Bound Fate (Warhammer High)
 | This article contains PROMOTIONS! Don't say we didn't warn you. |
Writefag ILikeCommas' first substantial contribution to the Warhammer High universe. Violence, promotions and deaths abound in this action/thriller: the story is NOT for the faint of heart, and fans of the standard WHH material can expect to be put off by some scenes. If you're looking for some chems, investigations and gang warfare to go with your romantic comedy, then read on.
- Skater
- Someone given over wholly to their slide addiction; analogous to meth-head, tweaker, junkie, dopefiend.
Bound Fate
Acknowledgments & Dedication
Thanks to Ahriman's Aide and Someone else. for advice on lore, characters and just writing.
Kudos to DarkMage for first portraying Furia as more than just anger.
This book is dedicated to Brett.
Hope you found your peace.
Preface
This is not the story you think it is.
This is not a story about nineteen exceptional girls living the dream of an ordinary life.
This is the story of those ordinary people who sacrificed their own chance for a normal life,
to ensure this dream came to pass.
Prologue
Miranda floated effortlessly through the Warp, the unctuous deep of happenstance and undiluted emotion. She felt peaceful, content in a way she rarely felt in the Materium, the real world. Her father had often warned her against delving into the Great Ocean, but with the rapid increase in her psychic ability she'd begun to do so unconsciously in her sleep.
Magnus grudgingly accepted the necessity of Miranda's trips, but only at home, around him. She'd agreed excitedly, and while her cousins slept only four hours a night, she would often spend six or more treading the currents of the Empyrean.
Miranda had to admit, it felt much safer to do so at home, her father's presence calming the tides somewhat. She felt his warmth and guidance all around her, buoying her up and removing every last trace of insecurity she'd felt in the past. The image of a black diamond passed over Miranda's thoughts, and she shuddered despite the warmth of her bed.
Suddenly everything changed.
Miranda heard a dull roar, felt a blankness overcome her, and the warp went dark. One-by-one points of light emerged into the darkness. So few at first, and so dull.
But then more, and as more appeared each grew brighter, more colorful. They grew into the dozens, thousands, billions. Into a great multicolored star, innumerably more than its component parts.
Soon they spread, farther and farther, a whole galaxy of lights, of stars.
And then they began to disappear.
In a haze of red and black the lights turned malevolent. They began to devour each other, so many lights vanishing to hate and fear.
Miranda felt herself cry at the death, the loss of life.
Just when all seemed lost another light revealed itself, greater and brighter than the others. A light that had been there all along, watching, waiting for this time of need. It drew the other lights around it and the first star was born again, greater and brighter than ever.
The other lights swirled and moved around it, never approaching.
They came close enough to warm themselves, but not to warm the great light. For a time the great light stilled in its actions, then from it emerged other lights, brighter than the myriad smaller lights. They formed a bridge, a middle ground between the great light and the small lights.
And then it exploded.
The brighter lights spread out and the great light sought them, bringing other lights, making them brighter than they were that they might brave the darkness. It was long and terrible, and not all the brighter lights were found, but the smaller lights were brought into the fold. Soon the galaxy of lights was back, swirling around the great light, studded by the brighter lights. It was balanced, harmonious.
It was good.
And yet the brighter lights began to move, to fidget and chafe. They had been made to seek and unite the smaller lights, and without a purpose they grew distressed.
And so the great light made more of the brighter lights. They were smaller and more delicate than the first host, but more beautiful and lively. They formed a bridge, a connection, between the now dancing brighter lights and the galaxy.
All was complete.
Perfect.
Miranda felt herself pulled, jerked away as she saw an imperfection.
She flew among the lights and could see the picture up close.
The lights were still bright, but the subtleties, the inconsistencies began to show. Like an ocean that appears blue and clean from afar, but up close the pollution and grime forms into layers, distinct tracts among the water.
Among the lights.
Miranda saw one in particular as she drifted, a rough blackness, a star of darkness.
Like the great light it sought the warmth of its brood, but the other lights moved away, swirling ever around it.
Miranda wept again, a tear of loneliness.
One of the lights, duller than the others, sought out the blackness and approached it.
The dull light dimmed momentarily as the blackness embraced it.
But happiness came soon, and love bloomed.
The light grew brighter.
They danced, capered and frolicked with each other, even when a tract of red nearly carried the blackness away. The other lights kept their distance, uneasy as they always had been, shunning the blackness and its companion.
Soon the blackness formed into a diamond.
A single, solitary, transcendent perfection among the roughness of light.
Then a single light, smaller and weaker than the others, moved in. It was afraid of the blackness.
But the blackness was contained in the diamond and it was easy to approach. The weak light tore away at the black diamond and grew brighter, a blood red brightness.
Soon the other lights moved in and tore as well.
They each took a small piece of the black diamond and grew brighter, red.
The once-dull light jumped and bounded, but it was too late. The black diamond began to crumble, and with it went a piece of the once-dull light.
The loneliness came, stronger than ever, to Miranda.
The end of the black diamond propelled the again-dull light, and it shambled, stumbled throughout the galaxy of stars. It began to move faster and faster, grow terribly brighter. Not completely red, not fully of anger and blood, but with a terrible purpose. It moved in an indiscernible pattern, swirling around the brighter lights and the delicate-brighter lights. It learned from the weak light how to tear, steal, and it did so. It tore at the delicate-brighter lights one at a time, making them duller, changing their color and movement.
The great light saw this and grew red, more terrifying than any red that had come before, even before it first appeared. But the again-dull light had learned from the dull light, and all the weak lights. It plunged into the great light and the great light was rent asunder, split and carried amongst the galaxy of lights.
All went black.
Miranda instinctively sought out her father, an easy task given the size of his presence in the Immaterium. She was afraid, but not sure why. Like a dream she couldn't remember after waking up. She found him in the library, reading a book, and couldn't help but smile at how content he was with the simple act.
Hive Tetra
Hive Tetra, Terra. Hab Block #113. Early Septembris, sunset.
One continuous smoky pall covers the hab block from wall to wall, close as it is to the underhive.
Somewhere deep in the gloom an exhaust fan kicks on, drawing feebly at the thick, foul air. A current begins to stir, slowly, reluctantly. Minor eddies appear in the smoke now, swirls within swirls that only serve to enhance how filthy the air is. It isn't just dust and grit, but the bite of the air that defines it.
The long pseudosummer is finally drawing to an abrupt close, far more quickly than any normal weather would on most planets. The once ninety degree weather outside has dropped rapidly in the past few days, and in another week will be below fifty on a daily basis. Even something as basic as this is worse in the lower hive.
The middle hive and upper hive remain fairly warm year-round, but the old exhaust systems and sunkenness of the lower levels ensure that cold air comes into the squalor quickly, and holds firm even into the summer months. Low, chunky buildings–at odds with the newer, more efficient designs above–squat unevenly amongst a perfectly organized grid, roads meeting roads at right angles. This organization is a lie.
Numerous alleys, home to the lowest of the low, cut between the buildings, seemingly at random. Most are poorly lit, if at all, and constant sounds come from the darkness. Vapour rats, some too malnourished to even blend in, scurry from shadow to shadow, seeking scraps of of food in trash receptacles. The occasional bum or dead body provides more nutrients to the rats and their larger brethren than any Adept would admit.
To the north lies a school, larger and cleaner than the surrounding buildings, but only just so. It sits alone, mournful despite its frequent use and current occupation. It is a joke, a distraction, a promise that will never be kept. The children of Block #113 learn many things, but only one legal profession matters here, and this, more than anything, contributes to the prevalence of Slide trafficking. Not far from the school the air turns fouler still, thick with death and industry, with the reality of their future lives.
To the east sits this truth, a massive Soylens processing facility, churning day and night to process the deceased, airtrucks conveying fresh foodstuffs to the area and other blocks above. A smell permeates the air for blocks around, something savory and revolting. The apartments around the plant are the cheapest in the entire hive, an unfortunate truth for the menial laborers needed to run the machinery in the building. Most grow up knowing only the stench of fresh soylens, live their lives eating it and die making it.
After death they became soylens, another product to be processed, packed and shipped.
The overlights, already barely powered, begin to dim along with the ebbing draw of solar energy on the hiveskin far above. They dull in a grim reflection of the outside sun; first from hazy white to orange-yellow, then to a dull red before finally extinguishing completely. Twilight falls, then flees for a brief time with this; it returns as the sparse lumen strips dotting the grime-covered buildings and few streetlamps come to life. Most streets are still well lit, but too many are dark now, appearing as they truly are, larger alleys to hide the iniquity and filth of undersociety.
This close to the underhive disgusting things lurk, mutated and deformed humans simply the least of them. Houses, a dark mockery of the upper hive nobles, organize amongst themselves. They divide up aspects of the black market and criminal economy, vying for control in legal and illegal ways. And even these are merely puppets or prey to worse, far more calculating evils that stud the reaches of the nobility and Administratum high above.
Even on Terra corruption is rampant.
Amongst the dank air, tarnished buildings and darkness, a pair of lights appear, cutting a swath through murk and corruption alike. The black aircar, so clean as to seem at odds with it surroundings, reflects the precious ambient light graciously. Subtle variances of black to gray are offset by navy blue trim, defining and even highlighting the car against the grime that surrounds it. Blocks ahead of the vehicle something resists the light it shines, a flitting shadow in the darkness high above. After a moment another shadow flickers through, and another.
Soon an entire column of shadows, whirling and rotating in a great lazy circle, reveal themselves. Awakened by the vent-borne stir of the tepid air, the carrion bats ride weak currents, ever searching. They descend, nearing their sustenance, then rise again in deference to the predator they seek to scrounge from.
Arbitrator-Patrolman Idiam Thar cracked a window, the vehicle's cabin still warm from its descent. The smell of the lower hive filtered in through the narrow gap between pillar and glass.
His nose caught the air, the scent of grime, old masonry, mold and rancid water.
A slight burnt odor carried through from the exhaust ducts and undercut the smells, nearly hiding the stench of the soylens district he was fast approaching. After another three minutes Thar finally felt it. It was a stink in the air, fouler even than the soylens, and too faint to truly discern. He felt it in his gut: death, not the processed essence of soylens, but real death, messy and unexpected.
Thar grunted in acknowledgement of the smell as he saw the carrion bats. They listed through the air, falling slowly, gradually, then suddenly banking into an upturn, starting a fresh circle. He wasn't worried about carrion bats. He knew carapace armor, a stubpistol and common sense were more than enough to handle them.
Still glad I brought the Lawbringer. Thar patted the weapon in the passenger's seat, almost like a proud father. Many Patrolmen would take the opportunity to kill some bats, any reason to fire off a few rounds, but Thar knew better. He had work to do, real work, not toadying to his negligent Commander like the others. Something was disturbing Thar, something in his gut. Not the stench of death, he knew that well, intimately.
Felt it. Idiam's hand went reflexively to his neck, prodding at the loose bandage he'd changed this morning, before work. It was the product of a vicious fight with a criminal, a killer that slaughtered his partner.
I barely made it out of there alive.
He grunted again, returning to the task at hand. They're not landing. Idiam looked up again, confirmed his instinct. The carrion bats, at least two dozen, were still circling lazily high above. It took a while for that many to gather, more than he'd ever seen before. And I've seen more than enough. Thar pulled the aircar into an alley, turning off his headlights and idling it down onto the landing points. He engaged the positive-action security system before shouldering the Lawbringer III shotgun, checking his pistol and exiting the vehicle.
The distance wasn't far, but it was all alley, all darkness, so the going was slow. Idiam strode forward, surprisingly quiet in his armor and greaves. One eye played around the alleys and streets, the other kept watch on the not-sky above, on the carrion bats. P-23 Patrolmen, his coworkers, would've simply driven up, spooking the suspect, or given up and filled out a vague report, let the body get scavenged by the soylens plant.
He's still there. Thar was sure of it. There were few things that could dissuade a carrion bat from its meal, but they always waited for the killer, for the predator to leave before they took their fill. It was the last task of the day for Idiam, and not even his. It'd been passed up by his cohorts in favor of an early start on the weekend, on amasec and other things, but Thar wouldn't let it remain unfinished.
He stopped, pressed himself into the shadows, then cast an eye around the streets, over the dilapidated buildings and stripped cars. Thar saw nothing, but he trusted his gut, so he waited. Silence, darkness and patience. Idiam had always known how to get the drop on someone, but it was burned into his mind more strongly then ever after yesterday's attack by the cultists. So he waited, and his diligence was rewarded. An alleyscamp, a hive kid whose parents were dead or simply abandoned him, peeked out from behind a car, looking for the Arbites. He brandished a knife, eyes manic with fear and hunger, loneliness. Thar gripped the Lawbringer and he cocked it once, unnecessary to fire it, then caught the ejected round before it could hit the ground.
