The Atomic Question - Chapter 12

Instinct was correct about her assessment of metahumans: they did bond when getting off, and did become talkative. So with Calista lying face-first on her chest, Dawson took the satyr by one horn and held her up so she could question her.

She let the magic in her flow into her throat and fill her mouth, animating her tongue. "Listen to my voice," Dawson intoned. The groggy cast to the drama queen's bleary eyes slowly lit up with a faint pink glow. "Who is the painter, Calista? Who told you how to make your games so true to life?"

When she tried this on any of the girls they folded for her like a freshly oiled stock. Calista's mouth worked momentarily as her thoroughly satisfied body moved to obey Dawson's Commanding Voice, and then she realized what was happening and her aura spiked in annoyance. She pushed at the waveform of Dawson's essence mingling with her own, driving it to the edges of her body but not forcing her out completely.

"Stop trying to control me," Calista muttered. Her words were slightly slurred. "I'm not one of your pushover idiot playthings."

Using her other hand Dawson took the satyr by her chin firmly. She asked, "Do you want to be?"

Calista didn't fight off the touch, no more now than she had at any minute in the previous two hours of touching. She did however bare her teeth, the two prominent tusks gleaming wetly in the low light of her half-trashed lair.

"Don't you ever have normal sex?" she asked, feigning more annoyance than she felt. "Or is everyone in your life a drooling fuck-addict?"

"They're not all drooling."

The satyr smirked, turning her head to lay her ear against Dawson's chest. "You're a lot easier to talk to now than when I first met you. Gods, I thought you were going to put a steel rod in my leg or something."

"Thought about it," Dawson said, "But I thought your legs were too nice to modify like that."

She could tell from their mingled essence that the compliment was appreciated--Calista had a sizable ego--but she still pretended to be suspicious and drew her brows down. "Stop trying to sweet-talk me. I don't have a plethora of unresolved mommy issues for you to exploit and wrap me around your arm. I'll thank you to talk to me like the adult that I am."

Using the back of her hand, Dawson brushed hair away from Calista's temple. Her skin was warm and moist from their exertions. "Forgive me," she whispered, "I get a little protective of people who grind their cunt against mine."

The satyr shivered momentarily, which Dawson could feel both physically and magically. "You're too much. I could get addicted to a body like yours..."

Dawson's hand shifted from temple to cheek. "Only," she said evenly, "If you answer my questions."

With obvious dissatisfaction Calista separated herself from Dawson's body and sat up on her couch. She stretched her hooved legs and rubbed at her thighs, not yet confident enough about them to try standing. Letting their essence untether Dawson slowly stood up from the couch to retrieve what clothing had made it up here with her.

"He's just the painter," Calista said. Her voice was tinged with frustration as if she'd sought numerous times to increase her knowledge on this topic, without success. "Ivan found him somewhere out in the desert after the raid on the Rangers depot and brought him back to San Francisco. Hoped he'd have his own epic portrait made."

Dawson buttoned her pants up while she considered that. "Out in the desert 'somewhere?' What, in a ghost town?"

"In a cave," Calista answered. "So he claimed. Ivan said that he looked like he'd been inside painting for decades, pigment made from cacti and scorpion venom."

A hardscrabble life. He hadn't been born into that, surely. "And what was he painting in the cave?"

Here Calista lowered her voice to mimic Ivan's deep and guttural croak. "History."

"What part of history?"

"All of it. The whole thing, start to finish, layered over itself over and over like a mobius strip."

For some reason that struck Dawson as less peculiar and more in the territory of heartbreaking. "And he came to San Francisco because Ivan Ionfist asked him to?"

Calista directed a sharp glance in Dawson's direction. "I never asked the specifics but I suspect Ivan was making him an offer he couldn't refuse. He was the type who seldom took no for an answer."

Dawson remembered the voice in the cistern with no echo, the silhouette like the largest ork she'd ever seen and the insistence that evil was their weakness. While her eyes wandered she asked, "What was Ionfist like, Calista? You must have known him, if he listened to you when you spun him a story."

The satyr let out a heavy sigh, her own gaze wandering in much the same way. Her words came out easily and smoothly, like she'd been practicing a eulogy for a long time and had only been awaiting a chance to give it. "Ivan was every bit as violent, brutal and tyrannical as the corporate news would have the public believe," she said without reservation. "In front of a crowd, especially outsiders to the go-gang, he played the part perfectly of the psychotic warlord: the fantasy villain of every action trid produced for Humanis freaks to beat it to."

"And yet when you were alone with him, Ivan was soft-spoken and cryptic. He paid attention to you, gave credence to what you had to say, made you feel like you were the most important speaker in the whole of the sixth world. Anything you had to say he wanted to hear, and when you were done talking he would ruminate silently on what you'd said for just a few seconds and then break out the most profound fucking thing you'd ever heard in your whole life up to that point, even if all you'd been doing was bitching about traffic or recounting a bad interaction with Lone Star."

"And he would make promises, all the time. Simple, broad promises and always employing some catastrophically forceful methods, but he would say without fail, 'You can overcome the obstacles this world puts in your way. You have the strength inside you. If you can't yet find it, just follow me for a time. Follow me and I will show you the way.'"

She breathed quiet laughter, as if the memory amused her as much as it vexed and frightened her. "He would tell you freely that he didn't believe in anything. That there was no such thing as destiny or fate or karma, and yet no one took the traditions of the bloody tusks more seriously than him. He didn't believe in anything but he made other people believe in him, and that he was just carrying their torch until they were ready to take it themselves."

Dawson spoke and her words came out more quickly than she wished that they would, betraying her irresistible inclination towards contempt. "You almost sound like you admire him, Calista."

The satyr looked at her calmly. "You must be thinking, how can anyone admire such a monster? Think about all the people who look up to you, Dawson. You don't want them to, you try to tell them to find a better role model, but that doesn't alleviate their yearning. It doesn't fill the void in them. Ivan was someone who took up the role the only way he knew how."

After a pause Dawson asked, "Then why did you betray him, Calista?"

Tears welled up at the corners of the satyr's eyes. "Because he was going to kill everyone, Dawson."

"Everyone in San Francisco?"

She shook her head. "Everyone. Everywhere. He told me that, once. The night before I met with you. He bade me down into the arena and said to me, 'This sixth world belongs in a grave, Calista. It is sick and if I do not put it out of its misery, I become its tormentor."

"I asked him, 'Why would you want to do that, warboss? How does it help anyone?' And he said 'From the grave of the sixth world will grow the glory of the seventh. A new world, free from the mistakes of the one before it.'"

Dawson swallowed heavily. She whispered, "Some of us have no place in such a world."

Calista heaved a deep sigh, watery and full of guilt. "Those were his next words, Dawson."

The words in the cistern came to her again: our deeds are sides of the same coin. In years past Dawson would have kept all of the emotion inside of her, but here was a chance to express it to someone who could conceivably understand what it was she was feeling.

"Without condoning," Dawson said, "And without absolving, I think I understand what drove him. It drove me, too. For a long time."

And now Calista put one hand over her face, trying to hold herself together. "He was somebody's child, Dawson."

In a moment Dawson closed the distance with the satyr and placed a hand beneath her chin, gently guiding their eyes to meeting. "He was," Dawson agreed, "And a lot of people failed him and made him who he became. It's up to us to break this cycle." She tried a smile and even felt most of it. "Personal responsibility, right?"

The smile Calista gave back was fragile but sincere. "Right."

