Singularity City: Electronic Sleep.

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Singularity City, Formerly Chicago.

The biggest experiment in human history. The grandest stage for science to ever take place. And yet, this vibrant, super advanced tower of Babylon was just as dirty just as ruthless as any other city. The crime was there, the exploitation and the greed. 7 levels tall. 7 urban ecosystems piled onto each other..

Commonly known as the Pit, the lowest level holds the most crime, It's a mixture of shack towns, old town architechtur and scrap piles. It is also here the majority of poor Chinese immigrant workers find themselves, and where the Triads hold the most sway. It is here Riggers tend to get most their parts from as human chop chop shops salvage the different prosthetic and implants from the unfortunate dead aswell as pilfering usefull tech and scraps the trash that is dumped from above. Giant Recycling plants and scrap yards have been built int the very structure of the city and the only thing keeping the citizens below from choking on fumes is the state of the art ventilation systems that lead any fumes into Oxgen plants on the mid levels.


The two levels above it are pleasure and nightlife districts of the city. It should be noted that the lack of natural light has turned it into something of a eternal city of the night. With many seedy bars, small time casinos and other place of debauchery the place see a staggering amount of illegal as well as legal commerce for what really is the poor neighborhood.

The Mid levels of four and five is something of a buffer zone. Its far more hospitable then the pit. The crime here is nowhere as bad and it has everything from greenery and parks to sports centers and proper clinics. Of course, it doesn't hold the type of grandeur that the top level holds. But this is the place where most people make their living and where they live in general. The SCPD have their HQ set up in the middle of this. The Mid levels still have poorer areas and projects where those fortunate to escape the pit lives. Its here the King Krew and american street gangs hold the most power.

The Upperlevels, now this is where you want to live. All the big companies with their massive scrapers and their jagged skylines, this is where they play god. The streets are clean, every neighborhood is well above the general GNP and pollution seems fairly non existent. Many of the luxury shops and resturants can be found her as well.

---.----.----.---

Lower Levels, Second Level, 122 Street East. The Pulp Nigh Club. 07:00



“You are sure this is legit, old man?” The teen looked ecstatic, no doubt high off his mind. His neatly pressed suit seemed to denot that he was in fact on foreign soil. A rich kid, in the center of one of the roughest neigborhods on the second layer. Kid had best be on his guard at all time. Currently, hee was clutching a small chip with a disk on it. A stimulus chip, just jack it into the brain and your be experiencing a pleusure far beyond that of any sexual escapade. Or that's what their slogan was any way. He grinned at the older, black woman who had handed it over to him.

“One hundred percent kiddo. All our girls mixed into one mindblowing expeience. Now scram before the cops catch you with it.” The man nodded at her words and left, still looking jittery and jumpy. The old woman only got to take 2 steps before a shot rung out. The young man stared at her as she fell to her knees. People around him took cover as he was holding a small gun, smoke bellowing out from the pipe.

“Dont mess with the 22's hardware you bitch!” And then he was gone.

---.----.----.---

Mid Levels, Second Level, 102 Street East. Vegas Bar. 09:00

The air inside the bar had a rustic, smokey feel to it. Everything inside the rather small establishment was legit wood. From the barstools to the tables and the bar itself. On the wall hung different pictures of people Vegas liked. His three exwives that he were fond off, despite them all having asked him to sit and rot in different parts of hell. A picture of his old hero; Clint Eastwood. On the bar disk was a bottle of brandy, in front of him a glass filled with said brandy. He was staring intently at the TV along some of his patrons. Another shooting. This time the victim was a middle aged afro american woman who apparently had connections to Kings Krew. The bullet had been, according to the reporters; armor piercing rounds.

“Apperently, the woman had been wearing a small protective vest underneath her baggy clothing. It had failed to protect her from what is believed to have been a brain jacked, suburban teenager. Most likely the perpetrators are affiliated with criminal hacker and rigger collective known as 22. Over to you Tom.”

Vegas turned the TV back to the local sports event, two teams that he didn't care about gruffed and tackled one another while trying to grab a ball. It wasn't real football as far as the Colombian was concerned. Instead he tended to his business as always. Waiting for this latest development to bring unpleasant customers to his bar. No doubt they'd come here, either to complain, demand information or to drown their sorrows. He just hoped that Russian lady would come in. He liked a pretty woman to look at as he explained to he colleges that he had a nothing to do with whatever thing had their jimmies rustled.

