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My foot crosses the threshold of the meeting place within seconds of the appointed time. Strange really, that many would consider that late. Five minutes early is usually what is considered ‘on time.’
Not Accord though. I’ve accepted more jobs from him than I have any singular client and in that time I’ve grown to understand his quirks. Parapsychology is a fucking crapshoot, but there’s still some takeaways if you’re smart about it. Drawing the connection from Accord’s power to his… issues, had been all-too easy.
So make sure to arrive on time, or as close as I can manage. I spend longer than I usually would getting my own costume as pristine as I can, making sure the crew follows suit. It pisses me off to leave Gregor and Labyrinth behind, but they understand the sort of person that Accord is and don’t complain; or at least stop complaining when they get their checks.
Accord’s meeting place is, unsurprising, a low-rise office complex; one of his shell companies no doubt. I’ve not seen any documentation or marking to denote it as his, but I don’t need to. His influence is clear in the pristine white shine of tiles and the meticulous arrangement of the office spaces.
What is surprising is the person standing in the empty conference room waiting for us.
A perfect figure hugged by a Goldenrod yellow evening gown, her legs accentuated by a split running from mid-thigh down. Beautiful yellow hair and beautiful yellow lips, not a color that most could pull off; but she manages it in a way that just looks natural. They’re framed by a masquerade mask studded with her namesake gems.
Citrine.
I resent, just a little bit, the way that my back straightens as I set my eyes on her.
I take my eyes off her and instead take in the rest of the room. The chairs and tables are all gone, leaving the space bare. Save for a single table against the far wall with a case – our advance, no doubt – propped up on it. There’s a large display screen next to it that Citrine is standing next to expectantly. I can see indents in the carpet where the furniture would usually be. It stands out in the otherwise pristine space.
Newter and Spitfire stop on my left and right respectively, a step behind me. A show of strength, and a demonstration of a clear chain of command. We’d not expected Citrine, but my subordinates still follow the plan.
“Faultline.” Citrine nods. Too-perfect lips moving to enunciate every word with careful precision.
“Citrine.” I reply, mirroring the gesture.
“You’re matter of fact,” she starts, skipping the pleasantries, all business, “I like that about you.”
Something inside of me soars at the compliment and I push it down automatically, annoyed with myself for a moment.
You’re a professional. I remind myself, repeating the words like a mantra.
“I’ll keep things short.” Citrine doesn’t move, doesn’t even twitch, and the screen flickers on to her side. She’d used her powers to do it, obviously. Altering the physics for a transistor? The difference between on and off for those are quite minute, exacting. It would only take the slightest nudge to allow one to fire, turning things on. It’s what I would do.
The degree of precision it takes to use her power like that is insane. Which, I suspect, is the real reason she did it that way. A demonstration, from her to me, a reminder of the power she wields.
I can’t help but be impressed, on a strictly professional level, and a bit jealous. Also on a strictly professional level. My power doesn’t tend to lend well to creating such displays.
I refocus on the display with a small scowl, pointedly pretending that I can’t see the minute smirk dancing across Citrine’s lips.
She flicks through the slides, again without touching any remote, or moving from her spot to the side of the room. Statuesque, my brain supplies and I shoot down the thought.
It’s a simple mission for my team. We’ll be attacking a new gang that’s tried to set up in Accord’s territory. Not small enough to be taken out by normals under his employ, and not big enough to justify attacking it himself. Not without looking weak, at any rate.
They’ve got three capes, we’ve got five. They’re inexperienced, we’re not. This is where your usual mercenary outfit would get cocky. Maybe they’d be right to. Maybe nine times out of ten they’d be able to get away with it too.
I refuse.
One in ten is too high, one in a hundred is too high. I’ve not lost a member, and I don’t plan to either.
I ask as many questions as I need, clarify everything I can. Maybe more than usual. Maybe a lot more. I’m just trying to be thorough, getting every detail in what could be a lethal job if we’re not as careful as possible.
And – if I’m being honest with myself – if spending more time hashing out the details means listening to her talk longer, then I certainly won’t be complaining.
I leave the office space with a briefcase tucked under one arm, a bulging manilla folder in the other, and matching teasing glints in my subordinate’s eyes.
-x-
The job was finished with only minor complications. One of the capes had demonstrated a hitherto unseen use of their power and we’d had to employ one of the backup plans. I don’t force the crew to sit through hours of planning because I want to be proven wrong in the field, but it’s always a bit gratifying when we get to that point and are ready for it.
If only because the crew won’t complain about all the planning time for the next few weeks.
We were now substantially richer than we were the week before. Accord is a complete pain to work for, but he pays well, and for an outfit like mine that’s all that really matters.
