Nestled in Cairo City's more upscale commercial district, Blue Velvet is a converted warehouse, brick walls pierced at street level with large display windows filled with mannequins dressed in the latest in women's fashions. The entrance is beneath a wide, blue canopy that leads up an alleyway, the pavement covered with matching blue indoor/outdoor carpeting, to a set of stairs leading to a blue door. Inside, the visitor ascends a wide, blue carpeted spiral staircase to the third floor, where it opens into a coffee shop with blue decor, large, round windows and french doors that open onto a balcony overlooking the street, with outdoor seating.

One might think Blue Velvet was only a coffee house, but for the second counter, round, with the employees on the inside, like a round bar, with multiple cortex terminals. This is where customers of the clothing shop place their orders.

Blue Velvet employs autofactories to sew their creations while the customer waits, thus, the coffee shop. If they have the patterns and fabric, they can program it in and make it, and their equipment allows for a fair amount of customization of designs. In fact, they have even been known, on occasion, to render famous designer gowns tailored for a men's size. The bulk of the building's space is the fabric warehouse, and the computerized sewing centers.

Blue Velvet is a Blue Sun enterprise, but an upscale one. The ubiquitous Blue Sun logo is diaplayed in a more subdued and tasteful manner than usual, but it can be spotted here.

What can also be spotted here, among the small, round tables, blue cushioned chairs, blue trimmed china and bright silver of the coffe shop, is a man who does not look as though he is there to buy a dress.

And soon, the crew members of The Raven.

The Demon of Ezra entered the Blue Velvet, her eyes scanning and evaluating the store.

Fancy place. Figures Christine would want to rendezvous here. Always liked pretty stuff. Fashionable. Don't like the place myself. Too fancy, civilized, have to go in under-armed. Combat mesh under clothes, two pistols under jacket, two clips for each, combat knife under shirt in small of back. Concealing more impractical. Not enough. No heavy weapons, no grenades, not enough armor, no tactical analysis and information systems. Location too active to set up traps beforehand, probability of accidental triggering too high.

Feel vulnerable. Shouldn't. Pistols, mesh armor better equipment than early Ezra standard. Lack of grenades troubling, not critical. Civilian presence means heavy weapons likely to produce collateral damage. Full armor preferable to mesh; head, limbs vulnerable to gunfire. Mesh less effective than full suit. No helmet, no tactical displays. Spoiled. Eyeballs enough on Ezra, tactical HUD is luxury. Still, useful luxury.

Employees young, pretty looking, well-dressed, carry no evident weapons, no signs of combat training. Either civilians or highly trained operatives; likely former, but latter cannot be ruled out. If goes bad, shoot clerks first; behind the counter, could be concealing weapons there. Salespeople only likely to be armed with small caliber weapons; combat mesh sufficient to stop small caliber slugs. Energy weapons possible though, mesh ineffective against lasers, need to be cautious.

Open terrain in central area, not enough cover. Need to be fast if fight starts. Ambush unlikely, Christine reliable. Uncertain if Womack, other Ares Shield crew in area. Womack pragmatist, unlikely to initiate hostilities without provocation. Others unlikely to take action without Womack's orders. If hostilities, shoot Womack first. Tactically sound, remove leadership from enemy. Also personally satisfying, Womack is asshole. Spare Christine, no kill-shot even if hostile. Krylin decent, spare if possible. Shanti unlikely to be threat, spare if possible. Catri, Malone also non-combatants, spare if possible. Kahn decent, but dangerous; termination may be required. Pasalewe personally loyal to Womack, if Womack terminated, Pasalewe termination required.

Rendezvous location set for changing rooms. Already checked for traps, none present. No ambush apparent. Not close to exit, extraction difficult if situation become hazardous. Private though. At end of narrow hallway, hostiles cannot approach without detection. Hallway thins numbers if attacked, force enemy to come one or two at a time. Suitable for non-combat purposes too. If more time available, could have set up dead drop, had more weapons available.

In position, waiting for rendezvous with Bell. No, not Bell, Christine. I am waiting for Christine.

After many rather annoying car changes, and finally getting to take the stupid blind fold off, Israel looked at the shops as they pulled up to the Blue Velvet. Huh... I wonder if they will serve me. He rolled his eyes as he stepped out, and watched the driver speed off. "Men and their toys." He said as he adjusted his opened black button up shirt, and tucking in his wife beater Israel shuffled into the Blue Velvet.

