Lunar symphony

[Poganin]

Morten Crowe was 26, blonde and tired of waiting for his client to leave the third party he had driven her to tonight. He hated the elegant suit she had forced him to buy and the lousy tie adorned with red and silver diagonal stripes. “I won’t have a bum for my driver,” she had said and ordered him to drive to Traders’ Row. “The parties can wait.” He put the index finger under the knot and loosened the strangling noose around his neck, opening the top button of his shirt along the way. White shirt… Morten hated white. Reaching inside the hover through the side window he turned the volume of the radio up a little. Radio stations on the Moon didn’t have much to offer in the variety department so he was forcing himself to like what they played. Tapping his foot to the rhythm of some cacophonic techno track he produced a pack of cigarettes, pulled the last one and lit it, throwing the crumpled, empty packet to the ground. Morten inhaled the smoke and fought the fit of coughing away… he forgot he was supposed to quit. Annoyed he made the cigarette follow its gutted home and patted his pockets in search for a chewing gum or at least something to occupy his mouth with. There was none but some two hundred yards down the street there was an auto-vendor machine. He glanced at his watch, ten seventeen in the evening, twelve minutes after she had entered the building. He estimated that he had at least ten more minutes before she left.

Locking the hover, Morten started towards the auto-vendor when a huge ad-screen floated above his head, sporting a magnified face of some hair-metal singer with eye implants and a fake smile plastered on his face. Next to his visage was a can of beer. Firefly drinks Carlsborg. He rocks! the loudspeakers blared and the screen flickered to the news station showing street riots in another part of the city, an offscreen voice commenting “I can’t believe it, in just a few minutes the whole south central turned into a war zone. Angry people swarmed from the Hell on Moon nightclub and began demolishing everything in sight. Wait, I think we can get to know more.” The camera panned to a fat man wearing a silly hat on his head who was just lacing his left boot. “Excuse me, sir, could you tell our viewers what’s going on?”

Morten paid no attention after that. He already knew what had happened. Someone offed Firefly’s bass guitarist and the poor sod was seeking retribution. His hate-filled words fell on the fertile soil of scared people unsure of their future. With the UN denying the Moon autonomy no one knew when the open war would break out. This gave them the opportunity to relieve some stress and apprehension. As if the Moon needed internal conflicts right now. Crowe decided that it must have been a UN agent who had killed the musician. Firefly’s Panzer Kunst was a popular, underground rebel band that voiced the concerns of the majority of the Moon’s population. Silencing them was like putting a gag on the freedom of speech. Problems were sure to sprout now.

Purchasing the gum he wondered who his client was, that elegant, stylish babe with a strange, Earthish accent and commanding manners of a queen. Why three parties and not one? Was she looking for someone? It didn’t take a genius to notice whose houses she was visiting. Richard Mason, CEO, head of Dice Karts, who practically owned the city – a party organised to celebrate separation from the headquarters on Earth. Roger Kerrigan – the mayor, celebrating the city’s expansion over the Mare Frigoris. Johann Liebert – a successful rags to riches businessman, celebrating his incomes most probably. What was she looking for among those crème de la crème? Whom was she looking for? Who was the person that would be invited to one of those parties? Morten shook his head and slowly returned to the hover.

She was already waiting for him, hand resting on the hip, naked hip, seen in the cut in her stylish, revealing black trenchcoat-dress, a whole leg in dark blue stocking provocatively on display. Morten though that if he craned his neck a little he would be able to see if she was wearing any panties. He coughed, making his face a mask of apology, he knew worked excellent -- his boyish features, blond hair and innocent smile were sure to make anyone’s heart melt. His boss would cut his salary if he ever got to know that he made the client wait.

“Get in. We have another place to hit,” she ordered and waited for him to open the door of the hover for her.

“Whatever you say, ma’am,” Morten shut the door when she was inside and slipped into the driver’s seat, popping a leaf of hewing gum into his mouth. In the rear view mirror he caught a glimpse of her cleavage. Nice pair he thought. “Where to this time?”

“Western Ringstrasse, Kossuth residence.”

He couldn’t withhold a whistle of surprise. Well, he wasn’t really surprised but he realised this would be a tricky ride. From the holster under his arm Morten produced his laser pistol and checked the battery.

“What’s wrong, Crowe? Drive, I don’t have all night!”

“There’s a riot taking place there at the moment. We might have trouble getting through,” he said, sincerely hoping she would call it quits for the night.”

“Well then, you’ll just have to think of a way, no? Oh, and while we’re at it, tighten the tie. I don’t want to be seen in such sloppy company.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he muttered and did as he was told, starting the engine and joining the scarce traffic. There was trouble afoot, he was sure.

 

[Poganin]

Story closed for DarkDuchess and myself as of now. Thank you.

 

[DarkDuchess]

Fallon de Reveande leaned back into the plush, buttery leather. She arched a perfect, dark brow as she did so- contemplating the dividing window between herself and her driver. A well-manicured nail rested on the tip of the button, and she tapped it, as if still considering.

