Yesenia mingled the tables, her tray flashing like a disc perched upon elegant, expert fingers. Feathers trailed in her wake, tickling noses along the way. A smack to her thigh and she turned, smile big, a wink freshly flickering from sinful-lashes. She placed a Slippery Nipple upon a table on a spin and caught the eye of the lights-master before hurrying back to her post. The lights would go down in a moment and skyscraper heels were dangerous platforms in the dark. 

A flamboyant and mischievous compere commanded the stage, brilliant spotlight illuminating his form. Yesenia smacked her lips at a passing patron, stealing the empty stems like an expert thief. The band, Top Shelf chiseled at their brass, and all eyes swiveled forward. Giant feathered fans, burlesque dancers, acrobatics, vertiginous high heels.. the flash of exotic glamour gripped Yesenia by the soul. She was a lifer and always would be. Hopefully the CCD didn't shut them down after tonight! 

She paused long enough to listen to the initial denunciations of their first act. Hoots and hollers whistled forth when he spoke.

Her was mood was dead.

Upon entrance she helped herself to a bottle of vodka from Jaxen's cabinet, shedding the ruined dress and sharp heels as she did so. The lace left bloody smeared patterns against her shoulders, darkening the delicate underwear beneath. But Ori was hardly one for modesty. On the bathroom floor she systematically picked out the splinters from her wrists and knees, a blush of the power scouring what the eye could not see. Though it ached like a healing wound to wield it. Her lips twisted a grimace, less from pain and more from frustration.

The echo of the ijiraq's loss was like a fucking heartbeat, underscoring every breath. Its pain felt like her pain. Its loss felt like her loss.

She swallowed the vodka periodically, but it didn't drown the feeling. Or not enough. She sparked like something darkly electric, aware of Jaxen's movements but unwilling to engage despite his hospitality. The water she stepped into raised to a scald, like she was trying to strip the skin. Ori took no comfort. The set of her jaw; the burn of her eyes -- she looked like she wanted to ram a fist into the wall. Truth but not the whole of it. Beneath the hostility her chest was aflame with pain.

She did not stay, and she did not thank him. Her dress remained a ruined puddle on his floor. He would find his closet absent a shirt.

Years had passed since she last found herself in Moscow, but it was still home. Nothing much had changed in the dark jewel of a city, nor in all its beautiful shadows. She was well acquainted with those cool dark places of the Underground, and never found much fault with Ascendancy's blind eye towards its more illicit activities. Darkness need spread somewhere, after all.

The Custody paid for her flight home. An assignment would come, but for now she was simply instructed to convalesce -- though for someone like Nhysa, the word had something of a unique interpretation. Her body felt wasted, at least to the standards she was used to, and yet she discovered little in the way of challenge presented by tonight's entertainment. Perhaps they mistook leanness for weakness, or perhaps it was only that too many years had passed and her reputation here had faded into dust. 

Tonight Almaz gave her insufferably fragile opponents.

The rounds blurred beyond number before she even felt the first stings of sweat at the back of her neck. Smashed noses. Crunched bones. Split lips. Quick, efficient brutality. She might as well have been picking fucking roses. Then a blow caught her stomach, radiating a spectrum of pain that flickered a curl to her lips. She doubled over, wheezing a laugh. A moment later and the sharp crack of an elbow took him in the chin, whipping his head back. A sweep relieved him of his balance. Perhaps he hit the ground awkwardly, for he was disappointingly unconscious by the time she leaned over to peer down at why he had not yet gotten up.

She rolled her eyes, straightening. Her stomach twinged sharply. Handlers dragged the dead weight of her opponent away, until he became lost in the shadows of the concealed pit entrances (the darkness, it had to be said, watched a little curiously). Nhysa swiped a hand over the back of her clammy neck, eyes momentarily rising to the brightness above. The roar of music drowned the fussing of the crowd. Screens projected for those unable to capture ringside seats, though Nhysa didn't much care for the audience; or at least, it made little difference to her whether they were there or not.

When her attention lowered it was with impatience for the delay. "Next?"

"You're bleeding."