((Ooc: I will leave it at that kinda short, but it still works ))

Shanti Continues HERE from THE RAVEN

Shanti moved slowly, each step precise. She was performing her most well-trained trick: Disappearing in plain sight. Every motion was designed to blend in with the local shopping population. Dressed in a dynamic pink and white pantsuit, with flared jacket bearing elaborate silver embroidery, she had dyed her hair in matching strands of pink and silver and capped the elaborate display with a simple flare-brimmed pink and silver hat. Her contacts covered her pale blue eyes with gleaming cat-like silver that matched her hair and hat.

The ensemble wasn't hers. She had found it left behind in the luxury-yacht bowels of The Raven and hastily cleaned and hand-tailored it to her slender form. Like twisting the kaleidoscope, her image had spun into a self-possessed young fashion-mogul, seeking the latest in design. Her pockets bore no more than the coin it would take to buy a cup of tea and a scone, (Maybe one with sugar-icing!).

She allowed the others to enter first, hanging back. If they all moved in one gaggle, it would be like putting up a neon sign sayin' "Something Isn't Right Here". But moreso, she held back because she wasn't sure she wanted to see him. Not quite yet.

Pasalewe. Israel Pasalewe. The former slave masked an un-nerved shiver. The brash obnoxious medic was back from the dead? She tried to ignore the quiver of hope that gave her that Karlov, too, might be alive. Din't matter. Pasalewe was back. And now he would dive in, take over 'her' infirmary, just as he'd done when Karl had first invited him.

Or, he would try. In an act of silent defiance she had left her cot and backpack in the infirmary. Her unique labeling system still decorated each drawer and cupboard. They needed a medic, maybe. Although she was a good enough nurse, her limits were marked by her lack of formal training and experience. That din't mean she was gonna give up her ground to him.

Tossing her head lightly, she quickened her pace and strolled up the sweeping staircase, silver eyes trailing slowly as they adjusted to the interior lighting. As she paused, she offered a pose for any eyes turned her way- a portrait of Pink on Blue.

On the ship, Catri had been fishing, trying so hard to lure Damian in. Her efforts, days and weeks worth, had culminated in that kiss shared in his bunk, the kiss that had sent both hearts racing. Now, off the ship, she was back to thinking, Damian's gaze still feeling exactly like a red-hot laser every time it hit her. Though she didn't want to admit it, she wished for another gaze, another touch, one that would never hit her again.

Had she ever allowed herself to mourn, to really let go? Was it possible to let go? Shaking her head, she forced herself to re-focus. On cue, Damian's cool touch moved up her back. The two hadn't bothered to split up for the sake of an act; they were simply too aware of one another to do that. Ever since they'd made it out of High Mass, Catri had been so aware of everything Damian did. If he felt the same way...

"Focus." The whisper in her ear was a command, a tone she hadn't heard in so long, a tone she recognized instantly. Instantly, she straightened and her head rose. Like a shot of adrenaline directly to her nerves, Catri obeyed and her heart sang. At her side, Damian exhaled. The sound was tired. Just as quickly as she'd lit up, she dimmed again, though this change was not nearly as noticeable. She'd imagined the tone. Stupid.

Fishing wasn't working. Every effort she made seemed doomed to fail. Why try anymore? Catri swallowed, feeling her stomach twist into knots, ignoring the glimpse she caught from the corner of her eye - Damian examining her. His gaze no longer burned. Instead, hers did. Her eyes blazed with a deep-seated anger and deep-buried pain. In that moment, as she examined the milling customers of the dress shop, Catri knew she'd take whatever escape she could get. She needed to grieve, but this wasn't the place. Head high, eyes bright, she noticed everything without seeing it, feeling like any familiar face that came her way would be clouded, masked, no matter who it was.

Mancoon climbed the stairs with ponderous slowness, fists white-rimmed and shaking at his side against the urge to run up the stairs, two at a time, forget the consequences and just run.

Israel.

