The flight from New York City to Moscow as long and boring and something Ayden really hated about her job. People were always grumpy on long flights, herself included. First Class was by far better than coach, and with the paychecks she'd been bringing in lately it was luxury all the way. Much more fun to expense the client such details than to acutally try to use thing she didn't like.

The job in Moscow was still sketchy, she knew little more than her object was in Moscow, so she flew to meet her clients. As per usual Ayden flew in to the great Russian city a few days early to get the lay of the land.

Hotels had too many eyes, Ayden choose to rent an apartment instead. This stay in Moscow Ayden had choosen the Moscow Suite Apartments Abat. It was a ten minuite walk to the Kermlin. If she ever so desired to see such a place. Without her target in hand Ayden didn't have much to look at yet, she still waited, but it would be good get her current persona straight.

Her name was Natalia. And as classic comic book readers would recognize, Romanov was her father's name. It was intentional upon Ayden's part. It made for a good story when meeting strangers. For Ayden each persona was their own person, with their own story. Half the fun of new identies was finding out who they really were.

Ayden never went out in public under her own guise. Ayden Hayes was a ghost. Natalia Romonov was an American born Russian on her first trip to see her heritage. Her firey red hair tucked neatly in a short black haired wig. But Ayden always wore special contacts, they relayed messages in front of her, things like body temperature, distances and most any thing you could measure. They were simple and she had many different colors, today she downed a dark brown set to match her hair.

Wardrobe was key for a persona, and Ayden had plenty of shopping to do while in Moscow now. Ayden donned a maroon wool sweater and black jeans fitted nicely into thigh high black boots with a nice heel. The coat was barely warm enough for the Moscovian weather, it would have to do until she could find another.

With purse inhand Ayden under the guise of Natalia left her apartment and headed for Izmailovsky Market. She wandered the shops looking for clothes that Natalia would like.

Several shops later Ayden sat down at a table by the window in a little cafe and order the soup of the day, Okroshka and a cup of english tea and honey. While she waited for her food to arrive, she pulled out her book. The plane ride had not yielded to much reading and at this rate she's never finish the list of 100 she was determined to read. Frankenstien was 10th on this particular list. It was an old book, and Ayden preferred the paper bound version. There was just something about the feel and smell of an old book.


Edited by Ayden, Apr 24 2014, 12:29 PM.

As a kid, Jensen was not immune to the lure of Halloween. What kind of boy didn't enjoy dressing up, playing pretend, and letting their imaginations run wild? The costume shop surrounding him brought back memories of brighter, innocent days. Plastic bags were stuffed to bursting with costumes, pictures of what was within were modeled by people on the front. There was a faint smile on his face when he first entered the costume shop. It wasn't a Halloween themed place, unlike his memories of similar establishments back home. There were no skeletons or ghastly decorations for sale, only costumes.

There were a trio of young girls giggling and making suggestions for one another on the other side of the store, and Jensen suddenly felt childish for being here. Not only were he a grown man browsing costumes - all of which were ridiculous options - but also because it served to remind him exactly why he was here at all.

He sighed and swallowed his embarrassment, but still studied the floor as he passed by the girls on his way to the wall of masks at the back.

He had to crane his neck back to see them all: every shape, color and size were here from the simple black-eyed zorro masks to elaborately molded monstrous heads. Suddenly, the ridiculousness of the situation slapped Jensen across the face, and true to inner monologue, his cheeks flushed hot. He put his hands in his coat pockets, and stood there like a deer in the headlights, frozen with infinite options.

The strips to wrap around his eyes and temples seemed the least flamboyant, but as Jensen studied how he looked in the mirror, he knew his mouth and retinas were too exposed. If he were ever caught on camera, facial recognition software could likely identify him quickly. He spent enough time in the scanner during booking to guess how sensitive the technology was.

He put the mask back and looked for an equivalent with built-in lenses. The next one he grabbed was built with a stretchy-lyrca material that felt as though would breathe well. Lenses covered the eyes, they weren't colored or darkened, so seeing at night wouldn't be a problem. He didn't intend on walking the streets of Moscow, masked, in the light of day.

It fit like a ski-mask and covered his face to the neck. When he turned to gauge how well he could actually see, he found one of the girls, who was apparently trying on a scandalous mermaid costume, seashell bra and all, had come beside him.

He stepped back instinctively, "I'm sorry,"
he said, though he wasn't sure why he was apologizing. She had dark red hair and a pretty smile, but she looked at least ten years younger than him.