--,---,--

Lower Levels, Second Level, Southern District, 215 Street West. Heath Clinic. 09:30

The digitized cross on the outside of the building, next to the digitized hammer and sickle, glowed white. The small advertisement hologram showed countess health ads, one popular favorite called "the benefits of Cybernetics" played nearly constantly, but it was a way for the owner of this small clinic, in the wrong part of the Second Level, to make money on the side; money that he could keep in a separate account, for himself, away from those he had to pay just to make sure his identity was protected. Of course, as he flew up to the front entrance of the building, Dr. Jeffrey McGuire could already see that trouble had been brewing. The health ads were no longer playing. The local news was showing a clip of someone shot. The doctor shook his head,"Oh, hell. They're at it again. He said aloud to no one in particular. he wasn't coming to his clinic to work, but no doubt someone would be by soon enough; he just hoped it wasn't the victim of the shooting. He didn't exactly feel like pulling a bullet out at the moment. He showed his eyes to the retinal scanner and was recognized as denoted by small chimes. It was set to "God save the Czar", something that always made him cringe a little, considering where he was and how he'd gotten here. It had been a wild ride, that was certain, but it was one that, he did not regret taking. he had a roof over his head, and a place from which to practice, even if it was...under the table and off the "official" registry. But, then again, so were his cybernetic hands. The chimes, though, were a constant small reminder that he could not just simply practice in peace here...there were "responsibilities" and "obligations" which he had to meet; and if he did not...well, there was always the Sword of Damocles over his head, in the form of whatever torture the Russians preferred. At the very least, it was above the lowest level of the city.

Walking into his office, which occupied a small portion of the space, which consisted of a lobby like entrance, a surgical table with drawers that folded on out on their own and sterilized themselves, with gleaming instruments and machines currently off; designed with the preservation of life in mind as well as enhancing it through cybernetic technology; a lofty goal to be sure, but one that good Dr. was sure could and would be achieved. Sadly, there were consequences in everything, though, and cybernetics were no different. Tonight's shooting was a case in point; people got desperate, scared, hungry for more power and technology. They wanted to be at the upper most levels, where they assumed life was better because it looked better. he'd been there once; repairing and enhancing the A.R.E.S. soldiers a "medical specialist" they'd called him. They'd also called him bright, a "visionary", the torchbearer for military grade cybernetic implantation and subnormal acceptance", in layman's terms, the guy who was one of the only ones so far to patients to actually accept their new cybernetics, from a medical standpoint anyway. When they got rejected by their host bodies...the results could be disastrous.

A.R.E.S., a clever name for the company, he'd thought at the time, and living up on the Sixth Level, in relative safety, surely, the company would protect him and nothing would ever happen to him...he'd been the star, the jewel in the crown, the prize; however you wnated to name him; he thought he was on top of the world.

But, it had all changed one fateful night night five years ago...

--,---,--

Upper Levels, Second Level, Location Unknown, Five years Earlier...

Everything was black, and dark, but there was sound, and he could breathe. Then the bag or mask or whatever the hell he was wearing was removed, stil in his A.R.E.S. scrubs and a rich looking couple was sitting in front of him, flanked by two guards. The older looking man spoke first,"Through the door to your left is the patient. She is very important and special to us. She has...suffered some great trauma recently, and well...you have been selected to save her. All tools are at your disposal and money is no object, do what you must. Jeffrey thought to himself, what the hell? How can these people...just kidnap people? Where are the police? but he looked up and saw that their two bodyguard had police uniforms on...and it hit him. These people had connections. The woman, sitting next to her husband, and somewhat teary eyed, said in a voice that suggested she meant business,"Save her. Dr. Save...this girl. There will be quite negative consequences if she dies... He was then "helped" into the next room, two more guards he hadn't seen watching him closely. He wanted to try and escape, to run. This was wrong; what they were doing. Kidnapping people just to perform surgery. Clearly, this was not going to be recorded or logged in anyone's data banks.

But, on balance, what real choice did he have? It was perform the operation, or...face whatever those "consequences" were. So, sighting heavily and putting a surgical mask over his nose and mouth, he began to look over the patient, a young woman by the looks of it. Her most serious injury was to an arm, which was almost completely torn off of her body. Replacement then, was not an issue. She would have to be augmented. But, this was to be no ordinary augmentation, because of the severity of the tearing and shredding that had occurred, he'd have to actually graft the augment to her body, as opposed to simply growing her a new arm and and implanting that with cybernetics. Fortunately, one such arm was fetched for him and already lay on the table. A simply gray, metallic piece, like someone might have used in an old prosthetic, with a wicked looking hand. It wasn't ideal, but then, none of this was. It would have to do. He even quietly murmured to her," Your poor thing. What the hell did this to you?

