. Family missing, presumed dead. She was the only living thing on the farm”
“What’s her designation?”
“PDC says Ekaterina Zagoyev. Serbian national. Daughter of Svetlana and Andrei Zagoyev. Age eight” Pickett replied.
“Excellent.” Abraham said. “Any known relatives?”
Pickett nodded, the gesture unseen, “Aunt and uncle in Serbian Zone 9.”
“See that they, too, fall prey to ghoul attack, Mr. Pickett.” Abraham said. “Oh, and Mr. Pickett? What is the highest concentration of ghoul packs in that area?”
“Around the southern border.”
“See that the 83rd is deposited there. Some sort of executive extraction... and Mr. Pickett, see that there are no survivors.”
Pickett frowned, “There is a substantial dollar amount attached to the 83rd, Doctor”
“No survivors.” Abraham repeated. “That will be all, Mr. Pickett”
With a last glance at the girl, Pickett left.
Standing alone in the room, Abraham didn’t know how long he stood there, staring at the glass, at the girl beyond. Eerily, it seems that their gaze was locked. She was staring directly at him, her eyes on his. A shiver ran down his spine momentarily at the coldness of her gaze. He had the impulse to summon Spikings and have done with the girl. Too late for that, though. Events were in motion. Ten heavily teched and decked men were on their way to a suicide mission, but he had a feeling about the girl. He only hoped the trouble was worth it.
It was the opening of the door behind him that snapped him from his reverie. April Downing, his assistant, came in the room and stood diffidently by the door. Ms. Downing did everything diffidently around him. Out of sight and earshot, she had the reputation as a tyrant that evoked his name to gain what she needed when she needed it. It amused him for her to so, so long as it furthered the Facility’s goals. In every instance, her motivations seemed to be business oriented, and not personal, which suited him fine.
“Preliminary results have determined the girl is positive for Hartnett’s”. The thing Dr. Abraham liked the most about Ms. Downing was that she did know when his attention was focused on her. She knew from the moment she walked in, he was paying attention.
“Anything else?” He asked.
“Negative, Doctor. All tests come back nominal for one in her condition. Records show that there are no risks for inherited diseases, following back three generations. She is, after all said and done, a healthy specimen.”
“Excellent.” Dr. Abraham replied.
Ms. Downing stood in the background, saying nothing. She had not yet been dismissed, and as was often the case, Doctor Abraham would have some task to set her upon. This time however, was unusual.
“Ms. Downing, please come here.” He instructed.
There was a hesitation before she started walking. He heard it in her step. She moved to his side, looking up at him expectantly, but his eyes were on the young girl in the room; had he not been looking, not been expecting it, he would not have seen it, but her eyes flicked over to Ms. Downing before returning to him. She could see him through the glass.
“Extraordinary.” Doctor Abraham murmured.
“Doctor?” Ms. Downing asked.
He hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud. “Nothing, Ms. Downing. You may go.”
He heard her footsteps lead out the door, the door closing behind her.
Doctor Abraham remained where he was, scrutinizing the girl in front of him.
Hartnett’s. He knew that already. The eyes told the story. The scratches and the bites on her only sought to prove what he already knew. Those bites, looking weeks old, were most definitely made from a human jaw. Oh, the punctures were from enlarged canines, typical in ghouls.
Onset time of Hartnett’s is typically ten to fourteen days, on the norm. There were those who succumbed after a longer period of time, but not usually with one this young. It was a virulent disease; later it would be called VITAS, but for now, it was still named after the doctor that first identified the strain.
The eye clouding told him that she was only a few days afflicted, four days at the very most. But the bites looked much older. Weeks old, from his initial observation.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, saving this particular puzzle for another day.
October 11th, 2145
The girl stood in the same place as before, in the same sterile, white lab room. It was two weeks later, and her clothes were replaced with a utilitarian jumpsuit of navy blue, over which was the leather jacket given to her by one of the members of the 83rd. Instead of the long hair she had, it was now shoulder length and lustrous.
She stood as she did before, now fearless in truth, her eyes studying the glass in front of her. She knew now some of the names.
Abraham.
Spikings.
Downing.
But there were others in there that she did not know. At least one; she believed more. Her gaze focused on the mirror, on her own eyes. It almost caused her to shiver. A bolt of pure electricity shot down her spine as she studied her own eyes. The irises had all but faded, leaving nothing but white behind; her pupils… her pupils were what caused that shock. They were elongated, narrow in the middle, with two bulbous ends, like a lazy Mobius strip. It was downright creepy, knowing her eyes looked like that.
Most of the people she was exposed to would not meet her gaze. Security, doctors, orderlies… none of them. She could smell their fear. It was like cinnamon, spicy and strong; it made her sneeze on more than one occasion. The only time she did not smell fear was with Abraham. With him, only curiosity. To him, she was a puzzle to be solved. Pieces to be taken apart and then rearranged. She did not like the way he looked at her. A curious object.
She remained still. She knew they were observing her. She knew they expected her to interact with her world, to rant, to rave, to lash out; she did none of these. There was a calmness to her. A predatory waiting that did not suit her age.