They told you. Right out of basic training, they told you. You can't save everyone. Simple fact of life. You could try, certainly, even succeed most of the time, and that was the only thing that made it so you could get up in the mornings, sometimes. But. Even so, you couldn't save everyone. Couldn't make it as a marine without knowing that the very men and women on whom you relied, trusted, loved, might not be alive in an hour's time, dead or left behind, sacrificed for the good of the mission, and that it might be your fault. That, if the mission called for it, they would do the same to you. And everyone knew it. Look into the eyes of someone else else across the dinner table, and you could see the knowledge in their eyes reflected right back at you. It broke some people, and Mancoon would not hesitate to say that they were better folk than he, but...

There was a level of trust that built up between those who were about to die. An honesty, a shared knowledge, like you'd cheated the universe, to have these small, shared moments of understanding. It was what he'd missed, in the days after his wedding, when the Shield had left and it had seemed like it was just him and Sarah in all the universe.

His family.

And somehow, hearing that Israel was alive almost hurt worse than when they'd thought he was dead, and-

and there he was.

Two strides, and Mancoon was there, Israel's face in his hands. "Xie xie," he said roughly, hoarse and heavy from the weight of unshed dears. You were dead. "Thank you," again, and again, at least one more time, until he believed it. I killed you. He pressed his forehead to Israel's, no longer able to look him in the eye. "Brother. God gave ye back."

Looking around as he waited, Israel saw him. Mancoon.

Two strides, and Mancoon was there, Israel's face in his hands. "Xie xie," he said roughly, hoarse and heavy from the weight of unshed dears. You were dead. "Thank you," again, and again, at least one more time, until he believed it. I killed you. He pressed his forehead to Israel's, no longer able to look him in the eye. "Brother. God gave ye back."

His face in Mancoon's hands, and foreheads touching Israel could only think of one thing to say. "Hope you aint aiming to kiss me, Mancoon.. I dont think your wife would approve at all." Israel let loose a very wide shit eating grin.

Christine glided up the sweeping staircase into the Blue Velvet cafe' like a woman with a mission. In contrast to Shanti, she was a study in black; the flared legs of her black brocade one-piece swirled around black shoes that added a couple of inches to her height. A long, straight, glossy black wig brushed the shoulders of her open jacket; velvet trimmed black cotton studded with dull pewter buttons and black metal buckles. The only spots of color in th outfit were the amethyst lenses of the round framed sunglasses that hid hr eyes, and the delicate necklace that hung above her strapless bodice; a woven lace of niobium rings, purple shading into dark and then lighter blue, hung with lighter blue beads of titanium. The isolated spots of dramatic color did more than accent; they created focal points that drew attention to areas that would later provide only poor description for anyone trying to determine who the wearer had been.

Looking around the room in the manner of one who is there to be seen, and wants to know the audience they've drawn, her gaze lingered on the table where Israel and Mancoon were. Neither really looked like a typical Blue Velvet customer, or at least not like the sort of person the sort of person she was dressed as would think suitable to be one, With her eyes unreadable behind purple lenses, her smile could well have been interpreted as amusement that such men would be among those receiving her entrance. Her glance in the direction of Shanti, sunglasses pulled slightly downward, one eyebrow raised, a mere checking out of the "competition"; a silent appraisal of style other than her own.

Christine turned and walked to the clothing counter, approaching an unoccupied young female employee standing at a terminal next to where a wealthy looking older woman was engaging another employee to report a missing corpad.

"I have an order to pick up." she said, displaying the screen of her own corpad.

"It was completed just this morning." the young woman said, smiling broadly. Her fingers flew across a recessed keyboard. "It will be a popular order this season, but the additional hand-sewn details will set this one aside from the rest. Our finest Sihnon trained seamstress completed the work, and only in the Guild Temple would one find its equal."

A young man emerged from an artfully concealed door nearby, carrying one of the distinctive Blue Velvet garment bags, itself made from a deep blue velveteen embossed with the store logo in a repeating pattern.

Christine took the offered garment bag and handed the young man a note slipped from her pocket, wrapped around a platinum coin.

"Xie xie." she said. "I'm sure it will be lovely. Could you give this to the woman in pink and silver over there?"

Her eyes, slight smile, and the lingering press of her fingers as she passed the note implied the intimate nature of the note, the coin implying a desire to have it delivered promptly and discreetly. The note was actually for Israel Pasalewe, but he looked less like someone she'd send a note to, and Shanti could slip it to him unnoticed. Besides, if she took Shanti aside to speak with her now, their purpose would be understood with a wink and a nod by the staff, who doubtless all talked to one another about such things, and no further curiosity would be attracted.

