OOC Information: The following stories chronicle the rivalry between Devon Goral and his sometimes-friend, sometimes-enemy Daniel Creighton, and the events that led up to the separation of Devon and his wife, Zephyer Storm.

Creighton was a co-worker of Devon before he came to RhyDin, where they both had a healthy competition. During a storyline played out in 2001-2002, Devon saved Creighton's life. Afterwards, Creighton moved to RhyDin and became Devon's right-hand man. Their brief friendship quickly returned to a bitter and malicious rivalry, as demonstrated here.

There are some gaps in the story, usually resulting from live play that I don't have time to transcribe. And the story peters out due to real-life. However I follow up on the story in some detail in my subsequent threads: "Specters, Phantoms, and Ghosts," "Tableau," and "Family." The underlying story about an attempted consolidation in the RhyDin mob scene is finally resumed in "Loose Ends."

(( February 28, 2011, edited August 28, 2013 ))

Panes of ice cracked, then shattered, splintering through the air like so much broken crystal and shattering upon the pavement below. It took a good tug to pull the door open, and the hinges stuck just short of fifty degrees. A grunt and a couple additional heaves made no progress and he knew that if he tried harder he was risking pulling the doorknob straight out.?

He muttered and glanced at the walkway to the front door. The snow was at least knee-deep, frozen branches cluttered and blocked the path, and he already knew the sidewalk was slippery beneath the snow. Rather his ankle knew, and reminded him forcefully. No, he was going to have to make this work.

A six-foot-six-inch man with exceptionally broad-shoulders and average-yet-enhanced musculature does not easily turn and slide through a partially-opened door with anything that could be confused with grace. No, it was more like giving birth to a ragdoll through a sandpaper canal, and by the time he had pushed himself into the house he brought a shower of ice, snow, and chips of paint along with him. With him into the house, into the air, and over his clothes. Whatever. He'd clean it up tomorrow.

With another grunt he pulled the door back closed, which swung more easily than he expected and slammed with a shudder. He was now panting, cold and annoyed.?

The Protector hated winter. As a child in London the winters were always bleak, cold, and unforgiving. Even worse was growing up in Seattle where the winters were dark, dreary, and depressing. This land was prettier, for sure, but also colder. From a professional standpoint it was always much harder to spot possible trouble-points when everyone is bundled up. Not to mention running or exerting in any way was a risk. Just last month he watched a perfectly-skilled soldier slip on some ice and fly through a plate glass window. Not a good outcome.

Regardless, he was finally here. A glass of scotch, a warm fire, and the comforts of home would soon be his. He slipped out of his coat and threw it over a chair, and he set a large duffel bag gently down on the floor. He had entered the house through the side door that led straight to his office, which ? to an untrained eye ? appeared to have been ransacked by clumsy troll assassins. No, that was just how he kept it.?

Walking over to his desk he pulled the dust cover off an electrical contraption of some sort. He flipped the switch to the ON position, which started a faint light glowing. Reaching into his pocket he withdrew a small cardboard box, worn at the edges, which jingled when it moved. He set the box gently down on the table next to the contraption and walked away. It would need time to warm up.

Devon walked quietly up the stairs, loosening his collar and stretching out his neck. One of the unforeseen side-effects of his job combined with his age was the recent deterioration of his neck muscles. Long hours of scanning a room (mostly with his eyes but his head had to move a little too ? tiny, almost imperceptible movements) had hunched his shoulders and stiffened his spine. Nothing serious, but there was always a tiny ache in the background. The constant need to crack his neck like some people crack their knuckles. He wished that this was his only medical flaw. That would be nice. Easy to live with. Not life-threatening in any respect. Not so lucky. One large hand gently worked out the kinks as he mounted the stairs and emerged into the kitchen.

A bottle of scotch waited for him on the kitchen counter, just where he'd left it three weeks before. He had been thinking about that bottle for a long time. How it would look pouring into the glass. How it would smell. The taste going down his gullet. The man had perfect control of his drinking, but that didn't mean he didn't occasionally long. Especially when on long assignments when spirits were simply not acceptable. Scotch represented everything he worked for. Not the drink itself, but the freedom and independence it represented.

Quickly and quietly he opened the bottle, took a brief whiff, then set it back down. He found himself a large tumbler, grabbed a handful of ice cubes from the freezer, and prepared his drink. A cat wandered into the room and brushed itself against his leg. He didn't notice. His attention was focused entirely on the drink right up through the moment where he brought the glass to his chapped lips.?

He closed his eyes. He sipped. Then nothing. A swallow. A smile. Feels good going down.

A larger, more sustained drink brought the scotch halfway down and he felt obliged to refill the glass to the top. Then he closed up the scotch, brushed a foot against the cat, and made his way back to the stairs. He continued his ascent, now moving even more quietly ? not even allowing the ice cubes to knock together.

At the top of the carpeted stair was the master bedroom. He took a step into the room and leaned against the doorway, allowing his eyes to adjust. It didn't take long ? the moon was unusually bright. It shone through the windows, casting an odd shadow, which penetrated, across the middle of the room. In contrast was the illumination from the skylight above. The glass was covered in ice and frost, but the full moon was dead center in the window. As he watched the effect play over the room, he soon realized that the diffused moonlight was causing the whole room to glow eerily. Patterns on the carpet and bedspread resembled twisted snowflakes, both innocent and corrupted, sharp and unfocused.?

His eyes followed the patterns across the room until he came to the bed. One, two, three, four dogs were spread out across the blanket, all splayed out with their legs in various uncomfortable-looking positions, breathing soft breaths and appearing completely at peace. One of the dogs appeared to be snuggled against her arm. Yes, there she was.

His lover laid perfectly still on her back, one arm protruding from the covers at her side, the other perhaps hidden under the pillow. Her face was only partially framed by the light from the window, half glowing and pale, the other half almost entirely shrouded in darkness. Her eyes were closed and her expression peaceful. Her lips were parted very slightly and he felt he could see her breathing. The blanket was pulled high across her body to help shield her from the cold night.?

He stood there for a few minutes, watching her and taking the occasional sip of his drink. He had not seen her in three weeks. He barely had time to leave the occasional phone message. She never picked up when he called. Probably she wasn't home and she disliked being reachable when she was out. She often went out when he wasn't in town. Perhaps she liked being able to get away and do her own thing when he wasn't there to chain her down. Or, more likely, she got lonely when he was away for a long time and needed to be somewhere other than their shared home. It was a double-edged sword, the home they built together. When they were there, they were very happy. When he was gone on business, it was a reminder that he had taken her away from her world and planted her in his ? only to frequently leave her along in it. All too frequently, especially lately. The changing business environment required him to go on lengthy trips more and more often. He hated it. These were jobs he used to turn down. They paid well but they were hard on him. Hard physically, hard emotionally. Especially now. At this point in his life he wanted to relish in a desk job. Work from home, make a few phone calls and send out emails with terse orders to his underlings. The plan was for him to get up early, get some work done, then go upstairs and be with her while his minions did the traveling and the dangerous work.

Things didn't work out the way he planned. The early days were lucrative, but the pace of business didn't keep up. He had to lay off some men and go back into the field himself. Had to take the more dangerous assignments. Had to travel.

She never complained but he could see it in her eyes. She wanted him home. She wanted them to spend time together. They were supposed to travel together to far-off exotic places. These days the farthest they want was a nice restaurant on the outskirts of civilization or a couple hours up to the spaceport to see some music. Sometimes she'd ask if she could go with him on a mission but he never allowed it. It's not that he didn't think she could take care of herself. In fact he felt better about her than some of the professionals he sometimes he had to work with. But he wasn't willing to take any chances. Anything could happen. Just ask that poor bastard and the plate glass window.

After a time, he wasn't sure how long, she stirred. She shifted a bit and her hand found the nearest dog and rested on his back. Her lips were now closed, her expression remained unburdened. He longed to go to her, but he wasn't ready. He had something to finish up.

He turned and made his way back down the stairs. As he reached the main floor he glanced briefly into the living room. She left the Christmas tree lights on. He was always having to remind her about that. Wasn't safe. Wasn't economical. It was accidental, he was sure. But perhaps some small part of her felt some comfort knowing that the tree was all lit up beneath her. That the spirit of Christmas was in their home still. It was January 4th. Christmas was long over. Even New Years was a memory. But the house was still decorated, still alive with holiday cheer.?

His heart ached. Three weeks he was gone. He missed it all.

Not bothering to take note of the unopened presents scattered under the tree he instead went back into the kitchen and refreshed his glass. Another ice cube. This time he crouched down and gave Sierra a scratch behind the ears. Then he went back downstairs to his office.

The iron was now red hot. He flipped on a lamp, sat down in the creaky old wooden chair, and slipped the tiny key from under the blotter. He leaned to his right with a grunt, keyed open the top drawer and slided it easily open. Quietly and gently he withdrew the small metal box and placed it on the top of the desk. He fumbled with the broken latch until it sprung and he flipped the lid open. Out came the spherical object.