Doctor Abraham stood on the other side of the glass as he had done hundreds of times, with hundreds of specimens, but this one… the one was different. Beside him stood Ms. Downing, back and to his left stood. Security Chief Spikings. Jonah Spikings was a squat man, barely five foot eight, but wide with muscle. His barrel chest was lined with slab muscle as was most of the rest of him. He was more human than human; a recipient of augmentation. He had a blonde crew cut and green eyes that looked like marbles. Most of security had minor tech alterations; mostly to protect them from their charges. Spikings had more than just that. He was jacked with a suite, lacing his bones with ceramic, lining his musculature with titanium webbing, and reinforcing his skin to protect from most small-arms fire. Near the door was Gavin Holcourt; Spiking’s ‘attaché’. Abraham allowed the man his little extravagance. Little men were often impressed with such things.
Spikings may have been insecure about his height, but he had seen his share of war, and came out alive, and with a Major’s rank. He knew what he was doing when it came to security. In this, Abraham had every confidence.
The three (Holcourt didn’t count) were waiting for the arrival of a fourth.
All three stood studying the girl. Abraham was motionless; Spikings continued shifting his weight from foot to foot; Downing pensive, one arm across her stomach, the other arm resting the elbow upon it as she tapped her chin with a pen. Something she did when she was thinking.
All three were studying the girl’s eyes in particular. Abraham found it to be oddly compelling. He did not know how this piece fit in. She was an enigma to him. The door opened, and he knew that the last member of the group arrived when Spikings sighed, “About damn time.”
The fourth member was Wanda Defresne. She was tall (taller than Spikings by at least two inches) and athletic, a swimmer’s body. Her skin was the color of mahogany, and her long black hair fell down her hair in cornrows. She walked smoothly, confidently. Her dark brown gaze settled on Spikings, and he looked away first. There was no love lost between the two.
Spikings only concern, Abraham mused, was the security of the staff of the Facility, and managing the hundreds of specimens monitored there.
Long had there been rumors of brutality at the hands of the various security personnel. The boys under his watch were often controlled one of two ways; they were systemically beaten until cowed, or they were given rewards.
The girls were often much easier to manage. They were not beaten, if misbehaving. They were simply given over to groups of boys. It was rumored that the members of security partook in this particular activity; even Spikings himself, if the rumors were to be believed.
All that stopped with Defresne arrived. Within a week, she was aware of the situation. Within hours of being made aware, she took steps. Overnight, that particular activity stopped. Defresne made some abject lessons of those she discovered to be guilty. Most of those men survived more or less intact; a few did not.
Abraham did not care all that much about the rumors, it was the results that mattered. It was, however, a distasteful practice.
Wanda Defresne was a practitioner of The Way. She could harness her own body in ways that most could not. While most called it magic, she called it meditation, self-mastery, and discipline. She had intense control of her body and her Chi, and she could use both to do incredible things. Abraham knew she was of the Old Blood, and was born in the Swamp States, down in the Confederate States of America. Abraham found Defresne’s presence an annoyance, and felt that there was nothing the Way could do that science could not do better… but she had her own ways of controlling her pupils, and they were very often the best-behaved specimens in the facility. No, he did not like Wanda Defresne, but he could not deny that her methods got results.
Defresne sauntered across the room, in no particular hurry, unperturbed by the stares of Downing and Spikings. Abraham did not bother to glance her way. There would be no particular point. She moved up to stand beside him, directly in front of Spikings, which caused him to have to step farther to the left.
“She has the spark.” A gunshot could neither have been more shocking, nor louder in that room right then.
Spikings’ mouth hung open. There was a light ‘ticking’ sound as Downing’s pen hit the floor, falling out of her hand.
Only Abraham did not outwardly show any surprise. He bit his bottom lip for a moment
“Are you certain?” He finally asked.
“I can feel her from here” Her voice had an odd cadence to it, she was of Cajun blood, and spoke in their dialect. Often hard and thick, it was a musical sound coming from her lips, nonetheless.
He did not doubt her. She had never been wrong. “She will report to you tomorrow, at your convenience.”
“How does… nine AM sound?” She replied.
“As you wish.” Abraham would definitely have preferred that young Kat did not go to Defresne. She was clearly dangerous enough in her own natural state; learning the Way would make her exponentially more so.
As Abraham understood it, Adepts like Defresne were only limited by what their bodies could supply. They could certainly attain superhuman traits, and bolster those traits further for a short while, but they were still human. Kat was not human. The upper limits of her abilities were unknown. They would not be, could not be, until she matured.
He did not like having to defer to Defresne. She was a subordinate. But in this, Mr. Pickett had final say; and the Company said to see that she reach her maximum potential, no matter the cost. Abraham had his orders. He would follow them.