Doubly so when we don’t even need to interact with the man himself.
Citrine is, if nothing else, a lot nicer on the eyes.
Profession- oh fuck it, who am I trying to kid?
“You have a crush.” I say, to an empty office. Nobody responds, obviously. It would be deeply concerning if anybody did.
I put my head in my hands and let out a groan; low, long, and despairing.
I’m a professional mercenary, the sort of woman that wrangled a group as disparate as my Crew into a team that thrives. What I am not, is a blushing schoolgirl that makes mooney eyes at every pretty girl I see.
“Why.” I mumble into my palms despairingly.
It’s not a difficult question to answer.
Any person who finds women even a little bit attractive can’t help but notice Citrine. Flawless, skin, flawless hair, flawless lips. Beyond all of that, beyond the aesthetics – incredible as they are – is the true draw.
The sheer fucking competency.
I saw her fight, once, and it was the most beautiful goddamn thing I’ve seen in my life. One woman against four capes, the world around her taking on a yellow tinge as she pulled the strings of the universe in her favor. Attacks missing her so closely that the uneducated would assume she had some sort of combat thinker rating. Little by little she’d managed to crack and then tweak their powers until they were doing more damage to themselves than they could even hope to do to her.
By the end, there was only a mess of a theater, four incapacitated capes, and one Citrine. I’d watched her saunter past demolished chairs and banisters without even a fucking hair out of place.
Can anybody really blame me for finding that hot?
-x-
When I’d received the message – from the secure line of communication Accord preferred when he contacted me – I’d been convinced it was another one of Tattletale’s pranks.
She’d caught wind of my- my slight admiration of Citrine, and has been a fucking pest about it since. If she sends me one more picture of herself draped across Skitter like the world’s smuggest tinsel I’m just going to blow up their “ very hidden ” base and wipe my hands of the whole affair.
I was forced to accept that this was real after a few back and forths to verify. Not that that completely precludes the possibility that Tattletale is meddling, but it would be too high effort for the flighty idiot.
So no, I had to consider the message as genuine: A meeting with Citrine to discuss a proposal between Accord’s extensive business empire and my own more modest holdings.
By itself, this was neither out of the ordinary, nor worth any serious note. No, the issue was that he proposed that I meet out of costume, at a restaurant, with Citrine.
I mull over the proposition seriously. My gut response in these sorts of situations is to deny and reject, although on this occasion I find myself… compromised. I quash that impulse as strongly as I can and try to think about it objectively.
Meeting outside of costumes is a big risk, and the potential consequences are not split equally between both parties. Accord has an entire criminal empire around himself that he can bring to bear to protect favored employees. I do not. I have my crew, and irrespective of the fact that I implicitly trust them with my life, I’m well aware that they do not have the same capacity to protect me if things go awry.
I drill my hands across my desk in thought. There’s no reason for Accord to exploit the opportunity. Our working relationship is profitable on both ends and he’s not the sort of person to go for something underhanded like that.
Too messy.
So… another angle. What does he stand to gain?
My fingers abruptly stop.
He knows.
“Motherfucker!”
-x-
In the end there was nothing for it but to accept. As rankled as I had been, as I still am, I can’t throw away the opportunity to build my wealth. Money is power, and the more of that I have, the better the position of The Crew. Most of the money we make goes right back into solidifying the team’s position. Paying off bribes, replacing spent gear, and entrenching ourselves in the underground scene for cities we operate in. Doing what I can to ensure that if things ever go wrong we have options.
My usual ‘business outfit’ is a pair of nice black slacks tucked into cowboy boots and a button up dress shirt. I’d known, immediately, that it wouldn't cut it for meeting somebody like Citrine at one of Boston’s finest restaurants. Not when I know that she’s going to look fucking immaculate.
My dresses are out for much the same reason. I prefer dressing for function over form, so my dresses tend to be simple pieces that do little to restrict my freedom of movement. Also they have pockets, every single goddamned one, even if I had to sew them in myself. Not exactly an impetus that led itself to fashion.
After some deliberation I had a suit tailored for the occasion. A dress would be too form-fitting to hide weapons or countermeasures. If I wanted storage space I’d need to bring a handbag, and those were far too easily grabbed both inside a fight and out.
I do my final spot check as Gregor looks for a place to park.
My gun – not my usual automatic pistol, I’d had to compromise for a smaller piece – is secure on the inside of my suit jacket; safety on. My knife is still in the sheath I’d sewn inside the sleeve, that perfect midpoint between easily concealed and easily accessed. The backup knife is also in place, as well as the two separate SOS communicators.