Dawson moved her grip from Calista's chin to her cheek and squeezed softly. "Can I meet this guy?"

"That's not entirely up to me," Calista said evasively. "The Ivanists are protective of the painter. He makes his home at a junkyard on San Leandro street."

"I know the one," Dawson said, then patted her side. "Though I may wait until I feel a little less stabbed to go looking for trouble at it."

Calista grimaced. "I'm ah... sorry about that. I let my emotions get the better of me."

"All is forgiven," Dawson said, patting the satyr on her collarbone. "Some people pay good money to get stabbed in front of a crowd."

Before they could disengage, an idea occurred to Dawson. She opened her right hand and seized the front of Calista's face, letting one of her eyes remain uncovered and muffling his surprised ah!

Dawson poured her essence onto the satyr, trying to congeal it with Calista's and impress her will onto her target. "Listen to my voice," Dawson intoned. Calista tried to evade with her spirit, tried to squeeze out from beneath Dawson's radiant weight but it was too sudden, too heavy and she'd gotten too attached to Dawson in the last few hours to escape the gravity of her embrace. Their post-sex bond wasn't extensive, wasn't especially deep, but it did exist.

So with only a limp hand on Dawson's wrist in protest, Calista's visible eye glazed over a foggy pink.

"You've used me for your games, Calista," Dawson said chidingly, "And now you're going to make one for me. I'll be in it, and even do all the acting and motions for it myself. It'll be easy. But the players won't be playing me--they'll be themselves. Simsense self-inserts. And I'm going to change their lives."

- - -

Dawson telepathically bullied Calista until her game concept was buried so deeply that the satyr became convinced it had been her own idea all along. Only once the compulsion had been acted on to its completion would she realize Dawson had used her Commanding Voice to shape her thoughts, at which time she would probably be cross about it. But the game would still be what Dawson wanted it to be, and someone as vain and melodramatic as Calista would lean into it for her own reputation.

After collecting her things from beside Calisa's chamber door Dawson found that the orks guarding the front door were gone when she emerged from the arena building and the state of their table indicated they had left suddenly, but not violently. Closing her eyes and turning towards the wind from the east let Dawson focus her hearing and detect a rhythmic thumping coming from the direction of the stadium. Someone beating drums? No, it was faster than that...

The sun was less than an hour from setting now, casting deepening shadows from the direction of the Bay. Gently rubbing her abdomen where there was still soreness from Calista's spear, Dawson began walking in that direction.

In line with her expectations, the bloody tusks had vacated the arena after she and Calista had stopped fighting and nearly all of them seemed to have migrated to the arena. They'd done so because Instinct had driven the Firebird up onto a makeshift stage at the center of the coliseum, which like the arena had been altered over time to let speakers easily be heard across the stands.

All the sounds of working on derelict vehicles had been silenced in favor of the music exploding out of the Firebird, washing across the field and the orks standing on it, up in the seats, and crowding around all the entrances.

In her jacket, headband and scuffed-up jeans Instinct was dancing in the neo-classical style, moving her body with grace nothing short of sensual. And her voice boomed with the music.

"Welcome to your life... There's no turning back! Even while you sleep... We will find you..."

And then something different happened, something new. Instinct's aura flared outward, visible to Dawson like a shockwave in every direction. The words Instinct sang next were audible in her head, along with a compulsion to voice them. It caught her off guard so strongly that all she could do was cough, but all the ork go-gangers around her acted on it as a group, creating a spontaneous chorus to support Instinct.

"Acting on your best behavior, turn your back on mother nature! Every-body wants to rule the world!"

This was... interesting. Instinct's aura retracted like it was regenerating, her body continuing to dance around the Firebird. She sang, but the words didn't appear in Dawson's head like they had before.

"It's my own design... It's my own remorse..."

Gently pushing orks to the side, Dawson began making her way towards the car where her creature waited. She had them captivated and Dawson wanted to know how.

"Help me to decide... Help me make the..."

Her aura flared again and Dawson braced herself, keeping the wave from overwhelming her. The orks were utterly lost in it, belting out in a magically synchronized chorus.

"Most of freedom and of pleasure! No-thing ever lasts for-ever! Every-body wants to rule the world!"

This time her aura didn't retract, instead remaining blanketed outward like a field that engulfed everyone in the coliseum and for dozens of meters beyond. Instinct leapt onto the hood of the Firebird and held her hands up--the orks sang for her in perfect unison.

"There's a room where the light won't find you! Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down... When they do I'll be right behind you!"

They fell silent and Instinct sang alone, and in the next moment the thundering music drowned out what must have been a sudden sound of ripping fake-leather plastic as a pair of feathered black wings erupted from Instinct's back.

"So glad we almost made it... So sad they had to fade it! Every-body wants to rule the world!!"

Instinct spun slowly, wings alternating between enfolding and stretching wide, moving independently from her arms as the music meandered through a solo. Dawson felt rooted to the spot halfway to the stage. Was her creature... evolving?

"I can't stand this in-decision! Married with a lack of vis-ion! Every-body wants to rule the--SAY that you'll never, never, never, never need it! One headline, why believe it? Every-body wants to rule the world!"

With a flex of her legs Instinct launched herself into the air a dozen meters and let her wings slow her descent back onto the ground, the feathers molting as she did so and falling like black petals in the wind across the crowd. Orks caught them and stuck them to their faces, in their clothes, behind their ears and in their hair.

"All for freedom and for pleasure! No-thing ever lasts forever... Every-body wants to rule the world..."

One of the feathers found its way to Dawson's forehead as she stood there awed. Reaching up to pluck it off, she found its scent was identical to the way Instinct smelled between her legs. She did what she normally did when one of her creature's hairs got stuck in her teeth and swallowed it.

Instinct's gaze swept over the stadium and lit up when she found Dawson. She jumped down from the stage at once and sprinted in her direction; when they crashed together the momentum made them trade places and the mutual embrace was as tight as it was comforting.

Rather than speak first, Instinct kissed her on the mouth. Upon detecting a curious taste her tongue visited its second home in Dawson's mouth to collect more of it, and only after a short trip down her throat--her gag reflex long since trained away--did she break the oral contact.

"Mm," Instinct said, rolling her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "Calista?"

"Good guess," Dawson praised. "I'll bring you next time if you tell me about the wings."

Her creature looked briefly shy. "Like it? Been working on it for a while. Hardest part was figuring out where to slide through the bone clusters so they wouldn't open up my whole back."

Dawson ran her right hand over one of the holes in Instinct's cheap pleather jacket. "I thought you couldn't change your outside, only your inside?"

"I can't keep them out," Instinct said. "The bone dissolves after a few minutes when the marrow dries out, but the feathers are normal hair."

"Normal cunt hair?"

Instinct brought one finger to her mouth in a shhh gesture. The bloody tusks were still actively treating them like souvenirs. Her creature smiled impishly, and Dawson couldn't help doing the same.

"I'm too heavy to ever fly with them," Instinct went on, "But I can fall with some style."

Dawson cupped her creature's cheek with her left hand. "My angel. My savior."

Taking hold of the side of Dawson's head, Instinct pressed their foreheads together. "Did you save anything for me?"

"For you," Dawson said, "And our date tonight."

"Oh yes, the nartaki. Hema, right? I've had her in the back of my mind..."

"Anticipate having her in your face. I figure we start easy--you take the girls out for frozen soy right before she comes over, I soften her up for when you get back. If we can keep the girls downstairs so she doesn't get nervous, it should be a good time."