October 25th, 2154
She stands in The Room. In her mind, that is what she called it. She knew she came here to be viewed. She looked much the same as she did two weeks before, however, the color of her irises was completely gone. She also had two pupils. Side by side, they were roughly the same size and a millimeter apart. The inside pair were her ‘human’ pupils. With them, she could see as she normally could, although more acutely. The other pair, the pair on the outside, were her ‘ghoul’ pupils. With those, she could see far more. Darkness and shadows did not affect her vision; nor did such things as smoke or fog. Her sight was such that she could read seven-inch letter at half a mile with no problems. The downside, she found was in the fact that she was blinded by bright light, such as from the glare of the lights in the room. She was also distracted by, and attracted to, sudden movement. Oddly, she found that she could shunt the input from one pair to the other. She could only see out of one of the pairs at a time, completely blocking the input from the other pair completely.
Her sense of smell was also highly acute. She could track by scent, and identify individuals by their scent. She could even sense certain emotions, by the pheromones they released. Her hearing was extremely acute, reaching into both the subsonic range for human. Things such as a dog whistle, she could hear normally. Her hearing was also much amplified. The voices in the next room, for example, were heard with crystal clarity. She knew who most of them were by their voices.
Abraham.
Defresne.
Spikings.
Downing.
If Spikings was there, that meant that Holcourt was also there.
There was a fifth, present.
Pickett.
She remembered him. It was he that brought her there. She shunted her human gaze over to her ghoul pupils, narrowing her eyes at the sudden brightness that only before did not affect her. She searched quickly through the glass and identified him, locking her gaze onto him before shunted her gaze back to her human pupils.
She stood at ease, hands behind her back, feet slightly apart. She was using her breathing techniques to control her emotions, the fear and anger held at bay. There was only calm. She was taught to be a buoy on the ocean. The things around her may toss her two and fro, but she would remain afloat, unaffected.
Abraham immediately noticed the shift of her attention. She always stared at him when she knew he was in the room. He didn’t know how she knew, but she did know. He glanced over to Pickett to see if her realized; but the man hadn’t.
Pickett stood to his right, Downing next in line; to his left stood Spikings. Defresne leaned cross armed and amused against the wall. Abraham knew that she realized Kat’s attention shifted. Defresne had also mentioned that Kat tended to stare at him when he was in here. Defresne was no fool.
Abraham shifted his attention to Spikings. “I thought I told you to take that jacket.” He didn’t need to say more. The leather jacket she wore was a bone of contention. The specimens here had no possession. They were possessions. Kat’s PDC had been removed. Personal Data Chip. It told of her name, age, region and date of birth. It told her parent’s names, and their parent’s names. It contained a GPS signal, so that she could be located anywhere across the globe.
She was now persona-non-grata.
“Sir” Spikings began, “We tried. I sent five men in to restrain her and remove it. She had two of them down before we even knew what happened. She bit two more. The fifth barely escaped.” It was not said that the two men whom were bitten were put down; to make sure they would not be infected.
Abraham narrowed his eyes, “She had two down, HOW, exactly?” His tone was dangerous.
“We simply do not know” Spikings replied, mystified.
“Doctor Abraham?” Ms. Downing began.
Abraham turned his head slightly to allow her into his field of vision, “Yes, Ms. Downing?”
“I may be able to clear that up for you.” She said, “The two men were tested; there was some sort of agent in their bloodstream. We are not sure how it got there, or in such similar amounts… “
“This clears nothing up.” Dr. Abraham pointed out.
“We did further testing, sir.” She offered.
“Oh?” He had turned slightly to face her better, one eyebrow raised in question.
“We tested the Specimen.” She replied. “Her… saliva… contains an agent, a soporific; the same agent found in the two security guards.”
Abraham turned to look back at Kat, subconsciously mimicking her stance.
“We believe she spat in their faces.” Downing proffered.
“What. The. Fuck?” Spikings blurted. He blinked in surprise at his own outburst. “Sir.” He added belatedly.
“She is a weapon, that one.” Defresne announced to no one in particular.
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December 11, 2169
It was the morning sun streaming through my window that woke me up, that and the joyous songs of the birds outside my window.
“Ugh… turn off” I groaned, pulling one of my pillows out from under my head to cover my face, waiting until the sun disappeared. I counted to ten slowly, listening to the fading song of the birds.
It wasn’t really the sun. I can’t even recall the last time I’d actually seen the sun. When I pulled the pillow off my face and tucked it back under my head, the light (if you could call it that) coming in from the window was the color of molasses. [Burnt Umber, maybe?]
The sun could never quite burn through the layer of smog that brooded over the city like a miasma, and most of the sky was simply blocked out by the scrapers of Boston arcologies. There were three major arcologies within the city limits, and many smaller ones that dominated most of the landscape; between the arcologies were the slums and the ‘burbs. In the arcologies, civilization reigned supreme. In the slums and the burbs, it was the strong that made the rules, and everyone else tried to make their way through life.
As a concession to the government [hah!], the arcologies paid for security forces to patrol the areas between them; Knight Errant was the law in Boston.
Let me back up a little bit, here. Even though there was an active government in the UCAS (United Canadian/ American States), the corporations are the ones that really run things. Nothing happened without the corporations allowing it to, and one of those things they wanted was the privatization of law enforcement; it made things much easier for the corporations, and much cheaper for the government. Everybody won, except the people that lived outside the arcologies. Knight Errant wasn’t the worst of the worst. They had a reputation for being mostly honest.