The sound had the desired effect, a heavy click-thunk! that drove the scamp away as surely as any stub or lasbolt would. Thar waited still, reloading the shotgun, watching the alleys behind and in front of him, peeking down the street. After another minute he was satisfied and began to move once more. Despite the freshness of the autumn season, cold had set in down here, hard, and Thar was thankful he'd worn his overcoat after all. The shotgun was shouldered while his other hand brought up a flashlight. The powerful beam scanned the darkness ahead briefly, and the flashlight was slung back on his belt. Idiam inhaled again, quietly, as he picked his way forward. The soylens was stronger, but he could smell the other now, palpable. Death.
A streak of panic ran through Thar, a memory from his childhood. He hadn't grown up here, but it was close enough. Little Idiam had been playing with his friends, hide and seek, tag, he could barely remember now. But he'd run deep into the alleys, the darkness, and found himself lost. Idiam had wandered for hours, afraid to call out and to draw attention to himself, before he'd finally been found.
His nose started to itch, the pressing stench of fresh soylens almost physical, flavored by the preserved and prepared bodies that would form the finished product. Thar hated soylens, one of the few legally accepted concepts he had trouble with. Somehow it seemed disrespectful of both the dead and the earth.
The stench of death was stronger here, too, and the combined sensory assault began to make his eyes water. Like most residents of the hive, Thar had been born there, raised there. His youthful experience in getting lost drove him to join the Arbites, to reveal the secrets of the back alleys that had nearly overwhelmed him. Idiam liked wearing a uniform, liked the respect it earned him. But, contrary to many others in his Precinct, he welcomed the responsibility the armor brought, welcomed earning the armor. He'd never once thought about leaving the hive, about leaving the neighborhood he grew up in. One of the few things Idiam Thar took true pride in was cleaning up his home block, and keeping it clean.
He stopped again and pressed into an alley, looking around. The carrion bats, high above the squat buildings, were skimming overhead as they banked high once more. Almost there. The smell of death overpowered the soylens now, and Idiam readied his shotgun. He waited, the area beyond silent, the air utterly still save for the carrion bats. Thar heard nothing, felt nothing. No presence to keep the bats at bay.
Strange. The nearby lamps, ever cycling off and on, began to dim again, and Thar made his move. He stepped out into the street in the momentary darkness, moving silently, waiting and watching.
He scanned the area, watching, looking for the predator, whether a giant hive rat, a ganger or something worse. He saw nothing. Thar began to sweep low and his eye caught the body, the last thing he was worried about right now. Instead it consumed his attention completely. The shotgun drooped, then fell, along with his jaw.
Trust – Sunday, Septembris 11, 297.M34
An hour later Idiam Thar was waiting, still standing in the same spot. The shotgun was slung and stubpistol holstered at his side, both ready to be drawn. He'd seen no movement here for an hour, and that disturbed Thar. He was waiting for the forensics squad and could picture it now, the airvans streaming in, masses of Verispex technicians pouring out. Neat, orderly barricades would be erected, bright portable fluorlights thrown up, a three block perimeter secured. More Patrolmen would show up, ensuring their presence in paperwork and documentation, but they would mill about uselessly. The Verispex would catalog the scene, take pictures, gather physical evidence, note the location and orientation of the body.
Thar looked at the body again, somehow so lonely in the middle of the empty road, like it was still alive. He felt an unfamiliar quirk in his gut. Sick. Whoever did this was sick, an abomination even among the dealers, scavvies and House gangers. Thar had never seen anything this bad, not the entire time he'd been in the Arbites.
This is... insanity.
It had been late when Thar started the job, he was never one to shy away from the night shift, and as he waited the third shift at the soylens plant started. Vehicles stirred, mostly old, barely functioning airbuses, but Thar had already set up crime scene tape to prevent them from disturbing the area. Still, as a bus passed by and skirted around the impromptu blockade he felt something. A presence.
A tall, thin man in a black coat was standing on the corner, crisply outlined by the streetlamp overhead, one of the few in sight that worked continuously. His shadow seemed to stretch off to the left, merging with the blackness as if explaining how he'd appeared. Thar eyed the man, wondering. Suspect? He simply stood, calmly, under the light, hands clasped behind his back. No. Too calm. Thar returned to observing the shadows, the alleys, looking for anything that could explain what had happened, but let a hand wander to his gun, and kept an eye on the man.
Thar looked at the kid again, at the body. He was pale and surprisingly warm for a corpse, especially one sitting out as long as he had. Fifteen minutes too late. The boy couldn't have been older than eleven or twelve, and his head was feverish when Thar had checked for signs of life.
The Patrolman glanced back up to see the man in black staring directly at him, still standing under the streetlamp. He looked back at the kid, eyes unable to avoid the sight. The body was covered, drenched in sweat, and his eyes were so dilated and bloodshot one had simply burst, the globe rupturing and letting vitreous humor flow freely down his face. The boy's blood vessels were standing out even now, still rock hard, having drawn all the blood from the surrounding tissue. Bruising appeared in a spot on his arm, another on his neck and probably more around his body, veins and arteries alike bursting under tremendous pressure.
Idiam looked up at the man again, his posture and bearing exactly the same. But he was closer now, standing on the near corner, only a bare meter from the line of tape. Thar eyeballed the stranger and thumbed open the pistol holster, but the return stare was mild, even pleasant, and he turned back to the body once more. The kid's tongue stuck out slightly, and was dry as a week-old piece of bread. It was thick, swollen and ripe-looking despite the dehydration, and seemed to crackle at the slightest disturbance. The boy had wet himself and even through the dark pants Thar could tell it was the wrong color, brown and red.
Like all the water was trying to leave his body. But the worst wasn't the ruptured eye, the turgid blood vessels, the profusion of sweat and urine, the too-thick blood leaking.
The worst was his face.
The little boy, not even thirteen, was wearing a massive, beaming grin. It was a look of complete delight, the happiness only a child could know, but perverted. The smile was magnified and distorted beyond all reason, as if the child had experienced a lifetime's worth of pleasure in only a few moments. The sweat beading his cheeks seemed almost to be tears of joy, of thanks. Idiam shuddered and stood once more, then felt something wrong with the silence. He turned to see the man in black only nine meters away, looking pointedly at the corpse.
“This is an official Arbites operation and you are in violation of Imperial Law. Charge – Felony trespassing on an Arbites Crime Scene; Verdict – Guilty; Sentence – Immediate detainment and interrogation.”
Thar drew the shotgun and produced his badge, stepping towards the man. He stopped some five meters away, more than enough distance for safety. “Any attempts to resist will be met with harsher sentencing. Imperial Justice Be Served.”
The man moved, far faster than Thar would have thought possible. He reached into the black coat and pulled out something.
Idiam brought the shotgun to firing position, ready to shoot the moment a weapon appeared. Instead a small, black leather square slid out. It fell open casually, easily, to reveal a badge, a golden double aquila. An Officio agent?
The man spoke, his voice quiet even in the utter stillness of the murdered night. It was soft, but precise, and somehow seemed to carry easily despite its hush tone.
“The shotgun will be quite unnecessary, Patrolman Thar.”
Idiam started at that. How does he know my name? Still, he recognized the badge's authority and stood at ease, one hand still on the pistol.
“Thank you. Now.” The man stepped forward comfortably and knelt over the boy. He brought his face down almost flush with the ruptured eye, the swollen tongue.
While the agent inspected the body, Thar looked him over. He looked young, too young for this. He had light brown hair, slightly waved, and strong, if generic facial features. His eyes were black, fading lightly towards the pupil to reveal a hint of brown ringing the center.
“He's been here for an hour and twenty minutes, perhaps thirty.” The hand slipped into his coat again and a pencil-sized piece of flat metal came out. It prodded at the tongue, pushed the thick, stiff protrusion, causing it to crackle and scrape against dry lips. A cloth appeared and wiped down the tool, then both disappeared to be exchanged for a pair of thin plas gloves. “I assume you haven't touched him yet?”
Thar nodded. “No, I haven't.”
“Excellent. He came from over there.” The kid pointed blindly to the west, where the barest outline of the school could be made out. It was the opposite direction he had come from.
“Alright, Agent...” Thar stopped, realized he didn't know the kid's name.
“Douglas Hanlon. I trust you'll keep that–as well as my presence here–between us.” Douglas patted his coat, the spot he'd pulled the Officio badge from earlier, and let a wide, friendly smile appear between his thin lips. “He purchased the Slide near the school, perhaps even within the confines of the schoolyard.”
“What makes you think that? He could've come from anywhere.”
“Well, he is a child.” The agent smiled, gloved hands tracing blood vessels, gently prodding bruised areas. He dabbed a bead of sweat, then rubbed it between his fingers and smelled it. A pair of tweezers appeared and Douglas slid over to the boy's ratty shoes, picking at the accumulated grime. A small rock, different from the masonry grit and rubble that lined the alleys, came free.
“Ah, the covered side is still wet. Excellent.” He turned to display the small rock, gleaming with moisture in the low light. “The schoolyard is the only place containing pea gravel and an open, night-accessible public water source inside a ten-block radius, Patrolman.” I suspect that with an overdose of slide this large– ” Douglas pocketed the small fragment in a thick plas bag, then sniffed again, taking in the sweat, “uncut slide, actually–he couldn't have made it much farther than that.” He stood and turned to face Idiam. “It must have been terrifying, to be so happy while he felt his own heart, eye and blood vessels rupture with tension.”
“He was taken before his time.”
“Time, whose tooth gnaws against everything else, is powerless against truth.” The words came out smooth and sure. Thar felt a chill run down his spine.
“I think I'll go inspect the corner of Septer and Carmine, Patrolman, and find some truth. Have a pleasant evening.”
Thar turned after a long moment, but the agent was out of sight. He heard the sounds then, the imminent arrival of Verispex airvans, and decided it better to keep his post.
“Yes, he came from the block school, number 113.” Verispex Jek had finally returned as the area was being swept one last time.
“How did you find out?” Thar seemed a little agitated at this revelation, but not surprised, causing Jek to frown.
After a moment he smiled and pocketed his data slate. “The school's cleaning servitor recorded the victim talking to a man. Not enough to identify him, unfortunately, but enough detail to know the child purchased the substance and used it in the school yard.”
“Where'd he go? The man?”
“Ahh...” Jek brought up the data slate once more. “Looks like... he went north.”
“Towards Septer street?”
Another moment passed as Jek double-checked the area map. “Yes.”
Thar thought about the boy, what the agent said and was again happy he brought his overcoat.
Something to keep the chill out.
A Morning with Miranda - Monday, Septembris 12
A strand of fate tugged at Miranda and she focused, trying to remember her summer lessons. She woke up just seconds before the alarm went off, grinning, and thumbed the switch before the high-pitched ringing could start.
Baby steps.
The summer break sessions with Mr. Eldrad were different from what her father and Mr. Ahriman taught her. The Eldar's view of the warp bore similarities to their psykers' own, seeing it as a Great Ocean of possibility. But the Eldar also saw the substance of the Warp as something else, a great weave of strands, each one tracing the path of a different possibility. Like the Corvidae they believed that fate was real and malleable. The Eldar learned to react to these strands, to read them, testing each one to find where it led. By doing so they could follow the strand they desired, altering their future. Miranda was gifted, one of the most powerful human psykers ever born, but she had to admit that the the time and patience required to master this particular facet of the Warp seemed beyond her. Only the Farseers and the Corvidae, devoted entirely to the practice of Warp Study, could move with the speed and finesse needed to change their own course with any significance. Even that required years of rote practice
As well, the Eldar used a collection of powerful artifacts, stones that allowed them to more precisely alter their fate. Despite the seeming impossibility of the concept Miranda had found herself able to alter small things: pick out the banana without spots, wake up a little early or even avoid one of The Twins' practical jokes on occasion. Miranda stretched and slid out of the warm comforter reluctantly, bare feet sinking into soft carpet, then traced the familiar path from bed to closet, stopping at the rich cherry-colored dresser. She pulled out white socks and paused. Something tugged at the corner of Miranda's mind, and she remembered that today was the Lord's Fitness Test, the yearly standard physical.
The girl had always performed poorly in the past, barely able to breach the ninetieth percentile in most of the activities. Miranda shut the drawer and opened another, pulling out a dull gray sports bra and shorts, then walked to the closet. Although she was far above average by the test's measure, the fact that her cousins exceeded the ninety-ninth percentile almost without exception made her feel inadequate.