Once he had cleared things away he turned to his work. He squinted in the poor light, his ocular implants struggling to focus on the task at hand. Held up in an alligator clip was the drawing. A large, almost comical magnifying glass was suspended above him. He reached into the cardboard box and produced a single cylinder. He gripped it in an iron vice and twisted the bullet apart. Gunpowder spilled harmlessly in a neat pile on the desk. It reminded him of the sands in an hourglass. Reminding him of the passage of time. He smirked. That was clich?. Still, a shudder rippled through his shoulders.

He was tired. Needed to get this finished before he could go to bed. He had purchased several gifts, of course, they were in his bag on the floor. But they were mere trinkets that he managed to find in a shop while he was working. Nice gifts, sure, but not personal. He knew he had to apologize for accepting a job that took him away from his family on Christmas and New Years with barely three days' notice. Okay, apologize wasn't the right word. He needed to make things right. He needed to restore balance.?

When he wasn't working, he stole away to his hotel room and worked on this project using a portable soldering iron and the bullets he deemed too old to use. The concept was insanely cheesy. He had no skills in metalworking. He never claimed to be an artist and frankly had no vision. He was a practical man. He considered wearing a killer suit to be a work of art. He was way out of his league.

Yet as he humiliated and teased himself, something strange emerged. His project actually took shape. It was turning out better than he ever expected. Sometimes he was even sure that he blacked out while working on the project, only to awake hours later with some measure of progress that he didn't remember effecting. Perhaps he was just delirious from stress and sleep deprivation. Perhaps he was possessed. Perhaps he was just lonely and desperate.

The industrial-strength iron melted the bullet in mere seconds ? much faster than he was able to do on the road. He dipped the iron in the metal and touched it to his design. He began to add the final touches. The ears. The snout. The tail. He was having trouble with the finer details and had to blot them out and redo them several times. Tonight he had to finish. He focused his attention on a few square centimeters of shaped metal. He didn't even bother to reference the drawing of the wolf held before him. He didn't need to, it was well-engrained in his memory by now. He just had to feel it.?

And he did. For the next two hours if you had been watching Devon Goral you never would have known that he had never set out to create a work of art in his adult life before that evening. But shortly after three o'clock in the morning, he finished his design. He blew on it to cool and settle the surface and quietly slid back his chair.?

It was by no means a work of great art. It wasn't going to be put in a museum or photographed for the greeting card company. But no one would question what the image depicted: a wolf stalking across a mountain emblazoned on a metal sphere. Light-weight with a hook at the top.?

He wanted to run upstairs right now and hang it on the tree, but he couldn't deprive her of her gift. He just hoped she'd love it. He hoped she'd forgive him for disappearing for three weeks and leaving her alone on Christmas. And he hoped she'd let him do it again next time. Which could be any time.?

There was a bigger issue here, one that he was not ready to address. How much longer would their lives go on like this? At what point would they fight over it? When would he have to admit the various problems that plagued him. Money. Health. Psychology.

No today. Not this weekend. It was Christmas time, just a little late. And he needed to wrap up his gift.

(( April 29, 2011 ))

Gently he wiped off the knife before setting it down on his desk. It shone like the day it was new, which appealed to the Protector's growing compulsions. The light from the window behind glinted off of it just right. He liked his equipment to be perfectly-maintained. It was that kind of attention to detail, that care and respect for the tools of the trade that made him who he was. A perfectionist.

Organization, on the other hand, was not his strong suit. His desk and the nearby tables were all filled to capacity with various things, mostly work-related. Papers, books, maps, weapons, ammunition, rations. Everything you need to run a largely-mobile business was scattered around his office. It was to the point that he no longer took meetings here, he went out to the reception area and its plush "living room" as they called it. This was just how he preferred to exist. His apartment looked much like this before he was taken away from it, and although he's managed to keep his house largely sparse, his home office was reaching the point of nearly bursting.

No one dared say anything. This was how he did things. And, in a pinch, he could locate any item in this or any room, so long as no one else touched it first. Of course if he were to keel over dead tomorrow, it's a safe bet that no one would ever find anything again.

Prominent on the cluttered desk this day were two large plastic bins that were commonly used to pack for missions. Each still needed to be finished. Devon opened up a desk drawer and draw out two rectangular cardboard boxes. A quick slide and the rows of bullets were revealed to the light. A quick count in his head, then he closed up the first box and set it inside a bin. He did the same with the second box and stowed it in the bin. Then came a few grenades out of the box next to his desk, pins secured. Finally, he added in the audio and video surveillance packs.

He turned his attention back to his other project, head going over the inventory. A knock at the open door interrupted his concentration.

"Got a sec, boss?"

Devon looked up. He really didn't have a 'sec,' but that wasn't going to stop Archie.

"I was 'opin' you'd 'ad a chance t' look over da counter-bid for da Prince. We need-a present it 'morrow mornin'."

"I saw it. It's too much."

Archie frowned and invited himself in, leaning up against the garish suit of armor standing in the corner (and holding up a random collection of shoulder holsters). "If'n we don' give 'im what 'e wants 'e's gonna go wit Aegis."

Devon returned to his work, collecting up a couple bottles and making sure their caps were on tight. "I've been providing personal protective services to Prince Malchezaar for going on six years now. He's been trying to get me to provide more service for less money since day one, but he's also never had a complaint and I've always done right by him. This is just a tactic."

"Can I 'ave somma that?" Archie asked, reaching forward, but the target of his grasp was pulled back.

"Give him the additional personnel that he requested but no reduction in the rate. If he wants quality he's going to pay for it. Aegis can afford to give a better price because they're lazy and use shoddy equipment."

Archie huffed at the physical rebuke. "I'll be sure t' tell Danny you said tha'."

"Furthermore, the Prince still owed us for those land mines we found on his property last month," Devon grumbled, returning to preparing and packing the second bin. "Tell him he doesn't get shit if he doesn't pay that invoice. Not to mention I'm inclined to bury them back in with his favorite peonies."

"The 'ard sell, eh?"

Devon picked up the knife and pointed it, making his point without threatening, "Archie, you're my sales guy. Stop letting people walk all over you. Break him down and then I'll come in and close the deal." He slid the knife into its sheath and placed it carefully into the second bin. "At the end of the day, the Prince likes me and he'll do what I want. This is all just a game to him. He forgets that we aren't all the descendants of dragons that hoarded gold and jewelry in some dank cave somewhere."

"Okay, okay!" Archie protested, raising up his hands in defense. "I'll take care o' it."

"Thank you." The Protector grabbed his tape dispenser and gingerly closed up and secured the wax paper. "Now I need to finish this, I'm running late."

"Where ya headed wit' all tha'?"

"Let's say I have a date, but she doesn't know."

A toothy grin. "I done tha' before."

"Yes, I remember having to bail you out."

Archie looked hurt.

"I need you to take a little more initiative around here. I may not be in the office as often for a while. I have to get my house in order."

"Your 'ouse? I like your 'ouse. I want mine t' be just like yours, but in da city!"

Devon gave him a look. "I don't mean literally. I need to spend more time with my wife. I can't be here eighteen hours a day."

Archie decided to take this moment to start experimenting with initiative as he took a step forward with renewed vigor, "'ey, e've got a business ta run 'ere. Danny is nipping at our 'eals and stealin' our clients!"

"Damn." A bit of mustard dripped. "Any client that trades me for Daniel Creighton deserves what they get."

"Easy for 'ou to say, 'ou da boss."

The Protector rose to his feet, not liking that answer. Archie cowered a bit.

"Our clients need to feel like we're not afraid of anything and that includes the competition." He cleaned up the spill and returned to placing the packages in the bin. "Hell, half the assassins in town also moonlight as bodyguards when business is bad. Why not play both sides for the profit."

"Danny would neva do dat."

"I know that," he grumbled, "but you need to get my point." He turned around, pitched open the mini-fridge, and withdrew a bottle of wine. It went quickly into the bin, cushioned by a freezer pack. "Now I need to get out of here, so please just do this. If I need to blow in a call to seal the deal I will."

"Oh goo'. Tha' always 'elps."

Devon carefully picked out two wine glasses from the cabinet and wrapped each with care before setting them in the bin. He followed up the glasses with the flowers he purchased this morning and set about closing up the bin. "My wife is not going to appreciate me making a phone call from a picnic. If you call me, you can expect my wrath on Monday morning."

"Aye, sir."

The Protector leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Do we have an understanding Archie? I don't want to be interrupted today."

"Got it, boss."

"I want you to tell me that you understand me."

"You're goin' on a picnic with da misses and you don' wanna be intra-rupted. Got it, boss."

A smile. "Good."

Archie took a step forward. "Wan' me ta load dis in da car for ya, boss?"

"No, I'll do it. This is very fragile, in more ways than one. You can take the other one to the armory, though, it's ready for Kat's mission tonight."

"Will do. See ya Monday, boss. Give da little lady a kiss 'or me."

A stare.

A cower.