The attachment took some four hours, because he had to not only completely sever what remained of the girl's left arm off of her body, but also cut into her chest a bit too, in order to properly graft on the metal to bone and muscle. It was a laborious process, but it was done, and done right, and he felt a small twinge of pride at having completed an operation, much less an implantation, under the circumstances. Walking back out of the "operating room"; really just a solid table with metal trays of instrument and a few simple machines around it, with a bright light hanging above, he handed his card to the couple and said, flatly,"It's done. She's safe, for now. But...she'll need followup appointments. So...send her discretely to me...however you wish. Then, he'd left. McGuire had figured that A.R.E.S. would never get a sniff of what had happened; never know about the utter injustice that had been done here, but when he'd arrived at work the next day, he'd been locked out of the building, access denied...and not so politely told to leave or be shot.

So, he left the Sixth Level, bound for what, he did not know.

--,---,--

Second Level, Southern District, Location: Undisclosed, Three Years Earlier

For the next two years, he'd laid low, performing procedures here and there, dirty, quick, illegal to the extreme. But, he'd managed to survive off of that, and the small amount of saving he had left. But, it couldn't, and didn't', last forever. He'd decided to "surface" on the Southern side. Crime here, though present, was not as rampant as in other parts of the city. He decided to also set up a clinic, start treating again. See if there wasn't a way he could also start a pharmacy, in the same building. Why not try to provide a sort of one-stop-shop for everyone. The problems with this name quite apparent, quiet quickly. First, there was the matter of acquiring supplies. He still recalled the contact list; in fact he'd had a copy of it on a personal zip drive, before he'd been "locked out" of the building. He still had the drive, and used it regularly. So, cybernetics were easily supplied. But, getting the drugs, on the other hand, was a different matter all together. he had little to no knowledge of this level and found it increasingly strange that, few here spoke English. Most spoke Russian, but he passed it off as having set up in a predominantly Russian section. In order to get the supplies, he began talking with anyone and everyone, though many warned him to be careful of "Mistress Meela" and her people, he, too passed this off as something he wouldn't have to deal with. He was just a doctor, they wouldn't touch him, he'd reasoned. Besides, he was helping people, there wasn't any harm in that, right?

Oh how naive he'd been.

They came, storming in, opening the doors and screaming in Russian, she leading them, a woman with a laser leash, on which were tethered five pit bulls with Ak's. Of course, once he'd gotten her calmed down, and put down the scalpel he was using to clumsily protect himself, he learned a few things. (1) He'd been operating in Mafia Territory and "mistress Meela" was standing in front of him none too pleased that he'd been "cutting in" on her drug sales and (2) there was a deal to be made, which could get him out of firing squad fodder and into a more favorable position. She'd dictated the terms from there, and he'd accepted, taking the opportunity to listen first, talk second. He'd learned then, that, for the "favor" of performing operations and enhancements on her people and the community, he'd have their protection; in return she'd supply him with the drugs he needed; he'd handily provided a list, and security. No one would attack his clinic and he could call on her people if something like that ever happened. Of course, these things hadn't been free and she wan't exactly an altruist, so he'd have to "pay" for these services, partly by medical procedure, partly by "protection money". It was something he'd just sort of accepted. What choice did he have? He was grateful she hadn't tried to destroy him...or his clinic. She'd also made clear the consequences of failing to pay and failing to treat properly. Then, like a ghost...she was gone, the men with her.

--,---,--

Present Day

McGuire shook his head, how long ha that "memory" taken? Ten..maybe twenty minutes? He looked around his little establishment, but no one had yet entered. That was good. He didn't need any visitors right now, but some company would be nice. Maybe he should invest in one of the "virtual pets", some new holographic cats or dogs, that came with the full "sensation suits" so that you could really feel like you were taking care of the animal. He'd enjoy it, if only just for the noise. He looked once more to the TV, the news still showing the scene at the bar a little ways from him, on the same level.

“ Apparently, the woman had been wearing a small protective vest underneath her baggy clothing. It had failed to protect her from what is believed to have been a brain jacked, suburban teenager. Most likely the perpetrators are affiliated with criminal hacker and rigger collective known as 22. Over to you Tom.”