A white button-up shirt, maroon skirt and matching armband, all well within the school's dress code, fell into her arms and Miranda headed to her bathroom. She never put much effort into physical fitness, and though Miranda wasn't a hefty girl she'd always been the softest of the nineteen Daughters. That had begun to change last summer, when Mr. Eldrad imposed a strict exercise routine in tandem with his Warp studies. He didn't expect her to keep up with an Eldar's movements, but he emphasized that witnessing the strands of fate meant nothing if you couldn't react to them.
Miranda turned on the hot water, then nudged it here and there to get it to her preferred temperature, feet dancing on the cold travertine tile.
Yeah, I've always been the softest, but after months of exercise I'm not nearly as soft as I was last year. Her black shirt crumpled on the floor, the faded ebon-clad figure on a horse barely visible over the yellow circle, limned in red the same color as the illegible words above. The soft jersey-cotton pajama pants followed and Miranda took a moment to admire the result of her hard work before stepping into the hot water. Her skin, though still pale, had lost its pallid tone, flushed just slightly by exertion and time in the sun. She didn't have definition exactly, but her body was firm, lean muscles stretching easily with her movements and perpetually ready to spring back from strain or tension. Miranda had become much less self-conscious about wearing the skirts the school mandated and, although she wasn't as healthy-looking as Isis or as vigorous as Freya, she felt some small pride at the looks her long legs had been getting recently.
Miranda glanced once more at the hint of a V just showing above her panty line, then stripped off and stepped into the steam. The shower didn't take long and she emerged fresh, ready for the day. The sportswear and school uniform slipped on easily enough over her slimmer figure, and the headband her father had gifted her ten years ago slid neatly onto her forehead. Miranda hopped down the stairs, almost bouncing with elation as she snatched up and peeled a banana.
No spots. She smiled to herself again. Baby steps, Miranda.
A horn blared from outside, shaking Miranda from her reverie. She scooped up her backpack and rushed to the library to embrace her father, "'Bye, dad!" give him a peck on the cheek and dash out the door. A sea green gravcar hovered impatiently in the street, and Miranda cursed herself for getting caught up in the bathroom. She ducked into the back seat and the car accelerated to street speed before she could even close the door, nearly throwing her into Petra.
"Hi Selphy, Isis, Petra! Sorry I'm late." Miranda chirped. Selphy grumbled out a response, distracted as usual by something on her handheld personal adjutor and hidden under the shifting mass of black hair that was her topknot. Isis looked at Miranda around her spill of pale blonde hair, a little thrown off by the redhead's unusual cheer, then spoke just in time to accidentally override Petra.
"Miranda. Having a good morning?" Orange eyes flashed with good humor at seeing the girl in high spirits. Petra sighed, the words disappearing from her lips, and her blue eyes turned cold.
"I have a feeling today's going to be a good day." Miranda closed her eyes, taking a few minutes to examine the threads twining and winding from morning to lunch, from home to school.
"You do remember today's the LFT, don't you?" Isis turned back to keep an eye on the road.
"Maybe she's looking forward to it." Petra smiled thinly at Miranda, "You've been keeping up with those exercises Eldrad assigned you, haven't you?"
Miranda's smile widened even more, "Guilty."
Her eyes snapped back open, purple glow of the warp fading. The irises, once a pale, cloudy gray, had been retaining more and more of the warp's purple essence over the past few months. They were now a tenuous violet all the time.
“It's really been helping though, I could barely walk through the house blindfolded-" Miranda snickered. "Well, completely blindfolded four months ago, but now it's easy. Speed up a little, by the way."
Isis turned back forward once more, just in time to see the traffic augur turn yellow. The car's high-end gravinciter hummed as she sped up, clearing the intersection before it finally clicked over to red.
"So you're looking forward to it then?" Selphy sighed gloomily.
Miranda knew she didn't like having to compete with the royal heirs. A lot of the students don't.
Imperator High's student body came primarily from the noble houses of Terra, with off-world noble houses, rogue trader families and important military lines making up most of the rest. Maybe a dozen students came from lower class hives or off-world families. The Emperor planned his granddaughters' education out far in advance, and IH had a strict policy of accepting only the best and brightest of students on scholarship. As such, before the cousins had even thought of going to high school an atmosphere of competitive excellence was fostered there. It had only taken a few years for many noble families to begin sending their children to other schools, unwilling to suffer the embarrassment of a hiver or colonist showing up one of their precious scions. Although nearly as wealthy as the nobles, the rogue traders brought something else entirely to the table.
While it grew safer by the year the practice of rogue trading was still dangerous, and even the well-established trading houses had to maintain cunning, tenacity and no small amount of physical ability in case things went sour on a deal or excursion. The military lines were already brimming with internal rivalry and graduation from Imperator High was all but a guarantee of acceptance into the best military academies. Like the military lines, some of the nobles that still attended were subject to internal or inter-family rivalry, fostering the attitude necessary to push the otherwise unmotivated to excel. Worst of all, though, were the so-called commoners. Many of the noble progeny had no intention of doing more than the bare minimum necessary to pass their classes and return to a life of leisure. Still, many did not appreciate the royal heirs' presence, and even fewer having to contend with the common-born.
Acquiring a scholarship to Imperator high was nigh-on impossible and of the trillions of young adults throughout the Imperium, scarcely more than half-a-dozen qualified each year. Nearly every student exceeded all expectations in both academic and physical aptitude, though the occasional scandal had occurred. Many dropped out after the first year, the twin burden of advanced classes, expected extracurriculars and social separation more than they could handle. Since the Daughters' entrance the social division had become less stark, with some nobles deciding it better to take up with a low-born baseline than the daughter of a Primarch. Regardless, the pedigree and ability of each of the nineteen, while imposing to the average human being, was much reduced when compared to the best, brightest and most vicious humanity at large had to offer. Their grandfather had intended on giving them an environment where they still had to push themselves to excel, and had succeeded masterfully.
"You know, you're starting to look kinda like an Eldar girl." Miranda swerved back to attention to see Selphy looking over her slender frame, ivory skin and large eyes. "Maybe I should join you with those exercises. Emperor knows a girl can use every advantage she can get, stuck next to your family." She ran a hand through her hair, fluffing the already voluminous mass.
Isis laughed. "Come on now Selphy, at least you've got a boyfriend."
She looked back at Miranda, the blush already forming on her cheeks, "I don't think Miranda's even talked to a guy this month, except for Ahzek and her dad."
Miranda's eyes suddenly found something interesting in her shoe laces, "I-it's hard, you know... I mean..."
"Just use your, you know, you mind powers or whatever. Should be easy." Selphy waved her hand dismissively, and it quickly returned to the adjutor.
"That-that doesn't help. When I try to talk to them I can see what they're thinking and then..." Miranda's blush impossibly grew deeper, the heat radiating from her face, and the eye on her headband grew a deep red.
"Miranda, you shouldn't be doing that in the first place, even surface thoughts. It'll just make things harder in the long run. Not to mention the invasion of privacy." Petra was always quiet, but perhaps even more perceptive than Isis in most matters, and the psyker knew she was right.
"I try, but I get s-so nervous, and then I can't help it." Miranda's face dropped into her palms, an elbow resting on each knee. She felt a hand, warm and strong, pull hers, and looked back up to Isis.
"You have to try, Miranda. Even Furia's got a boyfriend, and she can't get within a meter of someone without punching them out of reflex."
"Yeah Randi, if little miss hothead can calm down long enough to get some action I'm sure you can rein it in at least long enough to get your first kiss."
The blush appeared again, faster and fiercer than before, and Miranda was happy to see the ominous shape of her high school appear around the corner.
A Wild Furia Appears
Miranda ducked out of the car and slammed the door, still blushing furiously, then started for the steps. She stopped abruptly, turned back around and opened the door, snagging her backpack before running away again as Isis skipped around the car.
"Miranda! Miranda!" Isis jogged easily, catching up to Miranda before she made it halfway to the doors. "Miranda." Isis stepped around in front of the redhead and rested her hands gently on the agitated girl's shoulders. "Miranda, please, just hold on a second."
Selphy caught up to the stationary pair, finally putting her adjutor away and bringing black eyes to bear after a sidelong glare from Isis. "Look, we're just trying to encourage you, we don't mean anything hurtful by it." Miranda continued to stare at her feet, until Isis gently pulled her chin up, their eyes meeting. "We're not saying you have to jump in bed with the first guy you see, but if you keep pushing people away you're just going to get more and more secluded. You've got to make an effort Miranda, and it's easier than you think. You just have to take that first step. And we'll be right there, okay?"
"Okay."
"Good, now let's get to class. I can't afford to be late to Biology again, Mr. Bile will kill me."
The foursome started moving again as Petra joined them, and a low buzz signaled another message on Selphy's perpetual companion.
"The Twins, ugh."
Nonetheless, Selphy opened the message and read it eagerly, following her companions through the two sets of doors into the hallway. Her eyes bulged, and Isis glanced back at the sharp intake of breath she knew signaled Selphy finding out her newest favorite rumor. At the same time, a loud bang echoed from the other end of the vast corridor.
"Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod you guys." Selphy's breathing accelerated along with her heartbeat, and Miranda couldn't help but laugh a little at how worked up her classmate got over gossip. Another loud sound rang out, a crashing thump, the telltale sound of one of the school's plascast trashcans getting tossed or kicked into a wall. A shock of blood red hair glimmered into view and the throng of milling students parted around a striding form, Furia Angron.
"What's got her so upset today?" Miranda asked as, almost unconsciously, she opened her third eye, the veil of the warp draping itself over her view. She grumbled to herself, thinking about Petra's earlier lecture.
It's not like I'm prying into their heads or anything, most of them just throw it out there for anybody to hear.
A couple walked by, hand in hand, and Miranda couldn't help but blush again at the feelings and impulses they were practically screaming at each other. She looked back behind her, briefly catching a glimpse of Angela high above, her presence in the aether palpable even from the top floor. Miranda continued to turn, catching glimpses of typical thoughts and feelings.
Oh god, I hope Professor Qruze doesn't throw a pop quiz today, I— Why do I have to work close tonight, such bulls— Wonder if she likes fellwraith blooms? Ah, that's too expensive for me anyway.
Miranda relaxed and the projections diffused, leaving behind rough impressions instead of words and images, spheres of emotion drifting lazily along. Most were multicolored, a swirling frenzy of puberty and stress. Selphy was a mixture of blue and orange, still nervous about the classes to come, but brimming with delight at whatever nugget of information her adjutor had just deposited in her mind. As usual, Isis was putting everyone else to shame as a tranquil globe of shimmering gold, impossibly beautiful in the warp, even as a bundle of unrealized psychic potential among so many others. Miranda sighed, her world moving at a snail's pace under the haze of fate and fortune. She felt so much more relaxed; at the same time safer and more perceptive of those around her. Miranda knew she wasn't the only one who had trouble dealing with the expectations and social pressures of high school. After three years most of the others have adjusted, found a place to be, a group of friends who understand them. But I only hang out with Isis and Selphy, sometimes Angela or Petra, and always Mr. Ahriman.
She couldn't help but feel inadequate, never as outgoing or friendly as the others. She kept up with her schoolwork easily enough, but the moment she got out of the seat or away from a book she felt awkward. Maybe this is why dad didn't want me to spend so much time in the Great Ocean. She thought. He didn't want me to use it as a crutch or an escape. Miranda began to pull away, back to the real world, when something strange invaded her perception. A large gray cube glided by, stopping neatly three meters away and rotating in place. She focused on it, trying to tease apart the various fibers of sense and reason, but only found more gray. Miranda focused again, words and pictures flitting by, thrown out or slipped away, but the gray cube stayed exactly the same. She stretched out, her mind projecting forward, when suddenly a roiling storm of red flooded the horizon.
"Ohmygod you guys!" Miranda snapped back to earth, turning to see Selphy practically bursting with glee. "I know what's wrong with Furia!"
"Well, don't just stand there and gloat Selphy, share it with the rest of the class." Petra looked annoyed, but Miranda could tell she was starting to get excited by Selphy's enthusiasm.
"The Twins found her in the west entrance, kicking her boyfriend." Selphy paused dramatically, waiting until Isis and even Miranda seemed on the verge of combustion. "She found him in the bathroom with Victoria. Without pants."
Miranda's hand shot up to her mouth. and she turned to watch Furia storm further into the mass of students. Isis rolled her eyes and dropped her forehead into an upturned palm. Petra simply stepped back, giving berth to the coming violence.
"Great."
Furia raged through the crowd, a few slow or unlucky students getting a glare or hard push from the statuesque fury. Something suddenly jerked at Miranda's awareness and she remembered the gray cube. She turned back to the opposite wall of lockers and saw a boy, taller even than her. A large backpack hung heavily from his shoulder, jutting at least a half-meter into the hallway.