Devon carefully hoisted the bin and dodged his way past the man and out of his office. Sandwiches, check. Fruit and cheese plate, check. Wine and glasses, check. Utensils, napkins, and a couple pieces of rich chocolate cake for dessert. She said she'd be home, he hoped the surprise would be welcome. He knew he had a lot of work ahead of him, both at the office and at home. Both were important, but only one was worth dying for.

(( July 4, 2011, edited August 28, 2013 ))

"Want to make some easy money, Lenny?"

* * *

It was a Friday night, very much like this one, when Daniel Creighton found himself at Harley's ? a fairly typical hole-in-the-wall bar a few blocks from RhyDin's business district. Creighton frequently sought out unusual places for client meetings. He didn't like the cloak-and-dagger BS that most in his industry preferred. No, he preferred meetings right out in the open, where no one would expect. Easy to get lost in a crowd. It was risky, of course ? in big cities there is just as much a chance of not running into anyone you know as running into just the wrong person. Still, that added to the thrill of the job. Not that he was being unprofessional, a loud noisy bar makes it impossible for eavesdropping devices to function, and he was an expert at watching for threats. Plus meetings like this one came before a contract was signed, so technically he wasn't actually responsible for the safety of the person across from him.

This time it was Sato Hoshi. Many in the upper echelons of the Yakuza don't really look the part ? often more theocrat than thug. Not Hoshi. His face was contorted into a grimace, a scar ran down his left cheek to his jaw, and his hair was mussed and unkempt. No, Sato Hoshi was the last person you'd ever want to run into in an alley. He'd cut you from ear-to-ear without even thinking twice. The last person you'd expect to need a bodyguard.

Of course, Creighton wasn't being hired to protect Hoshi. He was being hired to protect Hoshi's arms shipment, coming into town on a boat next week. Creighton didn't need to know why Hoshi couldn't just put enough of his own men on the job, and Hoshi wasn't volunteering the details. All that mattered was that Creighton and his crew had to meet the freighter at half-past eleven, supervise the loading of trucks, and then escort them eighty clicks into the countryside. Easy peasy.

As Hoshi went over the map, however, Creighton became distracted by something going on at the bar. Creighton, as a professional, did not become distracted easily, but it was natural for him to keep an eye out for potential threats. Only this one didn't take the image he was expecting. A couple of young men seemed to be shouting at a woman at the bar. At first he thought she was just ignoring them, but then he caught something in her body language to suggest otherwise. Although she wasn't looking at them, she was apparently egging them on. And while he couldn't hear what she was saying, he could hear them pretty clearly, and he was pretty sure she was insulting their collective manhoods.

This, of course, resulted in an all-out old-fashioned bar fight. The woman moved with lightning speed and dropped the two frat boys with ease, but the bar erupted at the activity. Half a dozen men with no connection to either party started brawling, and one clever opportunist snuck behind the bar and began looting the till.

The woman at the center of the fight had no reason to be involved any further, her tormentors (if they were that ? Creighton suspected it was the other way around) were long-since disposed of. But she seemed to relish in the melee around her and participated with reckless abandon, giving as much as she took.

"What the hell is going on?" a gruff Hoshi asked, looking over his shoulder at the fight. Instinctively his hand went for the Uzi hidden inside his coat.

"Just kids bursting with testosterone," Creighton answered, still watching the woman at the center of the disturbance. "We are in no danger."

"I am never in danger," Hoshi barked. "I create danger," he snarled proudly.

"I have no doubt of that." Creighton took one last look at the battle, which was now being broken up by security, and smiled toothily. Damn that was fun.

* * *

Each push of the barbell brought another grunt, then a shudder as he let it come down. His body was covered in a sheen of sweat and his muscles were straining. He paused just long enough to catch his breath and pushed it aloft once again. The weight trembled a bit, but he controlled the tool expertly.

"You okay, boss? You seem distracted."

"I'm ? fine ? Troy. What ? was that?"

"Fifteen, I think."

Creighton rotated his eyes to give his spotter a dirty look.

"Nineteen!" he exclaimed.

Creighton pushed twenty up into the air and then hoisted it onto the stand. He then rolled to a sitting position and grabbed his towel, dabbing at the sweat that poured from his head.

"Nicely done, boss."

Still panting from the exertion, Creighton glanced around the gym. The wealthiest denizens of RhyDin came here to see and be seen, all dressed in their most expensive spandex outfits and using machines that were more complex than some cars. The girls were fit, the men were strong, and everyone looked good. This was the type of scene in which he thrived.

Daniel Creighton couldn't actually afford to be a member of this club, but his connections with the rich and powerful of this town allowed him to pretend to live beyond his means. The owner of the club's spoiled brat of a daughter managed to earn herself a rather psychotic stalker and Creighton was right there to protect her and ultimately drop the bastard off a twenty story roof. At least, that's the story that everyone believed.

Creighton was much more concerned with fitness than his employees or his former boss. 'A healthy body makes a healthy mind,' he'd tell them. Really it did more to compensate for a feeble mind, but he wasn't quite clever enough to realize that. He came here once a day every day, when not on assignment, work out his body and watch the pretty girls. And sometimes he did more than watch.

Today he had an ulterior motive, however. He was not here to watch the girls and he was only tangentially here to improve his own physique. Today he was here to get recruited, or rather to recruit.

In fact he had hired a number of the employees for his fledgling business from gyms, but not this one. He preferred the seedier, dirtier gyms where soldiers and boxers and such would go. Even Troy here had been recruited from a gym just down the street where he was a boxing instructor. At just under a meter tall, Troy was not the most imposing figure, but he was strong as a bull and had a personality and an intellect to match.

"I'm going to go hit the shower, boss."

"First show me this guy you told me about."

Troy hopped up on the bench and looked around. After only a few seconds he pointed across the cavernous complex. "There. That's Lenny."

Creighton's eyes focused until he picked out the man. Just as Troy described. "Okay, you take off. Leave the rest to me."

"Thanks, boss. Good luck."

Creighton hung the towel around his neck and began walking across the gym. As he passed the pretty girls he felt their eyes on him. He was proud of his body, he had done much in the last year to make himself a specimen of physical strength and endurance. Women would also take notice of the bullet scars in his chest and back, where he was almost killed several years ago in London. Scars were better than a puppy for getting women hot. Just gruesome enough to get their attention without actually being a disfigurement.

But not today. There was a mission at stake. Besides, Creighton didn't find himself desiring any of the women in the gym today. Not that they weren't beautiful, fit, and available. His focus was elsewhere.

He focused in on his target. Lenny Mancari was a trainer here at the gym. Like many trainers, he was in excellent physical health and was quite handsome and charming, but he had an air of desperation about him. He was a salesman pretending not to be a salesman. Creighton had seen his pitch, and that of those like him, many times. Compliment someone on their fitness routine but then throw in a minor dig ? just enough to get them to feel self-conscious. Then sweep in with an offer to help them out, improve their routine, and fix the 'problem.'

Lenny was a new employee here, according to Troy's sleuthing, and was on the bubble. If he couldn't drum up more business soon, he'd be out on his sculpted ass.

There was one other element that Creighton needed, and after observing Lenny for only a few minutes he was sure it was there. Lenny, like many trainers and body builders with far too much muscle for their frame, was clearly juicing. That would add a certain aggression and hot-headedness that was crucial to Creighton's plan.

* * *

That Friday night, Creighton set his plan into motion. He was once again at a dive bar, this time Beer Brute. The place was named after the owner, a filthy ogre named Brute, and his favorite drink. Not a lot of thought involved.

Creighton picked himself a secluded table with a good view of the bar. This time he was alone ? the Hoshi assignment was handled successfully five weeks ago and he was still in the process of spending his substantial salary. The last few weeks he farmed meetings and assignments off onto his subordinates so that he would have his weekend evenings free. And so he spent the last few weeks handling a private mission of his own. He approached it with the sincerity and finesse of an actual job, but there was no client. No protectee. No threat or enemy. Just Creighton and his target.

At the bar sat Zephyer Storm. She was the wife of his rival and former boss, Devon Goral. Creighton has known her for several years now, in passing, but only recently has she become the center of all his attention and focus. Months ago when he saw a rift forming between her and her husband he began to wonder how he could turn it to his advantage, both professionally and personally. Devon seemed to be just handing over the ammunition with each action. Crashing his business into the ground by becoming increasingly picky about his clientele and the types of cases he'll take. Spending more and more time away from home on the few assignments he will take. Keeping his wife proverbially chained up and bored. It was textbook, and Creighton intended to be there to take advantage of the void. In only a few months his business was already a threat to Goral's. Soon he would also be a threat to Devon's marriage. He was taking his time, though, making sure to do everything right. He knew from professional experience that to move too quickly would make for disaster. The best assassins were the ones who could out-wait you. Who were in no rush.

Creighton was assassinating Goral's business and soon ? if he played his cards right ? he'd take his marriage down as well.

That wasn't why he was here tonight, though. Waiting had its draw-backs. Creighton was impossibly sexually frustrated. The more he obsessed over Zephyer, the more he had to have her. But he knew to move too soon would be disaster. She'd retreat to Goral who would likely respond with fatal violence. Creighton wasn't stupid and he wasn't suicidal.