The Crew would be hanging tight, ready for an evac if things went wrong.
There’s other little things, a set of lockpicks hidden in a pocket inside my bra, a canister of pepper spray in my pocket; properly sized. One of those tiny canisters – the sort you hook onto your keychain – was fine if you only had to mildly discourage a creep, not so much if you wanted to keep somebody down. I had the emergency first aid supplies with only the few pre-prepared hypodermic needles I couldn’t go without in an emergency.
I let out a breath when I was done, it’s a calming thing, I find. That final recheck of the equipment before a mission, the assurance that I had at hand anything I could need, that I knew instinctively where it all was. That I won’t hesitate to grab them. Sometimes things got on the line to the point that that brief moment of hesitation was the only thing between successfully completing a mission and having to come home with one of the people I cared about in a body bag.
I glance in the mirror before exiting the car. Suit looks fine.
I thank Gregor for the ride, close the door, and about turn to face the restaurant.
It’s your typical upmarket affair: Historical red brick building on the waterfront, tasteful decorations, tiny portions, expensive as fuck. I wonder how much of the food’s premium price is just the location and prestige.
I suppose it doesn’t really matter, the food will taste fine.
My eyes flick across the facade as I approach, double checking for any discrepancies between what’s here and what was in the blueprints I’d located online. Nothing major, thankfully, just some small renovations that they’d clearly done in the intervening time.
Inside, I was led to my table. We’d agreed on a booth in the corner, separated enough from the glut of tables in the main thoroughfare to allow for some privacy.
I realize our mistake as the table comes into view.
There are scant few reasons why somebody would want a table for two with some privacy. All of them have something to do with romance.
I let out a breath, before deciding to take it in stride and roll with the blow. I accept the pulled out seat with a polite, if strained, thanks to the waiter.
The second he leaves I get to work, running my spot checks. It’s reflex at this point: Under the table, along the roof and support beams, under the chairs, in the corners.
It barely takes me five minutes before I’m satisfied and I sit down with more confidence. I signal another waitress as she passes, and order some sparkling water to hold while I wait for Citrine to arrive.
My eyes flick from the elaborate clock on the far wall right as second hand ticks past the twelve. Citrine is, as always, right on time.
Immaculate is the first word that comes to my mind. Closely followed by holy fucking fuck she’s hot.
A yellow dress would have been far too obvious, so she’d gone for a stately black. Charcoal fabric hugs her curves, a subtle pattern that starts just beyond one breast and follows the natural lines of her body downwards, expanding all the while and terminating at the hem. The rest is a silky smooth black. Possibly literally silky; I can’t imagine Accord balking at that sort of expense.
Get a hold of yourself. I berate.
I stand up, more abruptly than I’d intended to and walk around the table, extending a hand towards her.
My eyes drop from her hair as she moves to take my offered hand. Her hair is as well-cared for as it always is, but today it’s pinned up into patterns woven by an infinitely delicate hand. There’s definitely some French word for it, but my knowledge of hair stops at the point at which mine was ‘good enough.’
Her hand is softer than I was expecting it to be, like, sinfully soft. How long does she spend on her skincare? It has to be a while to get results like this.
My eyes flick from finely manicured nails to her face.
There’s a brief moment of tension. There always is when capes swap names. It’s no small thing to know; dangerous, in many ways.
“Melanie Fitts.” I say with my usual steel. I refuse to turn into some stuttering idiot just because Citrine is maybe a bit pretty.
Fine, maybe a little more than just a bit. Whatever.
“Jeanne Wynn. Thank you for agreeing to meet, you won’t regret it.”
I don’t answer her immediately, taking my seat and regarding her for a moment as she pulls her chair out in a too fluid-motion. It doesn’t even squawk as she pulls it across the floor and sits down carefully. The table is small enough that we have to twist to the side to keep our knees from touching underneath.
“Well. It remains to be seen if it’s worth my time.” I say, noncommittal, “I suspect it will be, but I’ve been surprised before.”
“We only ask that you approach any offer in good faith.”
“I can agree to that.” I respond. By some unspoken agreement we both briefly peruse our menus.
Or pretend to, in my case. I’d checked their menu when I was researching the restaurant so I already know what I want to eat. I’d not considered that it’s annoyingly awkward to have to pretend to look through a menu.
After what feels like an appropriate amount of time I fold the menu, putting it neatly back on the table. It’s still a touch awkward to just be quietly sitting while Jeanne reads the menu but I ignore the feeling with ease.
Jeanne doesn’t take long herself, she signals our waitress and we list off our orders.