"Who's that?"
Selphy and Isis momentarily broke their exchange of rumor and speculation about Victoria and Furia's now former boyfriend, Coby.
"Must be new, I haven't seen him before," Isis replied. Selphy mumbled in agreement, fingers dancing over the adjutor after a moment's boredom.
The boy tried to open his locker again, but everyone around him was familiar with #447, the locker that always stuck. He stepped back a little, bracing himself and pulling on the handle, the slightly deformed door grudgingly peeling out of its frame. Miranda chattered along with Isis and Selphy, but couldn't quite shake the feeling she'd forgotten something. She checked her chrono again, and saw they still had a few minutes before Biology. The door down the hall was still closed, no doubt so Mr. Bile could catch a few more minutes of sleep.
They continued to talk, alternating between gossiping about other girls, classwork and talking about one boy or another. Miranda still couldn't shake the feeling, squirming around her head, when someone yelped off to her right. They turned in unison to see Furia stomping ahead, a frightened looking blonde girl sprawled out on the ground behind her. Suddenly it hit her.
Miranda turned to warn the boy across the hall, pivoting just in time to see the locker pop open. His right foot slid back incrementally at the release of tension, his backpack edging just a little further into the hallway.
Just enough for Furia to collide with it. Her face contorted, brows knotting with rage, teeth clenching impossibly tighter at the affront. Furia's eye twitched and her mouth curled into a sneer. "Oh, I need this."
The brown-haired boy started to turn, wondering who bumped into him. Before he could see, though, a foot smashed into the backpack, momentarily exposing his lower back. Furia's fist plowed into tissue and flesh, throwing the unsuspecting senior into the row of lockers, back arched at a disquieting angle. She turned to leave, her expression a fraction less enraged than it had been moments ago.
Miranda gasped, hand shooting back up to her mouth, while Selphy's thumbs capered and frolicked over the surface of her adjutor. Petra guessed no less than a dozen other girls throughout school knew what had happened already. Furia began to move again, left hand already rooting through her bag, trying to find the small pack of lho-sticks. But Angron's daughter stopped short and looked back at something. Her countenance wrenched further into anger as she saw the target of her fury shake his head, still standing. Two more blows hammered into his back, and she cocked her arm for another before it finally happened.
"FUUURRRRIIIAAA!" Dean Yarrick's voice exploded from around the corner. Students began ducking into classrooms, now more interested in avoiding the former commissar's wrath than watching the spectacle unfold. Selphy began to move, dragging Isis and Miranda towards the Biology 440 door as Furia turned toward the heavy clomp of her nemesis' boots. She released her grip on the erstwhile student, who sagged heavily into the still open locker. The wooden classroom door closed and Miranda saw Mr. Bile shaking the cobwebs out of his head.
"Ahhh." The Astartes stretched, lips smacking as he worked his mouth out of its yawn. "Very good, is this everyone?" Selphy and Miranda walked by, but she still heard him whisper, far below the threshold of human hearing, to Petra. "Furia again?" The girl nodded gravely, then took her seat at the front along with her friends.
The screaming continued outside, muffled by the soundproof walls and the sheer incomprehensibility of straining vocal cords. The voices grew louder and louder, Yarrick eventually eclipsing Furia. Suddenly the shouting stopped for moment, then started again.
"YOU." A low, clear murmur burbled through the walls as Mr. Bile began laying out the day's lesson plan, followed by short, annoyed responses and the shuffle of feet. A locker slammed, groaned and squealed shut. After five minutes the brown-haired student walked through the door, face flushed but otherwise unperturbed, "My apologies, Professor Bile, I had an unexpected need to use the restroom."
"Of course, Douglas." Mr. Bile nodded and mumbled in agreement, but didn't stop laying out his lesson plan while the student strode to the back of the room and sat down. Miranda glanced back, then dropped into the Warp once more, verifying that the gray cube was sitting a few rows behind her, apparently none the worse for his beating.
Class went quickly, until, less than fifteen minutes before the bell, Furia walked in, disgruntled, and took her usual seat, glaring at anyone who dared to meet her gaze. Dean Yarrick waited at the door for a moment, nodding briefly to Mr. Bile, and directed a withering stare at Furia. The contest of wills couldn't have lasted more than a minute, but seemed to drag on for hours. The class held its collective breath until she finally looked away. Satisfied Furia wouldn't erupt into violence at his absence, Yarrick left. The rest of the lecture was uneventful, with Mr. Bile emphasizing the importance of memorizing the nine steps of the primary gluconeogenesis cycle for tomorrow's test. He assigned minimal homework, a few questions about transamination, deamination and the importance of the primary glucol precursors to the metabolism of various lifeforms. Still, this elicited a groan of displeasure from well over half the class and they filed out in a rush. Miranda was the last one at the door, stopping at Fabius Bile's desk as he prepared a neat stack of papers.
"Mr. Bile?"
"Yes, Miranda?" His head lolled to one side, a single bleary eye staring at her.
"How long has that student, Douglas, been attending this class?"
Mr. Bile settled his head down, nestling it comfortably on the stack of ungraded homework. "For two weeks, Lady Miranda, the same as the rest of the class. Why?"
"No reason, I just don't remember seeing him before."
The only response was the low drone of Fabius' contented sleep. Miranda hurried out the door. Her next class was at least a five minute walk away, and that was without the press of bodies all moving to their own classrooms. I need to hurry.
Miranda didn't even notice the gentle pull that quirked her step sideways, causing her to collide with a sandy-haired young man. Books fell everywhere and Miranda leaned down to pick up one she brought from home, 'A Treatise on the Relationship of Conventional Attitude with the Flow of Rogue Aether Currents', by Ulrik Harald. Her hand settled on the book, but before she could pick it up another hand landed on hers. Miranda looked up into the clear blue eyes of a young man, a senior. She blushed and instinctively peered through the warp. At the same time, the boy blushed, but didn't remove his hand. Miranda saw him swirl with embarrassment and enjoyment at the warmth of her hand. They both pulled their hands back simultaneously while she read the complex welter of emotions and thoughts pouring out of him. He opened his mouth, but sputtered awkwardly. Miranda smiled graciously as she stood, then extended her hand.
"Sorry, I just, you know, I got into a rush and wasn't- I'm Miranda."
The boy took her hand gently and shook it, "I- I'm Arthur, but my friends call me Castor."
Miranda blushed again and felt a rush as she picked through the threads winding to lunch, settling on one in particular.
The Smell of Betrayal
Furia smirked to herself as she revved Gorechild, tearing out one last burst of speed before Bullshit High came into view. The look on Roberta's prissy face played out in her head over and over again, and she could practically hear those idiots on the bus laughing while they pointed at her. Gorechild throttled down reluctantly and yielded to her direction, pulling around to the protected parking area. The Primarch's daughter coasted her rumbling monstrosity easily into the motorbike section, settling uncomfortably close to Hana's comparatively small chopper. She hopped down and took off her helmet, revealing hazel eyes and finely scarred features. A hand slashed through red hair to let some air circulation back in, then rummaged through her bag, setting her blue skirt in motion. The untucked shirt swayed and moved along with the increasing fervor of the search, sleeves rolled up to the elbow in the manner most IH students preferred. Furia's features began to twist in frustration. Her nose, thin, straight and pointed, twitched. She grunted, and her healthy lips broke free of their grimace as the digging finally ended. A match flared to life on Hana's bike, lighting up the lho-stick and illuminating a broadening grin.
"Pretty good fuckin' day so far," Furia muttered around the tightly rolled bundle of smoldering tabac fronds, inhaling deeply.
Have a smoke with Coby, put away my shit and try to stay sane 'til lunch. She nodded smoothly at the inventory of her daily goals, another hard drag nearly burning out the feeble paper, then ambled up to the school entrance. The helmet received her gentlest treatment, a short free-fall to hard ground, as Furia leaned up against the rockcrete wall. After a few minutes she looked around, then flicked her smoke out into the lot structure before lighting up another.
Where is that dumb bastard anyway? Furia started the fourth lho of the day, then scratched her chin, a sure sign of her steadily increasing annoyance. Stumblefuck probably forgot to set his alarm.
Furia waited a few more minutes, scratching her stomach absentmindedly. She began to pull out yet another smoke, then decided against it, feeling a sudden urge to take a leak. Rough, slender hands scooped up the scratched headgear and pushed the door open, her eyes barely glaring at the seething horde of teenagers. Furia's reputation preceded her, as usual, and the idea got chalked up in the pro list, some small part of her satisfied that people went out of their way to avoid pissing her off. Furia got to her locker and pulled it open. The lock had disagreed with her once, a couple years ago, and, after a few kicks, came to see her point of view. The school had decided to simply let her keep the locker, wisely reasoning it cheaper than giving her a new one to ruin every year. The locker was checked and everything was exactly as she left it last week. Have to be a fucking moron to take any of my shit.
The jacket was hung gently next to a stack of papers and books, the helmet wedged into an almost perfectly shaped dent in the upper corner. Furia's memory kicked into overdrive at the sight, wave after wave of 'stuff, slam, tug'; of the helmet's predecessors slowly forcing the necessary impression onto the thin metal before they broke or were lost. The Lady Primarch shoved a pair of books into her bag, barely remembering to check if they were the right ones, then slammed the door closed before wending her way to the nearest girls' bathroom. She looked down to her bag, deciding she might as well have another smoke while she was here, and opened the door, too preoccupied to notice the telltale hat hanging on the outside handle. The lho-stick ascended to Furia's mouth, the paper roll sinking cozily into the natural part of her lips. She struck a match on her pleated school skirt, then brought the light up with both hands, cupping it as she tenderly stoked the flame into being. Furia inhaled again, the last scrap of fresh tabac scent giving way to scorched leaf and heady pleasure.
She wrinkled her nose. Furia was by no means as sensitive as her cousin, Freya, when it came to picking out smells, but something was... sweaty. Pungent. Cloying. Even as she heard the voice, Furia realized what that smell was. Victoria. Equal parts honey and smoke, Victoria's throaty laugh sang out.
"You think she's still in here?" She continued to breathe rhythmically and Furia focused, rage building. What the fuck is daddy's little slut doing in my bathroom? The male's breathing became clearer now, as he struggled to keep himself in the game.
"Ooh, come on, baby. Yesss." Furia couldn't help but cringe at Victoria's cheesy, fake-sounding line. Or at how well it worked. The heavy male breathing jumped up a notch.
"Oh, don't do that, baby, I'm having a hard enough time as it i-nnnnnghh-ahh yeah."
Furia stopped dead in her tracks. She recognized that voice. She felt hot, her eyes suddenly began to wet. Something crisp rang through her head, like the clean snap of a glass rod breaking. She began to inhale.
"So, anyway, I was saying we should just go ahead and get it out of the way tonight. No reason to put it off until the end of the semester, you know?" The other girl nodded sagely, as if her two weeks' experience in high school qualified her perfectly on the matter. She opened her mouth to reply, but something exploded. An inarticulate roar thundered from the restroom, followed shortly thereafter by the room's door and a worn-looking hat. More screaming, the crunch of shattering wood and drywall, followed by a bone-jarring stomping. A quivering mass of crimson anger burst forth and in its wake stumbled a young man, curly dark hair bobbing as he shuffled awkwardly, trying to fasten his fly back together.
"Don't be like that, baby! I wanna fuck you, too!"
The entire hallway went still. There were no noises, no extraneous movement as every eye slowly turned to stare at Coby Trelan. Although a professed “aspiring engineer,” Coby was a landed Martian noble scion. He relied more on the influence of family and friends than any great intelligence to ensure a comfortable career after college. Still, the undeniable stupidity of his own statement slowly dawned on Coby. Just in time not to be surprised when a pale, freshly scarred fist threw him bodily into the wall, narrowly missing the emergency fire alarm. Coby sputtered and tried to verbally backpedal, years of crude guile and hyperbole leaving him torn between avoiding, outright lying or possibly just apologizing. He decided, and an insincere apology began.
"I didn't mean it that way-".
Instead, it turned into a wheeze as Furia's foot solidly connected with his muscled abdomen. She kicked a few more times, halfheartedly, and the anger began to dissipate, saving the young man from any serious injury. Furia staggered back out into the hall, trying to work herself up to another burst of anger, anything to avoid the betrayal and abandonment etching themselves slowly into her mind again. Furia stalked down the hall, kicking an open locker door off its hinges. A trashcan, cast from plastic to resemble tasteful limestone, rocked just slightly as she walked through it. Her hand shot out instinctively, lifting it while her right leg swung upwards. The mangled garbage can soared up at a sixty degree angle, catching in the subtly disguised drop ceiling, where it teetered as the girl walked underneath. After she passed it finally gave way, cheap mineral fiber underneath the tile's veneer crumbling and falling alongside its wounded compatriot.