Instinct's eyes half-lidded and her tongue emerged to wet her lips. Dawson could sympathize... meeting and fucking someone new was a joy second only to fucking someone who knew and trusted them.

They made their way to the car and Dawson got behind the driver's seat. The bloody tusks graciously parted to let her drive out of the coliseum unimpeded and it occurred to her that little more than a year ago these people would have tried to steal her tires while she was stopped at a red light.

Now they were decorating their totems with her look-alike's replicated pubic bush. This, she reckoned, was an improvement.

Once they hit the parking lot Instinct put a hand in Dawson's lap. Just put it there, no intrusion yet. "What did Calista have to say?"

"A lot," Dawson replied. "She told me everything."

"But you're not panicking and waving the Accelerator around," Instinct observed, "Which means you must have displaced almost everything so you can do whatever you're meant to do without fucking it up."

Dawson's eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror, where the arena was getting smaller. "Do you think that was a mistake?"

"I think we're all trusting each other to act in each other's best interests and it would be a lot fucking easier if we just talked about it."

"Yeah," Dawson said. "At least we talk to each other."

"And other things with our mouths," her creature replied fondly. "Did you tell her you saw Ivan's ghost?"

"Setting aside for now the fact I'm not convinced that's what it was, no. Calista is stressed enough already without having to be worried about a thing like that. She cried to me, if you can believe it."

Instinct raised an eyebrow at this. "Tough girl like her? Thought she saved the waterworks for the stage."

"This is high-stakes," Dawson said grimly. "I almost wish I could walk away."

Instinct looked at her. "Almost."

"Yeah," Dawson confirmed. "Almost. She's made a bunch of games about me. About what I've been doing."

"That so? The girls might love those."

"I don't know, they're violent. Especially the latest one."

"You're right, violence makes them nervous. Best let them stick to Impulse Control."

"Calista will make another one," Dawson went on, "One I dictated."

"Yeah? What's it about?"

She spared one glance away from the road to smile at Instinct. "You'll just have to wait and see."

Instinct tapped her thigh with one hand. "I thought we shared everything!"

"This is revenge for hiding the wings thing. I thought you were evolving or something."

"If I evolve," Instinct said, "It's going to be into a hotter version of you."

"How could you possibly be hotter than me?"

"Growing a dick!"

That gave Dawson a slight thrill to consider. "Can you do that?"

Instinct laughed and squeezed her thigh. "You'll just have to wait and see."

There was one last thing to mention. "Calista talked about a painter." She told Instinct about the motor-oil painting of her being shot at, days old but depicting an event from mere hours before. She added to it the fact Calista's games had details in them that were true to life but had never been documented, and finished with what the satyr had said.

"If this guy was in Ivan's confidence," Instinct said evenly, "He could tell us what might be lurking in the future."

"I don't doubt the how," Dawson said, "But he's an X-factor in this. I know what we need to do about Nuclear Winter... I think... but I had nothing to displace about Ivan reappearing as a blank. Something is putting its hand against the barrel of this event, trying to make the shots go wild. We need to find out what."

Instinct suddenly looked haunted. "I already know what it is," she whispered, squeezing Dawson's knee for comfort. "We need to be here to push this barrel back on target."

"That's a little fucking ominous of a thing to say," Dawson sighed. She shared a look with her creature and then squeezed her knee in return briefly. "I'm glad you're around to split this with."

- - -

Dawson nudged Instinct on the shoulder with her own as the elevator went up to their floor. "How'd you do the thing with your aura, to make the orks sing?"

Instinct smirked slightly. "Bloody tusks get a lot of practice singing now."

"Not enough for that off the hip. You told them what to say, and gave them an urge to say it."

"You're not the only one who can telepathically bully people," her creature whispered appreciatively.

"Don't be afraid to employ that trick to stop a riot or a gang brawl," Dawson suggested.

"I'll employ to start an orgy," Instinct offered.

Dawson scoffed. "And what song is going to do that, superstar?"

Her creature leaned heavily on Dawson's shoulder and began singing in her ear. "You are an obsession... You're my obsession... Who do you want me to be? To make you sleep with me?"

A smile came easily to Dawson's face and she moved quickly to press their mouths together, silencing her creature mid-verse. The familiar tongue slithered into her mouth briefly, coiling around her own and tugging ever so slightly. The wetness of the sound was surpassed only by the wetness of the sensation.

Instinct pulled her tongue out just as the elevator chimed and the door started to open. "When I grow up," she said playfully, "I want to be just like you."

Dawson laughed again and the doors opened wide enough to show another resident waiting to get in. When they looked at him he cleared his throat and politely looked away from the two of them in face-sucking range of each other.

Instinct said, "We have room for one more."

The man blushed and smiled, but didn't look at them. "I have an appointment," he replied.

"We're down the hall," Dawson said. "806, if you change your mind."

When they came in through the door Alenia was waiting to cling to Dawson's side. She took the elf by the face and kissed her on the mouth while Instinct clapped her hands together and spoke.

"Frozen soy time, girls. Need you out of the house so Impulse can fuck someone."

Calls of strawberry and cookie dough were audible over Alenia speaking to her. She asked, "Who are you fucking?"

Dawson held up her hands to emphasize. "Someone with four arms."

The elf's eyes widened. "Fucking delta. Can we fuck her?"

"Later," Dawson promised. "She's still a little virgin-y. Got to train her until she's tamed."

"She got any cyberware? Impulse Control will eat her up."

"No," Dawson said sadly, "Didn't see a datajack on her. I'll have to do this the old-fashioned way. Plus some magic."

Alenia leaned her face against Dawson's chest, staring up at her adoringly. "Can you use magic on me?"

With one finger Dawson took Alenia by the chin and let her essence flood out of her, engulfing the elven decker. The implants inside of her felt like solid rock but there was more than enough of an aura to her to grasp hold of and mingle with.

She let the process draw out, let Alenia feel the magic Dawson's body contained seep through her every cell. Her eyes filled up with pink fog and her breath came in shudders; it thrilled Alenia to feel the outward influence of her adept owner connect with the deep conditioning she'd given herself over the past two years, like a magazine sliding perfectly into a receiver and making her ready to fire. The utter abandonment of being subject to someone's telepathic control while already having sold herself out on the subconscious level.

And it delighted Dawson to express her tyrannical impulses so freely. She spoke in her Commanding Voice, "Go kiss Instinct."

Without resistance, without thought or comment, Alenia turned and strode towards where Instinct was standing.

"Oh, hello," her creature said. She took Alenia by the face, opened her mouth and proceeded to push her tongue down the elf's throat until their lips met.

While they made out, Dawson took off her coat and hat to set them on their hooks. Avalanche had hauled herself off the couch and lumbered near her, wearing loose shorts and one of Dawson's older sleeveless shirts stretched enough to be decent on an ice troll.

Endearingly absent any kind of guile or tact, Avalanche first clumsily kissed Dawson's face and mouth, then asked "Can I eat you out after you get fucked?"

"That depends," Dawson asked, putting a hand between the fomor's knees and grabbing her crotch with palm. "What are you?"

Avalanche straightened up and responded sharply the way she'd been taught. "I'm mommy's hung idiot!"

"Fucking right you are," Dawson hissed, working her fingers. The troll leaned on her heavily but before she could get too friendly Dawson used her other hand to smack her ass. "Now go with Instinct. I'm getting another hung idiot for the motor pool tonight."

- - -

HandfulOfTrunk: I am outside

Det. Dawson: My living room faces the street so I can't see you if you're in the parking lot.