The woman was smart to wear a vest in these parts, but if the rounds were as potent as the news was indicating, it was likely the criminal had used AP or Armor Piercing, rounds, giving her no chance. The Dr. wondered what, if any, reciprocity would come from his friends or, Comrades as they preferred, or the Triads, who controlled another section of this level and the level beneath it and who also frequently traded with the Russians. "Why the hell did I even come here again? To remember the past? or...what? He looked around at his desk and realized he had files to organize, patients to log int his computer system and x-rays to analyze. he set to work doing these things in silence, the hum of his lights and computers keeping him company. That did not last for long, though as he could never simply work in silence. With a few movements of his hands, music began to play quietly throughout the three areas. he found that t often relaxed patients and made them feel more at ease. Of course, he couldn't understand any of the lyrics, but the woman's voice and the fact that she was singing entirely in Russian had to count for something, right? He thought so, he was "blending in" to the surrounding community; she had to be happy with that.

Afternoon, and the secondhand remnants of golden sunlight filtered down through the only clean windows on the block. Inside, motes of dust twinkled, suspended in shafts of grimy light and spun through endless, complex patterns. Things gleamed on heavy, scarred worktables and benches; tools, half-finished machines, delicate contrivances with no readily-ascertainable purpose. A woman with messy, copper-coloured hair slumped over one of those tables, back bent, right arm hanging limp at her side. The left, made of dark grey, unadorned metal, stretched ahead of her and supported her head like a pillow. Her breath came slow and even, her mouth slightly open, a pair of reading glasses half-perched on her head. Nearby, a half-finished drawing of some kind of complex mechanism sat, the pen knocked a few inches away from the metal hand. As the sun moved, the beam passed over the woman's eyes and she stirred, but did not wake.

A few moments later, a slender piece of glass with rounded corners lit up, its screen winking into existence bright enough to throw a blob of sterile white into the golden sunbeam. Text flowed onto it with what was probably meant to be a pleasant chime, along with a woman's bright, smooth, artificial voice.

"Miss Renault," came the voice, apparently from nowhere, "It is three forty-eight in the afternoon. If you leave in the next twenty minutes, you will arrive on-time for your appointment with Doctor McGuire." Someone had programmed it to sound like an old English housekeeper, and she had never gotten around to changing it.

"Go'way," Remy murmured, her eyes squeezed shut against the intrusion into her sleep, "'m busy."

"Miss Renault," the voice said, its even voice neutral and cool, "This will be the fourth appointment you have missed. There are obligations to having an augmentation like yours, and-"

"It's not an augmentation," Remy said, her voice annoyed, "It's a prosthetic." She groaned and lifted her head up, and her spine crackled as she did. She winced and worked her neck from side to side, with another cascade of crackles and pops. This caused more wincing, and a grunt of annoyance.

"Nevertheless, Miss Renault," the voice continued, "It will not be good for you to continue avoiding Doctor McGuire. Even worse than your habit of sleeping in the shop," it added, somehow with a prim tone in its voice.

"I am not avoiding him," Remy grumped.

"Then I suggest you shower and make yourself presentable," came the voice, "The train to Second Level South will be departing in fifteen minutes. Law enforcement data suggests the area is quieter than normal for the moment, but you would do well to arm yourself before you leave."

Remy grunted, shoved herself to her feet, and made her way to the stairs at the other side of the shop. She bent her elbow, bringing the fingers of her metal hand up, and flexed each one in turn, rolling the fingers into a loose fist. They moved as well as they always had; as precise and smooth as her living fingers. She flexed them again, tightened them into a ball and let her hand drop onto the railing as she climbed the stairs, muttering something under her breath in French. She worked her mouth around - it felt like the cat had been doing its business on her tongue, and it only contributed to her growing bad mood.

----

An hour later, Remy stepped off a train, the platform rusty and covered in some kind of unidentifiable grime. She wore a long brown jacket, just enough red in it to complement her hair rather than making it look muddy, and kept her left hand in the pocket. Not out of any kind of self-consciousness about her prosthetic, but more out of a kind of resigned practicality. There were a lot of chop shops in this part of the city, and they weren't just for cars. The Triads had tried to sell her a few…parts in the first months after she'd set up shop. She'd had to chastise them severely for it.

She pushed the clinic's door open, her hair swinging in a braid still damp from the shower. The door swung shut after she stepped through, closing off the smell of petrochemicals and sweat. Inside, the air smelled of disinfectant, soap, and burning electronics, which struck Remy as somehow actually less pleasant than outside. Then again, maybe she just didn't like the place. There were a dozen, a hundred things she could be doing - customers' work to finish, her own projects to start - and instead, she was here, waiting to get poked and prodded by another one of the underworld's denizens. At least this one washed his hands.

"Good evening, Doctor," Remy said into the buzzing quiet, her French accent the kind of thing from old movies, "Surprised to see me?"