"And?" She looked down, and found herself faintly surprised by the amount of blood burst brilliant against the front of her tank. One of the handlers peered out of the shadows, beckoning her to move off, his face looking just about ready to puke. Nhysa's lips flattened disapproval, acquiescing only reluctantly. The darkness grew a little blacker as she passed. "It looks worse than it is."

Rooms for the competitors were nothing like those for the guests, who watched the decadent violence from thrones of luxury. Creaking pipes ran overhead, rushing on water to the communal showers. The light was sallow, better to disguise the blood, though you could smell it like iron in the air.

Ilya waited just beyond the entrance. Habitual black draped his shoulders (better to hide the blood), his bearded face like a disembodied skull above. He snapped the gloves on his hands, smiling faintly, brows lifting with the offer of assistance. He remembered her, if no one else; damn doctor was as old as the pitted walls. Nhysa waved him off with a wink. Rumour these days said the guy kept young girls whose fingers healed or mangled at a touch, but such was reserved for the highest earners (or those with the richest patrons). Most of those had the privacy of their own rooms anyway.

Cold tiles stung underfoot as she hit the showers. The slap of the water echoed like a rainstorm, the rip of its touch like little needles. She raised her face to the pain for a while before she inspected the wound. Some of the necrotic crust had ripped away, which explained the pain. Gooey red tissue peeked beneath, too shiny new to even be considered close to repaired skin. Blushing pink swirled away at her feet as she poked a little at the wound amidst a swell of frustration. How long until the fucking thing healed?

Ivan squinted and covered his eyes at the brightness of the sun as he stepped out the door. He looked back at the guy in black- the dick was giving him a hard eye- and stepped out.

It was odd how a night in the tombs or wherever and you suddenly felt like a rag that had been wrung out hard. His tux no longer was crisp, collar hanging open, tie in pocket, jacket on his arm trapping the heat enough he was ready to chuck it.

He felt dirty and just wanted a shower to wash the night off him. He called a ride and headed home. The night was a blur. Again and again they asked what he had done. Had it been an accident.? Why? A billion other angles.

Ivan was a fucking cop, man. He knew how to push. These were jumped up assholes Brandon decided deserved to be rods or pricks. All the same. Brandon was swinging his dick around, showing off how tough he was, what a man he was. Trying to alpha the planet. Didn't take a genius to see the connection.

And Ivan, who had been his man from the get go was treated like shit by these guys. He still remembered the flick in Brandon's eye. The dismissal.

That was what loyalty meant to him. Not a goddamn thing.

So yeah, Ivan was out. And fucking angry. And done. And ready. You know what? Fuck Brandon. He's too busy being an asshole to protect Moscow.

Well, Ivan would do it. By any means necessary. Idly he wondered what Yun would think.

Oh she was gonna pay. He'd make sure of that. Put a gun to his family's head? Nu uh. But first he'd cozy up to her. And get what he needed. She thought she was something?

Ivan was done being a nice guy. Fuck that.

She might as well have crawled slimy and stinking from the pit of a sewer by the look they gave her when she finally reported in. The months had not been kind; caverns still hollowed around her eyes, her skin pasty beneath the scatter of freckles across her cheeks. Ropey tendrils of hair dripped around her shoulders, hanging blunt above the sardonic tilt of her eyes.

You've been out of the field a long time, they hedged once DNA confirmed her identity and she was hastened to the nearest government building. So naturally they wanted to evaluate her mental state. She was the Custody's steel, after all, and they had every right to examine her for flaws. Though they were welcome to test her for sharpness too.

It amused her all the same.

She looked up curiously, fingers laced on the desk. A smile played at the edges of her lips, for by the severe look on the agent's face, this one had clearance to access her file. Or enough of it anyway.

Female killers always seemed to upset others more than their male counterparts, like the curve of feminine lashes and the blush of feminine cheeks ought not be conduits for something so sinister. It was worse when they found her attractive; gaze catching on her slender fingers or the swell of her lips. Recanting quickly when they considered what ruin either tool might have wrought.

It was cruel maybe, but Nhysa enjoyed the flashes of discomfort. "I won't kill you unless I'm told to," she'd tease. "You're loyal to the Custody, right?"