HandfulOfTrunk: Should I come in?

Det. Dawson: I notified the security team I'm expecting company. They won't bother you.

Det. Dawson: Nervous?

HandfulOfTrunk: Trying to convince myself this isn't some kind of trap

Det. Dawson: It's a form of trap.

HandfulOfTrunk: I'm coming in now

Det. Dawson: Thought so.

- - -

Dawson took her legs off the table and set the commpad down on the couch beside her. She thought about leaving her pants off and answering the door that way, but Hema was already anxious enough. Until Dawson could get hands on her a little restraint was in order.

Once she was decent again Dawson went to the door and turned on the hallway camera. Ten seconds after she spotted Hema reluctantly creeping down the hallway. Her tactical gear and weapons had been traded for what she probably thought was a conspicuous outfit: a plain jean jacket without a logo or motif with a black shirt beneath it, and green ripstop trousers that had been upped one sized to make them baggy yet still failed to hide what had the distinct look of a third limb crammed down her left pant leg, almost as bad as the leather leggings had been. A green soft cap had been pulled low over her head of black-and-silver hair but Dawson judged all her efforts to be in vain: even if people didn't remember that unique rose-gold skin, they'd definitely remember a woman with four arms.

The two upper of her hands were stretched to be in her pants pockets while the two lower were set in her jacket's. She moved them nervously as she walked, which was another thing people would notice, and she turned her face away from every camera which was yet another suspicious behavior. The way her upper body filled out her clothing indicated generous muscle, suggesting her being some kind of career soldier. If Dawson hadn't notified security, they'd have definitely stopped her coming in.

Hema probably knew all that. Yet here she was, because someone was giving it away. An admirable combination of desperation, lust and frustration that was all too familiar.

Dawson decided, she's cute.

The nartaki stopped in front of the apartment door and rolled her shoulders, body language suggesting that she was thinking of just walking away. It took her ten seconds to decide that she'd already come this far, so she may as well see what was on offer. Even if this was almost certainly a stupid mistake that was going to end with her being compromised or blackmailed or something similar, maybe even killed.

As much as she wanted to open the door right away, Dawson thought it important Hema be made to feel as in-control of events as possible. After a moment to gather her courage, the nartaki reached out and pounded on the door twice, disregarding the bell probably in the hopes her knocking wouldn't be heard and she could justify slinking away with her head held high.

But she'd get no such escape. Dawson waited ten seconds to simulate having to walk from the living room, then turned off the viewscreen for the camera and started to open the door. Hema did an admirable job of disguising her burgeoning panic as nonchalant indifference, and Dawson made a show of changing her stance sharply as if she too were putting on a could-care-less affectation. All metahumans had an aura and Hema's was subdued, like she had trained herself to not stand out and not show emotion. Yet it spiked when she looked at Dawson, essence reaching out for her the way a drowning person reached for a preserver, or a drunk for a bottle. Soon Dawson would let their essence commingle, but left the nartaki her clumsy guile for now.

Through her poorly feigned stand-offish demeanor Dawson said simply, "Hey."

It worked perfectly: when Hema got the impression that her anxiety was at least somewhat mutual it lessened noticeably and she even smiled a little. Some of the tension left her shoulders and she played her part, like she'd just run into Dawson in the hallway rather than knocking on her door. "Hey..."

Dawson smiled back. "You want to come in?"

Hema's mouth moved but she didn't speak, trying to keep from sounding too eager. After a moment she half-muttered, "Sure."

Dawson stood to the side as the nartaki walked in with all the ease she clearly didn't yet feel and shut the door behind her. Hema's caution gave way for a moment to genuine curiosity as she took in the sight of the apartment: the huge glass wall looking out at the Orchard and the street below, the kitchen with its implements neatly organized on a rack beside the stove, the huge couch arranged in front of the display screen and clearly meant to be looked at by a small crowd. The exercise equipment on the far wall, the ancient lostech stereo and the cabinet of compact discs, and the spiral staircase leading upward...

Forced to babysit that jackass from Aztechnology Hema no doubt saw endless vistas of obscene luxury, but those places didn't have the same warmth of somewhere that was actually lived-in. Places where life happened, and love was experienced. Suffused, indeed, into the carpets and fabrics and in a few places the walls.

Dawson had picked up in the time she'd had after the girls went out, but the signs of their habitation were still visible. All their cyberdecks heaped on the center table, the excess of plates and silverware in the rack on the counter beside the sink, the extra shoes by the door that were too small for Dawson but perfect for an elf's foot.

Hema took all this in and either hid well what she felt about it, or just didn't yet know how to feel. She turned to Dawson and asked, "Is your... twin here?"

"She'll be back in a little while," Dawson told her. "Wanted to give us some privacy. Want a drink?"

The nartaki took a seat on the couch while Dawson poured expensive champagne into two glasses. She took them both in front of Hema and sipped from one, then the other. "Here," she offered, "Now we're both drugged."

The woman smirked, taking one of the glasses with her upper left arm while keeping her lower two arms folded somewhat defensively. When she drank there was a raising of her eyebrows. She said with clear but delighted surprise, "This is good."

"The person who gives it to me has good taste. By the time we finish these we ought to be less tense."

Clearly interested in being less tense Hema sipped again and then asked, "At which time you ask me about my employer."

Taking a seat opposite on the couch Dawson waved dismissively. "I don't give a fuck about that guy. I hope he and Megiddo choke each other with orichalcum dildos or something."

Hema snorted into her champagne and tried to quickly cover her mouth with one hand, but the damage was done. She looked even cuter after her ugly laugh. "I'm sorry," she said, "That was churlish of me."

"I hope to make that the least dignified sound you produce all night."

At the reminder of what had brought her here, Hema finally blushed. This turned her rose-gold skin into a deeper shade nearer to cinnamon. Her upper arms held the glass in both hands while her lower hands touched together nervously.

"This still feels like some kind of trap. You are a law enforcement official after all.."

"I'm terrible at enforcing the law," Dawson said, looking at her glass solemnly. "I let people go all the time. Even after they shoot at me or hit me with things. If I followed the letter of the corporate court's law, I'd have put ten times the number of people behind bars as I actually have."

Hema shifted in her seat, clearly uncertain of what to say. "You want to give people second chances," she guessed.

"If you want to be saved," Dawson said, eyes slowly sliding up to meet the nartaki's, "Save someone else."

After a moment recognition struck and "Me? I... I don't need saving. I'm under contract."

"And if no one saves you," Dawson said sharply, "You'll be out of your mind by the time it's over. Twisted into a shape you can't stand to look at... Sure there's no one in the whole world who has a real care for you, even in the face of overwhelming evidence. So."

Dawson put her glass to her lips and knocked back the glass, then set it on the table. "Take your medicine."

Blinking twice, Hema mirrored her motion and swallowed her champagne. Dawson stood up and grabbed the hem of her shirt to lift it up over her head, a motion she never got tired of. Based on the way her eyes widened, Hema appreciated it as well.

"First we get the easy one out," Dawson explained. "Then comes the saving."

"I don't understand this talk about saving people," Hema said plaintively, though Dawson noticed the nartaki didn't try to get away as she moved around the table. "I just wanted to get laid."

"You're about to get laid for the rest of your life. Pants: open."

Hema's upper hands rubbed the back of her neck and one of her shoulders with uncertainty, but her lower hands betrayed her true feelings and went to work at once to follow Dawson's command. When Dawson reached the far side of the couch she lowered to her knees just as Hema was unbuttoning her ripstop pants, parting the fabric with both hands and revealing to Dawson two things.