But she considered nothing. Fallon made her decisions quickly, precisely. Her hand then strayed to slim case of brushed steel that rested next to her; its efficient form a sharp contrast to the opulence of the darkened luxury hover.

Fallon cocked her head and realized that the driver had been looking at her breasts in the rearview mirror. "All the better, that," she thought to herself. The more he stared at her body, the less he would remember about the actuality of her. Who she saw, what she did- and most of all, what she carried. Fallon shifted again, crossing a long leg; the almost translucent azure material shimmering in the flashes of light from the other hovers.

Fallon waited only moments before uncrossing her leg, letting the slit in the side of her garmet slide up and across, revealing the softness of her thighs- a creamy taunt, only a breath from the sought after depth between them.

He glanced up at her movement, the blonde head angling to the mirror, perhaps hoping to catch another glimpse of her flesh. Or maybe to see exactly what is was that his client would demand this time?

She met his gaze with a certain darkness in her eyes, a fey glitter that lit the grey orbs with shadows. Fallon had been told that a man could drown in the depths there...

When Crowe did not speak, but reverted his attention back to navigating the streets, she smiled. But it was not a smile born of mirth, it was a cold, hard slash of crimson across an ethereal palette.

Fallon brought a slim cigarette to those predatory lips, letting the cylinder hang from the corner of her mouth. As she did so, her raven hair fell forward into her face, a dark blanket of obscurity.

"Got a light, Crowe?"

 

[Poganin]

Motren Crowe

When he heard the question, Morten clenched his teeth -- he hated when people smoked in his car, it took weeks to get rid of the smell afterwards and the air filters he had had installed turned out to be fire and forget, worked only once and then had to be exchanged and they cost arm and leg. He could have lied to her and say that he doesn’t smoke, which was basically true, he quit, but then again no self respecting chauffeur would own a car without a lighter. Sighing to himself he nodded without turning his head and fished his lighter from the breast pocket next to his gun. Using red light to his advantage he turned and as the sheet of glass slid down Morten bent his arm at an uncomfortable angle and lit his client’s cigarette. Leaning forward made her cleavage even more visible and Morten had to control himself hard not to stare down the opening in her trenchcoat-dress. Not only would it be impolite and unprofessional but very stupid too. From the way she was carrying herself Morten could see she was a dangerous woman, and he would be a fool to make her angry by ogling her openly. He sighed inwardly once again, she was a very beautiful woman and it was a sin not to look. With his left hand Morten flicked the filters on. 400cc going down the drain, damn! he thought and turned back to the street as the woman reclined in her seat, sitting there like a queen. Someone might think she was the owner of this car from her pose and behaviour!

When the lights turned he turned right to get as close to the dangerous zone as possible without actually entering it. Tuning his radio to police frequency he tried to gauge the situation and it wasn’t exactly favourable. Western Ringstrasse was cut off from traffic by bloodthirsty mob demanding vengeance for that musician’s death. He wondered if the Kossuth residence was still standing or was just a smouldering heap of rubble. As he was driving, Morten was also trying to avoid police patrols, no use in explaining himself only to be ordered to turn about face and drive away. His orders were taking priority. The possibility that they might be admitted into the riot zone was null, however, and he had to think of another way to enter the quarter.

“Navcomp, display south central, E4,” he spoke quietly and the windshield turned into a transparent city map with their position marked as a red speck, flashing blue dots showing the estimated positions of nearest police hovers. Square E4 was highlighted and magnified and Morten’s eyes searched the maze of streets and alleys, looking for an open passage. “display Techcor Industries in section 5 in detail,” he ordered, noticing a storehouse area that was probably opening on both sides. It took the computer seventeen seconds to connect to the city database and download precise plans for the requested zone. Morten nodded in satisfaction. Two gates. “Clear screen.” Now the only thing to do was to hack the locks on the gates and then navigate the back alleys of south central and pray that none of them were mob infested.

He stopped the hover in front of the gate and looked at them as if judging if ramming them wouldn’t be a better idea. “This might take a while,” he said, and glanced at the rear view mirror.

“Just hurry up,” the woman hissed.

He could only nod and wonder where the fire was. What he was about to do was a crime, he was about to break in on private property, probably monitored by security cameras and guards. But it was the only way, the quickest way. And it wasn’t the first time he was doing this. After all it had been his job before he hooked up with his current boss.

Sliding the keyboard out from under the steering wheel he began hacking into the locking mechanism to recognise his hover’s signature as a supply car. Manipulating the lock software was easy, the hard part would come when he would broadcast his signal and it would be rejected, turning on all alarms. Crossing his fingers, Morten pressed ACCEPT and bit his lip, sweat beading on his forehead despite air conditioning. He exhaled loudly when the huge gate slid open and quickly drove onto the premises. On the other side of the huge square there was the other gate… open… and filled with people entering the area and spreading all over it, bent on devastation. This was their chance, only chance. “Hold on,” Morten said partially to his passenger and partially to himself and sped up, flashing the lights and honking wildly. At first the rioters stopped and glared, a few even tried to charge at them but the speeding hover made them change their minds, he was driving too fast to be stopped and they wanted to stay alive and cause more havoc elsewhere. One hover was of no concern.