“Any drinks? Wine?” The waitress queries, heavily mascaraed eyes tipping between myself and Jeanna characteristically. Our eyes meet briefly, tense. There's the sense, to me, that grabbing a bottle of wine will change this meeting ever so slightly. Bringing it just that little bit away from strictly business.
“Wine would be great, thank you.” I say before I can give myself any time to think about it.
My heart races oddly as Jeanne fills the empty space after my answer to request some fancy ass vintage.
Again, I'm struck by the disparity between myself on a job, facing difficult odds without even breaking a sweat and… this.
I almost reach across the table and grab Jeanne to just get the stupid emotions over with already. It’s what Faultline, the mercenary captain, would do.
Instead I just give the waitress a sardonic smile and let her leave me alone with Jeanne. I desperately hold out hope that my face has no flush.
“May as well get the business out of the way. What’s Accord after?”
My eyes trace her movements as Jeanne leans over to the side and plucks a manilla folder from her large purse. She slips out a few choice sheets, placing them in front of me.
I pick through them, speed reading – you never know when it comes in handy – the contents. They’re all proposals for some joint acquisitions of businesses along Lord street. Further out from the Palanquin than the few I already owned.
“These are skewed in Accord’s favor,” I point out, “he’d have majority ownership for just about every business.”
“Financially? Yes, we stand to gain a great deal from this.” She didn’t fidget like others would in her shoes, simply holding my gaze evenly. I have to fight to keep myself just as still, as composed. “Yet you would also benefit greatly.”
Jeanne slides another piece of paper towards me, growth predictions for the property. She pulls something else from her folder, a thicker ream of paper with a tidy paperclip.
This one is similar to the last, except it’s plans that Accord had drawn up to ensure that the businesses flourished, including the projected returns if his plans were to be followed.
The exact sort of thing I’d expect from the man, and incredibly invaluable just on its own.
I gather the papers together and place them on a neat pile to the side.
“This is quite good, I’ll admit. But I’m still not comfortable with Accord and his organization having that much of a say in my team’s affairs. I’d much prefer my current autonomy, if this is what’s on offer for it.”
Jeanne considers my words quietly for a time, long enough that the same waitress that had taken our orders returns with a bucket containing our bottle of wine.
The waitress gives the folder and piles of paper an odd glance but doesn’t say anything, pouring our first drinks out gracefully and leaving.
“Do you have a counter-proposition?” Jeanne speaks as soon as the waitress is out of earshot.
“I might, but before that, I suspect that you have one of your own ” I state calmly, raising a single eyebrow in challenge. Jeanne’s smile is the slightest bit self-indulgent and she takes a sip of her drink.
“I do.” she confirms, smug in a way that I should find far more annoying than I do.
I do still find it annoying though, and my lip tilts down minutely – but still professionally.
“I’m not fond of these kinds of power games Jeanne.” Something trills down my spine at the flow of her name past my lips and I fucking smother it. “Just give the offer you wanted in the first place.”
“We keep the majority for the first year, then in subsequent years we reassess. We transfer our ownership proportional to the growth, if you follow the plan properly, then you’ll be the majority holder before the first year is even over.”
“Your plans,” I remind, “I don’t doubt that you’ve been genuine here, that these will increase the values as they claim. I also know that this will be advancing other plans of Accord. I need to know which; seeing as we’re likely the first people to be affected by it.”
Black lipstick twitches into another smile and she shrugs simply, “That’s the offer Melanie. No games.”
I stare at her, looking for any trace of deception in her too-perfect face. I don’t find any, not that I really expected to. Her and her organization are straightforward. We both know that the deal I’m considering will benefit Accord more than it benefits me.
It still benefits me a lot.
“I want to go through this all with a fine-toothed comb, but as it stands I’m not unopposed.” No need to drag this out.
“That’s all we ever asked for.” Jeanne hands me the folder to slip the loose papers into.
Closing a business deal before they even bring out the food? Not bad.
Not that I have much experience in these matters. Most of the deals I made were simple negotiations about a contract, and usually over some secure channel. Occasionally I’d meet the client in-person.
Never like this though.
We lapse into an awkward silence once I’d slipped the manilla folder into a recess I’d sown into my jacket for this very purpose. Or it feels awkward, at least. If Jeanne is affected by the silence she doesn’t show it, taking the odd precise sip from her glass of wine.
I pick up my own wine glass, mirroring her movement. I’m not uncultured, per se, but I’m also not super sure about how to do this fine dining bullshit. I keep it simple, drinking the wine the same way as I do normally, just with much smaller sips.
I’m about to crack and just say something to fill the space when the food arrives. Really, it’s only prolonging the inevitable. I’m usually fine with silence, but somehow, this time, it feels like it would be a missed opportunity.