The doctor looked up as he heard the voice, recognizing it faintly as French, then a woman, then a patient, then Remy. He laughed at her question,"Surprised does not even come close to what I'm feeling right now, Remy. It's more... relief, that you're alive and an...eagerness to ensure that your prosthetic is working correctly."

----

"You just want to see me with my shirt off," Remy said, the same complaint she made every time she had to expose her entire prosthesis for scanning.

"If you don't, I won't know if there's a tumor under there. Or neural scarring. Or any number of things. Stop being such a prude," McGuire replied, setting up a complicated-looking piece of equipment, all lenses and articulated arms.

Remy sighed and started to unbutton her shirt, her metal fingers moving with a deft and perhaps somehow pointed care. Beneath the dark fabric, her prosthetic seemed as natural a part of her as anything else, skin simply becoming dark metal without drama. No line of scars, no ragged, suppurating wounds. It didn't even look like it covered anything - because, of course, it didn't. She moved the strap of her bra further up, near the base of her neck so that it didn't cover any part of the machinery, then rolled her artificial shoulder around. It slid and moved just as her living shoulder did, silent and smooth.

"Just get it over with," Remy sighed, and sat straight, waiting for the scan.

Singularity City, Uptown
0800

"Syrena Whiterose, infamous tracker and master of disguise", a man sitting in the shadowy corner of a well decorated office. The red of the cigar brightened from within the darkness like some bad movie from the twentieth or twenty first century. "I am glad you can come on such short notice. I have a proposition for you. The mission is dangerous and work is as dirty as a prostitute, but I trust I can convince you. Forgive the overdramatized shadow, but I can't afford for you to see my face quite yet. Surgery you see. You might even say I look like one of those undead things. Why do people call them?"

"Zombies", she replied in a confused tone. "Mr. Hal if you will please get to the point and the payment. I am a woman of business and my time from what people seem to believe is quite valuable." She shifted her hip to the left against the black & grey colored walland crossed her arms. Today she wore a wig with long blonde hair, curled in a meticulous fashion. Her eyes stared at the darkness as she pursed her lips awaiting a response.

"Enough to set you for life. I want a couple, a man and woman delivered to me personally, alive, I want to make them scream myself. It's a simple job. In, out, and the payment is as good as yours", the man named Mr. Hal replied in a smooth barotone voice.

"Sounds too easy. Who is he and why an outsider. Judging by this office and your reputation you have people capable of this deed already", she replied suspiciously. Of course she was suspicious, here was a man who had offered to set her for life for a simple extraction job. Jobs were never this easy and when they were it was usually a set up.

"You'll be hunting your parents. They ones who abandoned you with a fake aunt and promised to come back. They are former employees of mine and will see anyone I have on my staff coming and drop off the grid once more. It took me a decade to find them again and I don't want them escaping this time. You were chosen, because I assume they have kept tabs on you and won't shoot you on sight."

Syrena furrowed her brows and looked at the man. "I thought they were...well you know dead. What makes you think given the chance I wouldn't bring them back here?"

Hal chuckled, heaping on another pile of confusion to her already substantial pile. "I've heard stories about you. You're ruthless and effective. You have the charms and and intelligence to make it. Most importantly, you are level headed. Twenty three is quite young when you think about it. You can live off the interest of this payment quite comfortably and all for two people who choose a career over their child. That is why you."

His tone was calm and smooth. He was being truthful, which made this decision all the more difficult. "Deal", she spoke with a smile. Regardless of how the job turned out this would be worth it one way or the other. "I will be in contact." Her heels clacked against the surface of the office floor as she walked toward the elevator and back to street level.

Lower Levels, Second Level, 122 Street East. The Pulp Night Club. 07:22

The scene had been secured by the day to day security, the men in uniform insuring the peace in the streets… or at least trying to. They however, were not the men and women designated to investigate on such matters, that was the job of special investigations. And thus, Special Investigation had sent its 4th unit to deal with the problem, Martin Ramsay at its head.

Martin got out of the small transport vehicle he and his team got to the location with and walked toward the scene, a younger man on his heels and the rest walking behind him. “Well Samuel, what do you have for me? Who’s at the scene.” The young man looked at his data pad and answered. “It’s uhh… the Sicilian 2nd sir.” Martin stopped and extended his arms on his left and right, looking at the sky in sign of annoyance. “The Sicilians?! Oh come on!” He looked down on the floor and putted his palm on his forehead. Corruption was extremely present in the UN security, Martin would know, two third of his job was to investigate said corruption. But the Sicilians? They were in the pocket of the Mafia and everyone knew it, that is if they weren’t busy working for their government or being superstitious with their ultra-catholic faith.