I slowly sat up, scrubbing my face with my hands, and swung my legs out of bed. I pushed myself out of bed and padded barefoot over to the bathroom to manage my morning ablutions and take a long, hot shower.
I took a moment to look in the mirror, staring at my reflection. Anyone that looked at me, the first thing they’d usually notice was how white I was. I had Hartnett’s Disease. I was a carrier of a strain of Human/ Metahuman Vampiric Virus. I wasn’t like other ghouls, though. I was an anomaly. For one thing, I had hair. My teeth were naturally sharper, but not overly so. I could subsist off of raw meat from animals, as well as their blood… but I could also digest “normal” food. It wouldn’t give me all the nutrients I needed, but I could still eat it. I required raw meat to survive though. That much hadn’t changed.
I had absolutely no pigmentation in my skin or hair. The sclera of my eye was a jaundiced yellow, the veins standing in red contrast. The irises were also white, and I had two set of pupils, both black as night, but the outer set reflected light like the eyes of a cat or owl. I had two sets of vision; one was equal to that of your average human, the other set allowed me to see in almost complete dark and was drawn to motion. I could see variations of light much better through opaque or semi-opaque surfaces, say like a two-way mirror. Those pupils were extremely sensitive to light, however. I could ‘switch’ from my human sight to my other sight whenever I wanted to, so I usually stayed to the human vision. To hide my eyes, I always wore mirrored wrap-arounds.
I turned the water on, then looked back in the mirror. My features were a little on the sharp side, but definitely feminine, with a too wide mouth and full lips. My nose was small and a up-turned, giving me a punky look. It irritated me. I was thirty-four years old, but because of my condition, I looked ten years younger. Allegedly, I was going to have a very long life.
With a frown, I stepped into the shower and let the hot water flow over me. I leaned by head back to wet my hair, and then just stood while the scalding water seared my back. Luckily for me, I healed quickly. Another legacy from Hartnett’s. I healed fast. Very fast. Except from injured sustained from silver.
I turned around and let the water hit my chest and belly, turning my skin pink from the heat. I ran my face under the water for a brief second only because for some reason I didn’t like hot water hitting my face. It was just one of those things.
After about a half an hour, I stepped out of the shower and dressed. Black leggings, a black tunic that went to mid-thigh, and I slipped my feet into spongy-soled sneakers. I pulled up the sleeve of my tunic and strapped thin, single edged knife with an eight-inch blade that was more of a shiv than anything else. And then my mirrored, wraparound glasses when on.
I left the sword in the corner.
My flat was only about four meters my five meters all told, pretty much all one room except for the bathroom. The hallway that led to my flat was all industrial steel, maybe two meters wide, and ten meters long. My flat was on the eighth floor. I got to the elevator, pushed the button and waited.
It didn’t take long. Out in the lobby was Missus Shen. A dwarf of either Japanese or Chinese descent. I didn’t know which, I didn’t ask. Her English was atrocious. She spoke excellent Mandarin, and a smattering of Sperethiel.
She wasn’t a ‘dwarf’ human. She was a dwarf. Lord of the Rings style.
“Good Morning, Ms. Zegoyev.” She said with a cheery smile.
“Good morning, Missus Shen.” I replied with a small wave. I must have told her a hundred times to call me Kat. She always nodded and said yes, then called me Ms. Zegoyev, anyway. Yes, it was my name, but I preferred Kat. Or Kina.
Out on the street I went, and the minute I opened the door, I was hit by the sounds and smells of the neighborhood. There weren’t many cars, because there just wasn’t any room. There was a crowd. Hawkers, vendors, street people; they were everywhere. All these people had jobs outside the arcology, what they were, I didn’t know. I didn’t care. As long as they didn’t cause any trouble.
As I walked down the street, there was a subtle shift in the currents around me. People gave me a little bit of space, partly out of fear, partly out of respect.
This was my neighborhood. Literally.
It started out small, really. About three years ago, after I got my ass out of WuXing, I tried to find a little place to settle down and stay low. That, of course, didn’t work.
I’d headed into a little place called The Mousselier’s to grab a cup of kaf and relax. It was late at night, and they looked like they were about to close for the night, but the light was still on. Mousselier’s is an open air kafé on my street. The furnishings were nu-mahogany inside, with little wrought iron chairs and tables on the outside.
As I walked in, there were three punks facing the man behind the counter, and the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. The counterman was handing over something to one of the punks when I’d arrived. Seeing me, he stopped. The punk said something to him, and then told me to sod off.
Long story short, I beat the living hell out of the three of them and then I sincerely apologized for the damage to the place. I felt a little bad, because I got a little enthusiastic.
The man thanked me, and gave me a free kaf. (I’ve never had to pay for kaf there, and I go every morning.] Santi was extremely grateful.
He's a small, brown-skinned man with dark hair and eyes, probably from the Peshwar Consortium, in the Indian continent.