“Why meet like this?” I question, lowering my fork to my plate idly, “this could easily have been arranged through electronic communication. And why unmasked? It’s more risk than I’m used to seeing Accord take.”
Jeanne doesn’t even hesitate to reply, “Trust. It’s hard to be able to trust somebody in a long-term business deal without putting your hand out where they could potentially harm you. Also…” She takes an awfully long moment to finish her thought. “I quite like the seafood here.”
I bark out a laugh at the unexpected bit of levity, relaxing backwards into my seat. I take another tiny bite of my steak in the vain hope that it will make the disappointingly small steak last longer.
She’s the next to ask a question; a simple one about what it’s like to be a mercenary. It opens the gates though, and we fall into easy discussion. At some point – I think it’s part way through the second glass of wine – my posture relaxes and our knees bump under the table. It still continues to be so strange to me, that with all I’ve seen, all I’ve done... That this is what makes my heart race and my breath stick in my throat.
The conversation starts to stray when we hit about the halfway point of the wine bottle, and the buzz starts settling on us. I can feel it like an electric excitement swelling from my chest and lingering where our legs are touching. Jeanne’s face gains the tiniest tinge of red and I know from experience that mine is about the same.
“So…” I ask on my second glass of wine, buoyed by the tiniest hint of a buzz. Probably not the safest question to ask, but I pushed on anyways. “You and Accord fucking?”
I’d been careful so far to keep from swearing, Accord always seemed like the sort of person to shoot you on the spot for doing so and I figured his employee was in the same boat.
Jeanne stares at me for an agonizing second, her face carefully black.
“No, we are not fucking.” Jeanne answers. I grin as she matches my profanity.
I lean in more; I’d been buoyed before but now I’m feeling bold. “Are you seeing anybody?”
Her composed silence says enough. There’s a too-intense buzzing that sits heavy in my chest and settles in my gut that I try desperately to convince myself is just the alcohol.
It’s not, its so fucking not.
I take a large draw from my wine to stop myself from saying any one of the myriad things that came to mind.
“Are you seeing anybody?” She does an admirable job of replicating my own skepticism at the idea.
I relish at the way her face twitches at my snort.
“Fuck no.” I clarify, in case the snort wasn’t enough.
“Mmh,” I watch transfixed as she leans forwards towards me. Her elbow pressing into the table and her other hand on her glass of wine, one finger trailing along the edge in languid circles. “That’s surprising, you don’t strike me as shy. Or is nobody living up to your high standards?”
She knows exactly what she’s doing here. The almost teasing glint in her eyes and the confident smirk on her lips tell me as much.
And it’s fucking working.
Not to be outdone I lean forward as well, causing our legs to brush under the table again. I’d almost forgotten they were touching in the first place.
“You’d be surprised.” I say past the lump in my throat and the racing in my heart and fucking seriously? I’ve fought some of the scariest motherfuckers on the planet and this is what terrifies me?
I’d thought her eyes were a light brown, or maybe a hazel, but up close I realized that they weren’t monochrome. Fine filaments of yellow – the same shade of her power – crisscrossed the surface like the impurities in an emerald.
I’m sorry fucking what? Jesus christ what the fuck brain. They’re eyes. Just… just nice ones.
I resolve to just shoot myself if I get that poetic again.
Jeanne quirks her mouth in another hum and my thoughts fall away as I sit, transfixed.
I see her eyes flick down, to my lips. I realize, quite abruptly, that we’d only need to lean forward a little and we’d be kissing.
Time stops, turns on an axle, and falls away.
I don’t move, I don’t breathe. Usually when it’s between fight or flight, I fight. Right this moment, I picked the third option: freeze. She's close enough that I can feel her breath ghosting across my face, utterly scentless save for the smell of wine.
Then she frowns abruptly and leans back. Jeanne’s eyes flick to her empty glass of wine – her third – and I see the moment she comes to her own conclusion; whatever it is.
“It was nice to meet you Melanie. I-” She pauses for a moment to formulate the words. “I look forward to working with you in the future.”
Jeanne holds her hand out for me to shake and I almost slap it in a fit of pique. Instead I smooth my expression and lean back again, once more the picture of a mercenary captain and not some lovesick idiot.
“Pleasure.” I force the words past uncooperative lips, smooth and confident.
I watch her leave after I shake her hand. I’ve failed jobs before. I’ve had times where I’ve had to limp back to a client and tell them that I’d fucked it. I hate doing it, I always feel awful, like I’ve failed not just myself but my whole crew.
Yet I’ve never felt as wretched as I do watching Jeanne leave the restaurant.