He had an heavy sigh and continued to walk toward the scene, grinding his teeth as he heard the Italian chatter. A man, black hairs bleached back like the archetypical caricature of an Italian, turned toward him. “Ahhh! Major Ramzaye! So good to see you.” What was even more annoying in this was that Martin was pretty sure the man knew how to say his name, but said it so outrageously just to piss him off. Working in a unit specialized in corruption, meaning putting its nose everywhere, did not earn you much sympathy. “Likewise, Lieutenant Bianchi. What is the situation?” The man took a step to the left while turning himself back to look at the scene, a corpse was still present, next to it two Italians smoking. “From the looks of it, brain jacking, again. The two guys were just minding their own business when one just looks back and shot this one in the throat, got an artery, he couldn’t survive. At least 4 dozen people were able to see the scene, we’ve got half a dozen that didn’t leave. Precise description of the man, didn’t try to hide his face, ran away confused, we should have him easily, brain jacking, like I said.”

Another heavy sigh. Yes, they could have him easily, then they’d get the chip that caused that, try to follow it, tracing it to a hundred places but in the end, find nothing conclusive. He knew because it wasn’t the first time he was in this situation, far from it. “Alright then, we’ll take the stories these people can tell and wrap this all up. Thank you for your assistance Lieutenant, I won’t keep you and your men.”


Mid Levels, Third Level, 213 Main Street. Salisbury Ice Cream Shop. 08h59

Martin looked down past the railing, a ray of light was coming down from above toward the deeps of the tower. After pondering for a while, he took a bite of his ice cream with his lips, as to not pain his teeth that couldn’t handle the cold. “Singularity City remains safe, as Martin Ramsay watches over it. Not the hero it deserves, but the hero it needs!” Martin wiped the vanilla on his moustache before answering. “Hello to you too Frank.” He knew this voice by heart, Captain Francis Dupuis, he had served with him for a vast part of his career and ranks were pretty much meaningless at this point. The man in uniform, clean shaved and with graying hairs walked next to Martin and gave him a pat in the back. “Isn’t it a bit early for ice cream?” Martin raised his shoulders. “I never got passed the amazement I had when I left my mom’s house and I could do anything I want. So here I am, eating ice cream at nine in the morning.”

Frank looked down the railing. “New investigation sucks uh?” Martin stopped eating and looked up to think of his words. “One guy bought a stimulation chip, sex, as usual. And, as usual when those things happen, it was a trap from 22 to catch independent dealers and deal with them. We’ve already got the guy who bought the chip but Jesus Christ… This is just so damn frustrating. So we’ve got the proxy, big deal. Now we’ll investigate on this and either find no one or just some sacrificial pawn, as always. Frank, in all honesty, I think my job was a whole lot easier when it was to catch war lords and bandits in Africa. A bunch of guys with guns are a lot easier to stop than some shady men hiding behind armies of accountant and lawyers.” Frank had a small grin. “Back in my days, you’d masturbate using your hand, not some fancy computer program… But I guess I know what you mean, you just wish you were busting your ass down in patrol like I am, haha… Say, where did you get this ice cream?” Martin took another bite. “Right behind you, disgusting American machine-made stuff, always delicious.”

Upper Levels | Vesta’s Visions HQ | 7:00 pm:

She was vaguely aware that he was saying something; the noise was there but she cared very little to make sense of the sounds coming from his ever-persistent lips. That was the problem with them- Vanna decided as she chased the dust particles illuminated by the lamp with glittering blue fingertips. If his lips ever stopped moving or had anything particularly useful to say, she would probably make more of an effort to actually pay attention. But then again, that’s what he was really around for: to do all the talking. She swatted at the air- scattering the glowing dust particles into a swirling dance and finally decided that resistance, although preferable, was futile.

“Hm?” She cut him off with the sound. “I’m sorry, Lukas, I was momentarily lost in thought. Please do run that by me again?” A forced smile- although Lukas would never be the type to actually notice the difference, bless him- accompanied the remark. Her older brother sighed, shook his head, rolled a set of grey eyes nearly identical to hers, and ran slender fingers though his own neatly groomed hazelnut locks.

“I’m certainly not going to repeat everything simply on account of your slippery attention span, Ivanna.” Normally, she would have corrected him. For now, however, she simply rolled her own grey eyes. “But in summary, I was merely stating that the company would do well with a larger building. We occupy one of the smallest buildings on the upper levels. And you know we don’t have to. We are doing more than just well for ourselves. Expansion would not be an impossible concept.”