From there, others like Missus Shen came to me with stories of the gangs demanding protection money. Each time, I’d address the issue and by the time I was done, I had a three block by five block territory in south Boston. I’d taken a bite out of Roxx territory. Their old boss got put in the river by Dougal O’Rilley, son of Conor O’Rilley, head man of the O’Rilley family. There were two major forces in South Boston. The Irish mob and the Italian Mafia, and eventually anybody else got ground up in between.
The made man whose territory I moved in on was an Irish elf by the name of Folo Durayne. Durayne and I had an agreement. He didn’t muscle in on my neighborhood, and I didn’t kill him. It worked out for the both of us. Every month, I’d take a jander over to his place of business (The Foxy Loxy, a ‘gentleman’s club’) and pretend to bring him a percentage of my earnings, to let him save face. I didn’t care. It kept him happy and alive. O’Rilley wouldn’t be very understanding to know that Durayne lost so much territory forcibly. That’s a sign of weakness, and weakness lead to dead.
Once I took over and word got around, there was a sudden influx of metas in my area. I wouldn’t tolerate racism. I didn’t care who you were. If you lived here or worked here, you were safe, because I made it so.
The business owners tried to pay me a tribute. I didn’t want it. I did once make an observation that a noodle kitchen for the orphans that ran the streets wouldn’t be a bad idea. Within a week, one was opened. A place where the street kids could get something in their stomachs for no cost. Everyone that owned a business chipped in a little, and everyone was happy.
On the way to The Mousselier’s, I walked past one of the regular street vendors who offered me a kabob with meat of questionable origin skewered on it. I graciously declined. Another offered me a noodle cup, and again I declined. I didn’t really like taking things for free. (Missus Shen didn’t charge me rent, and I graciously accepted that. My presence gave her a certain amount of face in the community. She was a nice of lady, and it made her happy.)
I went into The Mousselier’s and grabbed my morning cup of kaf, holding the ceramic cup of warm kaf under my nose, inhaling the aroma. I smiled, and thanked Santi (yes, he still owned the place, and took it as a point of pride I was there every morning.)
I sat down in my usual chair in the roped off area of the sidewalk, and watched the people go by. Eventually, I pressed the little holo projector mounted in the table, to watch the morning’s news. Fear, Greed, and Misery. I wondered if ever there was a time when the news wasn’t about those three things.
Across from me, someone sat down, and I raised my gaze to see whom it was. Anyone that had a problem knew that this time was reserved for exactly this kind of thing.
When I looked up, the first thing that struck me was his chrome eyes. Like someone pulled out his eyes and replaced them with golf-ball sized ball bearings. He had a strong jaw, good cheekbones, and he was bald by choice, as opposed to nature. He was older, probably nearing fifty, but he still looked strong. His expression was mostly neutral, except a slight tightening of his eyebrows.
[Fucking company man.]
“I didn’t do it, and I don’t know who did.” I said to him, silently wishing I’d brought my sword. He looked like a Company Man. Capital Cee. Capital Em. A wetworks specialist that would be sent out to eliminate any freelancers that encroaching on Arcology territory, when those freelancers were looking to steal something proprietary. I could tell he was a company man, because I used to be.
“I want your help.” He said.
“I already told you,” I said patiently, “I didn’t do it, and I don’t know who did. I’m not sure what else you want from me.”
“You don’t even know what I’m asking.” He replied evenly.
“No, no I don’t.” I told him, “and I don’t want to.” Then it hit me. I knew who he was. “No. No way.” I said emphatically, “Not gonna happen.”
“Don’t you at least want to know what I want to ask you.” He pointed out. His expression never changed throughout the entire exchange, but now knowing who he was, I didn’t expect it to.
“No. I don’t. because I know who you are, and I don’t want any part of it.” I was getting irritated. This was shit I didn’t need in my life.
“What’s that got to do with it?” he asked, slightly puzzled.
“Because I’ve spent the last three years being neutral territory, that’s why.” I snapped back. “I haven’t gotten involved with any freelancers or any companies since I left WuXing.” I leaned back, opening my arms to encompass the area around me, “I stay in my own little slice of the city and stay the fuck out of politics, and you being here talking to me, is dragging me right the fuck back into everything that I’ve been trying to stay the fuck out of, so no. I don’t want to know what you want from me, because it’s all sorts of bad news that I do not fucking need.”
He leaned back, looking at me with those unblinking chrome eyes. It was eerie.
“Kina!” called a high-pitched voice, “Kina! Come quick!” The voice belongs to Tino, one of the many orphaned children that lived in my territory. He was a Spanish ork, not much more than ten years old. He was a good kid, a little thin, and he was starting to outgrow his clothes. I had to make a mental note of that. Probably new shoes, too.
“Slow down, Tino…” I said, slowly standing up. I noticed that the company man stood up along with me, straightening his tie as he did. The poor kid was gulping for air, and I just held out a hand to gesture for him to take his time. Finally, he got his wind back, “Somebody died, Kina, over by Mama Olivia’s.” [Shit.] That was a block in from Durayn’s territory.
“Okay, Tino, let’s go.” I said to him. He headed off in a half jog, already getting half a block ahead of me. I kept to a business-like walk. I didn’t want to seem to concerned anymore than I wanted to seem uncaring. If they thought I was in control of the situation, then there wouldn’t be any problems, but I had to make it look like I had everything under control… even though my mind was racing.