The first was that Hema wasn't wearing underwear. For all her nervousness she'd come prepared to rip off her clothes and get right to it, an optimism that Dawson found she appreciated on more than a few levels. There was no second later between her and what she was after.

The second was that Hema had clearly never taken a blade to herself below the belly. An unbelievably lush, thick and explosively fragrant jungle of silver-and-black hair greeted her the moment the button was popped, spilling out onto the nartaki's lap and actually touching Dawson's face in the process such that she could feel the perspiration now streaking her features. It was a rainforest any Mother Earth member would have been delighted to get lost in and from its depths rose the spire of gently pulsing rose-gold flesh that drove most if not all of Hema's decision-making.

Between the sight, scent and touch it was enough of a surprise that Dawson let out a small ah! but to her credit didn't pull her face away, having never been what anyone would call gun-shy. Hema was still flushed cinnamon and one of her upper hands rubbed the back of her head nervously.

She started to apologize. "Sorry if it's a little..."

"No," Dawson said, grabbing her endowment by the base and getting a feel for it. "I like it." Her other hand raked fingers sideways across the top of her crotch through the hair, seemingly satisfying some latent itch based on the pleased expression Hema made. "It's sexy. Going to floss with it in a few seconds."

Hema smiled dumbly, laughing a little breathlessly at the notion. Her four hands were slowly converging on Dawson's shoulders and head as her growing erection was explored. Dawson had to admit she was a sucker for an easy cock and Hema's looked to be the easiest she'd ever met in her entire life, responding to every rub, squeeze or throttle by growing ever stiffer.

Taking it in both hands, Dawson was pleased to see it was exactly as meaty as she'd surmised when first cupping the nartaki by the groin down in the parking lot. The head was completely wrapped up in skin and would have to be teased out, but that wouldn't likely prove much of a challenge. Already there was a thick ooze escaping from the puckered foreskin that spoke well of Hema's mounting excitement.

Dawson reached her left hand into Hema's pants and sifted through the hair on her thighs and crotch to grab hold of her especially heavy scrotum, carefully bringing them into the open air and feeling another aromatic wave wash over her face as the source of Hema's potent scent was unearthed.

Seeking to inure herself to the spicy fragrance Dawon pressed her face nose-first into the top of Hema's package where shaft met sack and, bush working like a reverse air filter, breathed in deeply. Her vision swam briefly but the nartaki responded brilliantly: her length soon was swiftly pointing straight up at attention and leaking more generously, thick veins standing out in the base and shaft. The whole thing was throbbing with growing frequency; Dawson could feel the nartaki's heartbeat in the organs within her grasp.

Like anyone with severe self-esteem issues Hema soaked up praise like a sponge, especially for the things about herself she was clearly either guilty or defiant about. Dawson made another show of breathing her in again and then let the increasingly unruly rod lay against her face where it could trickle Hema's DNA across her face. "You're virile," she said with undisguised appreciation. "Going to drink you up. This is the easy one, alright? We'll talk more after, when you can think. Until then, don't."

Hema's mouth opened as if she meant to say something but Dawson's sudden five-fingered grip at the base of her shaft silenced it. She emphasized, "Don't. Think. Just let me suck out the poison. Repeat that for me: Just let me suck it out. That's an order, soldier!"

The direct order tact seemed to mesh well with Hema's ordinary sense of discipline and she repeated Dawson's words in a testing manner. "Just... let you suck it out..."

"Good!" Dawson praised, cupping Hema's dark-rose sack in her left palm. It was big enough to spill over either side, the heavy wrinkles and generous hair feeling coarse and wet and hot against her skin, but it was easy to use the size and weight of the orbs against each other, hooking thumb against one side and two fingers against the opposite to facilitate repeatedly kneading them together like the orbs in a newton's cradle. The gonads jockeying for space in their own sack had them testy with each other and eager to compete for Dawson's attention which would make them quick to comply when she gave them the signal to betray Hema and surrender their messy contents to her.

That left Dawson one hand and her mouth to deal with the nartaki's erection. Still holding it by the base she leaned forward and manipulated it to rub the hooded head against the space between her nose and mouth. While the dick put on a tough exterior with its throbbing and drooling, the skin was of course quite soft and happy to part when Dawson stuck her tongue into it. Hema groaned as if someone had just stabbed her in the heart and Dawson throttled her most important extremity as if shaking sense into her.

"Hey, relax. What did I say?"

It was recent enough in the past that the phrase was still able to be recalled with some effort on Hema's part. "Just... let you suck it out." She sighed when Dawson rewarded her by putting the tongue back in, and then a pleased, almost giddy expression stole over the nartaki's face as if it had finally sunk in: Oh fuck, this is actually happening! She repeated again with more confidence, "Just let you suck it out."

Dawson gave an assuring squeeze and then dedicated her face to the task of negotiating the surrender of the cock in front of her. She imagined it as not unlike a loaded gun she needed to deprive of its ammunition. Digging her tongue in tip-first reintroduced her to the sharp taste of sweat mixing with Hema's constantly leaking pre, a flavor she found easy enough to acquire if she thought of the nartaki as an exotic delicacy. After a little digging she reached the head inside, prompting Hema to again shudder audibly and repeat the words Dawson had given her to try to keep her head clear. Just let you suck it out...

While a meltdown was obviously inevitable, Dawson couldn't help seeking to draw 1things out a little. Hema was brawny and hard-bodied, her powerful form tensing and trembling with her delight and anticipation. Beneath her elbows Dawson could feel the rose-gold thighs straining with the effort of withstanding the pleasure being lavished on her, which traditionally painful physical conditioning did little to prepare one for.

For a few moments it seemed like Hema's generous skin would resist all attempts by Dawson's mouth to peel it back, but enough saliva applied to her concealed head combined with its own copious liquid enthusiasm pushed the skin to a tipping point. Dawson was delighted to see the nartaki's eyes actually roll upward as her glans was peeled free. She parted her lips to let the bright rose-red bulb breathe fresh air for just a few seconds, then clamped onto it hard with her mouth and started to suck. She made a show of gulping noisily the sticky stream Hema was putting out, communicating in every possible way the message you are food for me.

Hema kept repeating her mantra and seeking to keep her mind clear but her mental faculties were breaking down, drool escaping from one corner of her mouth as she hissed over and over just let you suck it out, just let you suck it out. Her body was tense, almost unbelievably so, and Dawson surmised this wasn't going to take long at all. She edged her face deeper into the jungle of the nartaki's groin and felt a surge of satisfaction at how easily Hema had been tamed. Now she would be another hung idiot for Dawson and her creature to keep on a leash and--

As she was thinking that Hema's lower hands settled on the sides of Dawson's face, clutching her cheeks. Dawson raised an eyebrow and looked up at Hema's face, but the nartaki wasn't looking anywhere in particular.

Her upper hands took the sides of Dawson's head in their fingers. Hema shuddered her mantra, "J-just let you suck it out--suck... ahh.."

Two things happened: Hema's aura, which had been wavering, collapsed and let itself open to Dawson completely. Dawson couldn't take advantage of it because of the second thing that happened: a hung idiot with four hands began to face-fuck her savagely, what must have been literal months of pent-up energy being let out over the course of just a few minutes. The hands on her face controlled her jaw, keeping her mouth in the perfect 'O' shape that the nartaki's dick found to be the perfect entryway into the depths of her never-gagging throat, while the hands on her head kept Dawson's face buried into the hair that became all she could see when pressed to hilt. When Dawson tried to lift up her shoulders and put a little space between her and Hema's cloying groin it became an opportunity to start moving Dawson's face and mouth up and down the entire length in long, devastating strokes that obliterated all trace of coherence from Hema's babbled mantra while she used Dawson's head and throat like a sleeve without even a shred of difficulty or hesitation.