"Great mask," she replied, "Are you spiderman or something?"

Behind the mask, Jensen felt himself frown. A quick examination in the mirror explained it, though. The eyes were white lenses shaped like long, wide slits across his face. The mask itself was black, but printed with a sort of webbing he'd attributed to flexibility in the material. It did kind of look like spiderman.

He turned back to her, "Yeah, I guess I am,"
and pulled the thing from his head. His hair frizzed around his face in the unmasking.

He turned it over in his hands, checking the price, and trying to get up the guts to actually go through with the purchase.

Next thing he knew, the girl was handing him a yellow version of the same mask. "This one's great, too." The same webbing design covered the lycra, but the lenses were black rather than white. Yet somehow, they didn't filter the world with darkness as he expected. It was like a two-way mirror, light from within, dark from without.

He took the offer, and for some reason, really liked the suggestion. Yellow was cheerful. "Thanks,"
he replied, and turned to go. Her friends came up about then, and attempted to draw her off to the fitting room with them. She spun about, mermaid tail and all, and disappeared behind a curtain of giggling.

Jensen shook his head and went to the register.

That evening, he was sitting in a diner, new purchase still in the sack on the seat beside him. He picked at his food and kept looking into the world beyond the windows, trying to drum up the courage to wander out into it, and procrastinating by flipping through news stories.

When he saw a report of a shooting in a costume shop, five dead, and a body fallen in the center of it all, mermaid tail splattered with the gunshot wounds, he hung his head in shame. Moments later, he grabbed the mask and stepped out into the night.

Humans are not inherently logical beings. That was abundantly clear to Nicholas as he sat nursing a glass of whiskey in the near-darkness, the room's sole source of light emanating from his wallet's screen. The faces of the dead floated through the air, and Nicholas recognized one of them. With a wave of his hand, the image filled the air in front of him. Same bald head and beard, same vaguely mean expression. The man who tried to kill him. The man he killed. Some Arabic text at the bottom was likely his name. He couldn't decide if that made it better or worse.

Nicholas didn't know why he felt so guilty. He wasn't a murderer; the man had been trying to burn Reed and her friendly band of mercenaries to a crisp. Nicholas only intervened to protect, and it wasn't until the man tried to kill him that he fought back. Still, the paired crack and thud of skull and body that Nicholas couldn't possibly have heard over the distance and the crowd kept replaying in his head. Strange that he hadn't been so bothered with lying to himself, at the time.

He had seen death before, of course. It'd been part of his job to document it. But there was a thick line between passive observer and active participant, and in crossing it he felt quite the same as he had a decade ago when Brazilian guerrillas tried and failed to attack the São Paulo naval base in their own failed version of the Tet offensive. There was just something about that transition between living being and inanimate object that he found more than unsettling. Even if he'd gotten over watching it happen, he didn't think he could ever be comfortable with doing it himself. Did that make him a coward? He sighed, and took a sip from his glass.

Reed appeared in the doorway then, likely preoccupied with commands from one or the other of her icily warring masters. She'd probably want to know about what happened, though. Best to get to it.

"I had to kill someone today, Reed."
He paused. That was a bit more... blunt, than he had planned. "At the riot. He was shooting fireballs at you and the Legion."
He flipped around the wallet. "This one. Know him? I'd like to find out he's a violent terrorist or something so I can stop feeling like I'm the bad guy."

I have apparently discovered the root of all evil.

This thing that makes dolls.

BUT GAME OF THRONES DOLLS,
therefore, is cool.

So, uhh, yeah. I made a Game of Thrones Jaxen.



Sinister. But fashionable. Yes? hah.

Here you go. Have fun.

Vatican City was the only city state in the former Europe that was not part of the CCD. Crossing the border wasn't a simple task. It meant long lines and people in those lines, frustrated and annoyed at the process they had to go through. Passports and Identity Cards were the quickest and easiest way to get through the line unscathed. Aria's sat in her hand as she tried to patiently wait her turn to cross the border into Rome itself.

Aria had walked from the Vatican to the border. She was tired and ready to sit down. Her feet hurt and wished she'd called for a taxi, it would have been faster, but this was her farewell tour of the city she had once called home. It was a natural tourist attraction, and a place people held pilgrimages too. The culture had of the city had not changed nearly as much as the world around it. It was a religious shelter and for Aria far to comforting for her task ahead. Sometimes the happiness and joy that proliferated through the city was far worse than the crimes that perpetuated in Moscow.