She walked away from the counter to the back hallway where the dressing rooms were located, glancing once more in the direction of Shanti before stepping into the blue hallway, one wall lined with blue doors set into archways, the other decorated with round mirrors set into window-like blue frames and vases of blue silk flowers. looking and listening for any activity, she went to the room she had arranged to meet Zenobia in.

Pausing momentarily, with a deep breath, she reached out and knocked lightly on the door.

"Z?" she whispered.



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Note: The necklace is made by the Spider that E keeps mentioning in the shoutbox, and can be found at silverweaver.com

The wait had been longer than she would have liked, but the Demon of Ezra wanted to be certain she had time to check the room for any nasty surprises first. She did not expect Christine to betray her, but her message could have been intercepted, or Christine could have been captured in the interim. Christine was strong, but there were people in the 'verse who were evil enough to go to any extreme to break another human being. If that happened, I'll bathe the 'verse in blood until everyone who was even indirectly involved is dead. Nobody hurts Christine.

Once she confirmed that there were no bombs, traps, monitoring devices, or other unpleasant surprises hidden in the room, Zenobia took a brief moment to check her appearance in her room's mirror. Her formerly long red hair had been chopped short to the point where it did not even reach the base of her neck; long hair was simply too impractical for someone who regularly wore a full helmet. A black leather jacket and matching pants managed to combine practicality with a moderate degree of style, and the simple white shirt she wore under the jacket was of pure synth-silk. Synth-silk is so useful; it has high enough tensile strength to provide some degree of mitigation against some weapons, and it is fancy enough to please Anise. The shirt's high neckline concealed the mesh armor Zenobia had on under her clothes, as well as the synth-silk undershirt she on under the armor.

This is probably the nicest I've looked in weeks except for the one or two times I had to dress up because of Anise. Zenobia frowned at her reflection, and absently placed an errant strand of hair back behind her ear before she returned to the room and took a seat while she waited. Christine should be here in a couple minutes; it's probably a fair bet there's no trap aimed directly at me or it would have sprung by now. Maybe I should take off the guns and armor; I don't want her thinking I don't trust her. No, there might be people after her or waiting for her to arrive so they could get both of us, so I shouldn't get too complacent.

Five minutes later, there was a soft knock on the door, and Zenobia heard Christine's achingly familiar voice. Voice doesn't sound stressed or like a recording. Didn't hear anyone else out there. No reason to believe it's a trap. "Come in Christine."

Jake could only think of one thing to do while he was at the wonderful boutique. He grabbed a cup of coffee and immediately started designing a new line of clothing that he might just put into there servers. He fiddled for some time then said "Screw it." and looked around at the other patrons as he sipped his coffee. Since he didn't have much money he wasn't going to buy anything new anyways.
"Why does this feel like a waist of our time?"

Shanti met Christine's interested glance with an expectant tilt of her head that she hoped appeared curious to bystanders before continuing her stroll down the line of ordering moniters with a coy smile on her face.

The delivery of the note was met with a gracious thank-you to the staff and a touch of her hat-brim, letting Cory know that her part in the mission was under control. Her heart was pounding suddenly, as she glanced around the room, checking positions of the rest of the crew. Mancoon and Israel were greeting, face to face, reckless of any who might be observing and lost to the shared grief and emotions that fluttered over the remaining shreds of the Mass like a wind-torn flag.

Jake looked bored and, simultaneously, nervous as though he didn't trust the situation at all. Catri and Damian, Well, who knew what they ever thought anymore? Catri so focused on her "master" and Damian so afraid to become the monsters he had witnessed that he wouldn't look back at her, not properly.

Suddenly she wished Gabriel had come with them. She didn't know Denise and Sorina yet, not well enough to trust them if things went wrong. Wait... Shanti nearly tripped as she gave her order to the cafe-clerk. (An orange scone and a sweet tea, no ice.) When had she come to trust Gabriel? No, not trust. That implied faith, and she had none. Can't trust anyone. Not ever. And not him, for certain. But Gabriel's detached calm, his unemotional evaluation: These things weren't faith or trust. They were just a surety. He wouldn't be distracted by the emotions that welled up in the rest of the crew at the reunion...

Reunions if all went well. Shanti resisted the urge to glance in the direction Cory had gone.

...that lay ahead.