Making a hard turn right, Morten cleared the gate and slowed down because the alleyway was narrow and littered with various junk and he didn’t want the delicate machinery underneath damaged by some stray can. “We’re through,” Morten stated the obvious, relieved there had been no trouble. “Just a moment longer.”

 

[DarkDuchess]

Fallon reclined again, tossing her head as she did so. The darkness of her hair obliged by sliding back against the seemingly delicate arch of her throat. She took a long drag from the cigarette, the embered tip flared and ebbed as she inhaled and exhaled.

The billow of smoke filled the back of the hover, only to be drawn in a furious huff to the air filter. Fallon enjoyed the pluming dance of the smoke as it swirled around her and felt almost cheated when it was pulled from her. She smoked more for something to do with her hands rather than the actual nicotine. If she was honest with herself- she did it because she could. Smoking, in the traditional form, had been outlawed on all Earth several years ago. It had been slipped into legislation as part of the Clean Earth Act. At the thought, Fallon almost snorted to herself. She was in a position to know that the "nobility" would still do as they pleased, no matter what legislation passed, or what laws were enacted.

As thoughts of the self-styled nobility crossed her mind, it brought her to Kossuth. They would be on his property within moments.

It was only then that Fallon realized the way that her driver, Crowe, had taken. Her eyes narrowed as she considered him. Perhaps there was more to this man than she had been led to believe. After all, he had taken her through a security check with not so much as a glitch. He hadn't even stopped and she had provided no codes.

And unless she was mistaken- he wore a weapon beneath the sharp cut of his jacket. The suit was cut just well enough to determine that the form within it was pleasing, but not close enough to reveal the kind of weapon he carried. Though it did reveal the inherrent masculinity of his movements, the controlled strength that graced him, it was almost animal like. Fallon was surprised to discern that her previous judgement of the quiet driver had been error.

To Fallon, that was quite the feat for someone to creep beneath her radar. Rarely was she wrong about anything.

Another smile crossed her mouth, this time it was genuine. Maybe he would earn his credits this night after all.

Crowe looked up into the mirror and saw a foreign look on the woman's face. It was look of genuine of amusement. He wasn't sure if he was entirely comfortable with that.

Fallon's face fell back into that mask of artic disinterest and defined purpose when the residence of the High Councilliory, Greagorion nee Ap Kossuth came into striking view.

The tall crystalline columns of the terraced towers emerged from the Lunar landscape like a demonic tribute to unknown gods. The architecture was harsh and incongruent, thrusting and alternately melting into itself. The crystallized material itself, was deceptive... seeming clear and pure, but it hid a darkness that was a staining rot. Within the very house of the Councilliory, a viper fed at the breast of intrigue.

Fallon recalled the first time that she had seen the Kossuth Compound. She had been young then, perhaps even innocent. That innocence had long since abandoned her for greener and more fertile ground. She inhaled deeply, initiating a deep pull of nicotine and pushing the bitter laugh that surged to her mouth down deep inside of herself.

No, there would be no show of weakness, no pitiful sighs, no weeping memories. There would be nothing, she would fill herself with the empty abyss and the darkness...

Crowe's quiet, but intent voice shook her from her thoughts. "Look, I know you're in a hurry, but Kossuth..."

Fallon interrupted him, her too-bright eyes flashing, and her chin in a defiant upthrust.

And what came out her mouth in that interuption couldn't have been more surprising to Crowe than if she had slapped him.

"I know. That's why you are going in with me."

 

[Poganin]

Motren Crowe

Crowe almost groaned in desperation when he heard the order. He was a driver, for crying out loud, not a diplomat, and much less a bodyguard. Sure, he was carrying a weapon but it was more for self-defence and served as a boost of his own confidence rather than to protect someone else. Client pays, client demands he could almost hear his boss’ words ring in his head. His contract spoke nothing of entering the manor of the family that had the most extensive knowledge of the Moon’s workings, those official… and those less official. The saying went that if there was a secret on the Moon somewhere, a Kossuth would surely know it. Morten wasn’t feeling like meeting someone who could know things about his past better left alone. No one would benefit from it and he had lots to lose. So he could only nod in agreement and hope no one would pay much attention to him or consider him a nameless bodyguard to open doors and move chairs. Subconsciously with the upper part of his arm he checked if his gun was there.

Surprisingly the gate to the residence was open, armed sentries lining the opening with feral dogs barking even at the slightest gusts of wind. The scene was intimidating and somewhat surreal set against the background of the most extravagant building in the city. On the one hand the residence was a sigh for sore eyes, being a welcome change from all the other buildings in the city that pretty much looked alike and it was hard to recognise a Laundromat from a grocery; but on the other hand the tall, crystalline spires were like accusing fingers pointed at the Earth as if the Kossuths were saying Sod off, Earthlings, the Moon belongs to us now or People of the Moon, look how wealthy we are and despair for we have money to burn. Morten hated both options.