In a few matter of months, Aria's world had been turned upside down, inside and out completely thrown into a spiral. She questioned her duty, her life and her morality. She had killed a man, no he was a boy, they were kids, but it had been her, and that cut deep. She was given a free pass, no trial, no jury, only a cover up - one that lasted most of her life. Would God forgive her something so far in the past. Had she only know? How could the God of love not forgive her, it was not her fault, she didn't mean to, she had loved him. Or so that was the thought, the memory of it all was sketchy and distant, almost as if it were not real.

Was her life worth living? The Regus and Father Dimitri did not believe so. Most of the Atharim would probably agree, but if she had doubts, she was born and raised Atharim. Doctrine and procedure were part of her, if she doubted parts of their calling surely others did. But she wasn't a leader, who was she to think such things. She was Sentient, a monster, something meant to be killed on sight. Yet here she lived among them all her life. Been one of them. Is one of them.

The man at the gate scanned Aria's identity card. It flashed on his screen and he scrolled through all of her travels, looking for anything suspicious, she was sure. The metal detectors had surely alerted them to the two swords and two pistols lying in the bag with their paperwork lying at top. It wasn't the first time, nor the last time Aria would travel with her little arsenal.

He looked her up and down and Aria could feel the distrust emanating from him, but he nodded and she passed through with little bombardment.

Once in Rome Aria felt better. Felt more like her self. There was only one reason she didn't start her travels back to Moscow from Vatican City, she wanted to visit a market, specifically a glover. She had been far too long with out a decent pair of gloves. Despite looking everywhere, she could hardly find anything she liked that would work while holding her swords or her gun. It would work for one, but never for both. But she knew in Rome, that she would find one. It was after all the place she had purchased the ones the Bannik had ruined when she took it's head.

Aria could feel the stiffness in the palm of her hands from the never quite completely healed scar. It would probably feel this way the rest of her life. Hands were hard to heal when you didn't get the proper care. She hardly wanted to go to the Emergency Room and explain exactly how she received a brand on both her hands.

The air was crisp and smelled of the sea, even this far from the water. It was home, she missed it, but she would unlikely come back here. The shops like the markets in Moscow were open air, and the people took to the streets and cars were few and far between. The world was slithering along her bubble. The long coat sleeves of her trench coat kept people away from touching her.

Aria didn't wander long, it was best not to tempt fate. The glover she liked was still here, for that she was thankful. The woman behind the counter smiled when she looked up. "Posso aiutarla?" Aria smiled, it had been a while since anyone had spoken Italian to her. In Moscow it was either English or Russian, and her Russian was rather poor. "I'm looking for thin leather gloves."


The shop keeper smiled. "The tourists expect Italian."

Aria smiled. "I suppose I am not a tourist for now."


The woman lead Aria to a display of leather gloves. Some were bulky with sheep skin for warm, it was nearing winter after all. But there were a pair that looked about right. Aria picked them up and slipped them on. The fit was nice, the fingers were not too long, they were thin and Aria could easily close her hand in a fist. But they only covered to her wrist. "Any to the elbow, just like these?"
Aria held them up for the woman to inspect

She smiled brightly at Aria. "A fine selection. I'll be right back." The woman slipped into the back. Aria looked around at the rest of the shop. It was nice, the quality of leather far outstripped that of the vendors in Moscow, and there were even rarer materials present. Aria had never liked those finer things. Leather was durable, that's what she needed.

The woman came back with another pair. Aria slipped them on and they were perfect. "If you have another pair identical, I'll take them too."



She nodded and slipped into the back and returned quickly with two additional pairs. "For you, I'll sell you three for the price of two.

The price was large, but it was worth it, her small Atharim stipend would cover it, but little else excess until her next job. Aria wondered if the little jobs in between would detract from her ultimate goal. It was not good to let your abilities falter while you waited for the perfect moment, the perfect time to strike.

It was time to go home. Hard to believe that Moscow was home. She did miss it, her claw foot bathtub, the smell of old books permeating through the floor, she even missed feeling Dane lurking in the shadows. He never came out, but she knew he was there, the utter calm of his emotions was easy to pin point.

There was much to do, and the train ride would be a great start to that. Aria pulled her journals around her and scanned through the files that the Regus gave her, a plan was forming in her mind. It was the beginning of an end - either she ended the threat of Apollyon, or he ended her, either way it was an end.