“Not impossible, Lukas.” She tapped a single manicured nail against the large window that- since they were indeed one of the smaller buildings in the area- didn’t overlook much of anything. The view had never been particularly stellar from any part of the building. “Simply out of the question. Expansion is not necessary and only manages to bring unwelcome eyes. You know that.”

“Don’t you find mother and father’s old tactics a little out of date? The riots are a thing of the past. And we’re not exactly immigrants anymore. Who knows? Maybe a little limelight will do you some good.”

“If I wanted limelight,” Vanna’s heels clicked against the well-maintained wooden flooring of her top-floor office as she took very deliberate steps in her brother’s direction. “Then I wouldn’t make your ugly mug the face of my company. Our supplemental income becomes increasingly difficult to maintain if people start seeing my face enough to recognize it. And don’t even try to pretend that that pretty little airhead that you married would be content to live on an accountant’s normal salary. We both know that certainly isn't the truth. You’re lucky she’s too dumb to put two and two together.”

As per usual, Lukas said nothing against the verbal onslaught. Mostly, she had decided long ago, because she was mostly right. He was never the type to marry a woman for what she had going on between the ears. It worked out pretty well for him. But he knew he had to spend a little extra money to keep her happy- money that usually came from Vanna’s less legal extracurricular activities.

Although there was little need, she fixed her cat-eyed sunglasses to her face and covered her head in a well-woven hound’s-tooth patterned scarf. The black peacoat was plain, but exquisitely tailored like just about everything else she owned. Well, at least just about everything else she wore on a regular basis. “Be a dear and lock up for me, brother?”

He feigned particular interest in his own fingernails- always considerably less well groomed. “You know, I hear there used to be a song about women who would wear sunglasses at night.”

She stared at him though thick, lacquered eyelashes with a very pronounced downturn to the corner of her red lips. An audible click of her heel against the flooring again soon followed. “Your attempts at being a humorous attention whore are not endearing. Go bother your wife with them. At least she gets paid to pretend to like them.” The smug grin disappeared almost instantaneously. It only managed to give Vanna her own special moment of satisfaction.

“And I suppose you’re going to go return to that hovel you call an apartment.” Lukas sneered.

“Wrong. First I’m going to go get a drink. Then the ‘hovel’, as you refer to it. Although in all honesty, I think I prefer a mid-level ‘hovel’ to an upper level brothel. But who am I to judge?” The doors to her office slid shut behind her and rendered his reply inaudible. Shame, really. She would have loved to see his indignant face. Sometimes she couldn’t believe they actually shared the same genetics.

Mid level | City Streets | 8:45 pm:

Although it was a well known fact that it was a much more dangerous mode of transportation that was generally considered wise, Vanna had a certain love of walking. She supposed that it was because of all the things you generally noticed a little bit better when on foot rather than speeding along in something more automated. And in her line of supplemental income, it paid well to know what was going on around you.

For a moment, she removed a synthetic leather glove to make more precise adjustments to her single, solitary mechanical augment. Catching the news broadcasts on her synthetic ear was always way more convenience then actually having to watch the screen. It had been a little disconcerting at first, but eventually she got used to the foreign stimuli so close to her head. Really, the most use she got out of it nine times out of ten was some good music to get her through the tedium of a long day of business meetings. But every so often good and useful information would come though. Someday, she resolved, she would find the police broadcasts for kicks and giggles. But today was not that day.

“Apperently, the woman had been wearing a small protective vest underneath her baggy clothing. It had failed to protect her from what is believed to have been a brain jacked, suburban teenager. Most likely the perpetrators are affiliated with criminal hacker and rigger collective known as 22. Over to you Tom.”

Immedately, she switched it off again. There was a short moment of something almost resembling sadness for the poor girl, but mostly, she didn’t like that it put a sour note to her walk. Vanna was awfully glad she was close to the bar. Suddenly, she wasn’t a real big fan of being on the streets at that moment. Which, of course, was silly. She knew that. There were worse things out there than digital zombies.

A ringing in her artificial ear was a signal that her brother was trying to get into contact with her yet again- probably having also heard the news for the night. Frustrated, she shut the entire augment off with a groan. It was better to walk with only one ear than to listen to the fearmongerers on the news or the idiotic babblings of her brother that always insisted she move up to the upper levels with him. Worried for her safety, her ass, she would think. Vanna knew he was only worried for his ability to keep his wife properly pampered.