Tonight wasn't about capturing Zephyer's heart. It wasn't about showing off. I fact, if he did everything right, she wouldn't even know he was there.

It had been working fine so far. After that first night, five weeks ago, he began following her. Every time Goral went on a weekend assignment ? which was most weekends ? she'd steal away from their quiet home and go to the trashiest, seediest bars in the region. She'd start off quietly and unassuming, observing the people around here, until she'd find the right buttons to press.

Some nights it would be easy. Zephyer was a beautiful woman with an amazing body. An honest beauty, not manufactured. Half of her attractiveness came from how she carried herself, with a confidence that most women didn't have. She didn't dress up but she didn't dress down either.

Men would hit on her constantly. Generally she'd reject them, but occasionally she'd toy with them before shutting them down. She knew just how to twist them and manipulate them to get the outcome she apparently desired. And on the occasional night where no one would hit on her ? or at least no one that she could twist into fighting over her ? she had other methods. She'd start heckling people or otherwise getting involved in their business. She was really quite masterful at pissing people off. A work of art.

Every night her actions were different but every night the result was the same: a bar fight. Since that first time he saw her five weeks ago with Sato Hoshi the yakuza he observed her cause no less than seven bar fights. Her participation in the fight was magnificent to behold. She was a fantastic fighter, more than he ever imagined. She was graceful and powerful and unrelenting. Half the time she didn't even get kicked out as the bouncers wouldn't realize (or accuse) she had anything to do with it. Her triumph was two weeks ago when the fight totaled at least fifty people and the whole bar had to be shut down by authorities.

For Creighton it was all about watching her. The way she manipulated the people around her into fighting. The way she fought. And the high she clearly experienced after it was over. It was like a drug to her. He couldn't imagine the psychological damage that must have been necessary for her to decide to go out every few nights and start fights in order to feel alive. He blamed Goral, clearly it was a lack of attention, physical stimulation, or something else.

Creighton had a two-part response to the evenings watching Zephyer fight. First, he knew he had to hire her. She was clearly a competent fighter and she should be on his payroll. How Devon didn't snatch her up and put her to work was a mystery.

Second, it was a turn-on. Lately the only turn-on that would work for him. Perhaps for the same reason she had to fight, he had to watch her fight. He needed it. Had to have it.

And he decided that he wasn't content to leave things up for chance.

* * *

"Your pectorals are looking very healthy."

"Eh?" Creighton pretended to be surprised by Lenny's approach.

"What are you lifting? Fifty? Sixty?"

"Ninety," Creighton said dryly. If he was going to torture himself every day with that much weight, it would be nice to be appreciated.

Lenny whistled, dropping his air a moment to show he was actually impressed. Lenny was built, but the muscles were fake ? the result of heavy steroid use. Creighton's physique was all-natural. For the moment he had the upper-hand.

"Can I help you?" Creighton asked, feigning annoyance.

"Uh, actually, I think I can help you. You see, I'm a trainer here. And while you're clearly doing well, I'm wondering how your agility is. Do you get winded going up the stairs?"

"No."

"Uh, can you jump rope without getting a headache?"

"I do fifty reps a day."

"Oh. Uh, can you?"

"I don't need a trainer, Lenny."

"You know my name?"

"I do."

Lenny squinted, clearly confused. The predator became the prey.

"There is something I do need, however."

"What's that?"

"Want to make some easy money, Lenny?"



The two of them walked to the locker room as Creighton began to pour on the BS.

"You see, Lenny, it's my wife. She's a great girl but I'm starting to think that maybe she's cheating on me."

"Oh, man, that's rough."

Creighton rolled his eyes. "Yeah, rough."

"Do you want me to train her?"

"Uh, no, not quite."

"So how can I help?"

Creighton pulled Lenny down a hallway toward the vending machines and lowered his voice with mock sincerity. "Man it's tearing me apart. The not knowing. I have to know. I'm wondering if you'd help me."

"Help you how?"

"I want you to hit on my wife. I want to see if she responds or if she stays faithful."

A look of panic crossed Lenny's face. Clearly he was not up to this much drama. Creighton had to sweeten the pot.

"I'll pay you well, in cash. Five hundred credits. Half up front, half after the job is done."

"Man, I don't know about that."

"Lenny, I've confided in you here," Creighton said, his substantial height dwarfing the cowering man. "I'm desperate. I need your help."

"Uh, what if she takes me up on it?"

Creighton smiled. That was the question he was hoping for, and Lenny's meat-head ego made it a guarantee. "Hey, if she cheats on me, you're welcome to her. I'm done with her, then."

He then produced a photo of Zephyer that he had stolen from Devon's office a long time ago. She was in a dress and was glowing. No man could turn that down.

"Holy crap she's hot."

Creighton again feigned emotional torment. "Lenny I've got to know. Won't you help me?"

"Seven fifty."

"Deal."

They shook hands. "I'll call you Friday night with a location of where you can find her. I'll be there but she won't know. Upon arrival I'll give you your half."

Lenny raised a brow. "She goes to bars without you?"

"She thinks I'm working."

"Oh."

"One more thing, Lenny. You're her type. She likes men with muscles. She also likes men to be ? aggressive."

"Aggressive?" Poor Lenny looked almost afraid.

"Turn on your charm, Lenny, show her that you'd sweep her off her feet and show her a good time. But also don't be afraid to dominate her. She likes it a bit rough."

"Oh, one of those!" Lenny brightened up a bit. A bit more than Creighton was comfortable with.

"Yeah."

"Okay, man, I'll do it. I hope for you sake she turns me down."

"I'm sure you can be very charming, Lenny. Just be yourself. It's not your fault if she decides to go home with you."

"No, I guess not."

* * *

Friday night proceeded with textbook precision. Creighton followed Zephyer from her home to Beer Brute and he immediately called Lenny. Twenty minutes later they met in the back alley where Creighton gave him the down payment. Lenny was dressed in his finest clubbing clothes and was thick with cologne. He was clearly already a bit buzzed and his twitchiness suggested cocaine use. But he also had an air of confidence that would play perfectly into Creighton's plan. Lenny Mancari showed up to the bar thinking he was God's gift to women. Creighton just hoped he wouldn't chicken out at the last minute.

Once at his table he watched quietly. A tall draught beer stood at his table and his hands were folded over his chest. Within a few minutes, Lenny approached. He turned on the greasy charm immediately. Although Creighton couldn't hear what was being said he got all he needed from the body language. Zephyer was repulsed. She blew him off. Lenny got angry. He put a hand on her shoulder. It was the last time he'd initiate a move.

Zephyer Storm kicked the ever-loving crap out of Lenny Mancari. He came at her a few times, but she was much faster than him. Not a good advertisement for Mr. Personal Trainer's so-called 'agility training' that he was trying to peddle.

The fight erupted all around them and was intense. After she dispatched Lenny she proceeded to mix it up with a couple of other men while the battle raged.

Creighton breathed heavily. He was aroused. She was magnificent. Everything he hoped for and more. And knowing that he manufactured the fight, that he made it happen, made him all the more excited.

He knew then that he had to have her.

* * *

Creighton stumbled out into the alley behind the bar and started walking toward some people in the distance. He staggered a bit, both from the heavy amount of alcohol in his system as well as the discomfort that needed to be released.

"Hey! Hey you!" came a shout from behind.

Creighton ignored it and kept walking.

"You SOB, you set me up!" Lenny chased after him, although the pronounced limp slowed him down.

"You did well, Lenny, thank you. I now have the comfort of knowing that she isn't cheating on me."

Lenny grabbed a beer bottle out of the dumpster and flung it at Creighton. It went wide, smashing on the wall next to him. Creighton spun around, eyes raging.

"I'm going to kick your ass," Lenny declared. He was a poor sight to see, broken and bloody and frothing with fury. "You set me up!"

Creighton merely opened up his coat, showing off his nickel-plated revolver strapped to his side. Lenny stopped short.

"If I ever see you again, Lenny," Creighton said calmly and coldly, "I'll blow out both of your knees and you'll never walk again."

Lenny wobbled in the alley, clearly trying to decide whether to press an attack or break off. Creighton took one step toward him and he turned and ran, never to be seen again.

Creighton smiled, but he didn't have time to gloat over his victory. He turned around and continued on toward the people down the alley. As he reached them he began inspecting. Finally he found a young woman with brunette hair, big cans, and a very nice ass. She didn't look like Zephyer, but she was close enough.

"Looking for some company tonight?" she asked.

"Yeah. Let's go."

(( July 31, 2011 ))

Creighton sent a car to bring her to the office. No motorcycle this time ??perhaps he felt he needed to handle this in a more professional manner. Or perhaps he was just as afraid as she of another intense encounter.

The slender elf driving the car introduced himself only as Sly. He wore a suit that was clean but wrinkled. No tell-tale bulges indicated that he was armed, but his demeanor was just like the many other bodyguards she had met in the years of being with her husband. Sly did not otherwise speak and his driving was unremarkable. The car was an understated but comfortable sedan, probably armored, with an oversized military-grade engine.