Dawson thought: I may have underestimated this task.

And then she started to cum. Dawson had kept a hand on Hema's sack while the other gripped the couch beside them and she could feel the process of orgasm kicking off like a rocket launch. She had intended to squeeze and bully the gonads to play them against each other even into the moments of ejaculation but she couldn't focus with Hema using her head as a gym towel. All she could do was be aware of it as thick gouts of hot gunk started to travel frantically up the singular rod buried in her lips, passing through them with an unfamiliar helplessness since she couldn't muster the leverage to suck at it.

The first three hot gushes went straight into her stomach, never touching her mouth or tongue. Hema's fragile mind deflated like a slashed tire as her semen departed from her, the coordination of her powerful hands disintegrating almost instantly and causing them to flop uselessly to the sides while her dick continued to pulse. This let Dawson finally move back her face and catch the fourth shot in her mouth proper, but while the flavor was to her liking--strong, thick, earthy, potent--there was vastly more than she'd anticipated and some immediately spilled out of her lips around the rod, forcing her to let it out of her mouth.

This meant the fifth shot splattered directly across her face. Weaker in force and volume than the previous ones, it nevertheless painted her neck, chin and mouth in thick pearlescent goop that clung fast to her skin and refused to depart as long as there was even the tiniest chance it might yet make it inside her body and into her womb. It was followed by a sixth but it was weak and thin enough that it simply shot up onto Hema's stomach and oozed into her forest of crotch hair, adding more glisten to the perspiration-laden silver and black tangle.

Swallowing loudly to clear her mouth Dawson said, while wiping her chin, "Fucking hell. How long were you holding that in?"

Hema was unsurprisingly in no condition for conversation. She had collapsed back against the couch, chest heaving and eyes half-shut. Little tremors went through her body, small aftershocks of her sublime eruption and its lingering glow. Her dick drooped slightly, clearly now a much calmer beast with its head retreated partway into its hood, but it had an optimistic quiver to it as if it could, if requested, perform for Dawson again right away.

Dawson found this immensely endearing, but then she had never met a dick she didn't like. Shedding her pants and the boxers beneath, she stepped up to Hema and used her left hand to grab her cheeks and get the nartaki's attention.

"Hey lovergirl," Dawson said. Hema's eyes rolled until they settled on her, and then Dawson made a show of wiping the spent, still-hot cum off her face and into her mouth. Hema's dick twitched, and as Dawson descended on Hema's midsection to lick up her spend and carefully suck it out of her bush in a mock effort of making her clean, the erection stiffened back up to being almost as hard as it was when she'd first put her mouth on it.

Standing up and showing her full, naked body for a moment, Dawson turned and let Hema watch her walk towards the staircase. Over her shoulder she said, "Come with me to bed. Lose the clothes."

All of Hema's hesitancy had vanished and she soon joined Dawson where she was standing at the foot of her bed. Four arms enclosed her from behind, their hands exploring across her body, squeezing her hard muscles, spreading open parts of her that looked fuckable, and--to Dawson's slight surprise--turning her head so Hema could kiss her clumsily on the mouth and neck. It didn't surprise her the nartaki was a tender lover--Dawson had always been one herself, when she got this far with someone. It always turned her on to be on the receiving end of generous affection.

Having lured her prey to the depths of her lair, Dawson let her essence radiate out from her and blend with Hema's, which accepted the merging eagerly. The lustful fury of her thoughts became known to her, an endearing mirror to her own. Dawson asked, "How do you want me?"

Hema made no mystery of either the existence of her want or the shape it took when she took hold of Dawon's shoulders and hips at the same time and bent her over the bed. Dawson helpfully lifted up her right leg to give Hema access and a trembling lower hand took her dick by the root to guide it in. There was a brief flash of panic as Hema thought--fuck, I left the condoms in my pants--but Dawson quashed that by gripping Hema's guiding hand and growling to her, "I want you in me raw."

As if by a lightning strike this brief instance of restraint was smited and Hema fed it in, finding the slick hole fatefully perfect for her such that she sank in straight to the hilt. She held Dawson's hips to control her pelvic region, and held Dawson's shoulders to keep her upper body from getting away from her and then began furiously to fuck. Dawson was reminded of the first time she'd fucked Avalanche, intending only to tease a virginal idiot who had something she needed, only to get her brains fucked out by someone whose body knew exactly what to do when mating.

While she wasn't also getting fucked in the ass at the same time it was almost as intense since she could feel too the splash of Hema's pleasure through their essence connection, driving her nearer to climax with every heartbeat as well as every thrust. Hema's weight crashed into her ass over and over, driving seemingly deeper each time while tickling her lower back with her soaking bush in the process. The nartaki's repeated oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck was adorable as well as stimulating and went well with the clapping of their flesh.

Like any career soldie afforded a chance to abandon their senses, Hema eventually hit her threshold and leaned heavily over Dawson and pressed her to the bed. Two hands held the back of her head while the other squeezed her hips, holding her lover tight as she came a second time. It was like sparks in Hema's head, sparks that set Dawson alight too and made her entire body tense up, her back arch as much as it could with Hema weighing her down, holding her there while she emptied her loaded gun into her holster.

They were both breathing heavily afterward, sweat cooling on their bodies and the bedsheet around them damp for half a meter. The possible consequences of this professional entanglement came to Hema in this moment--not the least of which being that she may have just fucking knocked up a cop while working for Aztechnology's least subtle criminal shithead--but in true young brute fashion Hema retreated from these fears by simply falling asleep.

Dawson let her lie there snoring for a few minutes before wriggling out from under her. A short trip to the shower let her wash herself off and out, and then she went back to the bed to lift Hema a little further up onto it and laid next to her, stroking Hema's hair.

A little less than an hour later the door to the apartment opened up. Instinct appeared at the top of the stairs fully dressed and grinning. "Wow," she said, "Put her ass to sleep? Must have--holy fuck, what is that bush? If it weren't for that third leg I'd think she was one of Veer's."

"There's hope for her yet," Dawson said fondly. Instinct came to her and leaned down by the bed to trade a kiss with her, then sat on the bed on the opposite side of Hema.

"Think she has anything left in the tank?"

"Probably one," Dawson surmised, "Though she won't last long against you. She's sensitive."

"I like them weak," her creature said. "Are we keeping this one in the house or letting her think she's free-range?"

"She works for Aztechnology," Dawson observed. "No doubt with a contract. She's on a barbed hook."

"I'm not afraid of Aztlan," Instinct whispered with sudden sternness. "We have to claw whatever we can from those butchers."

"Yes," Dawson said, looking down at the snoring nartaki. "We do."

At that moment commpad began chiming from the nightstand with a call. Instinct stood to grab it for her, holding it in front of Dawson at a distance that would let whoever the caller was see Hema's left arm in frame hear her snoring, a fact Dawson couldn't deny had impish appeal. The caller was listed as Selina Mendesec which took a moment for Dawson to place. This was the Orchard's 'head of brand recognition and imaging.' One of Gaines' subordinates.