Andrew had never known just how much it hurts to be thrown through a second story plate glass window, until about five seconds ago. He'd also never known just how much of a mind fuck it could be to see a room full of mist condense into the hazy form of a man. He spat the metallic blood that had been pooling in his mouth, then grinned as he realized just how ordinary his killer looked; Al-Hasan must have actually been a prophet, because Andrew was about to be murdered by a fucking ghost.

The return trip had been simple; second squad was already waiting at the exfil point when his buddies got there. He'd already heaved his sigh of relief when they landed in Somalia. The trip back to the base was barely another half hour. The debriefing had just ended, and a barracks on a United States Air Force base was the last place he was expecting to be attacked.

"The box..."
Casper was muttering something. His voice sounded like a rusted out engine running on gravel and tears - which was to say, not pleasant. "Starving."


"Oh, hell no."
Andrew tried to stumble to his feet, but before he could even sit up ghost boy was on him. The knee in his chest drove home a few shards of glass, and strained already cracked ribs. His reflexive gasp only widened the cuts. Hands tightly gripped his shoulders, but weirdly enough they seemed like they were only halfway solid. Drunk on pain and adrenaline, Andrew asked through gritted teeth, "So you're Muhammad? Figured you'd be... browner."


"Leviathan."
Casper paused, seeming to be waiting for something. Andrew took the opportunity to grab hold of the power. He had the feeling that if he didn't do something quick, he wouldn't be doing anything. So he reached out with threads of air. He doubted he could stay conscious long enough for anything fancy; there was quite a bit of blood pooling around him already. So he tried to slice Casper in half. Problem was, nothing happened, and Casper just grinned. "Good."


What followed was the most weirdly exhilarating feeling Andrew had ever experienced in his decidedly short life. The power was being yanked through him, far more of it than he'd ever tried to handle. But he couldn't control it; it was like being force fed cocaine. The hands gripping his shoulders seemed to be growing more and more solid. It wasn't until he was able to pick out footsteps in the distance that he had the presence of mind to scream.

A group of MPs rounded a corner, weapons at the ready. They must have been sent when security picked up the broken window. One shouted, "Get off him, hands on your head!"
The thing didn't seem to hear. "Last time I ask, get off him!"


Andrew had no idea how long it took for them to finally start shooting; the power being drawn through him was too great to allow things like a sense of time. But eventually, he heard the steady pop-pop of pistols firing, and the wet thud of nine millimeter rounds piercing flesh. The look on Casper's face was more of surprise than pain, and he jumped away. Strangely, the sense of emptiness Andrew felt when the ghost released his grip on the power overshadowed the pain of already broken ribs being pushed against his lungs.

"Holy shit, look at this guy. Call a fucking ambulance!"

Two hours after the EOA Chief of Staff reported the news of assault in Mecca, the Ascendancy's warcraft of an airplane touched down. They had circled the skies above the Arabian desert the entire time, and the delay gave him time to formulate the specifics of a plan, one that needed to be executed immediately. The Ascendancy was going to respond to the actions undertaken this night in Mecca, and the world would listen, and believe the version of events he outlined. Who would contradict him?

Unfortunately, no hellfire would rain down upon the city, yet the city would know a different sort of calamity all the same. Touchdown rocked Nikolai in his seat gentle as an infant in their crib, but the exact moment he was back in contact with the grim face of the earth, his fists unclenched their hold upon the armrests, and he released the long-held breath of an anxious flyer. Safely on the ground once more, the switch in his mind snapped upon the task at hand, that of a delivery unlike any he'd made before.

They taxied to a black, open field of the base tarmac illuminated by floodlights bright as small suns perched high on their poles. Not a single plane moved in the periphery except the fighter jets of his military escort, but they remained clear of the path his aircraft might need should an emergency take off become necessary.

Military transports were waiting. Unmarked black vehicles, SUVs and town cars were arranged several rows behind. A group of individuals stood sentry while the plane taxied into place. Officers and Custody-appointed leaders of the city were present as well, including the regional representative of the Patron of DV. Although civilian, they were given a place of prominence by which to welcome the Ascendancy to their home, as embarrassed as they were to do so in a time of such instability. Although, technically, DV was his before it was theirs.

Finally, behind a line of armed Custody Security Service agents waited a dozen members of the Press Corps, including the foreigners traveling among them. Nikolai ordered their express presence tonight. He wanted the foreign press to cover him, not the insanity inside the distant city. They were given a privilege to see the interior of a Custody base, but they rode in and out in covered vehicles to be there. Any details they observed would be only what he wished them to see.