I felt more than I heard the company man behind me. His name was Cassavetes. Lucian Cassavetes. They called him ‘Iceman’, because he never showed any emotions on his face, and he had a very nasty reputation. He had zero compunctions about killing people.
I walked a block and a half, then stopped, letting my shoulders slump and letting my head loll back. I stared up into the muddy-honey colored sky for a long moment, then let my chin drop as I turned to face him.
“Why are you following me around like a lost puppy, Lucian?” I growled.
“Professional curiosity.” He replied quietly. There was a slight quirk to his drawn down brow. The first expression [if you can call it that] on his face.
“Go away,” I told him, “You’re pissing me off.”
I turned back around, spotting Tino as he was nearly bouncing on his toes. Once he saw that I was ready to follow, he moved again. I don’t think it occurred to him that I knew exactly where Mama Olivia’s was. Didn’t matter, it made the kid feel like he was doing something important, so I didn’t want to bruise his ego. I started walking. Cassavetes followed.
It didn’t take long for us to get to Olivia’s. Tino darted down the alley next to Olivia’s, and I rounded the corner and headed toward the back, near where the dumpster was. Standing by it were two humans, one male and one female. Both of them were in inexpensive suits and long overcoats. I recognized the both of them. The auburn-haired woman was Moynihan; the blond haired and blue-eyed male was Syfrid. They were Knight Errant detectives.
Moynihan was about my age, thick but not fat, with hazel eyes and freckles covering her chubby face. Syfrid was probably five years younger than me, with the chiseled good looks of his Norwegian ancestors.
“You fucked up, Zegoyev.” Moynihan said, with more than just a tinge of malice.
“You still mad I turned you down?” I quipped. She’d never hit on me. I knew it, she knew it. Syfrid and Cassavetes didn’t.
I saw her jaw clench. We didn’t like each other, and we both knew it. Syfrid stepped in almost immediately to head off any wrangling.
“Miss Zegoyev.” He said is a friendly voice, “Could you tell me where you were, say… twenty hundred hours, yesterday?
“She was with me.” Cassavetes replied, before I could even open my mouth. My eyes narrowed dangerously, “Like hell I was.” I growled.
Syfrid frowned, looking from me to Cassavetes and back. “Which is it?”
“She was with me.” Cassavetes replied.
“He’s lying.” I said, almost simultaneously.
“Maybe it would help if we knew who you were?” Syfrid prompted.
Cassavetes held out his wrist, and Detective Moynihan ran a little scanner over the flesh right at the base of his palm. There was quick beep and I’m sure she was getting a reading on a HUD projected onto the inside of her eye. I’m sure she had at least one cyher-eye. Both of them did.
She frowned, then so did Syfrid. She probably transferred the info to his HUD.
I could just imagine he was coming up black. Not much more of an identification than he works for the company, making him pretty much untouchable to them. They’d have to have a damn good reason to arrest him, and lying to them wasn’t good enough.
By default, I was just as untouchable, at the moment.
The two of them look like they just ate lemons.
“I was at my flat. Alone.” I informed them. The two of them pretty much ignored what I said, Syfrid turning to the dumpster. He slid on a glove and opened the lid. The first thing that hit my nostrils was the metallic tang of blood, my mouth watering in response. I filtered that smell out and then there was decomposition of flesh and other organic materials, but it was the flesh that caught my attention. I had to filter that out, too.
“His name was Ulbern Pinero. An Aztlan hobgoblin. Street name was Dash.” Syfrid was looking at me as if the name should mean something. It did.
Dash was one of Durayn’s flunkies, and I said as much.
“Any arguments with him?” Moynihan asked. She still had a hair across her ass with me; I could tell by her tone.
“As long as he didn’t try to sell any of his shit in my area, no.” I replied evenly. “I don’t let the dealers do their trade in my territory. He wants to come in for a bite and enjoy the scenery, s’all good. He wants to push his shit, then me an’ him gonna have words.”
“And did you have words with him?” Moynihan pressed.
“We have in the past, yes.” I admitted, “but not recently.”
“He has slashes and stab wounds.” Syfrid informed me, “consistent with a katana.” His look spoke volumes.
A katana was my favored weapon. Everyone knew it.
“Where’s yours?” Moynihan asked.
“At my flat.” I told her.
“Can we see it?” She asked.
“I don’t know, can you?” I shot back.
“We can get a warrant.” Syfrid offered.
“Unnecessary.” Cassavetes interjected. “She was with me.”
The three of us stared at him. [Fucking asshole.]
“If you have anything to add, Miss Zegoyev, please get in touch with me.” Syfrid said, he knew he was defeated. For now. He handed me a little holo-card with his title and name, with a contact number. Like I was going to use that.
“Sure, sure.” I agreed.
The two of them took one last at the body, then left the alley. I stood there, the smell of blood filling my nose. I had to get out of there. I followed the two detectives out, with Cassavetes still in tow.
“You’re killing me.” I told him.
“I want your help.” He repeated.