The time displayed it as a little before 10 in the evening and Dawson wondered what this woman would have to call her about personally at such a time. Probably something sensitive and worrying. She tapped the accept prompt while Instinct held it for her and the woman's face appeared on screen: every bit the hummingbird asking to see the manager.

It seemed in this case Dawson was the manager she wanted to see. Selina was in some kind of a bar environment filled with a large number of people and music playing in the background, and she looked mortified to see Dawson in bed with someone else yet still answering her call.

"Miss Mendesec," Dawson said cordially, "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Ah," Selina began, "I'm sorry, Miss Dawson... I didn't... it didn't occur to me you'd be occupied."

"She's down for the count," Dawson said of Hema. "This must be important?"

Selina looked over her shoulder towards a crowd of people out of focus from the perspective of her device and made a pained expression. "It's deputy director Gaines, Miss Dawson. He's... Earlier today the attack at the Orchard, it seems to have put him in a... a mood."

Dawson raised an eyebrow, and so did Instinct. "A mood," Dawson said, "To celebrate? Maybe he's happy to be alive."

Like most corporate types Mendesec was ever the apple polisher. "Of course, Miss Dawson! We're all happy he's alive of course, and--and that you're alive as well! Mister Gaines invited us out for the evening and well, we could hardly deny him when we know he values our input and company so highly..."

More like none of them would miss an opportunity to advance their career, but Gaines was traditionally a work-a-holic. If he was going to have a function it wouldn't be in some bar, not even a nice one in silicon valley. "Is there some kind of problem?" she pressed.

Selina was again uncertain how to phrase things. "It's... he won't leave, Miss Dawson. He's been drinking and... and singing for hours now. About you! He keeps telling these frightful stories from during the occupation about all of the things you had to deal with, and... and what you got away with that he says you shouldn't have. We're scared, Miss Dawson! Do you think you could come down here and... and get him to go home?"

Instinct had heard all of this and slowly started to grin. Dawson had to fight hard to keep her expression neutral and while it was her inclination to let Gaines terrorize his employees if he chose to, it was likely that seeing her right now would make him quite happy.

She told Selina, "I'll get dressed. Cast me the location of where you're at and I'll get there as soon as I can."

While Dawson dressed, Instinct took off her clothes and took her place beside Hema. Dawson asked, "How long do you think it'll take her to notice?"

"Hopefully just long enough for her to get it inside. Kiss Gaines for me?"

"I'll consider it. Go easy on her, she's a creampuff on the inside."

Enduring a brief gauntlet of kisses and hugs from the girls on the way out, Dawson made her way to the parking lot and got into the Firebird to go rescue Knight Errant's department heads from their deputy director.

About twenty minutes after Dawson left, Hema snorted herself awake and reached for Instinct's thigh, which was close to hand. Voice slurred slightly she mumbled, "That was... Best sex of my life. Can we... go again?"

"Sure," Instinct said sweetly. "Thought you'd never ask."

Hema rolled over in bed and began using her arms to explore again the body she thought she knew, tracing its edge and expanses, feeling up the crevasses and clefts. When her hand found the healthy black bush between her legs she stopped in puzzlement, clearly delighted but confused. Then she looked more closely at the body near to her, seeing the prominent Mother Earth tattoo on one bicep and the sleeve on the other, the dark angel in a black mask with her sword of blue light.

Although she was anything but recovered from her brain-breaking sex with Dawson, Hema had enough awareness to know these were different features from those she'd committed to memory. She asked, "Wha... Who are you?"

Instinct smiled at her with pointed teeth. "Oh, I'm next, ma'am."

- - -

The establishment was an upscale one, far nicer than anywhere Dawson would have been welcome in during her youth. The sign labeled it The Alumnis Inn and under other circumstances Dawson would have puzzled about the name but it was far from her mind at the moment. Security was polite while they scanned her for SIN recognition and then deferential when they saw her affiliations. They were also delighted to tell her that until closing time all drinks were paid for courtesy of a giddy executive with deep pockets.

Gaines had never been visibly generous, instead applying his wealth in strategic ways to make sudden problems go away. Vayger's early organ replacements, Vic's funeral expenses, Dawson's powered armor. Was the open-handedness just drink, or had today's events tripped a breaker somewhere in him?

Finding the group of captive executives wasn't difficult--they were the only ones with sour expressions while everyone else was living it up. Hovering at their edge and staying vigilant was Cranston, tastefully with his gun concealed somewhere beneath his suit. Gaines wasn't with them though, because Gaines was up on a stage while a band composed of two dwarves and an ork woman with an electric guitar were playing behind him. He had a drink in one hand and the microphone in the other, and the liquid courage had let him a voice she'd not have thought him possible of.

"You must be a lost angel, dressed to your silk legs... Born somewhere between heaven, hell -- I don't know what place..."

Dawson couldn't help smiling. Rather than interrupt she stayed in place in the promenade that led down to the drinking area and let Gaines continue to express himself.

"Yes I can tell that you've cast your spell, the way you hold me somehow... If this is sin, baby count me in.... I can't turn back now!!"

The dwarf on bass and the dwarf on drums both started playing furiously to buttress Gaines' soulful howl. He'd probably paid them a small fortune to back him up on short notice. One of the department heads noticed Dawson's profile in the low light of the doorway and frantically gestured to Gaines on stage, motions of his hands communicating please, it's been hours. The war stories are scary and we want to go home.

Gaines seemed anything but scary to Dawson in the moment.

"I've got to have alllll offff you... Little darlin! All of your lovin', all of your huggin' all of your kisses too! I've got to have alllllllll offfff you.... Every day, in every way now, no one else will do!!!"

For a moment she forgot all about the department heads and their desire to leave. Even the affluent tavern crowd faded from her view. If he'd sung for her when they were younger, their lives would have been quite different.

She started again to walk towards him as he took a sip from his drink an the music circled back around. He sang somberly while staring at the ground as if in genuinely deep contemplation.

"Now I been told that it's ages old, goes back to Adam and Eve.... Yes I know how the story goes, when a woman begins to deceive..."

Emerging from the dark to step onto the stage and its comparatively plentiful light, it got his attention instantly. But it didn't break his vocal stride.

"Now here you stand, before my naked eyes... My heart is pounding so..."

The band continued, mindful of how their incentives were linked to the atmosphere. She calmly walked up to him and, as had always been the case, he didn't shrink or back down even when she proved to be a little taller. She took the drink out of his hand and finished it.

"If I should die, darlin,' in your arms, what a lovely way to go."

The band continued to play but Dawson took the microphone out of his hands and set it on the stand. She said at a volume only he could hear, "You're scaring your employees, Thomas."

He grinned with a mix of intoxication and delight at seeing her again. "They're always scared," he said back. "I was just giving them good cause."

She took him by the good shoulder and brought him near enough to put her nose to his forehead. "Don't mother me," he said testily. "Yes I've had some damn water."

"It's getting close to midnight," Dawson told him gently. It became easier since the musicians had sensed Gaines' performance was over and were letting the music fade out. "Surely you have work in the morning."

"Trying to take me to bed? I'm still worn out from this morning, woman! This is another assassination attempt."

"Yeah," she admitted, "Your endurance needs work. You're not going to be of any use to me tomorrow if you don't go home and sleep. You don't want to sleep where I live, Vayger could show up."

Gaines unconsciously covered his groin with one hand. "Alright," he said, "Message received. I'll go home after I settle the damages."

He meant pay his tab, which probably was extraordinary. Even just the bottom of his mojito had been loaded.