Word of Furia's fresh rampage spread quickly and the hallway parted seemingly as one being, none daring to get within arm's reach of Angron's daughter. The haze started to lift and adrenaline faded, but her heartbeat seemed to speed up, blood flowing from her hands to her head. Furia's breathing grew more ragged, each exhalation threatening to turn into a sob. She looked down, hand over her eyes. A short blonde girl stumbled and tripped as she tried to get out of the way. Who the fuck does he think he is? Furia berated him, then herself. Stupid, never should've trusted that asshole, always so goddamn smiley. Shoulda stayed with that chickenshit... what was his name? Calvin? So entranced was Furia in her self-loathing she didn't even notice the bulky backpack glide perfectly into the middle of the hallway.
At least, not until she ran into it. Furia's face contorted, brows knotting with rage, teeth clenching impossibly tighter at the affront. Her eye twitched, and her mouth curled into a sneer.
"Oh, I need this."
The brown-haired boy started to turn, wondering who bumped into him. Before he could see, though, a foot smashed into the backpack, momentarily exposing his lower back. Furia's fist plowed into tissue and flesh, throwing the unsuspecting senior into the row of lockers, back arched at a disquieting angle. She turned away, her expression a fraction less enraged than it had been moments ago.
Furia began to move again, left hand already rooting through her bag, trying to find the small pack of lho-sticks. But she stopped short and looked back, her countenance wrenching into outrage as she saw the target of her aggression shake his head, still standing. Furia latched onto his left shoulder and two more blows hammered into his back. Almost smiling now, she cocked her arm for another uppercut when it finally happened.
"FUUURRRRIIIAAA!" Dean Yarrick's voice boomed from around the corner. Students began ducking into classrooms, now more interested in avoiding the former commissar's wrath than seeing the spectacle unfold. Students moved towards the nearby Biology door while Furia turned toward the heavy clomp of her nemesis' boots. She released her grip on the erstwhile student, who sagged heavily into the still open locker.
"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT, SEBASTIAN?" Furia looked at the dean, ignoring the slow, steady breathing of her latest punching bag. Even in the hall the exchange quickly became all but indecipherable. An observant and experienced viewer would notice the gradual change in Furia's eyes, as the fight-or-fight response trickled away and she began to lose steam. It took Yarrick a moment to notice and drop his own voice accordingly.
"Furia, do we really have to do this again? How many times do I have to catch you beating another student to a pulp before-" Yarrick gestured at the hobbled student. He turned to emphasize his point and stopped dead. The student was regarding him over-shoulder with a mild, curious look as he pulled books from his locker, then stuffed the heavy backpack inside. Furia couldn't help but feel a little amused as the old soldier's single eye grew wide with confusion, then narrowed in indignation. Dean Yarrick turned and grabbed the student roughly, oversized claw scraping crazily against the lockers as he pivoted.
"YOU."
"Yes, Dean Yarrick?" His voice was modulated, even pleasant. An eyebrow crooked up, as if he couldn't possibly be aware of what the administrator needed.
"Name. Now." Yarrick's face quickly regained composure, despite the fresh anger creeping up his neck. Furia could see the veins beginning to stand, ready to pulse to life in a literal heartbeat.
"Douglas. Douglas Hanlon." Douglas stretched out his right hand, then apologized quickly, exchanging it for his left. "Sir."
Yarrick shook the offered hand harshly. "And you expect me to believe she wasn't just laying into you?" Yarrick's glare intensified, his eye boring into the young man.
"Well, we did bump into each other, but, I assure you, nothing untoward happened. In fact, I was just about to apologize to miss...?" Doug turned and looked at Furia questioningly.
She glanced at him, then at Yarrick, then back at Doug. Her eye twitched threateningly as she realized the implication of his words. Furia wasn't angry that he didn't know who she was, she could care less about that. But, while Remilia prided herself on her soccer-playing and Venus on her swimming, Furia took great satisfaction in illustrating her physical ability as bluntly as possible, generally with her fists. With a supreme act of will Furia managed to control herself and force a small smile.
"Furia. Lady. Primarch. Furia." She noticed movement and saw that his hand was now hovering placidly in front of her. Her jaw clenched, but Furia saw Yarrick's steely gaze turn back to her and reluctantly gripped the hand. So hard, in fact, that Douglas' knuckles popped and whitened, the blood within forced out through sheer pressure.
"Doug." He withdrew his hand. "Strong grip." Doug smiled, amused at his small joke, then coughed when he saw the furious looks on the pair facing him. "Is there anything else, Dean?"
"No, that will be all. Furia, my office. NOW." Yarrick grabbed Furia collar and drug her away, the sound of a lone locker closing followed them, chased by the patter of fast steps down the hard floor. Furia sighed, knowing that Yarrick would be ranting for at least ten minutes, and she'd come out of it a month's allowance lighter in her wallet for the damage.
Yarrick finished his speech, the veins on his neck finally boiling down. He and Furia glared at each other in silence for five long minutes.
The Dean pulled out a silvery flask, understated filigree resolving briefly into the Imperial Guard's skull-and-wings icon before the angle changed. He took a long pull and paused, still staring. After another minute he nodded and passed Furia the flask. She threw her head back, taking fully half of the ash whiskey down, then handed it back and nodded in turn. The liquid traced a thin, warming line down her throat and into her stomach. Soon enough the edge started to wane, the anger and other feelings started to subside. A quarter pint of ash whiskey would be more than enough to send the average seventeen year old into a stupor, and even most of her cousins, far more resistant to the effects of alcohol than baseline humans, would be buzzing right now. But Furia was a step above them, and in the short time she'd known about tabac, alcohol and other things had gone a step further. She felt only the faintest bit of warmth in her head, the precursor to a buzz. In minutes it would be gone, but the feeling was enough to drive off the violence for now. Yarrick began to organize paperwork as Furia stood, a little calmer, and adjusted her bag before he stood as well, and she followed him out.
In a Menacing Sort of Way
A tall kid in a black coat stepped off the airbus and hoisted a backpack smoothly over his shoulder. The bus waited a moment, as if in deference to his presence, then the doors started to close. He began to walk just in time for his long black tails to clear the pneumatic hiss of the closing entrance, and the fabric leapt up as the repulsor wells vectored their cargo back into the city. The day was still cool this early in the morning, and Doug guessed it may very well be the last temperate day of the year. Long legs ate up the clean, squared pavement and dark eyes took in the sights. Startseite was a charming little town, a throwback to the old days of Terra far before the Unification Wars and the Technobarbarian kingdoms. Houses–mansions, really, but still small compared to the massive spires above and the arco-structures below–dotted the area. Each had their own parcel of land and each was surrounded by lush green grass and some form of fence, from stone fortification to rare nalwood picket.
The air breezed easily through the open, comfortable neighborhood, carrying the scents of various trees, plants, animals and open garages. Under it all clung the distinctive bite of pseudoweather, ingrained so thoroughly in the noses of Terra's residents they didn't even notice its presence. Doug, native to an extrasegmental agriworld called Bolanion, couldn't help the pseudoair fouling his enjoyment of the ebbing dawn. Dark brown eyes, nearly black throughout, but lightening around the pupil, stared lazily ahead. A roman nose sat over thin, almost colorless lips and a clean-shaven chin. The breeze picked up again, stirring short, fine hair the color of palm bark. Doug heard in the distance a massive rumbling, the roar of a powerful engine, and the faint squeak of an embarrassed young woman. He sighed, then brought a hand up to his ear. The minute, flesh-colored comm-link activated at the wave, then received his near subvocal message.
“Callie, report.”
“White, Doug! White!” The voice was clearly ecstatic, and despite how loud it was, Doug could hear many other voices, a bus full of worked up high schoolers. “Roberta wears white p-”
He sighed. “Was anyone hurt, Callie?” He could almost picture her bright blue eyes wide with excitement, how much of it was for the gossip and how much was physical was up for debate.
“No, she's fine. Embarrassed as hell, though. You think she'll try to get back at Furia?” A sound rasped through the earpiece, one Doug well knew. Callie was brushing her golden blonde hair over the equipped ear, each strand scraping and the sound echoing into her eardrum. The wheels in her head were turning, equal parts remembering Roberta's embarrassment and what she could do with the information. Callie was an attractive girl, an unnaturally flexible gymnast and capable social engineer. She had a talent for knowing just where to place and exactly how to phrase a comment for maximum effect. As well, the junior was possessed of a nearly inexhaustible wellspring of rumor and supposition. She herself was the subject of much of this gossip, at least as many around the school proper as Lady Primarch Victoria.
Back-fence talk abounded that Callie had slept with every member of the scrumball team; the entire, and entirely female, morale squad; the female half-Eldar transfer student; the Interex, Johor Tull, with or without his best friend Farah Manus; Victoria, a perennial favorite in the bedroom and shower; both Alpharia and Omegan and, finally, any number of the other Royal Daughters. Unsurprisingly, Callie encouraged these rumors. As of late her attentions had been focused on more challenging targets: Doug, the newest member of her group; Julius Pius, a risky endeavor, considering his relationship with Isis Lupercal; and Vincent Levi DeCare. She'd already known Vin for years, and flirted with him like a smart woman playing the lottery. Callie didn't expect to win, but found it worth the effort for the possible payoff.
“I doubt Roberta will attempt any reprisals against Furia. Vin?”
“Cora and Kelly were delayed by conversation.” The voice was clipped and even, more modulated than Doug's. “They should arrive on time.”
“Any problems?”
“Cora forgot her lunch.”
“Unfortunate, but not dangerous. Thank you, Vin.” Vincent was as large as Doug, though the Tali native cut the difference between his fellow senior's tall, rangy body and their companion Ev's short, powerful build. A capable athlete and natural tactician, Vin preferred solo events, track and field taking a close second to swimming. This year he'd focused on Ladies Venus and Isis as his 'performance targets.' Vin was a powerful swimmer who far outstripped most of his classmates, but he fell short of the Ladies' literally superhuman benchmarks. This didn't seem to trouble him and, when pressed, Vin would always reply that he 'preferred to take the long, difficult shot over the easy one.' The handsome, brooding, gray-eyed and black-haired teenager was the subject of extensive speculation by female Imperatores. Much of it centered around the great deal of time he spent at the local coffee and bagel shop, making stilted conversation with one of the female Eldar proprietors. Vin was always the first to sign up for morning detail, and always picked Cora and Kelly for the opportunity to spend his short free time each morning at the cafhouse.
“Janus?” Vin's laser-like focus on one job at a time was in stark contrast to Janus' inability to keep on task when Callie or any of the blonde Daughters were around. “Janus?”
“Huh. Oh- oh yeah? A- Affirmative.” Doug could all but hear the boy blushing, whether due to Callie's excitement or the thought of what provoked her state was unknowable.
More than likely both. “Angela, Janus. Her status?”
“Right. She's fine.” If anything the boy's voice became even more distracted.
Still, Doug knew he was being honest. Unfortunate, but he has to watch Angela, she never suspects a thing from him because of his obvious infatuation. Doug himself was always shadowing Miranda Magnus; between his discipline and domus mnemonic Doug had been trailing her every day for two weeks without being detected.
Janus blushed when he realized he was being observed in turn by Angela, and pushed harder on his bike, trying to keep up with the rocket-assisted Daughter soaring away. In his downtime, Janus Sigitine was buried in his latest book, at least, when he wasn't fawning over Callie or one of the Daughters. A voracious reader of everything Emperor-related and many religious texts, no one would hesitate to label the Titan-born Junior as a spiritual person. He somehow eluded the persecution Catherics and Emperor worshipers drew, though this was likely because of his apparent lack of any true religious beliefs. An unsanctioned Epsilon-level psyker, the shy boy carried himself with a quiet dignity and ignored conjecture about the extent of his psychic abilities or his presence outside the Scholastica Psykana.
“Chucho?” Janus could always be found at the opposite end of any gathering from Chucho Alexis. The short, pale boy hailed from a Southern Merican hive city and had a drawn, flat face with sunken gray eyes. Most of the other students were quite unnerved by the freshman when they bothered to notice him, and psykers outright refused to remain in his presence. Still, the withdrawn boy proved to be even more socially insightful than Callie when asked, having spent his life quietly people watching. Most of the group felt sorry for Chucho, but not much could be done besides giving him a group to sit with, somewhere to belong. He was fiercely loyal to his friends, as they accepted him more closely than even his own family did.