I’m left sitting alone at a table for two. I send a text to my Crew, telling them to return to the hotel; they don’t need to see me like this.
Then I signal the waitress and order their strongest bourbon and spend the rest of the night looking for salvation in the bottom.
-x-
The room shifts again, the near-formless mass of coiling vines and tendrils wrapping together into a crude club that I only manage to dodge because the floor beneath me becomes smoother than teflon, letting me slide unharmed under the blow. A glance behind me shows where its flesh has cracked and split under its own strain. The wounds weren’t growing back quite as well as they had at the start of the fight; Citrine’s power at work.
Unfortunately, that's the extent of what she’s managed to do to it. Wherever it’s being injured, dark scabrous growths bloom in place of ripped flesh. It’s only really managing to slow it down slightly, not stop it.
Newter sits perched on the roof, little more than an afterthought after his bio-hallucinogenic compounds failed to do anything more to the creature than make it more erratic for a few seconds. He was holding his gun out, using his free fingers and toes to cling to the walls and move into advantageous positions.
But he’s tiring, I can see it. Beads of dangerous sweat lining trembling arms. His shot is getting worse too. I make a note to train for this sort of scenario in the future.
Citrine is the only other cape with us fighting Blasto’s monster; she’s difficult to spot in the yellow haze she’d filled the room with.
I move towards her in quick strides. My boots find easy traction on the floor despite the coating of blood-like sap the monster had been spilling. Her power at work no doubt.
She only glances at me briefly before refocusing on the mass of plant flesh around us.
It hadn’t been a simple mission, stealth ones rarely were. The rest of the team are currently disposed of, distracting Blasto and drawing him away from his base. It had just been myself, Newter, and Citrine that broke into his lab. Naturally, things had gone tits up on our way out and we’d managed to trigger the defense mechanism.
It was a fucking smart one too. We’d come in, grabbed the files off his computer – paranoid bastard kept his system airgapped – and came out only to be met halfway by what looked like a monstrously large animated tree root. It stretched across the large room that had previously been filled with cloning vats – the room must have been the only one large enough to fit its expanded bulk. It wrapped and stretched across every surface it could find, where it wasn’t clinging to the walls and floor it split off into battering tendrils.
Not only did it catch us completely off-guard on the way out, it would let Blasto know exactly what we were after once we’re reduced to swearing smears.
Not that I had any intention of letting it get to that point.
“Use your power on me.” I skip the peasantries and get straight to it. “Fuck around with the Manton limit.”
Citrine hasn’t given any hint that things changed between us as a result of that night at the restaurant. I’d almost managed to convince myself that nothing had changed. Then I see the naked fear flash across her face at my suggestion.
She doesn’t argue the point, just looks back towards Blasto’s monster. She doesn’t tell me the risks of using her power on me because I already know.
The monster quivers, a shudder running across every tendril. It seems to retreat backwards and compress itself against the far wall. The damage it’s doing to itself doesn’t deter it in the slightest.
Even with my eyes fixed squarely on the monster, I can feel Citrine’s indecision and worry. Myriad emotions passing in a flash. Heartening as it is, I hope she could make up her mind before this asshole makes his next attack. I can dwell on the complicated emotions when I’m not in the middle of a life-or-death battle.
“Very well,” Citrine says, her voice level but rushed, “we can reattach your fingers afterwards, if need be.”
“That’s the spirit.”
There isn’t any indication or sensation when she uses her power on me. There might be a faint yellow glow, not that I can tell, given the whole room is cast in shades of yellow.
The knowledge that I could potentially be cutting myself in half if I’m not careful does little to shake me. I just grit my teeth and solidify my focus as best I can.
I’m moving a moment before the monster does, I’ve got a sense of its attack patterns, the directions it strikes, how it moves.
It expands, throwing its bulk towards us in a spray of red sap, artificial plant muscles ripping apart under its own strength. It's not enough to cause serious damage, but it is enough to slow it down. Enough that I’m able to slip under the coiled tendrils that occupy the space where my upper body had been.
The thud of its mass impacting the wall behind me is something I feel more than I hear. The shock rockets past and through my bones and a harsh wind whips the fake hair of my suit.
I don’t hesitate as I reach towards the twisted mass of bleeding vines and activate my power, focusing with an adrenaline assisted laser precision.
There’s a sharp pain on the tips of my fingers but it works, green and orange energy crackling across the tendrils. Neatly severing them with a spray of rad sap.
The creature barely reacts to the loss of its limb, and I don’t give it the chance to adapt to the changed circumstances. I sprint towards the ‘core,’ a thick clump of wood-like flesh that all the tendrils originate from.