Her husband had come home briefly but was working overtime at the office. This weekend he was taking his staff on a retreat into the woods to practice skills and also relax. They were stressed lately ??business was bad and everyone was under pressure to perform above and beyond. Devon tried to focus attention on his wife when he was home, but clearly he was distracted and worried. Regardless, the timing worked out perfect for Zephyer. She knew only that she was going to be sent on a trial mission this weekend, and she wouldn't have to explain anything to Devon. He'd be gone. She could focus.

Creighton's office was in a converted warehouse in the industrial district of RhyDin. From the outside the building appeared to be vacant, although a keen observer would pick up on the excessive number security cameras placed unobtrusively around the exterior. They drove up to an overhead rolling door which slid upwards to admit them. Inside were a variety of vehicles, some nice, some distinctly not nice (at least to the observer). The garage was quite active, with two troll mechanics working on a variety of vehicles in various states of (dis)repair. They stopped briefly to eye Zephyer as she stepped out of the car, trying to size her up as either a client or a new recruit. (Business was good these days, and the size of the organization was growing quick.)

Sly led Zephyer to an elevator and sent it up to the fifth floor ??the top of the nondescript building. Once through he used an optical scanner to admit them into what must be the operations center of Creighton's organization. She could see obvious signs of fast and uneven growth. Some parts of the building were old and shabby, others showed the latest in computers, equipment, and video monitors. Boxes, some unpacked, others waiting for attention, were scattered throughout the floor with the latest in technological upgrades. Through one doorway she caught sight of what might be an armory, with machine guns stacked neatly on a rack, although it seemed too small to be their main weapons repository. Off in another direction was a lounge and reception area where clients no-doubt waited to be met and sold.?

Creighton's office did not fit at all with the outside operations center. It was clean, neat, and very nicely-appointed. A bar prominently took up one wall and his desk stood before windows that gave a nice view out into the heart of the city. The furniture was new, probably expensive, and clean. Creighton's desk was spartan, just a computer terminal and a disassembled rifle that he appeared to be cleaning. He was dressed in paramilitary utilities, his trademark silver nickel-plated revolver slung around him in a shoulder holster.

He smiled when he saw her approach, and dismissed Sly. He stood up, walked around his desk, and after a moment's pause in which he perhaps debated the best way to greet her, extended his hand. Zephyer shook the hand hesitantly, not expecting the formality.

"I can't tell you how excited we all are to have you here," he said with a genuine smile. "I think you're going to be a great addition to the team. We've been doing a lot of hiring lately and I try to get good people in here, but you never know. But with you I'm certain."

"And yet you said you'd need to test me?" she asked wryly.

He nodded. "It's policy. I answer to a team of people out there who all had trial runs before they were hired on. It wouldn't be right to change the rules for you. Besides, I imagine you need to test us out just as we test you. Wouldn't you say?"

"Mmmhmm."

"Let's go into the briefing room and I'll give you the rundown on the mission. It's fortunate you came along when you did because I think you're perfect for this." He gestured back out of his office and she followed his direction.

"How's that?"

"I don't have very many women working for me, and I believe this requires a woman's touch."

She raised her brow, but did not comment further. He led her into a small conference room with several large video monitors. Behind them stepped a rather scruffy-looking midget that looked like he should be selling newspapers and they all took seats at the table ??Creighton at the head. "This is Samanuel Cox. Sam, Zephyer Storm."

Sam grunted.?

Creighton tapped on the computer panel embedded in the head of the desk and the large screen on the opposite wall came to life. Pictured on the screen was a handsome gentleman in a suit and his biographical data.

"This is Cameron McRae. He is a local businessman who specializes in industrial import-export. An unknown group has targeted him for kidnapping, presumably for ransom. They've made two attempts on him, both of which were foiled by his own internal security forces. The first time we were not involved, the second time he allowed us to consult but not participate. But after some effort on my part we've finally managed to talk him into hiring us on to protect him, although only at special events."

"How did the kidnappings go?"

"The first attempt was on his personal yacht. He was hosting a party and a couple members of the catering staff grabbed and bagged him. They were in the process of loading him into a small boat when, thankfully, one of his security guards spotted it and raised alarm. There was a firefight and they had to leave McRae behind and bail. The boat was later found abandoned on the shore with no physical evidence. The second attempt was in his limousine as he was on the way to a conference. Vans blocked both front and back and four commandos pulled him out of his car and killed his driver. Thankfully I had aerial surveillance and we tracked the vans to a transfer point at the rail yard, where his security forces recovered him and killed one of the attackers. He was identified as a local mercenary and we were unable to determine who hired him."

"So you said special events? And why do you need a woman?"

The screen switched to alternate between the picture and blueprints of a large residential building and the grounds surrounding. "McRae is hosting a party at his mansion on Friday night. Black tie, formal, swanky. We believe the party gives kidnappers an excellent opportunity for another grab attempt as there are too many people in his house to property screen them all. Although there is a tight guest list, the building is simply not secure enough to guarantee no one will sneak in, and most of the guests are executives and managers in companies that McRae does business with. He doesn't personally know them all, and the guest list quickly spiraled out of control."

"Where do I come in?"

"We're stretched pretty thin right now, and McRae is still not willing to pay for me to give him the full court press since he feels its redundant to his own professional security force. He is paying me enough to put two people in the house to work independently of his crew. Because of the possibility of internal collusion, he agreed that we wouldn't tell him who is working for us. Sam here will be with the catering staff and is setting up base in the kitchen. I have contacts with the company that his handling the catering and I managed to sneak him onto the crew."

Zephyer was growing impatient. Creighton clearly thought highly of his mission planning but he seemed unable to get to the point. "And me?"

"I want you there as a guest. We've set you up with an identify as CFO of DynaCorp, a company with which McRae does business. He's never met the CFO of DynaCorp and we've already confirmed that no one from DynaCorp will be there. Like I said, it's a big guest list."

"Why do I have to be a woman?"

"McRae is a bit of a chauvinist, and frankly so are a lot of people that he deals with. All of his security guards are men. All of the executives in his company are men. A plurality of the guests to the party will be men. That gives us an opportunity to place a woman as a covert operative."

"Won't that make me stand out?"

Creighton smiled. "I'm counting on it. We've budgeted for you to get the nicest cocktail dress you can find and we expect you to turn heads. But your job is to disarm anyone of the notion that you are there as a bodyguard."

She smirked. "You want me to play the stereotypical girl."

Creighton shrugged. "Stereotypes work because they're based on reality. And with this crowd, no one will see a woman as a threat. While all the men, including McRae, are looking at you, I want you looking for the kidnappers. I want you to find what seems out of place, what seems fishy."

"Hrrm." She seemed unconvinced, suspicious.

"Also, there's a two-part mission here. McRae hired me because I promised him more than just protection. His own security forces are decent enough at protecting him, but they've been impotent at actually determining who's behind all of this. We've had minimal clues that have led us nowhere. I promised him we'd find out who's behind this and deliver him that information. I need you to do more than protect him, I need you to capture or identify the kidnappers and deliver that information to me."

Now a frown.

"You don't like that?"

"Devon's always believed that extraneous missions put the subject at risk." She wasn't comfortable invoking her husband's name in this situation, but it was something she often heard him say.

"In a vacuum I'd agree with you. In a perfect world we should only have to worry about protecting our client and leave others to the investigation work. But in order to land McRae as a client I had to promise more. Sometimes you have to take risks."

"You also said he wasn't paying very much."

"Not for Friday's mission, but there's a significant bonus in it if we can identify his kidnappers."

"Then why not put more people on it?"

Creighton leaned back, showing the slightest annoyance at the questions. "I have limited resources right now. I can't justify putting half a dozen guys on a job that may or may not yield results. Besides, I'm not convinced that throwing people at the problem gets us an answer. You get more with a bit of finesse. At least that's what I'm hoping for."

"I feel like you're setting me up on an impossible mission."

Creighton leaned forward, his expression again turning genuine. "You're not being judged on whether or not you can identify the kidnappers. You're being judged on your performance as a bodyguard. Our number one responsibility here is to protect the life of our client. Nothing comes before that. The rest is just gravy. I leave it up to you how far to take it. Hell, it's possible nothing will happen at all, or at least that you won't get any actionable intelligence. All I'm saying is that ? if you can do more ? you have the potential to make us a lot of extra money. Which, of course, you'll get a piece of."

"I'm not doing this for the money."

Creighton laughed. "Well I am, and so is everyone else out there. This is our livelihood. Keep that in mind when you're working operations."

She merely nodded.?

"Any other questions?"

"How will I be equipped?"

"Like I said you'll be given a stipend for a dress. We'll also give you a small concealable handgun. Sam will have additional hardware in the kitchen if it becomes necessary. You'll be in radio contact with him through a pair of diamond earrings we designed for the occasion. We'll also supply you with a wristwatch that can be used to signal an emergency back to our operations system here. There is an extraction team on duty twenty-four seven that can be at your location within fifteen minutes to get you out. That's procedure on every mission we undertake. The watch also monitors your position and vitals and transmits them back here."