“Safe, on time.” The fit young man had no problem keeping up with traffic through the city, even following cars. He drew near his charge once more, and Remilia let out a small shudder, looking around. She saw nothing and suddenly felt better as she took off again, another intersection closer to Imperator High. Chucho smiled to himself, an expression no one saw, before he moving into the next alley.
“Ev, report. Why are you so close to the school already?”
“I dunno, man. Victoria prodded her little gang into gear fast today, in a rush to get there early. You think I'd have a shot with her?” The sandy-haired sophomore's honey brown eyes kept darting around, cheeks flushing at the thought. Ev was by far the most muscular of the group, and exuded a physicality that belied his size. While he stood at only 1.6 m, the boy was more than capable of overpowering most everyone else in school, and had set the school's bench press weightlifting record higher and higher four times in the two years he'd been attending.
Doug sighed. “Unfortunately so, Ev. But you know that's a proscribed activity. We're supposed to observe and protect, never interfere except for their benefit. And as for that... I can only imagine one faster way to get removed by father.”
Ev gulped. “Right, right. Guy can dream though, right? You think she'd ever get into a fight with Fre-”
Doug cut him off. “Violet?”
“Yeah?” Vivian 'Violet' Munev was a sophomore with a penchant for biology and chemistry. She commanded twofold notoriety: first, for being the only student ever to best Isis in the yearly Ascension Day baking contest; and second, for her large, startlingly violet eyes. Shipped in from Cadia, Violet rarely spoke of the military experience she had as a result of living there from birth to the age of six. The olive-skinned, dark-haired girl was perhaps the most unreadable of the group, even within its own ranks. She wasn't stoic, like Vin, or unnaturally composed, like Doug or Callie, but simply unpredictable. She veered wildly from one emotion to the next, almost always one flavor or another of excitement over one of her many hobbies and interests. “Oh, right, Farah's gonna be a little late. She got stuck in the garage doing something and only left because Johor showed up to remind her it's time to go. You think he's ever going to tell her how he feels? And how do his ears work, is that all genetic or is there some surgical modification? I wonder-”
“That will be quite enough Violet, thank you. I should be coming upon my own charges in few minutes.”
Doug continued for another ten minutes, privately enjoying the small trip, the town's imperfect reflection of the home he'd left behind months ago, the sights, sounds and smells, before finally putting his earplugs in, the right snugging neatly over his comm-link. With five minutes left in the journey Sol came out of the sparse cloud cover in earnest, quickly warming the air and giving a brisk undertone to the crispness of the dying morning.
Life seemed to stir at this new light, though Doug knew more than anything it was due his proximity to the school. His destination, Imperator High. The building itself finally appeared from around the last great stone obstruction's corner. It was large and, like most public buildings, primarily built of rockcrete. The outside was layered with old-style brick, giving the institution a dignified grandeur at odds with the other visible construction. The roar sounded again, this time promptly fading to a low rumble as it entered the school's protected parking area. A sea green gravcar, top-of-the-line model, zipped by just after, and Doug assessed its contents in turn: Isis Lupercal, daughter of Warmaster Horus, was the driver, obvious from her tumble of pale blonde hair and orange eyes. Selphy Talbot, face downcast not in sadness, but eternal gossip, was in the front passenger's seat, topknot threatening to obscure the driver's view with each swish of her head. Behind Selphy sat a slight and unassuming, but attractive blonde girl, whom he guessed by the lavender hairband and frigid blue eyes was Petra Perturabo. Finally, another face appeared just as the car left sight, a great fall of thick red hair and an even redder single eye just visible before it all vanished. Miranda Magnus, no doubt. Seventeen years, and they are nearly done with their basic education. I wonder how we will be assigned after this summer?
The school seemed almost welcoming as Doug made for the front entrance, unimpeded by any need to park in the rear lot. Dozens of students, a ridiculous number for such a small town, were slowly working their way toward the two-layer double doors. Most are from the upper spires, of course. Doug slipped through the press of bodies easily, height and agility revealing and easing his path. The journey through the school's interior was just slower, until the last great wave of students piled in behind him, seeming to buoy him forward on a swell of resignation and hope for an easy day. Locker #447 appeared from the great mass of students, left bare just for its occupant, Doug Hanlon. He spun through the combination easily, impeccable memory and sensitive fingers guiding it through the proper numbers and turns. Despite the effortless unlocking Doug's locker had its own charms. Specifically, it was a stubborn as a mule, and refused to open except to great pressure at the proper angle. Doug shed his backpack and removed his coat, revealing a crisp white button up shirt at odds with the almost identical garments around. While every other student rolled up their sleeves and left their collars up, Doug's sleeves lay long and buttoned at the wrist, his collar fastened tidily down. The shirt was tucked neatly and evenly into flat front black pants, themselves ending over clean, glossy shoes a brown almost as dark as his eyes.
The long coat folded neatly in half and lay over his left arm, the right hoisting the heavy backpack easily up onto his shoulder. Doug's right hand felt around to the side pocket, noting that the squaring clamp was still in place; he'd been planning to fix this locker since his first day, and only recently had the free time and credits to design and assemble the necessary tool. The pack slid all the way to his back and Doug braced himself to battle the locker one last time. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the sea green car's occupants take up position on the opposite wall, chatting while they waited for class to start. He felt a prickle, a feeling he'd long come to attribute to psychic probing. Miss Magnus seems to have noticed my mnemonic. Just then a loud bang echoed down the hall, then another, quieter bang followed by a near-complete hushing of the student body. A dull slap sounded, the telltale signature of a small body hitting the floor and Doug chanced a look in the offending direction.
A shock of short, bloodred hair snapped into view, swaying gently atop the striding form of Furia Angron. She was clearly on the warpath, teeth clenched, temple throbbing, limbs swinging in hard, short motions. The crowd parted, allowing her through and exposing Doug to an unexpected sight. He caught a clear view of her eyes: Furia's brow was knotted in anger, her high cheeks rising further underneath with rage. But her hazel eyes were not maddened. They were soft, and tears were just visible at the corners. A hand darted up swiftly, removing his left earplug, and Doug heard her breathing. It was heavy, fast, but only in imitation of fury. It was all a mask, hiding a sadness that seemed somehow terribly recognizable to Doug. The plan formulated in an instant, and Doug began to pull on his locker again, gauging the resistance he'd long become used to. Should be no more than ten seconds. He shifted his stance, pushing the right shoulder and backpack a little farther into the hall. You shouldn't do this, you know. Doug considered the thought, then remembered those eyes again, a doleful hazel. It wouldn't do to have her storm out of the school. It's far more dangerous outside. Nodding with self-justification, Doug executed his plan to perfection. The door broke free of its comrade's tight embrace and Doug slid back, perhaps a quarter of a meter. Just far enough to bump into Furia Angron, who responded immediately with a growl.
“Oh, I need this.”
Beautiful voice. Sultry, even. In a menacing sort of way.
Doug began to turn, but only began when the backpack was kicked away and a prodigiously strong punch, far more powerful than any he'd received in combat training, sank into his right kidney. He felt a peculiar sickness rise in his stomach, and thanked long years of muscle control training as his bladder strained against shock and ballooning pressure. Doug began to sink forward into the locker's embrace, and heard the rustle of hand in bag as Furia turned to leave once more. We can't have that. Doug stood, making a show of shaking his head, and was rewarded with two more powerful blows. He hadn't realized how much she was holding back the first time.
The locker claimed him fully this time, and Doug returned to his senses minutes later feeling heavy, sick and aching. He became aware of a monstrous roar behind him. No, two monsters. And, as his faculties returned completely, finally managed to separate them out into Furia and Dean Yarrick. Doug breathed carefully, slowly regaining his composure, then hung the coat neatly in his locker. The backpack opened next, the small bag of squaring clamp parts seated themselves on the eye level shelf, and books slid out into the lower part of the locker.
"Furia, do we really have to do this again? How many times do I have to catch you beating another student to a pulp before-" Yarrick gestured at the victim, then turned to emphasize his point and stopped dead. Doug was regarding him over-shoulder with a mild, curious look as he pulled books from his locker, then stuffed the backpack inside. Furia's compelling features crooked into an amused smile, and Doug barely hid his own reflexive grin when her hazel eyes twinkled with glee. The old soldier's single organic eye grew wide with confusion, then narrowed in indignation. Dean Yarrick turned and grabbed the student roughly, oversized claw scraping crazily against the lockers as he pivoted.
"YOU."
"Yes, Dean Yarrick?" Doug's voice was modulated, even pleasant, barely concealing the fresh pain coursing through his back. An eyebrow crooked up, as if he couldn't possibly be aware of what the administrator needed.
"Name. Now." Yarrick's face quickly regained composure, despite the fresh anger creeping up his neck. Doug could see the veins beginning to stand, ready to pulse to life in a literal heartbeat.
"Douglas. Douglas Hanlon." Doug stretched out his right hand, then apologized quickly, exchanging it for his left. "Sir."
Yarrick shook the offered hand harshly. "And you expect me to believe she wasn't just laying into you?" Yarrick's glare intensified, his eye boring into the young man.
"Well, we did bump into each other, but, I assure you, nothing untoward happened. In fact, I was just about to apologize to miss...?" Doug turned and looked at Furia questioningly.
She glanced at him, then at Yarrick, then back at the senior. Her eye twitched threateningly, but she managed to control herself and force a small smile. "Furia. Lady. Primarch. Furia."
Doug offered his hand to the Lady Primarch and, after a long moment she took it. So hard, in fact, that Doug's knuckles popped and whitened, the blood within forced out through sheer pressure.
"Doug." He withdrew his hand. "Strong grip." Doug smiled, as if amused at his small joke, then coughed when he saw the furious looks on the pair facing him. "Is there anything else, Dean?"
"No, that will be all. Furia, my office. NOW." Yarrick grabbed Furia by the collar and drug her away.
Doug nodded jauntily, allowing a small smile to the departing commissar and sighing Furia, then slammed his locker shut and and raced to the bathroom. A shaky hand closed and locked the door, and he all but fell onto the sink. His stomach contorted and leapt as the vomit poured out of him. After what seemed an eternity of retching Doug finally stopped, legs and arms shaking, and looked at himself in the mirror, his features miserable with pain and sickness. Bad move, Doug. You shouldn't have involved yourself with a Daughter. Not part of your operational parameters. His skin had paled considerably, a stark white as clean and lifeless as the wall behind him. The sudden loss of blood gave lie to his dermal treatments, synthetic patches revealing a lifetime's worth of concealed scars and marks etched into his face.
He turned the water on, scarcely able to support himself with a single arm, and sunk to his elbows. Why did you do that, Doug? Cold water splashed onto his face, pulling him out of his semi-torpid state, and he waited. Furia's eyes came to mind again, sad before, but simply annoyed after. She is rather cute when she's angry. After another minute of steady breathing the feeling of sickness, of turmoil and upset in his core, finally subsided. As it passed, the dull ache of his lower back swelled to life, carrying a familiar urgency, and Doug darted over to the urinal. His bladder evacuated, the tinge of red slowly fading as the thankfully short process wound to completion, and he cleaned himself up. Doug flushed the bloody paper in a toilet and made to go, pausing only to check the condition of his back before leaving.
Three larger than fist-sized bruises overlapped there, the dark purple fading out to sickly green, and he gently massaged the area, wincing slightly. He tucked the shirt back in and hoisted his books once more. After taking a moment to compose himself Doug pushed back out into the hallway, towards Biology. The effort was almost unbearable, but he knew he had to hide the limp, pretend the bruising wasn't there. It was harder to hide the anxiety, even justified as his actions seemed at the time. Doug's initial Appraisal was long past, but the lessons had been drilled into him regardless. He'd interposed himself in the life a Royal Daughter. Even if only in the smallest positive way. There will be repercussions, regardless.
Doug opened the Bio door and walked in, his face flushed but otherwise unperturbed. "My apologies, Professor Bile, I had an unexpected need to use the restroom." The words rolled out casually, easily. He'd long learned that lying and avoiding the specific truth were entirely different things, and that the latter was much harder to notice.
"Of course, Douglas." Mr. Bile nodded and mumbled in agreement, but didn't stop laying out his lesson plan. Doug strolled to the back of the room and sat down, wincing a little at the feeling of the seat against his aching back. Soon enough the cool plastic and metal soothed him, if only just so, and he opened his textbook. Doug felt the prickle again, the gentle touch as a psyker tried to sense his surface thoughts. He was sure it was Miranda, the only psyker he was aware of in the class, but said nothing, letting the long built walls of his mnemonic home do their work.