Viktor, the Chief that delivered the news several hours earlier, met Nikolai as he emerged from his aircraft office. Nik buttoned his suit jacket as they walked.
"Confirmed, Ascendancy. We are ready. ZARS await final orders."


"At the end of my speech, release the video of the capture."
The man nodded. He and most of the personnel in his presence would remain on board. Their time on the ground would be short-lived.

Nikolai continued to the aircraft's primary exit. His chief Barrier agent emerged onto the staircase first. There was a final round of surveillance checking, and Nikolai followed. He stood alone at the top of the stairs for a moment, allowing himself to be seen. The force of his presence rippled electric through the air, the dead of a calm before the storm that broke when he moved. Members of the press whispered to one another. Some beamed with pride. Others swallowed their nerves.

An accompanying thunder rolled through his chest, and deadened the intensity of his gaze. At the base of the stairs was a podium. His symbol hovered in front of it. For a backdrop, the endless stretch of night-shrouded desert made for a dramatic image. The deep gray of his suit was without wrinkle, and the sharp cut of his sickled pin gleamed orange and gold on his lapel, but it was the blue of his eyes, cold as icicles, that greeted the faceless cameras pointed his direction.

Side to side glances summoned the personnel to his left and right. Mecca-born civilians, bearing their own DV pins and the Custody officer enacting land operations in the area joined him for the press conference. Whether with a bow of the head or a salute of the hand, Nikolai acknowledged each before the audience of a worldwide press, a reminder that he was the executive in charge of military operations across half the world. Then he began his address.

A dozen cameras focused on him. He looked into them as though he were meeting the soul of each and every individual to be watching at home.

"Citizens of the Custody, citizens of the world, tonight I am appalled to announce that a team of foreign special forces struck an unarmed, civilian population at the heart of our Custody, here, tonight in Mecca, on the eve of a conference for negotiation with the express purpose of murdering innocent civilians, in direct violation of modern warfare treaties."


The power rippling through his chest turned his voice into the edge of a knife. A politician's greatest weapon, one now casually poised against the throat of Frederick Dawson, and Nikolai was a master at slitting his enemies' throats.

"In the wake of arson, explosives and firefight with local law enforcement, several members of this team were killed. I am pleased to announce that the remaining members of this team, identified to be four individuals impersonating Custody forces, have been captured by a counter-terrorism ZARS unit."
To the side, Viktor disseminated the Ascendancy's earlier order.

The members of the press began to stir, and Nikolai raised his voice ever so slightly to shut them up. He was not done.

"AS I SPEAK they are being transported to a secure compound for questioning. In light of these events, it has become clear that civil authorities have exceeded their capabilities in dealing with civil disturbances in Mecca, therefore authorization has been granted to the Custody of Defense to assist local law enforcement to contain additional threats. In the next few hours, roadblocks and checkpoints in and out Mecca will be constructed to maintain order and safety for those wishing to exit the city."


The press righted themselves, furiously taking notes as they went. Some began to study the skies overhead as though they expected black op's to drop at any moment. The foreigners among them shifted in their unease.

The design of Nikolai's plan was to restore the rule of law in Mecca. This included utilization of information- and influence-operations designed to present a picture of the Custody's swift response and the inevitable defeat of insurrection. Thanks to Michael Vellas, military intelligence units were already in the area, groups that did an excellent job in writing their Intelligence Plan for the Battlefield, a reconnaissance and intelligence gathering regarding Hasan's largest supporters' patterns of behavior, distribution of riots epicenters, and pipelines of rioting support.

Due in large part to his successful work, there was already enacted a phased deployment of selected forces that were successfully, and immediately surfacing. Therefore, the deployment of Custody forces into the area would be swift, and limited only by the duration of time required to travel from area bases, or in the case of naval support, make their presence in the Red Sea known, a presence that had been there all along, hidden in the waters. Until tonight, any additional naval activity around the port city of Jeddah, which was already home to a navy base, had gone unnoticed, and Mecca would suddenly realize how far Jeddah's shadow stretched inland when battleships and submarines aimed their way. By morning, the city would be an unrecognizable haven of order.

The pace of the operation would be deliberate and controlled. Over the next few days, combat units would conduct overt Show of Force operations to remind any and all insurrectionists they were now facing professional military forces, with all the training and equipment that implied.