"Anything else I need to know?"

"At Reception is Ruthie. Besides being the sweetest receptionist you've ever met and her secret recipe for the most wonderful coffee you'll ever taste, she doubles as our mission profile officer. Stop by her desk on the way out and she'll supply you with a detailed file. Blueprints of the property, reports on the first two kidnapping attempts, and details dossiers on McRae, his family, and the security personnel that work for him and that we've been coordinating with. You'll also get your fake dossier, Sam's dossier, and the complete guest list for the party. Review everything, do your homework, and feel free to let Ruthie know if there's anything else you need for her to get. You'll also be introduced to Boris, our provisioner. He'll supply you with your weapon, your jewelry, and the money for your dress. The rest is up to you."

"Do I get a desk or something?"

"All in good time. Let's get you officially on board first."

She furrowed her brow, looking up at the schematics on the screen, her mind racing.

Creighton leaned forward, his hands reaching out and gently taking hers. "I have nothing but confidence in your abilities, Zephyer. I know it's an oddball mission, and believe me when I tell you that despite the apparent complexity, this is a small fry job for us. I'd love to have McRae on as a full time client, but I'm also not going to break my back doing it. No pressure. Just do your job. Keep him safe. Let's see how it goes."

She stared at their hands. Her breathing had already stopped. So much to think about. So much to plan for. Not much time.?

"Sly will take you home when you're ready. Thanks for coming Zephyer." He smiled brightly. "Thanks for giving me a shot in this."

(( September 18, 2011, edited August 28, 2013 ))

Rivulets of sweat splashed off of his chest as he jabbed angrily with his fists, two rights then a left, then an uppercut and a roundhouse. His attacks were swift, savage, and unrelenting. With each hit he grunted, clenched his teeth, and narrowed his eyes at his target. There was murderous intent in his steely gaze. Blood dripped from his knuckles, mixing with the sweat and soaking into the tape he had wrapped his hands with.

Daniel Creighton pummeled the punching bag with everything he had. His muscular torso flexed and strained with every hit. No one else was in the weight room ? the last few people left shortly after the assault began. Creighton took his aggression out on the bag with an intensity that was almost inhuman and served to make anyone around him quite uncomfortable. He didn't care. To him, no one else existed in the world right now. Just him. And her.

Creighton rarely made it a point to be on duty with the emergency evac crew. For one thing it was a boring job and he was the boss. But last night he relieved one of his guys and spent the evening in the command center. He watched the computer monitors and waited for a distress call. That evening he had four teams out on various protection assignments. Three of them were routine and he didn't expect any trouble. The fourth? the fourth he fully anticipated would turn into a bloodbath.

He sent Zephyer storm into a mission under-armed and undermanned and he knew it from the beginning. Part of it was his client's arrogance. Cameron McRae made it abundantly clear that he didn't think he needed Daniel Creighton's expertise. He had his own security force that he trusted and relied on. At the end of the day, McRae was a playboy and he loved the thrill of danger. He probably got off on the thought that someone wanted to kidnap or kill him. As a child of privilege he probably never experienced true risk. Never got into a situation his daddy couldn't bail him out of. And despite Creighton's advice and warnings, McRae still refused to pay for more than two bodyguards at his party. Every ounce of Creighton's experience told him that the attack would come that night. He knew it would involve many assailants, skilled and well trained. He told all of this to McRae and he was ? not for the first time ? refused and ignored.

With a powerful swing Creighton thundered into the bag and caused a seam to rip, sending a shower of sawdust out the back. Creighton took a step back, panting. He looked down at his bleeding hands and decided now would be a good time to stop. He walked away from the crippled device and toward the locker room.

Did he feel guilty that he sent Zephyer Storm ? his newest recruit and probationary bodyguard ? into a situation where he knew she'd be at a significant disadvantage? No. He had to test her mettle and he'd be damned if he was going to make it easy on her. That's what her husband excelled at doing ? keeping her safe. No, he sent her to the wolves (no pun intended) fully knowing the risk he was taking. Had she been injured or killed he never would have forgiven himself. Of course, had she been injured or killed, he also would have lost interest in her. The professional and personal interest he had in her focused in large part on her being a bad ass. On the fact that she was violent and deadly and focused.

He sat down on a bench next to the shower and began to un-tape his hands. Blood dribbled onto the floor below. He didn't wince, didn't react. Other men in the locker room cringed and stayed away.

That she was hot was secondary to all this. He desired her, that's a fact. It was beginning to overwhelm him. Creighton never lacked for women in his bed ? sometimes pretty young things he met in bars ? sometimes prostitutes. But for the last few months, since he began stalking Zephyer, he no longer found any other woman satisfying. They all paled compared to her. No woman on this planet seemed half as interesting. They were all frail, delicate objects that he'd just break. She, on the other hand, would fight back. He couldn't break her. But he sure as hell wanted to try.

So when he sent her into a mission that he knew she'd find difficult, he did it because he knew she had to triumph. He did it because he knew it would make her feel alive like nothing else in this world. And he did it because he knew he'd grow even more excited by her. There were plenty of risks. She'd likely be mad at him. She might not take the job. Hell, she might kick his ass. But it didn't matter. Mad he could handle ? hell, he encouraged it. He could work around any refusal to take the job ? at the end of the day he knew she wanted it and if there was a temporary setback he could find a way to get around it. As for the threat of violence ? he could work around that.

He stepped into the shower, turning on the cold to maximum blast. He stood under the freezing water, trying to douse the flame that was burning hot inside of him.

She didn't kick his ass, at least not in the physical sense. Instead she manipulated him much as he'd been manipulating her. She drove him around the city, showing that she was just as capable of controlling expensive machinery as he was. She was a good driver, despite coming from a world where machines weren't commonplace. It was thrilling letting her drive him ? giving up that small amount of control. But it didn't last long. She turned the tables and demanded that he drive her. She was submitting to him in a way, showing that she needed him to thrill her before she'd return the favor. So thrill he did. His years in the military gave him an expertise in virtually every type of man-made vehicle. He had her. She was his. All the work he had put into this relationship was so close to being realized. All he had to do was close the deal.

So he was quite surprised when they got to the bar and she proceeded to put on a display for him. She didn't dance with him. She didn't flirt with him ? at least not directly. Instead she put on a show, flirting with and dancing with others while he watched. While he burned. But he didn't take advantage of the situation. He was petrified. He had to be sure. Too much effort had gone into getting to this point. If he moved too fast, he'd ruin it and lose her forever. Was he moving too fast? Was it just the adrenaline from the evening's battle? Adrenaline was good, better than alcohol, for getting a woman into bed. Yet he hesitated. He couldn't pull the trigger.

So instead she vanished. And outside all he found was her dress. It was like being shot in the chest. She left him. He thought he heard a wolf's cry carry over the city. Was that her? Was she calling to him? Or had she already forgotten him, heading for something more primal, more instinctual?

He carefully placed the dress in the saddlebag on his motorcycle, revved it up, and sped off into the night. He didn't head back home or to the office. Instead he drove around the city, spurring the bike to dangerously-high speeds. He wasn't looking for her ? instead he hoped he wouldn't see her at this point. Instead he tried to remember what it felt like to have her against his back, arms around his chest. It seemed like so long ago.

He never specifically headed home but eventually he ended up there. He threw open the door and looked around, partially hoping she'd be there waiting for him. She wasn't. He kicked over a lamp and smashed a table full of field equipment. He knocked a picture off the wall and put his fist into a trophy cabinet. Shards of glass flew everywhere, embedding themselves in his hand and knuckles. He didn't wince or call out. The pain helped. Helped focus him and distract him from his more lascivious thoughts.

He sat down on a kitchen barstool and carefully rinsed his hand. He could breathe again. He could think. For the first time in a while he could think of something other than her. He glanced at the chrono. It was 4:30am. His gym would open in 30 minutes. He decided to go straight there and get in a good workout. He needed the pain. He needed to work his body. It was the only way he'd be able to go into the office "tomorrow." He needed more pain. More intensity. More focus.

For a moment his thoughts returned to Zephyer. Would she just show up at the office tomorrow like nothing had happened? Would she take the job or tell him to stuff it? Or would she slash his throat and laugh as he exsanguinated?

He shut off the shower and glanced at the chrono on the wall. 7:30am. Time to get to work. His knuckles still dripped blood but he didn't notice anymore. He went to his locker and began to get dressed.

Presuming he did see her today, what would her reaction mean? If she came in and was all-business, would it be a rejection of him as a lover? He knew she was attracted to him, he wasn't stupid and she couldn't hide it. But despite all her aggression, in many ways she was somewhat naive. She didn't get naked to turn him on, she got naked to shapeshift and go for a run.

He was over-thinking this. She was an animal. He was an animal. They were animals wearing using fancy words and wearing clothes (sometimes) and he trusted his instincts. She wanted him nearly as much as he wanted her. He'd have her. Perhaps as soon as today. If it was the right time.