The Lordly Fitness Test
The day was crisp and clear. The air was noticeably colder out than it had been last week, but still mild, maybe the last mild day of the year. Students milled around, some performing their tasks, others simply wasting time. Miranda, ever the dutiful student, panted as she finally finished her last activity, the shuttle run.
Not quite up to Isis' standards. She looked over at the other Daughters. But at least I finished ahead of Faith this time.
Miranda felt eyes on her and looked behind her to see Arthur staring very obviously. He blushed and turned away, leaving Miranda to smile sheepishly as she considered walking over to talk to him.
On the other side of the field, Janus Sigitine was gasping for breath, far worse than Miranda was. Despite the physical conditioning he'd undergone, Janus' thin body never seemed to take to muscle mass.
I should be able to run, at least.
He threw an arm onto the goalpost, bracing himself as long, dry breaths rasped through his throat. Janus felt something, something bad, and looked up. He was surprised to see Angela Sanguinius drifting across the field. Her wings twitched slightly, reacting to a breeze that didn't even rustle her gym shorts. Janus focused on those shorts, on her legs, and Angela turned. He suddenly remembered that she, too, was a psyker.
A blush came over Janus as he tried to pry his eyes away from Angela's torso, the flowing of her hair and her bright blue eyes. He felt the faintest tinge of anger, until Angela saw him, when it turned into barely concealed laughter while she walked away, still seeming to drift over the ground.
Janus sank. I'm not even worth getting mad about. Another pair of blue eyes caught his from across the field and Janus saw Coach Kell glaring as he suddenly remembered worrying about something bad a minute ago, so he began to run again, trying to catch up with the blue eyes, with his friends Callie and Violet.
Assistant Coach Kell eyed the time wasters, watching one start to run again, then settled on another in particular.
"YOU!" Kell separated the flushed student from his peers with an out-thrust finger, amplifier causing his voice to pound through the boy. "HOW MANY ACTIVITIES HAVE YOU COMPLETED?!"
"F-four, Coach Kell." Arthur shivered a little in his track shoes, then sighed in relief as Kell moved on.
"FURIA!" Kell, like Yarrick, was one of the few who could hope to outmatch Furia verbally, though only because of his vocal amplification. "How many events have you completed?"
"Five, Kell. Lay off." Furia exhaled and rolled her eyes, leaning against the wall.
"You're a Primarch for Emperor's sake, now get out there and finish your last task!" Kell stomped away, completely missing the grin playing over her face.
Fine. Furia stepped away from the wall, then continued across the field. Directly ahead, and under Head Coach Creed's direct observation, was a small platform. About three meters in diameter, the stone dais held a pair of students fighting, hand to hand, one attempting to lock the other into a choke-hold from behind. After another moment's grappling the ploy succeeded, and Creed called an end to the bout.
"Good, good, thirty-five seconds, Jonas. Next!" Assistant Coach Kell trundled up. "YOU HEARD THE HEAD COACH! NEXT!"
Creed smiled, clenching an unlit cigar squarely between his teeth. When Furia stepped up and waved, he simply smiled a little wider. He didn't expect anyone to take the challenge, after all. That's Furia Angron. So, when a tall, brown-haired young man stepped forward and waved as well, Creed let out a small laugh. Biting off more than you can chew once or twice is a good learning experience. The look on Furia's face worried him a bit, what with her eyes bulging so. Just as long as you come out the other side intact.
"How high?" One of the first changes Creed made to the athletic program was the inclusion of combat training. Basic stuff, no real weapons, a few minor wargames. Still, the faux stone pillar looked out of place among the tracks, baseball diamond and the high jump stand some six meters away. He'd intended it be taken mostly by those who planned on military service. Every year, though, more than a few kids looking to prove themselves to their buddies had hopped on. And then there are the Daughters. Freya Russ, Furia and Hana Khan stood out, of course, but many of the Daughters had taken a turn or two on the Rock, and physical education's 'No Recording' policy had been instituted only minutes after Freya and Hana's first bout started three years ago.
"Three meters." Furia growled out as she stepped forward.
"And you, kid?"
"Doug, Coach. Four-and-a-half meters, please. If Miss Angron doesn't mind."
"Yeah, that's fine, let's get this show on the road." Furia hopped up on the currently meter high pedestal and Doug did so as well, stepping neatly up and standing on the opposing edge. Creed nodded and Kell turned the crank, manually engaging the lifting mechanism. The process seemed to take forever, the pillar slowly lifting and rotating. It was all part of the program, giving the contestants time to see how high they were going, to stare down their opponent. Finally the platform ground into place and Creed looked down at his stopwatch.
"Go!"
"GO!" Kell echoed Creed's command, and the bout started.
Furia launched herself into the fight without hesitation. She punch and kicked blindly, elbowed and kneed without thought. She threw every attack she knew in every combination she could think of, rage building. Her opponent stepped and juked, almost dancing, deflecting her attacks with contemptuous ease. Slippery bastard. Furia lost herself in the fight, the sheer physical act, each strike pushing him back a little more, a little closer to his side of the Rock. She pushed out unwanted memories, drowned out grief with rage as she'd been doing all day. Frustration set in after only ten seconds, until Furia saw a clear opening: Doug's head dipped forward, and his right leg drew forward in a tight circle around his left. She leaned back onto one foot, the motion pure reaction. The other swept out at his legs in a broad arc only made viable by her inhuman strength.
The boy exhaled sharply and smiled, almost is if saying Thank you.'
Doug's legs barely braced as he launched into a simple hop. Furia's eyes gaped as it all happened in slow motion. The crook of his knees as her last ditch attack failed, gliding directly under his feet. The lazy pirouette as he spun in the air. The crash of his left foot into her sternum, almost gentle to her superhuman physiology, sending her sprawling over the edge nonetheless.
Falling.
Falling.
Suddenly a hand snatched hers, and Furia looked up into the now familiar face of Doug, sliding closer and closer to the edge as he strained to halt her momentum. She gritted her teeth, baring a grim smile, and pushed with her feet, trying to pull him off and throw him down to the ground. She succeeded in removing Doug from the Rock, then failed to find purchase with her other hand and begin to fall again.
Furia hit the ground hard, but not as hard as she'd expected. Her head lifted off the grass, still spinning from the fall, the not-so-hard landing. "What the fuck just happened?"
"Hh bhhhehf Hh brhhk hhhr fhhll." Furia looked down to see her sizable chest pressed around something. Something with light brown hair. She got angry.
"YOU MOTHERFU-" Furia drew her arm back and up as she savored the word. She'd timed it perfectly, verbal release coinciding with physical impact. As her fist fell through the air toward the gasping young man, she relished the thought of watching his smug face take the hit. One moment she was free and clear. Then, as Furia looked down to see it all play out, her fist smashed into an inexplicable and well-cushioned umpire's vest.
That's the one they use when I pitch. Confusion marred Furia's finely scarred features for only a moment before she heard the match flare up. Eyes and face bulging with anger, Furia Angron watched as the cigar puffed to life between square, clenched teeth.
"CRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-"
Furia sat at Yarrick's desk for the second time that day. Not for the fight: it was part of the LFT, and thus approved, if looked down upon. No, she was in the seat for breaking Clarence Patterson's hearing aid.
I didn't even get halfway to the D.' Yarrick looked at her strangely, but Furia didn't care. By the time I get out of here it'll be time to go home. Where I still have some smokes.
"Your father says you're grounded until the weekend." Yarrick paused. "Of course, Lord Angron. Yes, a low-salt injection."
....
"No, you don't need the foil, but it'll shorten the cook time." Yarrick took another puff, then passed the cigar to Furia. "About 5 hours... Yes, really."
....
"I'd say two or three hours with the foil at that temperature. Yep. Alright, talk to you Saturday night. You bet, Guillimore Dew, nothing better." Yarrick took the cigar back as the final bell range, and nodded once more to Furia before she left for her empty home.
The door slammed shut, far harder than necessary, and only remained intact because it was reinforced to handle the frequent anger and monstrous strength of Furia and her father, Primarch Angron.
Furia's hands were starting to shake, and the feeling, the itch, was coming back. Barely made it back here. She dropped the backpack, not even bothering to throw it anywhere, and made for the kitchen. Furia opened drawers, dug through baskets and cabinets, searching frantically. She barely noticed the blood, the knife that cut her while her hands rummaged.
“Where the fuck are they.” Furia's voice was different now, not the roar it had been earlier, or even the quiet menace that appeared after Yarrick showed up in the hallway before first period. It was higher now, quivering and breathless as the lack of narcotic or adrenaline finally caught up to her.
The feeling of abandonment came back, stronger than ever, and Furia fell to her knees. She started to cry, simple tears at first, then tiny sobs. Something cold settled into her stomach, and she pulled a hand away from the counter to scratch her arm. The tears fell and mixed with blood welling out from under her fingernails, warm and hot. Her hand started to slip from the rounded countertop and Furia looked up. The lho pack sat there and it suddenly seemed to take up the whole of her vision. She felt the itch start to fade, the abandonment recede as her hand crawled forward.
Time sped up when Furia finally touched the pack of lho sticks. She began to dig frantically for a lighter, then remembered it was in her backpack. The stove kicked on instead, and Furia drew the tabac to life with it, uncaring of the blistering heat on her face. The first real inhalation finally came, long and comforting. She fell back against the island and drew down the lho, barely remembering to light the next one off of it.
Doug iced his aching back and arms while playing over the memory again, his fight with Furia on the rock. He'd barely managed to hold off her wild attacks. I'm lucky she so severely underestimated me. The damage to his arms, even with properly executed blocks, was considerable. But the ploy worked, and it had only taken a dozen seconds for Furia to get frustrated and take the well-placed bait.
Lead with the head, and an experienced enemy will follow.
He hadn't expected her to be so off balance as to fall from the Rock, and barely remembered grabbing her hand. Doug recalled the look in Furia's eyes when she caught on. First frustration, annoyance and shock. Then she realized her position. A gleam of anger returned, bolstered by imminent triumph, and then they fell. It hurt, but somehow he felt good. I felt fulfilled. I felt... warm. Doug felt an uncharacteristic blush come over his face.
After the fall Furia was dazed, and took some time to sort out what she was laying on. That warm feeling quickly diminished. And the ringing didn't settle out of his ears for another ten minutes, even with the earplugs in. Still, Doug fared better than Clarence Patterson, and Furia ended up in the Dean's office for the second time that day. Yes, Furia was frustrated, angry and annoyed as she left. But she wasn't sad.
Doug Hanlon felt sleep come on more easily than he had in months as he lay down, because he'd done something good today.
A simple kindness.
He could only hope she felt as peaceful right now as he did.
Fifteen Credits a Kilo - Wednesday, Septembris 14
Davin grunted and hefted the fresh slab of auroch into the clean, almost septic display case. A ruddy-skinned, black-haired man, Davin Burrek was short and stout, and while he needed a stepping stool every now and then, the butcher had no trouble lugging about auroch flanks and loins of even the massive Elgik Blue breed easily. He piddled around a little more, not quite eager to leave despite the approach of closing time. He'd hoped to sell to the regular people of the block, but more and more only the less reputable elements of the block could afford his prices, already so low as to barely allow Davin a living.
He stole another glance at the decrepit old TV. The machine's speakers barely worked, and had been slowly declining in volume over the past few months since Davin had taken up shop. He'd turned the volume knob up to maximum during the first hour of his first day, and found it didn't work. Nuthin' some pliers couldn't take care of. Still, it was dying, and soon he'd have creds enough put back to move up to a higher block, where the regular folk could afford to pay twenty six creds a kilo for albic fillet. And I'm barely paying my bills at that rate. His eyes wandered back to the flickering, almost completely desaturated screen, at the great writhing mass of players locked in struggle over the imperceptible oval-shaped ball. Davin smiled to himself. It's getting' good. The teams had been neck and neck since the end of the first quarter, but he had a feeling that was about to change. The lighter colored team pushed hard, evening the score once more. The ball soared, then went wide off target, another miss from the tiny kicker. He's just not playin' hard enough tonight, they're gonna lose if they don't get it together.
A burly, shaven headed man steamed through an opening in the other team's line out, and ran nearly fifty meters to finally touch down. The ball smashed into the ground, then soared high into the air above the ecstatic prop as he roared to his teammates, riling them up even further. Three quarters of the game in and they'd definitively pulled ahead by one point. Davin couldn't tell which team was from which area, and he didn't care. It was about watching the game, not rooting for one side in particular. They're both good, too. Damn good. The massive scrum developed once more, the intervening action barely discernible through the cracked glass and spotty reception. The sudden last quarter score seemed to give the losing side some fresh motivation, and they threw their all into the offense. Injuries came fast and hard to the other team, and it seemed in the blink of an eye the fly-half had been replaced three times. But now that they had the advantage, the darker uniformed team seemed even more determined to keep it. Through most of the game their playing was brilliant and creative, culminating in a last minute distraction that had opened up the opposition's lines at the start of the last quarter.