Army and Marine units would remove riot choke points both overtly and covertly with minimum essential force to continually ratchet up pressure on Hasan's leadership. Within days, Custody forces would tighten the noose as troops seized and secured power and water stations, radio and tv stations, and hospitals.

Tonight's foreign strike was the perfect excuse to surround Hasan. Nikolai might have thanked Dawson for his stupidity, because the assault played directly into his hands. Al-Hasan and his followers would come to know that an uprising against the Custody would be defeated. The USA would come to realize their best and brightest, when tossed about by a strategic imbecile, could be turned into Nikolai's propaganda in an instant.

In his closing remarks, Nikolai would speak directly to Al-Hasan. "After declining my invitation, Al-Hasan may consider our conference cancelled,"
he said. The delivery was cool, but patient. In one sentence Nikolai reminded the world of his generosity. He was the hero here, and Hasan the child to slap his hand away. Such was always the case, and he was growing tired of being the wiser man.

"As a religious figurehead and a citizen of the Custody, he will be allowed to continue to lead those of his faith for the time being, but he, and those acting in his name, must surrender all political action, gathering of arms, and organization of such arms to the Custody of Defense as demonstration of his willingness to protect innocent lives from further bloodshed. He may submit agreement of such terms to Moscow within the next fourteen days or face a warrant for criminal disloyalty and high treason."


"That will be all."


As Nik turned away, the line of a smile touched his lips. Perception shaped reality, and tonight, reality was his creation.

Now to endure the long flight home.

What have you seen lately that inspires you and your writing?

I'll start with 25 Moments (note, it has automatic background music) - a nicely-done site giving a glimpse of the history of mutants, leading up to the newest X-Men movie, Days of Future Past.

Also, this Wheel of Time Fan Art Pinterest Board.


Edited by Takeo, Apr 12 2014, 11:23 AM.

The state of 40's pop culture has come up in conversation lately. What is the pop-culture of 2045? What differences exist between the CCD and USA, for instance? How does this reflect the massive changes seen in the past 25 years?

Dive in!

There were many places in the city - and outside it - that Ori visited regularly, a web of connections and refuges utterly diverse in spectrum, from the glittery upper echelons of Moscow to its shadowy underbelly. A thousand tailored masks greeted a thousand faces; she rooted herself into both affection and trust, and used the resultant friendships ruthlessly. Until they broke, as they so often did, and her mastery became not friendship but, quite often, bribery. People were easy to discard when she cared for so few of them, and if they were easy to deceive then she considered it their own fault. She only ever used their own sins against them.

Whatever her many acquaintances thought of her, if any of them truly were fond of her dry smirks and sharp tongue, then for her part it was purely business. She played a role; she smiled, joked, flirted, and offered the selectiveness of her company like a guarded secret. It was the consciousness of the time, the need to feel superior, to feel important, to feel unique. It made her fucking despair, but it was so effortless to exploit. Few were perceptive enough to see beyond the smoke and mirrors, to realise how little sincerity coated her charm. Of those that did, Oriena found the sparse individuals that catalysed an actual interest, however often it turned out to be short lived.

Gus didn't quite fall into that category, but he was one of the few people in which she placed a modicum of trust. His bar - and actually, it had no name above the door - was a place she felt comfortable, and if its clientèle erred towards the brash side it had never particularly bothered her. He'd scowled when she'd leaned against the bar, and scrutinised her black eye - or what remained of it - with the same displeasure as Carmen, though unlike her he saw fit to make comment. "The fuck did that?" The swelling had gone, and the bruising had faded to mottled shades of grey and green. It no longer twinged with every flutter in her expression, so she smirked darkly and pressed the bottle of cheap beer he passed her to her lips. He got no explanation, of course. She didn't owe him one, and he wasn't vying to protect her honour or anything so absurdly overprotective. Ori liked that about him. When fights broke out in his establishment he diffused them with strict efficiency. He took no sides. He saw no victims. The quick gleam of his smile as she walked off, the bark of laughter that followed, suggested that he probably understood she had deserved it.

The pool table had the best view of the door, so it was where she'd stationed herself. Ingratiating herself with the current players wasn't challenging; men slightly glazed with booze were the easiest to wrap through her fingers, and they seemed happy enough to watch her stretch out across the table. She wasn't dressed for occasion, but tight jeans tucked into leather bike boots made an invite of her curves. Every so often dusky blue eyes glanced up, but otherwise she was concentrating on kicking their asses. And waiting.

Ori had called in some favours.

[[Open thread]]