At the end of the day (or the beginning, as the case may be), as much as he wanted a physical relationship with Zephyer, he also needed her to come to work for him. He needed good employees. He was competing for his life with more established businesses, including that of his former boss. Zephyer was perfect for his team ? which preferred people with a bit of an edge over the safe and boring bodyguards his competitors hired. He had to have it both ways. He had to hire her and be with her. Neither would do without the other. Everything relied on that. And he had come too far, taken too many risks, to let it go now.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked a bit haggard ? unshaved, in pain, distracted. He needed to put on his usual air of confidence and ego. She wouldn't be interested if she saw how torn up he was over last night. She needed him to be strong ? stronger than her. She needed him to be cocksure and unphased and aggressive. For a brief moment he felt pity for Devon. Keeping a woman like Zephyer wasn't as easy as he'd thought. She'd chewed up and spit out better men than he.

No. Creighton reminded himself that he was better. The best. She needed him more than he needed her. He didn't need her at all. He could go to any bar and pick up half a dozen women prettier than her. They'd take turns. They'd beg him for more.

And soon so would she.

(( October 23, 2011 ))

Daniel Creighton fiddled nervously with the archaic letter opener on his desk. His hands were sweaty and he struggled to keep control of the instrument. Several times it slipped and fell. His breathing was quick, labored. His heart beat a rapid flutter. He stared at the door to his office, waiting for it to finally open and end the waiting.

After what seemed like a lifetime the door opened and admitted two men. Creighton rose swiftly, sliding the letter opener into its holder. He put on his best smile, tried to hide his nerves, and clasped his sweaty hands out of view behind.

"Mr. McRae. Please come in."

Julius Cameron McRae briefly glanced about at the office which was just a bit too tidy to be a place where work was accomplished. He then stepped forward, making straight for the desk. Behind him followed Xander Carter, Creighton's second-in-command and must trusted operative.

"Thank you for meeting with me so quickly," McRae said in a steely granite tone that seemed slightly less than appreciative.

"Can I get you a drink?" Creighton asked, gesturing over to the too-well-stocked bar.

"I don't drink."

"Then let's get to business, shall we?"

McRae sat down in one of the guest chairs without waiting to be invited. His patience for standard pleasantries seemed to be quite short.

Carter moved to sit in the other chair but his momentum was interrupted.

"I prefer that we speak alone," McRae stated as if they already were.

"This is my right hand man, anything you say will be held in strictest confidence."

"I'm not going to tell you how to do your job, Mr. Creighton, and you can bring in other personnel as needed. But this first meeting needs to be between just you and I."

Creighton hesitated, then nodded, dismissing Carter ? who left quickly.

"How can I help you Mr. McRae?"

"I'll be frank, Mr. Creighton. I've never heard of you before. Not until I interrogated my son about the attack on his home last weekend."

Creighton chuckled nervously. "Still working on getting the billboards designed."

"You can imagine, then," McRae steamed on, not showing any interest in Creighton's jokes or his charm, "that I am somewhat uncomfortable with admitting that I may now need use of your services."

Creighton straightened up. "I assure you I'm the best in the business, sir. And I appreciate that you came to me."

"From what I hear the best in the business is Devon Goral and I know that you used to work with him."

Creighton's eyes narrowed.

"I've done my homework, Mr. Creighton. I have fairly substantial resources available to me."

"Yes, sir."

"However I believe that your work philosophy more closely matches mine and I've decided to take a chance on the 'also-ran.'"

Creighton began to fume, but kept it inside. He didn't have to do any research on Julius Cameron McRae to know who he'd be meeting with. The senior McRae was one of the original mobsters to emerge from the mob wars 40 years ago. He was powerful and ruthless and he built an empire in RhyDin and the surrounding regions. In recent years his influence was beginning to wane as a new generation of thugs was taking over and Julius was learning that he could just as rich breaking contracts as breaking legs. His son, the heir to McRae's 'family' empire, was a better fit in the new environment and would no doubt find ways to bring the family to prominence once again.

McRae opened up his briefcase and withdrew a photo, which he slid towards Creighton. The photo depicted a beautiful young woman, very athletically fit. "This is my daughter, Annalynne. She is a professional athlete, currently competing in sprinting. She's competed all over the multi-verse."

"This is Lynne Lancaster. She's your daughter?"

"She took her mother's name professionally. She doesn't particularly approve of me or the family business and has done everything possible to distance herself from it, both literally and figuratively."

"Didn't she recently have knee surgery?"

Finally McRae paused, accepting that he wasn't dealing with someone off the street. "You are familiar with my daughter's career?"

"I fancy myself something of an athlete myself, although of course not at her level."

"She blew out her knee a year ago and had to come back home for surgery. It's the first time I saw her in nearly four years. We've spent the last year trying to rehabilitate our own relationship just as she was rehabilitating her knee and I can proudly say things are better than they were before."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"A man in my position takes certain risks, Mr. Creighton. I have many enemies, professionally. There is a code that we don't go after family, but occasionally an upstart feels slighted and decides to go with what we call the 'nuclear option.' My wife died years ago from cancer and my son has his own notoriety to protect. I understand you did a fantastic job protecting him despite limited resources and support from my son. And that's why I'm here."

"Do you have reason to believe someone would target your daughter?"

"You tell me, Mr. Creighton." He again opened the briefcase and produced several more photographs of Lynne Lancaster a/k/a Annalynne McRae. However these photos appeared to be more recent from the local athletic field where the professionals trained. A pair of crosshairs targeted her. Time stamps printed on the photos suggested they were taken just a few days ago.

"I see."

"Someone is trying to send me a message, Mr. Creighton. I need her protected."

"These shots prove that your daughter would already be dead if they wanted her to be."

"Thank you, Mr. Creighton, I'm quite aware of that. I'm involved in a new business operation, something of a merger. I believe that this is a warning to back off the deal."

"How long until the deal is completed?"

McRae waived a dismissive hand. "Not for some time however the window is much smaller. My daughter is only in town for a few more weeks. She's competing in a charity race this weekend, after that she's traveling to another universe on tour. I don't believe she'll be a target once she leaves RhyDin."

"Charity race? You mean the race that the city is putting on next weekend at which there'll be about 60,000 spectators?"

"That's the one?"

"Mr. McRae, you need to get her to pull out of that race. We can't guarantee her safety against those odds. No one could."

"She's a sprinter, Mr. Creighton. She'll be on the field for six races at about two minutes each."

"She'll be at the facility all weekend."

"She's there now. I don't care the cost or the resources. I want her protected."

"And let me guess, because she doesn't like you she won't approve of a bodyguard."

McRae chuckled, leaning back. "Not so clich?, Mr. Creighton. I've made it very clear to my daughter that she will accept protection or I'll make it impossible for her to compete. She'll hate me forever for it but she knows I'm capable. Yes, it means that much of the good will I've built with her over the last year is being erased. But she's my daughter."

Creighton nodded, eyes studying the photos.

"I've already spoken to the event organizers and their chief of security. They'll provide you with whatever cooperation you need. That place is pretty well locked down, in my opinion she's at greater risk when she's not on the field ? in the locker room, coming to and from the stadium, back at home. That's where she needs to be protected."

"And you'll let me put her in an armored convoy surrounded by guards?"

"If you think it necessary."

Creighton leaned back, thinking. "When will your adversary know that you aren't going to back off the merger?"

"I have an important meeting tomorrow at Noon that will demonstrate that I'm committed to moving forward. That's when they'll know. That's when everyone will know."

"That's not much time for me to make preparations."

"Then I recommend you begin immediately." McRae closed his briefcase and stood.

"We haven't discussed my fee."

McRae raised a brow, clearly showing distaste. "No, we haven't." And with that he turned and excused himself without another word.

Creighton immediately summoned Carter back into his office.

"What's the deal, boss?"

"We haven't much time, I'll brief you. I need Zephyer Storm in here. I'm taking lead but I want her on point. Get her here now."

(( February 4, 2012 ))

Horton Wink sat huddled inside his dingy studio, hunched over one of the many computer terminals that surrounded his workspace and shed an erie light on his pale countenance. It was daylight outside and the seagulls could be heard in a harmonious cacophony, yet it was dark and somewhat forbidding here. Wink was not one to be concerned with aesthetics ? counters were covered with circuit boards, computer components, and last week's stale peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The walls were largely undecorated other than the occasional nautical painting, long-since faded and torn. The whole studio rose and fell with the tide but the motion went unnoticed inside this dank, dark cave.

As Wink worked on his latest project his eyes occasionally glanced over to the security monitor. His work was extremely sensitive and he used the latest in surveillance to ensure that he would not be interrupted by menacing competitors or adoring fans. He had a nervous twitch about him which pervaded everything he did. Wink subsisted largely on snack food and caffeine pills which kept him always on edge, always twitchy and alarmed. It added to his general unlikeability.