Scone in one hand, tea in the other, Shanti made her way towards an empty table, sliding gracefully past Israel and Mancoon, before allowing her hip to bang the table heavily, "Oh! I'm sorry!" She whisped out in a breathless tone, two notes lower than usual voice. Settling her scone on the table, she kicked up her foot, pretending to study the bottom of her shoe. "These heels are loose, again! Can you believe it! That's what I get for ordering on the Cortex. No more! I'm only shopping here at the Velvet. You gentlemen mark my words. If it's not a Velvet shoe, it's hardly worth calling a shoe at all!"

With a not-so-subtle sniff, she laid a disdainful glance over the men, as though suddenly realizing she was addressing the sub-par of the population, "Not that you would know the difference. I do hope your wives have... better taste."

Issuing a soft cluck of her tongue, she pushed back from the table, juggled her scone back into her hand and continued on to the empty table beyond. Behind, against the deep blue shades of the table lay a white square napkin, and under it, the crisp note from Cory addressed to Israel Pasalewe.

OOC: Contents of Note courtesy of Dave. Since Sorina and Denise hadn't posted, I just assumed they had come along. If that needs changed, let me know!

Christine took one last look around the hallway to ensure that no one else was about to enter behind her or exit from another dressing room, and then opened the door, quickly slipping inside and closing it behind her.

For a moment, both women stared at each other, taken aback. Even though she had seen the change in Zenobia's appearance in her wave, had known going in that she would look different, the image that had been in her mind as she opened the door and slipped inside had been of Zenobia as she had been before, as she had looked on the Ares Shield, as she had looked when Womack was in charge and Eddie was alive and the gleam in those eyes had been for her and not for something that lay coiled and hissing in the darker corners of the mind where most people never care to look. For an instant, sher had expected the old Zenobia as she turned, and reality had brought her up short, blinking once before she realized Zenobia was staring too.

The wig and glasses, and I'm taller too. She'd notice that. She knows where my head is supposed to rest if she took me in her arms.

"It's a disguise." she said, taking off the sunglasses. "Not much, but enough for here."

I really thought they'd leave you alone. You were rich, important, and you never did any more than any honest cop would have been expected to do. Weren't with us when we crossed the line into open war. You were out.

Wishful thinking. Stupid. Amateur mistake. For what they had done, Niska would want to punish anyone connected, just to drive the point home. Just because he could. No one was out until it was over, one way or another.

"It's . . . been a while . . ."



GMing of Zenobia's reaction as described and requested by Zenobia

The hustle and bustle continued on around them, somewhere beyond the buildings and mountains, but for that moment, there was only Israel and Mancoon, red and watchful and standing there with something like an early dawn coming up behind his eyes. Good to have you back, brother, he wanted to say. But instead, he took Israel's face in his hands and kissed his forehead. "Ano'er lifetime." He was smiling, smiling, smiling as he stepped back, gave his head a little shake and looked over in Shanti's direction fast enough that he just managed to catch her pass the note before she sniffed and sashayed away.

Right.

"Tha's why ye shouldn' be allowed in stores by y'self," he grinned at Israel, his thick brogue rendered only more incomprehensible by his attempt to lighten it. "Women like that?" He gave a mental apology to Shanti. "Eat ye alive. An' ye've been in here too long, brother. Ah was getting worried. Had t'send in t'search parties."

There was a moment of surprise when Christine entered the room, and Zenobia almost went for her guns on pure instinct. The woman before her had long black hair and was too tall to be Christine. There was only one reason a woman other than Christine would enter the room. A trap. If it was a trap, the one who lured Zenobia in would be the first to die.

Before guns came out and bullets flew, Zenobia’s eyes picked out the other details that gave away the woman’s true identity. The delicate curve of a jawline, a body that aside from its increased height had proportions exactly as Zenobia remembered them, and a posture that was too Christine to be any imitator. The fact that she was unarmed also helped; being alone in a room with an enemy like the Demon of Ezra without a weapon was suicide. Still, Zenobia did not completely relax until Christine spoke and the disguise came off; even if there was no reason to believe a trap, that was no guarantee that it was not one.