As the hover neared the gate one of the soldiers stepped forward and held his hand up for Crowe to stop which he obediently did and opened the side window, waiting for the man to approach. He had the typical don’t fuck with me look of a stupid grunt, small eyes and an attitude that spoke tons about his IQ.

“Turn around and fly away, citizen. This is private property and you don’t have an invitation,” the grunt spoke, obviously happy he could turn someone away.

“Look, pal, I’m not in the mood for your bullshit so just tell your captain to get you toy soldiers out of my way. I’m escorting an important guest to see your boss so if you don’t want to be cleaning the sewers from tomorrow on, I suggest you move your ass and do as I say. Now, soldier!” Crowe shouted at the man seeing that he was trying to object. His superior must have noticed something unusual was afoot and stepped forward, exchanging a few words with the sentry and then giving the order to let them through.

Morten drove into the premises, putting on a mask of boredom as the hover passed the guards. After a moment he stopped right in front of the white marble stairs leading up towards the entrance. Before he had the chance to step out a servant, or the major-domo, was already opening the door for the woman in the back. Sneering, Crowe glanced at the man and shook his head, biting his tongue before saying something nasty. He locked the hover securely before following the man and his client inside where of course the richness and lack of taste of the decorations both astounded and stupefied him. But then again he was never an art enthusiast.

“This way, please,” the servant showed them the way and lead on. Crowe followed, unbuttoning his jacket and sticking hands into the pockets of his trousers, wondering what this was all about and trying hard to cover his interest in his client’s workings and the point of her visit here.

 

[DarkDuchess]

With each stride, Fallon's long shapely legs were exposed, but her steps carried the aura of one used to power. And though that smooth expanse seemed made for ogling, not one guard nor servant they passed, dared to look at her.

The corridors were long and twisted, but Fallon knew their depths. Fallon had expected that she would feel something more being in this place, with her feet once again upon a practiced path. But she did not. She felt nothing save for the expectation of another mission completed.

Finally, a door was opened and they were led inside. The room was sterile in its occasion. Chairs of glinting steel sat in front of a glass-topped, industrial metal table. A side bar covered the far wall of the room and it was painstakingly adorned with several of the more inflammatory Lunar publications. There was a decanter, most likely crystal, that was decidedly assuming, but filled with a clear liquid.

The manservant went directly to the decanter and began to pour, when a sharp look from Fallon halted his action.

"You may go." she dismissed him.

Fallon was aware of Crowe's questioning stare on her back and then for a moment, she wondered herself why she had demanded that he accompany her. Fallon was rarely a creature controlled by her impulses and it fueled a long dormant rage.

The door slid open again and Fallon jerked her head at the intrusion.

"Reveande, how good to see you." A distinctly feminine voice purred, the sound completely at odds with the severity of the room.

The words came from a petite woman, lithe and slender. Her blonde hair fell in a haloed cascade down the lines of her back. Her skin was golden and soft against the pinkened rosebud material of her gown. This picture of femininity seemed as if it had stepped out of a painting of times long past.

Fallon's expression never changed. She did not pause, nor did her breath hitch or her breasts heave as she sucked in fortifying air. It was all very simple.

It was as if time had slowed to an unnatural parody of itself. She walked with fluid grace and embraced the woman close.

Crowe watched with morbid fascination as the slim case his client carried fell open and with one movement, Fallon slid its contents from the packing.

A wicked looking syringe jutted from her deft fingers and before the other woman could process Fallon's intent- it had violated the tender flesh of her neck; the needle swift and sure to its target.

The syringe emptied itself, almost coital in its action. The bright eyes went large and then fluttered closed as the woman collapsed into Fallon's embrace.

Fallon dropped her to the cold floor without a thought.

 

[Poganin]

Morten Crowe

Before Morten could think for even a split second and analyse what had just happened his old instincts and training have kicked in and with his laser pistol in hand he was locking the door, his eyes fixed intently on the windows. Satisfied that there seemed to be no witnesses he searched the room they were in for cameras and seeing none in plain view he moved his facial muscles, turning on the eye implant that let him search the area in more detail but once again he found nothing, no cameras, no hidden mircrophones. Only then did he glance at his client and the seemingly dead body lying at her feet. The Kossuth woman looked dead but his client, Reveande, stood motionless above her, like a statue of a goddess. Even after committing a crime she lost none of her composure and attitude.

All this took just a few seconds but Crowe felt like his brain had been shut off for at least an hour. Now, when his thinking processes were active again he could stop acting for a moment to assess the situation. What was Reveande's purpose on the Moon? Why had she killed this woman? And moreover, had she killed in all the manors they had visited this night as well? The last question was probably the most important since, as Morten noticed, the silver case that belonged to his client had several spaces that could have housed similar syringes.

Carefully he approached the body lying on the floor and touched the neck to look for the pulse but found none. Kossuth was dead. Slowly Crowe raised his eyes and followed the attractive line of a stocking-clad leg up to meet his client's gaze.