But this ain't a game of brains or cleverness. Those traits were rewarded in scrumball as much as anywhere else. Davin liked the game because the most steadfast team won, and the winners were showing it now, overflowing with grit and savagery as they began to score their own injuries. Soon second, third and fourth picks were hobbling back and forth over the battlefield, all but leaving a trail of blood in their wake. And it is a battlefield now. The clock was running down, and both teams seemed to grow more and more ferocious with each passing second, the lighter urging forward, making kicks and short runs. The darker team seemed to block them at every turn, kicks failing and players getting smashed aside by brutal counter-tackles. Davin felt his blood begin to surge. He turned away from the slabs of gleaming red meat, moist and fresh, and focused every fiber of his being on the game. He could see it, see the leading side rally, desperate to take the trophy, not to lose it at- “Fifteen credits a kilo, for ground chuck? Now that's a crime!”
Davin nearly leapt out of his pants at the scrunched old woman standing suddenly before him. Her face was wrinkled, eyes shoved up into the folds like two tiny, malevolent raisins. They were quivering with outrage as she turned her gaze from the window to the butcher.
“You should be ashamed of yourself!”
Davin wasn't one to roll over to pressure, he'd been in his share of fights and arguments, and when he got mad he turned into a bulldog of a man, short and powerful in attitude as well as body. Still, he hadn't quite recovered from the appearance of the old woman. When did she open the door?
“I've been in here for three minutes and you haven't even told me what the specials are! You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Old Pete McLellan ran the butcher's shop on Tripter for fifty years and never treated me so poorly before he passed, bless his heart!” Her voice was a high, irritating shriek, and despite her drawn, wrinkled face, Davin could see a pair of thick wattles flailing around underneath her neck. Her back seemed wrong somehow, almost lumpy in the way some people became as they aged, and her form bulged with fat under heavy coats.
'Specially when they eat too much black soylens. Davin sighed and let the old woman rant on for another five minutes, keeping an eye on the Slide dealer across the street.
“Twelve creds a kilo! And not a credit more or I'll call the block association on you!” The woman was quivering with rage, but the frantic swaying of her neck wattles only made Davin want to laugh.
“Deal.” The woman stopped, eyeing him suspiciously, then began to rummage through her many pockets and bags. After fifteen minutes she'd pulled together sixteen credits worth of old and mostly run down creds. “One and a half kilos.” Davin took the creds, checked them and portioned out the ground auroch chuck without batting an eye at the two creds she'd shorted him.
I'll let 'er have it. Respect your elders an' all that. Especially one this old who can still throw out that kinda fire. He smiled graciously, only eye-to-eye with the woman because of the two centimeter step-up behind the counter, and she waddled off out the entrance, clutching her prize as if it would be taken from her the moment the door closed. She eyed the dealer warily, and he let out a low chuckle around the dimming lho-stick in his mouth.
He watched her tuck the meat away, the package disappearing into the incomprehensible mass of pouches and satchels. A shaped moved in the blackness on the other side of the street, behind the woman, and strong hands pulled her into the darkness. A malformed shape, thick with grime and mutation, smiled evilly as it dragged her deep into the alley.
A low, guttural voice rumbled out of the scavvie. “You got tha' meat, girlie?” A knife gleamed dangerously in the last flicker of a dying lumen strip, and the woman's breathing quavered with fear. The knife disappeared, and a rope took its place, winding slowly around the thick, wattled neck. “You know where you made your mistake?” The clothed head shook feverishly, frizzy, frayed hair pulling loose of the kerchief.
“Even with all these prosthetics and clothes and the stoop–none of which I like having to wear, by the way– You didn't walk right, Doug.” The voice changed, now high, teasing and soft. “You really have to pay more attention to your inserts.”
“We should mix it up, at least every now and then, Callie. No reason to let useful skills, such as heavy makeup and prosthetic fabrication, fall out of practice. And I assumed yesterday's injury would be more than enough to cover the alterations to my gait.” The old woman looked up at the scavvie, eyes mild, speaking in crisp tones. He returned the stare, eyes twinkling with mischief.
“I still don't get what you were thinking, Doug. You're not that clumsy.” The scavvie rolled its bloodshot eyes.
“It was an accident, Callie. Nothing more.” The old woman continued to struggle, putting on a good show for anyone looking too closely. No one was. “I simply lost my balance on account of the close lunch table.”
“Don't try to pull that with me. Who taught you how to lie?” The scavvie pulled the noose a little tighter, causing the old bag to let out a deep yelp.
“Cah-kk-Callie.”
The scavvie's smile returned, wide and lustful. “Damn right I did. Besides, even if I did believe you, Doug, you were almost late today. Why was that?”
“I-ghk.” The lumpy hands finally relented, letting the old woman breathe once more. “Thank you, Callie. I was simply looking for a more expedient means of transportation.”
“Yeah, and Gorechild just happened to be there?”
“Well, she did nearly run me over, Callie. It would've been rude to simply walk away.”
“Keep it up, Doug, and I might start thinking you have a thing for her.” Rough hands twined the rope a little tighter. “Not that I blame you, but you know we're not supposed to do that.”
“As if you have room to talk, Callie. If I remember correctly you were brag-” The noose pulled tight again, and the scavvie began to blush, of all things.
“Shut up! Technically I didn't do anything to her!” The old woman continued to thrash for a long time while the scavvie blushed more deeply, lost in memories. The defiance slowed, and the scavvie finally relented.
Heavy breathing came next, deep and ragged, as the proper color slowly returned to the old woman's face. “Of course, Callie. I simply fear Miss Angron has driven away most of her friends and family as a result of Mr. Trelan's indiscretion. It wouldn't do to have her lapse into... old habits once more.”
The scavvie finally let go of the rope, and hands slid down onto the old woman's shoulders. “Fine, fine. So is that the guy or not?”
“Yes, I believe so. Observe the hat and coat, and especially the way he walks. He's nearly a perfect match for the figure recorded by the servitor, indistinct though it was. His name is Winhus, I believe.”
“So, we gonna bust him or not? Let's just get this over with, there're better things for us to do tonight.” The scavvie's harsh voice let out a surprisingly feminine growl.
“I don't think we should. We've been observing the man for three days, and I can see nothing that indicates he killed the child on purpose. I'm beginning to wonder if he even knew the slide was pure.”
“Who'd give a street dealer-addict uncut slide?”
“I don't know, Callie. And that is what makes me apprehensive. Whoever orchestrated this is either indifferent to who was killed, or exerts a great deal of influence over Winhus or his direct superior. Perhaps even both. It seems far too distant to be a simple pleasure killing, and far too organized to be a random accident. Who would stand to gain from a lone child dying of a slide overdose in the lower hive?”
“Whole thing creeps me out.” Doug felt a small chill pass through him. Callie's indoctrination prevented her from feeling remorse or disgust that might paralyze her in the field. To admit that the child's passing had disturbed her at all, much less on a mission, only reinforced how gruesome the event was. “And why are we even doing this anyway? I don't mind slumming it in the lower hive with you every now and then, Doug. But two days in a row? I'd rather be keeping an eye on Victoria or Lyra. Hey, you think she-”
“I'm hurt Callie, and here I thought you might appreciate some alone time with me.” The scavvie's hands began to move along the old woman's shoulders once more.
“Well, not that the alley is my sort of thing, but can't knock it until you try it, right?” The scavvie brought it's lumpy, distended face down to the old woman for a passionate kiss. A loud shudder sounded from across the street, and the dealer, Winhus, took off, eyes wide with disgust.
“It seems we've lost track of our dealer, Callie. I think it's time to leave.” The old woman stood with alarming ease, and helped the scavvie up, then the odd couple retreated into the darkness of the alley, hand-in-hand.
“Please, Callie, come in.” Doug stood tall once more, freed of the prosthetics and heavy clothing he'd been wearing some time ago, and looked no more like an overweight, haggard old woman. He opened the door to his small, bare apartment, then turned and ushered in the slight figure before him.
“Don't mind if I do!” The dirty hood dropped down, revealing a golden blonde ponytail and playful blue eyes. The small form, now bare of lumps and malformations, all but skipped into the tiny apartment. The rest of the disguise dropped, revealing Callie's fit figure. Doug stepped in as well, pulling the door closed, and made to turn on the lights. A delicate hand, its movements now much slower and softer than during the violence they'd displayed before, stopped him. They pulled into another kiss, faster and less reserved than in the alley.
“I knew you'd come around? What did it, thinking about me and Om-”
Doug chortled. “No, I just needed some time, Callie, that's all.” She tugged him gently towards the low bed in the far corner, and smiled as he barely resisted.
Just need to distract him now. A hand slipped up to her head unbinding the long ponytail. Callie shook her hair out, smiling even wider. “Why're we doing this, anyway? Not that I mind mixing it up.” Doug picked her up and carried her the last two steps to the bed, where they fell into a rough tangle of limbs.
“Do we need a reason to do this?”
Callie laughed, white teeth gleaming in the poor light filtering through the grimy window. “Not this, Doug. The drug thing.” She began to move underneath him, abnormal flexibility letting her shirk clothes easily. “We're supposed to be protecting the Daughters, why're we looking into slide dealers and dead kids?”
Doug paused, and Callie nearly let out a sigh of frustration before he started up again, talking around kisses. “Father insists the situation could become a problem for the Daughters if left out of hand. I'm sure what information we've gathered by saturday will be more than enough to dispel his concerns.” The last of her clothes finally slid away, and Callie set to work on Doug's, anxious to complete the task while she and the changes to their operation parameters were still distracting enough. “There is definitely some organization-” His shirt came off, but Doug barely noticed between Callie's lips and the details of block #113's slide trafficking running through his mind. “But I doubt it's anything on a scale sufficient to threaten our charges, even the more susceptible among them.” Callie grinned widely, then let out the frustrated groan as his hand stopped hers from undoing his fly. “Please, Callie, we've been over this.”
“But why not, Doug!” She sat up suddenly, hair and modest chest leaping enticingly.
Doug breathed deep and composed himself, then let a hand on each of her shoulders before looking her coolly in the eye. “This isn't you Callie, this is the indoctrination. I don't want that, I don't want this to just be part of the mission as much as I don't want it just to be physical.”
She brought her hands up and cupped them under Doug's chin, and returned his look as honestly and passionately as she could. “It isn't, Doug. This is me, I want this, not just as part of the fucking mission. Me.”
Doug smiled and kissed her, then rolled around onto the bed behind her. “Then prove it to me, Callie. Let's just sleep tonight, let's just enjoy each other's company.” He kissed her on the lips once more, then wrapped her in a warm, comforting embrace. Callie could feel him calming down behind her, his heart-rate slowing, breath growing more shallow and even, and barely suppressed a frustrated scream. She tried to calm herself down, to go along with his breathing and relaxation, but the indoctrination pricked at her mind, constantly needling and reminding her that there was another advantage to be had here, more influence to be won. Doug exhaled slowly, and Callie went to work on herself, letting his simple presence be enough for tonight. Soon enough she slept as well, warm, content and satisfied.
“Well it's not that easy for me Doug!” Callie jumped out of bed, now screaming. Doug simply sat there, a look of mild disappointment playing over his face as the overlights slowly came to life, signaling the barest start of morning. “I can't just not do it! Why can't you understand?”
“Callie.” His voice was calm and sounded understanding, but it only served to frustrate Callie further.
At least fucking yell, Doug. Do something, anything but sit there and lecture me.
“Just one night, Callie, one night would've been enough for me to be sure, to know there's more to what you feel than... this.” He gestured to a slight discoloration of the sheet, roughly under where Callie had slept the previous night.
“Why does it have to be either-or Doug!” She all but fell forward, and Doug pulled her gently onto the bed. “This is normal, this how people feel. Just because the indoctrination makes me want it more doesn't mean it's not honest! It doesn't mean I'm not being real.”
“It doesn't have to be either-or, Callie.” He kissed her gently on the head. “Not for the rest of time, just for one night. I just want to see for one night that you want us to be together for more than gratification. Maybe to-” “Fine, whatever.” Callie stood up and began slipping into her clothes once more. “I'll see you this weekend. Sunday, maybe. I've gotta get to the bus.”
“At least let me-” “No, we shouldn't be seen leaving the block together, you know that.” Callie gave him one last hard look and resolved to try harder next time, then slipped out the door. The ratty old coat came on again, hood pulled low to disguise her features, and within minutes she'd merged into the bustling crowd of hivers, impossible to pick out.