My feet cut through the sap without any of the resistance or stickiness that sap should have. My hard footfalls are drowned out by Newter’s supporting gunfire as he keeps the tendrils from being able to easily swing at me.
I skid underneath a sweeping tendril as I get close, the ground slicker than ice and a deep red spray blooming in my wake.
I grab a knotted section of its central mass to arrest my motion, using the leftover momentum to swing my feet up to touch the underside of its bulk.
My power works fast with this many points of contact, crackling lines arcing from my fingers and toes to form a box with a cross through it. The pain in my fingers redoubles, like white hot spikes jabbing into my digits, and a line of pain erupts across one leg. I blink the white spots out of my eyes and push, extending the lines past what I can see.
I cut through the creature in barely a second.
Blood gushes through the gaps with some force, the spray enough to dislodge me and send me sliding across the still-slick floor.
I’m in a ready crouch in seconds, fighting through the pain. Whatever damage I’ve done to myself, it’s not stopping my limbs from working. Though maybe it’d be different if I actually tried to stand up.
My eyes are fixed to the construct like a hawk. I can see Newter in my periphery, his gun still trained on the creature. Good.
I heave myself upright when a cluster of tendrils near me bunch together; swearing for every painful inch of height.
I needn’t have bothered. There’s a full-bodied crack as it splits itself apart. I watch as a crack in the tree-skin flows all the way down the tendrils to the base, and long slivers of split wood-flesh fall off and crash into the layer of sap on the floor.
I nod sharply towards the door. I only need to signal once, and we’re gone, dodging the lackluster attempts at the creature to attack. Despite the lack of strength on the construct’s part, I still almost get hit on the way out when my leg causes me to stumble.
My head doesn’t stop swiveling, doesn’t stop thinking and moving and analyzing until we’re safely in the getaway van. I collapse into one of the seats, boneless and shaking as all the exhaustion and pain hits at once.
I’m thankful that the driver was switched on enough that I don’t need to say a word before she’s putting pedal to the metal and getting us the fuck out of here.
“Newter,” I cut off my subordinate’s cheering, “my hands are no good, check in with the crew.”
His eyes flick to the hands in question, pure blue sclera widening at what I expect to be a gruesome sight.
I look down to see what I’m working with. I’m able to feel all my fingers, which is a good sign. If a very painful one.
It doesn’t look quite as bad as it feels. The fingertips of the gloves are cleanly cut through with bits of fletch and grizzle visible through the profuse amount of blood the wounds are pouring. Or it’s the blood-like sap from the construct in Blasto’s lab; hard to tell.
There’s a cut running across my leg, from knee to thigh. Mostly superficial, given that it’s managing to bleed a lot less than my hands. Though that speaks more to the volume of bleeding my hands are doing at the moment.
My feet are untouched. My power had carved lines and chunks out of my boots, but missed my toes by only a hair. Boots are easily replaceable; toes not as much.
The remainder of my Crew will be busy with their distraction for a while still, leaving me with only Newter. His first-aid is serviceable, but he can’t give me medical care without taking extensive precautions to prevent accidentally drugging me. Not something I tend to risk unless it’s do-or-die.
“Citrine.” I raise the tattered ruins of my hands up for observation. “A little help would be much appreciated.” I smirk, unable to help myself from adding a bit of dry humor, “blood stains are a bitch to get out of the upholstery.”
It's a weak attempt at a joke, but in my defense I’m in an impressive amount of pain. Not just from my final attack against the construct. It managed to hit me with multiple glancing blows; I recognise at least two cracked ribs from past experiences.
She nods wordlessly – weird, she’s usually a lot more erudite – and reaches for the bright red clamshell case hung on the van’s wall. With it in hand, she drops into the seat next to me and pops it open. Inside is a wealth of medical equipment, from the most useful mundane kit to the best tinker tech crap I could get my hands on.
Tinker tech anything cost an arm and a fucking leg, but you get what you pay for. Sometimes literally. It’s expensive enough – and scheduling the necessary routine maintenance is tedious enough – that I’ve had to be incredibly selective with what I buy.
Most of it is in the trauma kit, things to help us claw our way back to life when we really need it. With one exception.
“Grab the green bottle with the black cap.” I instruct Citrine. “Put it on right before the bandages. Should quarter the recovery time. Rest is emergency only, just use the standard stuff.”
“I will. Give me your hands.”
I hold my hands to her, palms up to keep the blood from flowing as freely. Citrine takes hold of them, moving them gently side-to-side and inspecting the areas that were cut with my power.