"She's dead," he said partially to voice his surprise with the situation and partially to voice his complaint. His gaze was met with a blank stare so he continued. "What's this supposed to be? I was paid to be the driver, there was no word about being accomplice to murder! Shit!" he swore, getting up. "I think you have some explaining to do... boss."

 

[DarkDuchess]

Fallon de Reveande

"Do I?" Fallon arched her brow at him, though her tone was indifferent.

"What about you, Mr. Crowe? How quickly and efficiently you've secured the space..." She let her voice trail off as she rested her deadly hand on an equally deadly hip.

Crowe wasn't about to be put off by her astute observations, but neither was he going to answer her.

"How are we going to get out of here?"

Fallon pursed her lips and tilted her head in an almost playful manner before speaking. "You don't trust in my abilities?"

"Well," he sneered, "you've just murdered a Kossuth. Who else has felt your wrath tonight?"

"Crowe, I've left bodies all over the city." Fallon was snide.

The driver was obviously irritated with the sarcasm. "It concerns me only so far as how it affects my life."

And Fallon realized that just being in that place was starting to jackhammer into her armor. She was exhibiting too much emotion and it was making her a bitch. She schooled her face to its controlled mask of haughty perfection.

"We leave as we entered."

Fallon reached to pull the door open and Crowe made a move to stop her.

"You have teeth after all?" Fallon questioned.

Even as it came out of her mouth, she realized that she sounded like she was trying to get him into bed. But she couldn't help herself. It was this godforsaken place...

"I'm just out to survive. Something it looks like you have forgotten how to do. Maybe you want to die here..." Crowe trailed off, jerking his head to indicate a sound coming from outside the door.

Then, Fallon's expression softened as it had previously, making her look almost feminine, womanly. Perhaps that wasn't the correct description- she always exuded sex. It was a drug and she was the dealer. But this gentle girlishness, this was something new.

Fallon reached out and touched Crowe on the sleeve, staying him. A gesture of familiarity that foreign to them both.

"Trust me."

There was a polite knock on the heavy door, and the sound was completely at odds with the room. And then, the quiet clink of a key in the lock as it was turned.

The majordomo stepped inside and narrowed his eyes at the form on the floor.

"Mistress de Reveande?"

Fallon again became someone else. "I don't know what happened. She collapsed just before you opened the door. Fetch Greagorion."

The majordomo became light-footed as he rushed from the room.

"You sent him to get the High Councilliary?" Morten was incredulous.

"Let's go." Fallon headed toward the open door.

 

[Poganin]

Morten Crowe

Morten could only stare in amazement at the ruthlessness of the woman ordering him around. It seemd as if she had already forgotten about the corpse on the floor of the room they were leaving, and possibly other corpses strewn around other residences they had hit today. He couldn't tell if her earlier remark was just pure sarcasm or some gruesome twisting of morbid truth. It made no difference now, though, he was accomplice to cold-blooded murder, no matter the reasons. And the death of one ranked so high among the Moon's elite would not pass unnoticed.

Whatever Reveande's agenda was and her purpose, he hoped she was done with her work for the night and would let him go and start arranging some line of defence -- changing the hover and its licence plate first of all, fake documents, perhaps plastic surgery to change his face even. Damn this woman for putting him into such trouble again! And just as he was going onto straight road once again.

Crowe followed her quickly through the maze of corridors, enveloped in the enticing cloud of her tempting perfume, his eyes covering all angles, checking for possible trouble along the way, but also inevitably drawn to the energetic sway of her hips as she was walking and her long legs, appearing and disappearing under the flapping fabric of her trenchcoat-dress. He cursed himself for wondering what she looked like without it, getting involved with his client had once almost killed him and he could do without walking that road once again.

Morten wished he could stick the strangling tie into his pocket or simply throw it away and unbutton the shirt but they had to pretend everything had gone according to plan, the meeting was successful, nothing happened, yadda yadda. Soon, he promised himself, soon you'll be free.

When they reached the entrance hall, Crowe calculated that they still had about 30 seconds before the body would be discovered and the security alerted to stop them at all costs. They had to use this time wisely if they were to survive this trip.

"I need a raise," he muttered to himself and checked the front of the mansion through the window. No suspicious movements of the guards, his hover in the place he had parked it.

"Go and get the engine running," Fallon commanded and he wasn't one to argue. Opening the front door and trotting down the stairs he fished the keys from his pocket and disabled the alarm with the small remote. Glancing over his shoulder he saw her standing in the doorway, watching something inside. He got into the hover and started the engine. Some 10 seconds left.

Reveande slid into the backseat and leaned against the backrest, seemingly relaxed and calm, at ease with all that was happening and the consequences looming very close. "Drive slowly, go! Nothing happened! We are simply leaving after a meeting. Be casual."