The carelessness of her tone did not often go down well. The seriousness with which she answered their questions now even less so.

"I took some vacation time. I got a great deal, see. Really couldn't turn it down."

When that answer didn't suffice, she scraped back her chair and lifted her shirt. An ugly scar, still twisted red and healing amongst black scab, stood angry against her pale flesh. The nanoaid should have had more impact, but whatever the poison had been clearly affected its virility. The skin was dying. 

Her brows lifted. His face blanched. She sat back down.

Next question.

By the end of the interrogation and battery of tests, boredom sunk her chin to her fist. Though when he finally shuffled to depart, she straightened, raised a finger to halt him, and smiled. 

"There's something else." Her look was sly. It was almost as if the shadows chasing the corners of the rooms deepened as she beckoned him back down. "I wish to register."

Rune dropped her backpack at her feet and sank upon the bench. The lights of far-away Izmailovsky market were doused about then, drenching her surroundings in darkness. Her calves ached and her fingers throbbed. Fatigue pulled her eyes low, but she stopped herself from stretching out on the slats in mid-move. A dry splotch of bird poop was splattered where she was going to put her head. The hesitation didn't last. A moment later, she stretched out, thrust her hands over her head and yawned. She was already covered in grosser stuff than bird poop.

Thirty minutes later she was awakened by a thrust to the ribs. 
"Ow- hey! Whats the matter with you? I'm sleepin' here." She growled from the depths of her hoodie hood. Flecks of hair stuck out around her face like hay cinched with string. The pink and purple stripes were long ago faded. Lines sank the planes of her face.

"No sleeping on park benches." A deep voice responded. "City ordinance." 

"Where do you suggest I sleep then?" She pushed up, rubbing her eyes. 

"I don't care, but not here. Now go on about your way." 

Rune rolled her eyes, grabbed her bag and pushed to her feet. The guy was dressed in a gray police uniform, she recognized some of the markings of his assignment, but not all of them. 

She grumbled as she hefted the straps onto her shoulders. The weight of her backpack dug into tense traps. She felt beat up, but Rune gave as good a beating as she got and only one of the two of them walked away. Part of the oni was what decorated her clothes right now. It was also responsible for most of the odor too. Most of it, anyway. Ever since Uncle Seth died, and all of her connections with the Atharim were severed, it had been a little difficult to pay the rent.

She parted ways with the cop and went in search of the next nearest bench. The undercity was warmer, but she wasn't interested in going back there for at least a few nights. Maybe under a bridge? God her stomach rumbled.

Shots punched the air like thunder. Rune's eyes flared wide and all of her remaining energy (plus a little extra adrenaline) was pumped to her legs. She ran back the way she came and found a pool of blood near the abandoned bench. The cop was no where to be found. Two spent cartridges glinted in the dark nearby.

Hunger and fatigue drained away. The heat of a hunt was enough fuel for now.

But she wouldn't turn down a cheeseburger right then either.

From her backpack she retrieved her baby. She laughed to this day when the store owner practically fell out of his chair when Rune said she was there to buy the .45 ACP then proceeded to load and cock the beast of a gun while barely batting an eyelash. She paid the guy and had Uncle Seth's blessing to punch him in the face for the names he called her. 

She chuckled even now. This gun was her baby. She even had a name for it.  

Rune closed her eyes and drew a deep, satisfying breath. The stench of bloodlust and fear told her which way to go even as her nose wrinkled up doing it.

Yesterday’s test of the GP45 had gone very well for the young racer.  She’d put in times exactly in line with what the engineers requested and for the final five laps they’d told her to open it up a little.  She ended up four tenths of a second off race pace.  There’d been more in the tank too, so to speak, but Nika was not about to destroy a multi-million dollar machine unless a podium was on the line.  Her job was simply to find the optimal set up; find the speed.  She was very good at her job.  The tyres felt good, suspension was dialed in for Alex’s weight, not hers, and they’d managed to put in three different base settings for the electronics package.  A good day.