One hand moves out of my direct sight and comes back with a pair of small heavy duty scissors. Cutting through my gloves is slow, slower still because she has to match her motions to those of the van. I hear Newter signing off, a glance from me nets a thumbs up and a grin.
That, more than anything, helps me relax.
I drop my eyes back to my hands as Citrine finishes cutting through the gloves. She doesn’t give any sort of apology or preamble before she goes to pull them off. My only consolation is the yellow glow that encases them; removing the friction no doubt.
I tense to avoid letting on how painful removing the gloves is. The hands are one of the more sensitive parts of the body, filled with nerve endings. As a result it’s one of the last places you want to have shredded, or to have heavy gloves pulled past the shredding.
She gives me a minute to recollect my bearings before starting to clean the wounds. Too-gentle fingers hold mine in place while she wipes away blood, that all-too-familiar stings of antiseptic.
I hit that point, I think, where the human body stops really registering pain. Typically that’s the onset of shock, but I’ve been there enough times that I work through it.
The trick, I’ve found, is to be so focused on a singular task that the pain fades into the background. Typically, that would be the mission. That had been my focus about ten minutes ago when the mission’s success was still uncertain.
Right now, it’s Citrine’s hands. It’s the way the medical gloves she’s donned twist and fold. The distant feeling of her fingertips pressing featherlight on my hands. I watch in an odd fascination at the blood being removed bit by bit, as rent flesh is revealed in gritty detail. Each finger is exposed for only a moment, blood welling readily to the surface, before being sprayed with the healing gel and bandaged.
My eyes flick up and I find something new to hyperfocus on. Citrine’s face is the picture of focus. It’s as if every single muscle and tendon is singularly attentive to her task.
Everything except for the deeply worried crease stretching between her eyebrows.
My body itches to bring my fingers – ruined or not – up to smooth it. It looks misplaced, like the bullet stuck in a jammed gun. An element that should not be there.
I can’t turn my eyes away from it.
Not when she lets go of one hand, nor when she finishes the other and she looks at me.
It’s brief, but I feel my heart falter when the crease falls away and an expression that can only be fondness trickles across her face.
Then she’s back to work, using the medical shears to cut at the fabric of my pants. No amount of internally swearing at myself makes my heart start beating again when she shears around my inner thigh.
Apparently it’s very easy to forget that you’re meant to be stressed and in a lot of pain when a hot woman is literally cutting your pants away.
I’m almost disappointed with her quick efficiency at cleaning and dressing the wound. Some bugfuck stupid part of me wishes she’d drawn it out. I drown it. Another part of me finds it incredibly sexy that she works with such a singular efficiency. I… do not understand that part, but I let it live.
I’ve resigned myself to my fate at this stage.
Faultline, famed mercenary, semi-wanted criminal, and hopeless romantic. Apparently.
I croak out a “thanks,” while I observe her work. My thigh is neatly bandaged, but that’s hardly a surprise. A blind toddler could bandage a thigh. The hands are a lot more impressive and I turn them around to follow the neat lines of bandages wrapping around my fingers. There’s the faintest line of red along the edges of the bandages where my blood is seeping through.
Citrine doesn’t respond.
I turn my head to her.
She’s staring at me with intent. Her face minutely twitches in some internal conflict.
I can’t tell what she’s thinking, but I know the moment she comes to a conclusion and her face stills.
There’s the sound of latex stretching as she pulls off her gloves and the slightest plop as they’re dropped to the floor. I realize, belatedly, that it’s the only sound in the van which has long since stopped.
I open my mouth, a question on my lips that’s lost when she reaches up. Citrine gently undoes the clasps holding my mask to my head and pulls it off what the fuck?
Her eyes flick across my face as though they’re taking in every single possible detail.
She drops the mask on the floor and for the first time ever I don’t worry about the lens being dirtied or scratched.
She brings a hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and my heart – which I’d managed to force back into beating – gives up and dies.
She palms my jaw, her thumb splayed across my cheek, and her fingers tickling at the roots of my hair.
I expect her to speak, to say the hundreds of words she’d probably wanted to when I made her use her power on me.
Instead she leans forward.
I meet her halfway, my lips on hers, her lips on mine.
There’s nothing in the world at that moment, save for the press of her lips onto mine. Save for the feeling of her hand moving to cup the back of my head, threading her fingers through my hair. Save for her other hand coming to rest on my undamaged leg, the gentle squeeze sending an electric shock to my system.
I shouldn’t be this affected by just a kiss. Shouldn’t be so affected by her. I should be above all that.
I’m a professional. Some distant and deranged part of me screams.
I don’t listen.
I put my hand, heedless of the pain, on top of the one Citrine has on my thigh and lean harder into the kiss.
Fuck being professional.