Crowe nodded to himself. Easy for her to say. Approximately 5 seconds remained until all hell would break loose when he began driving towards the gate. A slight commotion among the sentries told him everything he needed to know -- they knew too. He put his foot down and sped up, ready to ram through if need be. He could see them ready their guns and the captain step forward to halt them but he didn't slow down. Turning the lights on Morten hoped to throw their aim off at least a bit by blinding them. "Keep your head down, they'll shoot!" he shouted and cursed himself for deciding to save on bulletproof windows.

The hover was halfway to the gate when the guards started shooting. Bullets wizzed and whined, bouncing off the reinforced body of the car, making the paint fall off in hexagonal flakes where they hit. Part of the windscreen imploded in a cascade of shattered glass, filling the interior and the passenger seat with glittering, diamond-like shards. There goes the nav display. He noticed that they were having another problem, though, the gate was slowly closing.

Morten had no choice, he abandoned hope of getting out without causing casualties and sped up even more, ramming through the line of shooting men and crashing through the closing gate, losing even more paint off the rear of the car. Crowe calculated they had about a minute before the pursuit party would be assembled. They had to put as much distance between the Kossuth residence and themselves as possible.

Glancing at the rear view mirror to see his client he asked, "Are you hurt, ma'am?"

 

[DarkDuchess]

Fallon de Reveande

Fallon hid the shock from her face, she looked up, her eyes a stormy grey to meet the concerned gaze of her driver.

He'd asked her if she was okay. His expression was questioning, there was no guile there. His concern was genuine.

She could not remember a time when someone had thought to ask her... A time when it mattered. After all, she was Reveande. She had no feelings, no soul, no purpose, but what was bought and paid for.

Death's whore...

Fallon shook her head as if she could shed the dark thoughts like a snake shedding an outgrown skin. She realized that Crowe's eyes still watched her, waited expectantly for an answer. She hadn't taken stock of herself yet, but she answered anyway.

"No, I'm alright." Fallon leaned back, another cigarette appearing between her fingers. She paused, the waiting cylinder unfulfilled halfway to her dark lips.

It was then that she felt something sticky on her thigh. There was a seeping pain, and it burned. It was as if a thousand shards of... Glass. It was glass.

Fallon, with no modesty whatsoever, pulled her dress up around her hips, cigarette still caught between her fingers and pushing the material across the other leg. She extended the length of her leg to examine the damage.

The fact that the glass had torn through her designer stockings pissed Fallon off to the point of cursing.

"God damn it." she bit out through clenched teeth.

The clement elegance of her skin was marred by the jagged ruptures where the glass had torn through. There were bloody scratches all along the limb, but there was a rather large shard, perhaps the size of her hand, that jutted proudly from her flesh, only inches away from the femoral artery.

It hurt like all hell, but she had seen worse. She had had worse. Fallon's biggest concern was the getaway. That some namby-pamby do-gooder would decide to chase them, and Crowe would run. And in the commotion, that shard would be forced to fatal depth. For all of her darkness, and all of her strength, Fallon was not ready to die.

This earned another curse.

"We have to get out of public view." Crowe interrupted her stream of profanity.

"As far as I know, there won't be a..." she broke off as a her blood, viscous and crimson welled up to spill down her leg and across the buttery leather.

Fallon clenched her teeth tightly and proceeded to tuck the dress back down around the wound, trying in vain to pack it.

Crowe finally saw the blood.

"I thought you said you weren't hurt?" His tone was accusing.

"I was mistaken." she tried to keep her voice light, but only succeeded in sounding wan, even to her own ears.

Crowe frowned.

And Fallon assumed that it was for the blood that had surely ruined the leather. Even though they were missing windows as well.

"I will buy you another hover." Fallon looked at him appraisingly for a moment and continued. "Drop me where you picked me up and I will leave the credits with your boss. There won't be an active pursuit. At least not tonight. Greagorion knows..."

Fallon felt dizzy, as she realized from the copious amounts of blood that were flowing from her, that she had indeed sliced into that vital artery. She ripped off several strips of cloth from her dress, and with an endurance born from years of pain, wound them tightly around the blushing vivisection.

 

[Poganin]

Morten Crowe

Crowe was silently swearing under his breath, cursing all the bad luck that seemed to follow him around and poke its nose in his business turning everything into rubble. His hover was wrecked on the outside and on the inside with Reveande’s blood seeping on the backseat from her wounded leg. Heavily wounded leg. Morten could see it from her paling face and the sheen of sweat that covered her skin. And the way she tried bandaging that wound was only making it worse. He was bound by his contract to obey the client’s requests and orders but if he followed this one she would die of haemorrhage before he reached her hotel. And having a client die in his car would be even worse than disobeying an order.

As he drove, escaping from a possible pursuit, even though according to his client there would be none, he tried making random turns to avoid the rioters and change directions as much as possible. He was satisfied with their progress but now he had to act fast. Pulling up to the kerb he ran through a list of familiar ripperdocs in the vicinity and decided there were two he could trust. But he had to take care Reveande’s leg first, she could have been an expert killer but it was obvious she had little experience when it came to patching up serious wounds.