This day, however, something added to Wink's agitation. The faster the worked, the more rapidly his eyes scanned over at the security monitor. Something seemed wrong. Finally when he could take the agitation no more, he jumped up out of his chair, planted his hands on the desk, and peered at the screen. He couldn't place his fingers on it but something was wrong. Something didn't look right.

Wink grabbed a revolver off the desk and stalked away from his workspace and toward the interior door. He was going to have a look around.

?only he didn't make it that far. In the dim light Wink didn't make out the features of Hanson Bolger until he was practically on top of him. Hanson stood square in the doorway, an oversized shotgun held across his chest. Horton didn't give him a second glance before he spun around and ran for one of the two exterior doors. Hanson gave chase, shouting out a single word to whomever else might be listening: "Gun!"

Wink pulled at the release handle and hoisted the metal door open but he was too slow. Clarisse Thompson was standing at the ready, a hefty metal baseball bat held aloft in her hand. She swung, breaking out the glass in the door. Wink lost his footing and slipped, his butt hitting the floor with a thud. The gun also hit the floor and bounced away from him.

Wink scampered with his feet, pushing away from the door. He turned, clambered back up, and made for the other door on the opposite side of the room. Clarisse and Hanson both followed close behind and a baseball bat came just inches from his head ? instead smashing one of his computer monitors into a few hundred pieces.

Wink pulled up short from the other door. It was already opening and a very tall man stepped over the portal. Devon Goral held aloft a large handgun, his eyes filled with a calm determination. He reached out and grabbed Wink by the collar, yanking him forward and into the bulkhead. Wink slumped to the floor, dazed.

The three attackers dragged Wink back over to his work area. Hanson cleared a space and they deposited Wink onto a metal table. Hanson held him down with a firm arm over Wink's throat. Clarisse stood nearby, her baseball bat ready to strike. Devon stowed his gun and folded his arms over his chest.?

"What do you want from me?" Wink asked, bleary-eyed and still a bit stunned.

"We have some questions about a job you recently did," Devon stated coldly.

"My clients expect a certain amount of discretion," Wink muttered. "I can't help you. I'm sure you can understand."

Hanson pressed down, compressing his throat. Wink's arms and legs flailed helplessly.

"How 'bout I take a hand off?" Clarisse offered.

"We're going to give you one chance, Mr. Wink," Devon offered, his voice still monotone and unsympathetic. "Cooperate with me and we leave you in once piece. But I'm not in the mood to be trifled with."

"How'd you even get in here?" Wink asked, exasperated. He took great pride in his systems and couldn't fathom how they were breached.

"Funny think you mention that because that's why I'm here." Devon reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small PDA. He holds it up next to the computer maintaining the security system. They both show the same software, only Devon's clearly shows several breached doors and unidentified life signs. Wink's, on the other hand, shows nothing. "It was a relatively simple matter for our computer people to clone your security system, feed the correct results to me, and give you a loop showing all systems normal."

Wink's eyes got a little bigger.

"It's the same thing you did to my house two days ago. You did good work, Mr. Wink, but you were sloppy on the cleanup. I tracked it to you within twelve hours." He put away the PDA, leaning over the frightened man.

"Y-y-your house?" Wink asked with a stutter.

Devon nodded.

"I don't know anything about that!" Wink protested.

"Wrong answer, Mr. Wink."

"Just the hand, Devon. Let me take the hand!"

Devon reached back into his pocket and produced several photographs, which he shared with Wink. They showed the three dead men inside his house. The last showed his dinning room table, a pool of blood on the chair and floor. "I know you tapped into my security cameras. I know you've seen these before. I know you watched my wife bleed out on the dining room floor."

Wink was now extremely agitated, squirming against Hanson's hold. "I don't know nothing about that! Let me go!"

Devon merely nodded to Clarisse. Down the bat swing, smashing Wink's hand ? shattering or breaking every bone inside. Wink cried out with a horrifc scream, his body twisting and convulsing. Hanson held him down, although it was a struggle.

Devon leaned in. "This is not an interrogation, Mr. Wink. You tell me what I want to know or I'll maim you and sink your boat. My time is limited and my patience is short."

"They'll kill me!" he cried out in a whine.

"I'll do worse than kill you, Mr. Wink. Without your limbs you'll be unable to earn a living. And I imagine there's a few million tied up in the equipment on this boat."

"Please don't make me!" he began to cry.

"How 'bout his knee next?" Clarisse suggested.

Devon nodded, then tilted his head toward wink. "Would you notice if we shattered your knee? I don't imagine you do much jogging."

"Oh he'll notice," Hanson said with a sick grin.

"You don't ? understand the ? people who ? hired me. They're ? dangerous!" Wink exclaimed through gasps and hiccups.

With a rapid move, Devon pulled his gun and fired a shot into the nearest computer, sending it exploding in a shower of sparks. "I'M dangerous, Mr. Wink. You need to worry about ME."

Wink merely shook his head. "Not like this guy. He gets inside your head."

"Your head is going to be all that's left when we're done with you," Hanson threatens.

Devon merely nods to Clarisse and once again the bat swings down. She hits Wink square on the knee. Thankfully the sound of the sickening crunch is masked by his screaming and hollering and the three attackers stand there in silence for a few moments while the horror of their attack washes over them.

Wink is reduced to a crying, blubbering mess of incoherence. He no longer struggles to get free, only to curl up into a ball.

"Give me a name, Mr. Wink."

"Percy. Percy Waller. He hired me for the job," Wink mumbled low. "But he was just the middle man. His boss was a tall pale guy. Gets inside your head. Real psycho. I don't know how to find him."

"Would Percy?"

"I think so. He seemed to be pulling all the strings. The guys that went into your house all worked for him too."

Devon looks up at Hanson and nods. Hanson lets the man go and immediately he crumples down to the floor, curling into the fetal position and rocking.

"What about this place?" Hanson asks.

Devon pauses, turning in a circle to look about the room and finally upon his victim. Then he looks back up to Hanson. "Burn it. Sink it."

Clarisse and Hanson both walk to the interior door and produce large cans of gasoline. They begin dousing everything.

"No!" Wink whines as he realizes what's happening. "You can't do this!"

Devon kneels down next to him, setting the photograph of the bloody dining room on the floor. "My wife means everything to me, Mr. Wink. You participated in an attack that very nearly got her killed. You're lucky I'm only destroying your livelihood."?

With that, Devon stood up and left. His people soon followed after setting the blaze. From the dock they watched the main cabin of the small boat catch fire, which spread quickly through the poorly-maintained structure. Wink hobbled out of the side door and rolled down the gangway to the dock, still blubbering. Within fifteen or twenty minutes the entire boat begin to list, most of the structure above the water-line having been reduced to a molten mass. By then they were gone.

(( February 4, 2012 ))

The three bodyguards emerge from the fog in RhyDin's industrial district. A row of nicer houses stretch out before them, disappearing into the night. Two hundred years ago these houses were built by the union to house their officials. Now many are abandoned and boarded up, occasionally the site of raves and drug sales.

But the first house on the line belongs to Percy Waller. A known member of the mafia he worked for "Knees" McCardle for 20 years before striking out on his own and forming his own crew. Now he works mainly as a mercenary, hiring himself to whichever crew needs muscle for the day.

With a signal, the team split up. Hanson went around back and watched the back door. Clarisse went to the house across the street and up to the roof with a sniper rifle. Once his people were in position, Devon decided to stick with the direct route. He went up to the front door and rang the bell.

Devon didn't have to wait long. To his surprise the door was answered by Harrison Mueller. The two men regarded each other silently for a few moments.

"Devon," Harrison said in surprise. "Uh, can I help you?"

"I'm here to see Percy."

Harrison narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. "That's not going to happen."

"So you're here protecting him?"

"Uh, I'm just a friend."

Devon folded his arms over his chest. "I wasn't born yesterday."

"Look, uh, Devon, you know I can't let you in. Uh, you should call Percy and set up an appointment and I'm sure we could arrange something."

"You know I could get past you if I needed to," Devon warned.

Harrison nodded. "And you know I'd have to put up a fight if you tried."

"And we both know how that would go."

Harrison shrugged. "I could get lucky."

Devon just stared a moment. "How about you tell Percy that I want to have a sit-down. And you tell him that if I don't hear from him by noon tomorrow, I won't be as charitable to him or his bodyguards."

"Fair enough. I'll tell him."

"Thank you Harrison."

"Night, Devon."

Devon turned and walked away from the house. Soon he and his people were conferring around the corner.

"Harrison Mueller, eh," Hanson asked. "That guy's a punk."

"Yeah but he's Daniel Creighton's punk. And if Dan is protecting Percy, there's something weird going on here. Best I find out what it is."

"You don't think Daniel had something to do with the attack on your house, do you?" Clarisse asked.

Devon immediately shook his head. "No way. He and I have our differences but he wouldn't let it go that far. I have to assume this is a coincidence."

"But now Percy is tipped off that we're looking for him," Clarisse warns. "He'll know why."

"That won't keep him away from me. I'll have my day with him. It'll just have to be tomorrow."