“Weeping Messiah.” I swore. “Okay, look, if I tell you I’ll think about will you fuck off? I have shit to do and I can’t get it done with your nose up my ass.”
“Will you seriously think about it?” He asked.
“Yes.” I snarled, “I’ll think about it. Now hit the bricks.”
He gave me one last look, then nodded. I turned and started heading in the direction of The Foxy Loxy.
“Where you headed.” It wasn’t a question. More like he expected an answer.
“That way.” I pointed.
“So am I.” He told me.
“That’s nice.” I said. “Bye.”
“Wait.” He said. I was about to tear up one side of him and down the other when he reached in to one of his pockets and extended a holo-card. I took it more out of reflex, than anything else. I gave a quick look, jammed it in the pocket of my tunic, then walked away.
It was about fifteen blocks to the Loxy. I walked. I had to cross pretty much all of my own territory, and the delineation between Durayn’s little piece of the sprawl and mine was visible. Gone were the easy-going crowds, and in were the furtive movements of the hunted and the hunters. Cramheads, worn out prostitutes, and the defeated trawled the streets looking to get what they can without losing what they already got.
Like in my own territory, I had a bubble around me that nobody entered, but unlike in my territory where it was a mark of respect, it was more along the lines of fear of the unknown.
I carried myself like I owned the streets, and I pretty much did. Nothing short of a troll was going to slow me down, and even then, not for long.
The streets were dirtier, lit by the neon signs of the businesses that were Durayn’s meal ticket. The sign to the Loxy was pink neon, with a holo of a few naked women; by the silhouettes, they looked human and elven… I didn’t know of too many troll gentleman’s clubs, and orks were anything but gentle.
I pushed the door open and walked in. The place was full of smoke, the lights dancing in the clouded room hypnotically. There was a dispirited dancer on the floor, half naked. She looked too skinny. Probably hooked on Bliss. There were a few bouncers around the room, and one of them headed over to me. An ork, probably born and raised right here in Boston. I looked him up and down in irritation. He walked right up to me, way too deep in my bubble. I took an immediate dislike to him. There were a few others collected around the door, watching him and me with amusement.
“There’s a cover charge.” He told me. He moved a little bit, showing me the grip of a pistol tucked in the front of his belt, like somehow I’d be intimidated. [Asshole.]
“I need to talk to Durayn.” I replied.
“Durayn’s busy.” He informed me.
“Tell him to get un-busy.” I said. I was already irritated, and I sure as hell wasn’t in the mood to play games with this asswipe. My day had turned to absolute shit, and I needed a few answers.
“Can’t interrupt him. It’s business.” He said with a grin.
“Fine.” I relented. “Then can you at least bring him a message?”
“Sure, dollface.” He said with a smirk, “Anything you want.”
“Good.” I said with a smile, “Tell him that he’s got about five minutes before I kill every motherfucker in this place. With my bare hands. Starting with you.”
His eyes went wide and he reached for his gun with his right hand. My left hand moved faster and clamped down over his right wrist and took a step in to trap it between us even as my right hand came up and locked on his throat, my nails digging in slightly to his thick skin. Orks had natural layer of dermal armor, but I was pretty sure I could punch through it if I had to; I was definitely sure I could squeeze his windpipe until it collapsed… their thick skin didn’t do much against suffocation.
“What’s it gonna be, big boy?” I asked, “Take the message, or take a dirtnap? All up to you.”
I felt his wrist flex, loosening his grip on the pistol. His buddies were all standing, guns out, but I didn’t care. It would’ve been a huge inconvenience, and I probably would’ve gotten my ass kicked; but I’d have been back. I took a step back and gave him a friendly smile. “See? It’s all good. Go talk to your boss. I’ll wait.”
I glanced around at the others, smiling at them as well, even though they still had their guns out. “Put those away, boys. You won’t be needing them… and you’re gonna make me feel unwelcome.”
They did. They did it slowly, but they tucked their guns away. [Smart.]
I watched Big Boy as he crossed the bar, headed to s a dark, unmarked door in the corner of the room. He rapped out it, three times in quick succession, then waited. He rapped again. Then he opened the door and went in.
I glanced over to the three bouncer what were still trying to watch me and the rest of the room at the same time; but mostly they were trying to keep an eye on me. “So, you boys have any high-grade parts I can pawn?” I asked. “You know, if it winds-up I have to kill you?” I gave them a sunny smile. They were trying to frame a suitable reply when the door in the corner opened up, and I glanced at the trio, “Nice talking to you boys. Gotta run.”
Out the door came an elf girl, she looked pretty young…. Probably not even forty, which was barely above eighteen in human years. She was wearing a filmy teddy and a chain choker with a pretty little cameo on it. I flicked a glance over to the girl on stage and saw she had one on, too. I got a sinking feeling.
Big Guy followed the girl out and waved me over, which wasn’t necessary because I was already halfway there. He held the door for me, which I guess was him trying to be polite. He stepped out as after I stepped in, closing the door behind him.
I was always a little surprised by Durayn’s office. There were a lot of muted earth tones, mostly browns and greens; not really ostentatious.