He stopped the hover as gently as possible and looked over his shoulder. Fallon was sitting with her head thrown back and looking at him with half-lidded eyes. Now he could even smell the blood and it was making him remember things he didn’t want to remember. Grabbing a medpack from the dashboard compartment he left the car and opened the door next to where she was sitting. Only now he was able to have a better look at her thigh and a look of concern crossed his features: the gash seemed deep and the simple bandaging was too weak to stop the bleeding and the glass shard sticking from her flesh was sharp and wicked. Sucking air into his lungs he entered the passenger compartment and kneeled on the floor at Reveande’s feet.

“I thought I told you to take me to the hotel,” she said, raising her head and looking at him with such a mixture of feelings in her eyes that didn’t even want to start analysing them. With a swift motion he removed the tie from his neck and the suit jacket from his back and rolled the sleeves of his shirt up. “What do you think you’re doing, Crowe?”

“Saving your life. You’d die before we got to the hotel. We need to take care of this,” Morten said and moved a little closer, painfully aware of the position he was taking between her long, outstretched legs. He cursed himself again for admiring sights in the wrong moment even though this really was a sight to behold. He had taken a good look when they were walking through the Kossuth residence and he decided her legs were perfect, long and toned and the stockings she had on were only making her even sexier in his eyes.

“I’ll kill you if you touch me, Crowe, I swear,” she said when he opened the medpack and put it on the seat next to her hip but Morten just let is slide, knowing full well that pain and possibly shock would make her weak.

“Stop the bleeding first,” he spoke aloud, recalling the lesson he had been given. “Don’t move a muscle,” he told Fallon and taking his tie in his hand he slowly pressed his hand between her thigh and the seat. Her skin was hot, smooth and slick with blood and he felt her jerk and stiffen when his hand made contact with her flesh. Immediately he felt sweat appear on his forehead and his face becoming hot, as usual when he was working under stress and performing difficult tasks. Slowly his hand was making progress under her warm body, his fingers almost brushing her bottom. Crowe bit his lip and reached with his other hand from the other side of Reveande’s leg and grasped the free end of the tie, pulling on it until he had half of it on the left and half of it on the right side of the leg.

He tried not to think of the parts of her body he was manipulating so very close to. He was trying to force himself to think of her as just another client, or just a patient but the gentle sway of her hips when she had walked was barging into his head. “I’m going to tighten it now. This will hurt,” he warned and slowly formed the tie into a knot above her thigh and slowly began tightening it, making another noose and sticking a pen inside it to twist it hard. At first she was bearing it but then she uttered a muttered cry and grasped his forearm, pushing her fingernails into his skin. At least she didn’t pass out. Crowe secured the pen in place with the piece of her dress she had used previously as bandage and wiped his hands off blood and sweat over his thighs. “I’m sorry, I know this must hurt,” he tried apologising but her stern features and clenched teeth told him enough.

He looked into the box to see if there were any pincers but found none and started panicking. He needed to remove the shard of glass from her leg but it was slick with her blood and his fingers would probably just slide over it delivering ever more pain. And he had to remove it fast before the involuntary muscle contractions caused even more damage. Pulling away the damaged fabric of Fallon’s stocking Crowe bent over her thigh, feeling his face burn even more. If their ways ever crossed again he would be dead man for what he was about to do. “Now this will hurt so don’t hold back,” he whispered, his breath sliding across her skin.

Supporting himself on the seat between Reveande’s legs, mere inches away from her sex, Crowe leaned closer and gently took the glass between his teeth, his lips brushing the bloodies skin in an involuntary caress. He could smell blood but he also smelled the scent of her skin and found it strangely erotic, even in this situation. Making sure his grasp was firm he jerked his head, pulling it clean out from the woman’s flesh. This time her whole body convulsed and jumped and she cried in pain and swore so loudly she probably woke someone up. Some blood trickled from the opened wound but he didn’t have time to look at it. With the shard still in his mouth Morten was pushing Fallon back against the seat, forcing her to remain motionless.

When he finally spat it out he had the taste of her blood in his mouth. Quickly he disinfected the edges of the wound and wrapped it tightly with clean bandage, carefully injecting a mild painkiller. Sitting back on his heels, Crowe wiped the sweat from his face and breathed in relief. He was done, his skills hadn’t rusted. It was as good a job as any although he didn’t have proper equipment. Now he had to take Fallon to a doctor.

 

[DarkDuchess]

Fallon de Reveande

Fallon felt his breath warm against the growing numbness of her wounded flesh. She shivered at the proximity of his maleness, the heat of his fingers across her skin. It had been so long. So long since she had been touched. So long since she'd had that basic contact with another person because she wished it, rather than just part of the job.

She felt a bitter laugh rise in her throat, threatening to erupt through her clenched teeth. Sad that this touch came from a man she had known for barely a night and his nearness, his concern for her had been bred only in that she was bleeding to death. And Fallon, starved creature that she was, had wanted to take it and turn it into something else.