She looked up from him at last and over to where the department heads were breathing a collective sigh that their ordeal was finally over. Dawson said to him, "Like me to stay with you until you're done?"

He waved one hand. "Not necessary, mom. Besides, if I get too long a look at those legs I might get an erection that kills me."

She followed him to the table where he play-acted upset at his employees. "You call her to come get me off the stage? First time in years I want to have a little fun and everyone panics!" But he waved his hands and told them there'd be a late start tomorrow in the office. They were as obsequious as their kind always were but not so servile to remain any longer and were soon filing out, save for Cranston who kept a polite distance.

She picked up his hand and kissed his palm. "Bed," she reminded him. "The moment you're home."

"Of course," he told her. "Let me hold on to a shred of my dignity and leave by myself, will you?"

When Dawson had gone, Gaines leaned against the counter and sought to get the tender's attention. Before he could, a woman sat next to him: dark hair, Chinese features, a lovely black and green dress that hugged her muscular form and only lightly accented English.

"Mister Gaines," she said fondly. "May I have a moment of your time?"

Without turning to look at her directly Gaines said, "The woman who just left fucked me until I was useless this morning and that's the only reason she's not doing it now, look elsewhere."

A genuine laugh was the response. "I did not approach you for that purpose, Mister Gaines. I want to talk about politics."

Gaines let out a sigh and frowned, still not looking directly at the woman speaking to him. "I'm not a politician," he deflected, "I don't make donations to the Bay Area city council and I'm not interested in starting."

"Not this one," the woman said, "But I think that you might be interested in supporting the next city council."

That got his attention. He turned away from trying to get the bartender to stop people spending his money and looked at the woman in her face. "What's your name?"

"My name," she said, "Is Gao Li Yun. I am responsible for the second most recent attempt on your life."

Cranston was immediately behind him, reaching into his coat. Gaines raised a hand to halt him.

"You better talk fast," he said, "Before I sober up."

= = =

She appeared at the top of the amphitheatre and she looked just like someone they knew and loved. She had the long black hair, the sharpened teeth, the claws, the tattoos that marked her as one of their own, she even had the natural growth they approved of between her legs. It didn't matter that they had never seen her before; she wore the face of someone close to their hearts, and so they let her close to their bodies.

Beneath the half moon hanging in the sky a restless Veer'dalai played at the heavy strings of a harp while Tranquility hummed a directionless tune that carried across the semi-drowsing forms of their followers splayed out among the seats. They looked up at the tall, brawny figure coming towards them and felt no alarm, for the nakedness of Instinct Dawson was to their liking.

But when she began to sing, something stirred in them.

"All the freaks are out again... I watched you drag them to your den..."

Tranquility, ever the indulgent one of the two ofthem, was smitten at once. She arranged herself in the direction of the person approaching and needed no further effort to be seduced. Veer however was more suspicious. There was power thrumming in these words, power of a kind she didn't associate with the creature they had been keeping in the dark.

"They all wake up at once and scream.... So, whose mouth you gonna feed?"

And they recalled to her mind a memory she'd never shared with anyone. A feeling... an emotion...

The person they thought was Instinct stepped slowly among their number, touching faces, knees, stomachs. Earning adoring stares, because she was adored. They ached for her to go further, with hands and mouth alike.

"Cry for me, baby... Now, cry for me, baby..."

Veer let go of the harp and stood up, baring her chest and throwing back her unbound hair to challenge the thing calling somehow to her memory. For some reason she could not articulate, her breath was coming heavy. And then, the figure looked at her.

"What will you do when they all leave? When all your skin's been worn and seen?"

She mounted the stage and spared a favoring glance to Tranquility, then met Veer'dalai's fierce gaze with eyes that glowed like the moonlight above.

"I know you came to heal their pride... Behind the veil your father's bride..."

She came close and began to circle around Veer, who turned to maintain their eye contact. When she spoke, somehow the words appeared from within Veer'dalai like she'd known them all her life.

"I've got some feeling coming back... I've got some feeling coming back!"

Their voices rose and the amphitheatre carried them into the night sky. Mother seemed to take them on the wind and to whoever she needed to hear them. No one needed to hear them more than Veer'dalai, who suddenly--somehow--was a girl of just nine again, in the wilderness of King's Canyon. What had been called national park once, when there were still nations, still parks, still nature preserved.

The words came and Veer knew them. She'd heard this song being sung once, on the edge of her death. Buried in her being, now unearthed by the voice of the creature.

"I felt something... crawling in the mud! I felt every-thing I was!"

She remembered the burning bottle full of their father's peach moonshine, the tie-dyed bandana she'd taken from their mother's bag of clothing. She remembered the gun in the hand of the man watching the machine, aimed her way. He didn't care that she was nine; he'd had a job to do.

"All strung up in... the shape of Christ! I let him move in me, so I can never die!!"

She fell from the top of the fence, into the forest floor two meters below. There was a hole in her stomach that meant her death. Beyond, the night lit up with fire as the dry wood caught flame. Mother's wrath!

The thing she thought was Instinct Dawson lunged forward and took Veer'dalai by her face, those eyes boring into her and making her remember. Making her remember the song that was sung to her as she lay in the grass. Pushing through all the years she'd lived since then, the years in Amazonia, in Japan and Palestine and Ireland. Making her into that little girl who should have died when shot but wasn't.

She knew the words but it was this creature that had sung them. Had watched as she raised her hand against what she knew was wrong and struck, though she knew it would mean her death.

"There's a red horse... Pawing at the door... And the hurricane of hands... That I've ignored!!"

It was her? It had been her, all along? She hadn't forgotten--it had made her see it as if in dream, until now... It had worn this face and lain with her and it had been her all along... The thing that had given a shred of itself to make her whole again, so she could fight for Mother...

Its voice echoed in the amphitheatre, shaking the ground, shaking her soul. Resurrecting her as surely as it had that day.

"I split myself... Six thousand times!! To give you each a piece... So I could never die!!!"

She let go of Veer'dalai then and let the warrior queen sink slowly to her knees, heaving, crying. Whispering in time with her words.

"Cry for me, baby... Now, cry for me, baby..."

The humming of the stone and earth below began to subside, and the thing they thought was Instinct turned away. From the corners of her eyes Veer could see the Tranquility had been as arrested as she was by the voice and its magnitude. But it wasn't the same; she hadn't just been given back a part of herself someone else had been holding onto for almost the whole of her life.

Given back like a gift, so she could give it to others in turn.

Before the figure could depart, Veer'dalai went after her. She caught her by the elbow and her eyes could not choose to see the way the patterns on her arms were fading away. A deeper allegiance than Mother Earth bound them together, and her warrior spirit could not bear to let the moment fade into the night.

The Dragon Slayer turned to look Veer'dalai in the face, softer of gaze than when they'd sang. It was deceitful to let her continue to think she was Instinct Dawson but even if she said so now it would not diminish the fire in the hearts of her and her sister.

And the truth is that she too had her weaknesses, as sure as any dragon. She could not abide unrequited love, not embody it, not be its target. The dragon hoarded jealously; the slayer gave freely what was yearned for. The slayer did not shy away from battle, of body or of heart. It had been her greatest flaw for all of history, and always would be, no matter the face she wore.

There would be trouble from it. Confusion later, and some resentment. But they would understand why, in the course of things. So when Tranquility came to her other arm and took it, begging with her eyes for her to stay, the Slayer turned back and embraced them.

"I've got some feeling coming back...

... I've got some feeling coming... back..."