Durayn was standing behind a big, dark brown Nuhogany desk, a thickly padded leather chair behind him. On the desk was a trid-screen and a keyboard. Off to the side was a flat tridscreen hand-held, with what looked like a ledger document on it. He was tucking his shirt in his pants, waiting for me to sit down, which I did. Across from him in front of his desk was a deep armchair that I flopped down in. I hand my legs crossed because the desk was in my way, but I was slouching deep in the buttery soft Fauxskin leather, my fingers interlaced and resting on my stomach.
“How’s your sister’s first day on the job?” I asked him politely.
He gave me a flat, hostile stare. “That’s na me sister.” He growled, his voice a lilting sing-song. I opened my mouth and he pointed a warning finger at me, “Don’cha be bringin’ me blessed mum inta this, now.” He said it fast, and in his lilting voice, making it sound like all one word.
I barked a crude laugh, because that’s exactly where I was going next.
He took a deep breath, finished tucking in her shirt, and he sat down, resting his elbows on his desk, hands clasped under his chin.
“S’always a joy t’ see yeh, Valkyrie.” He said with feigned enthusiasm, “T’ what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I’ve asked you not to call me that, Durayn.” I reminded him bleakly.
“How bout ‘bitch’ then?” He said with a grin, to which I shot him a warning glare. He rocked back in his chair, holding his hands up in surrender, with a look on his face that was saying ‘if the show fits’…
“So, your friend Dash is dead.” I told him bluntly. He gave me a blank stare.
“Dash.” I repeated. “Hobgoblin. One of your couriers. Kind of stupid.”
“Ohhhh” he said with a snap of his fingers, as if a light went on, “yeah. Dash.” He gave me a firm nod. “And?”
“In my territory.” I added.
He rolled his wrist and waved his hand like he was expecting me to get to the point.
“I’ve had a very bad day so far, Durayn. Don’t jerk my chain.” My voice had an edge to it, but I hadn’t changed position. This chair was crazy comfortable.
“I don’t know what t’ tell ya, darlin’.” He said with a shrug, “Dash left me employ bout three months ago. Hadn’t seen hide nor hair since.”
Well shit.
So I sat there in Durayne’s buttery soft armchair, my right on my left knee, my fingers interlaced over my stomach, slouched about as far down as I could go, and I tried to piece it together, and no matter how hard I tried, the pieces simply would not fit. Durayne sat across from me, maybe subconsciously mimicking my posture with his right ankle just above his left knee, left hand resting on his ankle, bouncing his foot from side to side. He was looking pretty much everywhere but at me, rocked back a little in his office chair, waiting for me to leave. I knew he wouldn’t say anything about me sitting there. His attitude was a mixture of healthy fear and self-preservation. He knew damn well I could snuff him if that’s what I wanted to do, any his boys outside couldn’t do a thing about it except look for a new place to collect a paycheck.
I sat there, bottom lip between my teeth, trying for every angle to make the pieces fit, when I realized what I was seeing. Durayne was nervous. More nervous than usual.
“Durayne.” I said, keeping my tone conversation.
“Hm?” he grunted, swiveling a little to face me.
“If I find out you’re lying to me about Dash,” I kept my tone nonchalant, as if I was talking about the weather, “I’m going to come back here, and I’m going to eat you.” I still had my mirrored wraparounds on, by I was facing him and for all he could tell, I was staring strait at him, which is exactly what I was doing.
He let his leg drop to the floor and put both hands on the desk in front of him, “Alright, alright, alright..” He held up his hands in a placating gesture, “Dash was workin’ for me, okay? But I swear t’ ya… I tell all me boyos t’ stay outta ‘little heaven.’ ”
I raised a brow, momentarily distracted from why I wanted to maybe bounce him off a few flat surfaces in his office. “Little Heaven?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“Yeah.” He affirmed. “That’s what the street peeps call yer area. Little heaven, because they feel safe there with what you got goin’ on.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Yer bad fer me business.” He confessed.
“How so?” I asked.
“Because yeh have a safe lil haven for pretty much anyone that janders in. Yeh got yerself almost the perfect little corner o’ the world, because peeps are not only afraid o ya, they respect yeh as well.”
“Okay. So what was Dash doing there if you told him to stay out?” I asked him.
“I dunno.” He replied, “I truly do not.” I believed him. I don’t know why, but I did. Something was all sorts of hinky about this. I needed to go back to the crime scene.
I stood up, and he stood up with me, coming out from around the desk to lead me to the door and open it for me. I thanked him with a nod and went out, turning a bit to face him, “Fine. Fine. I’ll give you double in two weeks, okay? Just give me two weeks.”
He was pretty quick, Durayne was. “Jus’ don’chu be late, lass. I’d hate to have to damage that pretty face o yours.”
I turned around and stalked out, like I was angry. If anyone found out that Durayne and I weren’t as adversarial as we made it seem, it would cause him some serious credibility with his people, and if I had to act like I was worried about Durayne, so be it. I did not give a rat’s ass what his boys thought.
I didn’t like Durayne, and if it ever came to it, I’d happily end his miserable life… but he’s the devil I knew.
Back to Mama Olivia’s.