As she watched him work, blonde strands fell across his forehead and when he leaned over her again, it brushed her thigh. Through the haze of agony that accompanied his actions, she took in the hard line of his jaw, the way he held himself as he labored for her life.

A weakness began to steal over her, the cold chill from the gash seeping through her body, infecting her limbs and her mind with a lethargic fluidity.

Part of it she knew was the loss of blood, the other, was the painkiller. It chased the chill with a molten rush. Fallon alternated between feverish heat and a frozen plague.

Morten was driving again and Fallon could not discern where he was headed. He checked the navcomp several times and it appeared as though he were trying to contact someone, but Fallon was fading into a dark silence.

Her senses dulled and slipped into a cotton candy-like wrap around her consciousness. And she found that her mouth opened, seeming of its own volition. She heard things that had only been whispered off in the darkest part of the night fall from her painted lips. But she couldn't stop them from escaping.

"No one will follow Crowe." Fallon struggled to keep herself upright.

He checked the mirror to appraise her condition as she spoke, because her next words made no sense.

"Kossuth works with the rebels."

"We'll worry about that after you see a doctor." Crowe tried to humor her. There was no possible way she spoke the truth. That particular anesthesia he'd given her was known to cause hallucinations...

Fallon jarred herself up to meet his gaze in the mirror. "I have to tell you what I have gotten you into." Her voice was urgent until she paused to whipser, almost as if she could not comprehend, "I owe you."

She took a deep shuddering breath. "We are changed now, Crowe. You and I."

Her last thought before she slipped into blessed oblivion, was that he had seen her weakness. She was utterly vunerable and exposed to him now. Something no one had seen since before de Reveande, before The Agency, before her training, back when she had been nothing but Kossuth property.

 

[Poganin]

Morten Crowe

He tried to drive and at the same time do several other things crucial for Fallon's survival. He was aware that his makeshift operation was only temporary and she needed professional help he wasn't capable of providing. Therefore he was trying to contact the nearest ripperdoc familiar to him and at the same time plot the course for his home on the pathetic remains of his nav display. From time to time he looked in the mirror to see if the woman in the back was still alive.

"Do you know what time it be, mon?" the communicator came to life showing a sleepy face of a black-skinned man with dreadlocks sticking in all directions from his head. His face was criss-crossed with angular scar-tattoos that made him look like a mix of a cyborg and some alien animal. His eyes were a devilish yellow, the only mark of a terrible sickness that had swept through the Moon several years back.

"I need you to operate for me, Jah."

"I be havin' a guest, mon! A special lady-friend, yah? Be bad time for operations, mon," the face on the screen cringed and bent on the display.

"You owe me, Jah. Now's the time to settle the score, buddy. Prepare the table, I'll be at your place in five." Morten switched off the communicator, not letting Jah to protest anymore.

From the backseat Reveande mumbled something deliriously but he paid little attention to it, knowing that she was probably hallucinating from the strong drug he had applied. He regretted it now, not realising that it was usually used in combat conditions when there was no time for delicacies but on the other had he couldn't have known how long it would take before he could find a doctor capable enough to take care of her wound. It reminded him of his time with the Sigma-squad on Earth and the Corporate Wars he had participated in. Back then he had to use even worse and less reliable drugs that tended to induce hysteria, paranoia or turned men into bloodthirsty berserkers. It was during that time the he saved Jah's sorry ass and the ripperdoc was about to clear the debt.

The man was waiting for them in front of his house with a trolley, nervously looking around in the darkness and smoking a dark cigarette. Morten stopped the hover and quickly opened the door next to unconscious Fallon. Gently he picked her up and put her on the trolley. Not a single word was exchanged between the men while they were outdoors, Jah understood the urgency of the call when he saw all the blood inside the car and covering the woman's leg. But the moment the entrance doors shut behind them Morten felt like some terrible weight had been put on his shoulders and he had to lean on the trolley, supporting himself rather than helping his friend push it.

"She be your special lady-friend, mon? What games you been playin'?"

"Dangerous ones. Can you patch that up? The artery's severed and the wound is deep too..."

"I can give her nanites, mon, if she ain't allergic to 'em..." Jah looked at Crowe with questioning eyes.

"I don't know. Do what you think is necessary but try not to experiment with drugs. I had to give her CCR."

"You crazy, mon?!" Jah flipped to him from the sink where he was washing his hands. "You don't be givin' CCR to them stylish women. You sure you playin' in the right league, mon?"

"She's tougher than she looks. Get to it. I'll see what can be done about the car. It's a mess." Morten made to leave but the ripperdoc stopped him.

"You be havin' troubles, mon?"

"Not now, Jah. Take care of her," Crowe asked with a tired smile. "And stop smoking this shit. There are no mosquitos here."

"No can do, mon!" Jah grinned, a white crescent in a black face. "Stops me hands from shakin'."

"I'll be outside. Call me when she's up." Crowe left the room, sincerely hoping there would be no more troubles. Kossuth working with the rebels? So why had she killed her? Is she working for the UN? So many questions and so few answers and him in the middle of this political mess.