She's on guard, more so than usual. Might be at least partly because of me; Companions know body language, so she knows I've changed. Not just that though she never would have bothered with a disguise before, especially not for something non-mission like this. Things must have gotten really bad. The Demon of Ezra's eyes shot over the woman before her in frank evaluation. Jacket fits too close, not good for hiding weapons, though it looks like she might have something up one of the sleeves. Pants are wide enough to conceal holsters, but in close quarters like this she couldn't get to them fast enough. More weapons than she used to have, but that fits with her change in attitude.

So if its a fight she'll either break out her concealed weapon, or go for close combat. Not heavily muscled. Heels impractical for close combat, she'll have to take them off if it gets serious, which will slow her down. Companion training includes close combat skills, probably something graceful like one of the internal styles. Might try a Goodnight Kiss on me; might want to be careful. There was no malice behind the gaze, no desire to actually fight the woman before her or even a belief that she might truly intend to attack. It was simple, pure instinct to look for the danger, evaluate the potential outcome of a battle. No. Her study of Christine came to an abrupt end. Hell no. No gorram way I'm doing a rutting threat assessment on Christine.

With a flinch filled with more than a little self-loathing, Zenobia wrenched her mind back to the present. After a moment's consideration, the woman unbuckled her gun belt, then removed her hidden knife, and finally taking a few seconds to shrug off the mesh armor under her shirt. She was open, vulnerable, unprotected. She did not need any of that to talk to Christine. The Demon of Ezra had no place in this room, no right to intrude upon this moment. "Yeah. It has been a while, hasn't it Christine?" The Core accent Zenobia had so carefully cultivated was firmly in place, but it did not seem as natural as it once was. The accent was forced, as if it was no longer Zenobia's natural speech pattern, if it ever was in the first place. It was a lie, a mask concealing her true voice.

Hesitantly, Zenobia continued. "I guess ... I guess need to explain some things." Zenobia paused, nibbling on her lower lip as she struggle to find a way to articulate the difficult words. "I suppose ... yeah, I guess I have to start at the beginning." The woman took a deep breath, and steeled herself to speak words, that, even now, still tore into her soul. "Matilda's dead. Murdered."

She planned to say more, to explain everything that followed from that, but simply saying the words allowed hurt. Zenobia spent years reliving the day Kyra died, desperately trying to think of some way it could have gone differently, some way Zenobia could have stopped it all. For all her flaws, Matilda had been the one thing Zenobia had always hoped for in her heart. A second chance. A new sister. A chance to atone for failing to protect Kyra.

And she had died. Another sister dead. For all the years of training and all the skills she had developed, when Zenobia finally got her second chance she had failed again.

Kyra died because Zenobia could not protect her. Matilda died because Zenobia could not protect her. Whenever it really counted, whenever her sisters really needed her, Zenobia always let them I down.

"I ... failed. Again."

"Z, I'm . . . I mean, rutt . . . they really . . ."

Not really that shocking, is it? Just because it seems gratuitous and obsessive? Surely they've done far worse, and done it to people more innocent. Being just flat out murdered was probably downright nice compared to what some psycho did to Eddie, not to mention the fate of the slaves.

And wasn't there a time when the idea of someone having been killed wouldn't have really meant much?

Sure. Back when she never looked back to see what happened after she left. Death was easy to ignore until one actually started looking at it.

"I ... failed. Again."

"Then we all did." said Christine. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This was Zenobia, and it wasn't. What she needed to say, what she had wanted to say, had become more dangerous, maybe too dangerous.

Tell her the first part, and see how it goes. If that goes badly, just keep quiet.

"We went in after them at an event they call High Mass. It's a kind of sado-masochistic orgy party where the sadists are rich and powerful or just well connected and the masochists are real slaves, and none of it is playing around. People die there, and people wish they had. For someone Companion trained, it's like a Shepherd going to the annual Satanist's Ball, complete with Black Mass and child sacrifice. Everything is abused there. No one comes out unmarked. These people are the dropheads of sex, after years of addiction. Only the strongest doses of the most toxic stuff will do it any more."

Bloody Mary. Magnified. Everything that touches that place bleeds, inside, outside, or both.

"We went in undercover. Deep cover. As masters and slaves. It was hard to say which side of the line was more dangerous to be on, because the dangers were different. It depended on who you ran into. Whose attention you picked up. I still don't know everything that happened in there, but Niska was there, and there was an attack on him. It came close to doing him in, but he lived."

Her fingers stroked Zenobia's hand as she continued.