While her full-time ride in MotoGT was on a completely different bike; the commercially-available Ducati Panigale Hayden Speciale 1100 tuned for racing versus the one off purpose-built racing machines of MotoGP, she had been serving as Alex Castori’s test rider for three years now.  On his MotoGP bikes.  MotoGT was an insane mix of track and street courses whereas MotoGP ran strictly on the premier race tracks of the world.  That’s why there was training though and no one trained harder than Nika.  Maybe that’s why she’d won every series she’d ever contested and why she was set to defend her second MotoGT title this coming season.  No one had ever won it twice, let alone three times which was the way her own fans thought saw it.  A rival fan’s incursion onto the race course had ended that year’s title run though.  Such was racing life.

After the Ducati test she’d relaxed in her condo until the Atherim had called.  That had turned into a late night.  A restless night.  

Nika’d allowed herself more time in the morning to reset her mental game.  Her alarm went off at 7, scant hours after she’d poured herself into bed following last night’s emotional rollercoaster.  All that work only to find a murdered murderess and a mystery that really wasn’t hers to solve.  Not her area of expertise.  The Atherim had people for that, she was certain, but she was not it.   

The assassin slept clothed but didn’t have a specific memory of dressing for bed; light pajama pants and a matching button up shirt because Nika didn’t use sheets.  Or blankets.  Nothing on top of her, she couldn’t stand it.  Your past never truly went away.  

Bare feet negotiated the stairs of her lofted bed.  She preferred a morning shower and lingered longer than necessary.  Her palms splayed on the tile and braced her body as the hot water ran downward.  Cleansing.  She told herself the water took the bad dreams away...washed her clean for a new start because dwelling on the past distracted from the now.  

It was a work in progress.

Nika toweled off post-shower and then took her morning coffee and breakfast wearing nothing but a pair of micromodal trunks as she reviewed her schedule.   

While she’d inherited her top floor condo from her parents; the level below had been her own acquisition.  Half that floor served as a garage for her toys and the other half, well, that was accessible only through her flat.  Via secure stairwell.  Cleverly hidden.  Because Nika watched too many spy movies from before she was born.

Virtual Reality had taken off in the ‘20s.  For a time, an unstoppable momentum of funding and developmental resources flooded the industry.  Significant advances were made in medicine; interest in education saw a revival as well.  Users could visit any place, any time...literally do or experience anything at all that could be imagined and programmed.  It was utterly amazing in every sense of the word. Systems became so refined, so perfect, that VR was indistinguishable from reality (with the proper accessories)...and those were the civilian models.  The gaming and entertainment industries exploded.  Movies and games were remastered and truly participatory. You could go for your morning run across the surface of the moon, lip sync onstage to sold out mega concerts, play Madden 365 as a sparkling vampire or be the shark in JAWS.  Limitless...

The problems started small; malnutrition, dehydration, truancy from work or school but snowballed at an alarming rate.  What quickly became a worldwide public health crisis reached its pinnacle at a tragic mass suicide event involving over 63,000 people in an online role-playing cult called ‘AugWorld.’

Change, for once, came swiftly.  Despite the money involved, the VR industry enacted fast and real solutions.  Prompts and permanent warning popups were required in-game or in-movie; by default a pink and red ribbon but later customizable per user preference.  Animated VPets were particularly popular.  Resolutions were dialed down, time limits and cool-off breaks were hardwired in.  Interest waned a little, then a lot more as generations frequently don’t pursue the same hobbies.  Still, all movies have the VR Mode (now called WorldMode) along with 4D, Birds-Eye, Standard and Widescreen formats.  Cinematography is truly an art form now, especially for easter eggers.

Nika’s model was, naturally, lacking all default safeties.  She’d liberated it from the American military machine -through backwater channels- as one of her hobbies seemed to be acquiring military tech and weapons for personal use.  

As it was markedly less expensive to train troops via VR/WM/AR, that industry still was booming.  The well-off countries had been training this way since all the way back in the 1980s, although it was crap then.  Her model, while not the latest and greatest (even she couldn’t have gotten away with stealing that broken or not), was more than adequate for her needs.

Training.  Relentless, purposeful training.  It was one of the secrets behind her mastery of both creed and Higher purpose.