"Eddie is dead. Some sadistic psycho got to him. It wasn't related to the mission, just a random bit of wrong attention at the wrong time. He was beaten and tortured with a knife and raped. That didn't kill him though. What killed him was that as wounded as that left him, he still stood up to a guy with a sword. He died fighting. Israel Pasalewe was missing and we thought he was dead, but he got out with help, and he's out in the cafe' now. That's why we were coming here before you called. Womack is gone. We just don't know. Dead, alive, just missing."

It all sounded crazy. Beyond crazy. When had she signed on for this? When had she turned into some kind of gorram hero, fighting monsters that one could simply choose to avoid, monsters most people, if they were lucky, never had to learn the existence of? When had she started to care?

It had all been so easy, not effortless, but easy; wanting to be a Companion, like a little girl wanting to be a Princess. But sooner or later, the Princess has to grow up and become Queen, has to rule the nation, preside over a court of backstabbers, syncophants and ambitiously self-serving huhn dahns. Has to order troops to war and high criminals to the dungeons, torturers and executioners. Has to run the lives of the unwashed masses who she barely sees, let alone understands. How many little would-be Princesses actually wanted to be absolute monarchs? How many little Companion acolytes wanted to grow up to provide sexual services to the rich and perverted, fueling the fantasies that the darkest of them would carve, brand and beat into the flesh of their slaves? True, there were so many people in the 'Verse compared to the tiny minority of humanity that had anything to do with High Mass, but having seen the demons behind their masks, could one ever stop seeing them? Stop wondering which celebrity or executive or member of parliament they had witnessed raping and torturing a teenage girl while dressed like some creature of sexual nightmare?

Could she still wish to be a Princess after a tour of the royal dungeons, after being told "Someday, this too, will all be yours?"

Was that what it was like for Zenobia now, seeing the criminal, the hated enemy, in every face? Hearing the threat of the assassin's hand in every footstep behind her back? Could she go that way? If she had been given a machine gun and all the masked masters and mistresses of High Mass had been lined up against a wall, lined up in front of her after she had seen what they did for fun, what they did to Eddie, the way they carelessly shredded and soiled everything a Companion acolyte had ever been taught to cherish and refine like a precious jewel . . .

That room would have been ankle deep in blood. Deep inside, you know it's true. In that moment, you would have set the monster free. You would have screamed as they died, louder and longer than any of them, because you would have been dying too.

And when did she become someone who would walk out of that, and still be here? When had she become a person who ever went in?

If she could go back and unsee it all, erase the memory of it at the cost of being exactly what she had been before she had ever met Lieutenant Womack, the good bad, or maybe bad good cop and his ghost woman and his headlong rush to a blaze of revenge that just had to stop along the way to inspire noble heroism in a hardcase drophead loser who ended up as an ally of his after he had once tortured the guy with a gorram industrial clothes iron . . . if she could make it all just a dream, and go back to being Saffron and playing the wedding scam to lure rim captains to a doom she'd never stick around to witness . . . would she? Could she?

If Niska himself held the blade to her throat and said "I will spare you, if you just renounce it all, just give it all up and crawl back to your old life and forget any of this ever took place." What would she say?

Christine Bell says "Yes". Saffron says "Are you insane" I'd never be anywhere near Niska." Marie Maguire hopes the question never comes up. She's not sure which answer she's more afraid of.

So now, there's a new ship. A serious stealth ship, from serious backers. The Shield was too hot for what we were doing, we were too hot, so we split off. We used the contacts we had managed to make to get where we are now. Womack is gone, so that puts me in the big chair now. We've got some new people, and the people who were still standing when High Mass was over. Womack is gone, but we're still on target. We're going after Niska and his lieutenants."

She looked into the eyes across from her. Who would hear what she was going to say next? Zenobia, the Good Cop, the one who followed every rule, or Zenobia, the killer of men, the bloody handed, the revenger?

"We don't have a lot of cops on board The Raven." she said. "We're going after Niska. But we're not arresting him."

Would this help Zenobia to fight her way clear of the darkness she was in, or push her deep enough to be lost for good?

"This is a war. It's to the finish. Set foot on that ship, and there's no mercy coming if we lose, so that's just not an option."

Somewhere between what they had been together before, and what they were now, they might discover what they really wanted to be. If they lived. If they weren't too broken afterwards.

"It's on. All the way."