If nothing else, the bar was always a welcome escape from the rest of the city. The fact that everything was made from wood was strangely soothing. At least it was something in the damned city that wasn’t some sort of metal or other man-made material. It wasn’t even something she could chalk up to anything as bizarrely sentimental as childhood nostalgia. She merely liked the sound it made under her heels and fingertips. Unwrapping her head, she draped her coat and scarf over the barstool and promptly sat down- content to not have to be a perfectly put together lady for at least the next five minutes. The sunglasses, however, still stayed on the bridge of her perfectly powdered nose.

“I’ll have what you’re having.” She said the bartender, not feeling particularly picky. “And if you’re having a good night so far, I’d love to take one of those too.”

Lower Levels, Second Level, Southern District, Nevsky Prospekt. Corporate Building #7757. 17:15.

The headquarters of the Vladivostok Group was a simple two story building located within the heart of the Southern District. A dull concrete structure it's construction spoke of a distinct lack of creativity and concern for a low budget rather than aesthetics. Ostensibly the Vladivostok group was a small scale logistics company which had managed to make a respectable profit for its size transporting goods from the various Russian states to Singularity City. The reputation of the group was impeccable, despite operating out of territory controlled by Russian mafia they had somehow managed to avoid attracting the attention of the SCPD. Meela herself had taken special care to ensure that if the company was ever placed under scrutiny the police would find nothing out of place, although they might find that the bookkeeping was a bit too good and that the security was suspiciously above average for such a small operation. It was perhaps an added advantage that nothing happened there without the express permission of the mafia, the neighborhood inhabitants knew better than to ask too many questions, the policeman tended to stay away and an anonymous phone call would be made in the even that any governmental agency suddenly decided to visit the district.



The first floor of the grey building had been converted into an office of sorts and it was there that the five employees still working were currently gathered. Meela sat or rather lay sideways across a large, leather armchair positioned in a corner of the main room with her legs hanging over the armrest. Her head was hidden behind a thick book, whose cover was tattered and looked to be on the verge of falling off, the title was almost unreadable and its spine was reduced to a sparse number of strands struggling to contain the large number of pages held within. It didn't matter however, Meela knew the title and the contents well enough. She had read the book before, when she was still studying in Moscow, she thought she could recall for a required course in Philosophy. It was “Being and Nothingness,” the seminal work of French existentialist philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre. The book was in Russian, translated from French of course and Meela couldn't help but feel that that the translator had made some errors in his work and that a certain quality of the original language had been lost in the process. Her brow was furrowed and it was hard to tell if she was enjoying the book at all, philosophy had never been her favorite subject and if asked she would admit that the writing was a bit to try for her tastes, however, her mother had always told her that it was good to broaden one’s perspectives and when it was possible she tried to follow the older woman's advice.



She had bought it off a street vendor she had passed some days earlier, the last of a rapidly disappearing breed, a bespectacled old man still collecting the physical works of the previous ages. It was one of her few indulgences, she loved to read when she had the time, which admittedly was less often than she would have liked. There was just something special about holding a physical collection of paper in her hand, to feel the heavy and worn pages in her hand, to imagine the countless other people who had read the same book that she was reading and occasionally the coffee stains or other signs of use they had left behind. Unlike most people, Meela had never quite managed to embrace the digital or electronic books of her generation and remained something of an eccentric outsider in this regard.



The rest of the room was simply furnished, it was a chaotic mixture of various styles and designs, that whilst in adequate condition, did not speak of much forethought. A large wooden crate had been re-purposed as a basic chair upon which one of Meela's subordinates Vladmir was seated, absentmindedly rolling a cigarette as he hummed some tune in Russian. Another, Stanislav sat to one side of the room in a garishly red recliner in a particularly noteworthy state of disrepair with his back to the others, eyes fixed on a constellation of paper thin screens attached to the wall in front of him. Security systems, showing various sides of the buildings, the doors, surrounding areas. Two others, Pytor and Mikhail sat on two low club couches, in between them stood a coffee table covered with various coins and cards, the two friends playing a game of poker to pass the time. Finally, her secretary of sorts, Dimitry in turn was perched precariously on a chair that appeared to have only three legs and would wobble dangerously with each motion he made. A look of frustration and mild despair on his face as he hunched over a computer screen struggling with a seemingly endless amount of accounting.



The relative quiet was broken by a sudden and urgently incessant noise, a loud metallic ringing sound that came from well-worn hardline telephone residing on a lamp table to Meela's right. It looked like something from the beginning of the 20th century, consisting largely of a scratched, scuffed black plastic and a exaggerated rotary dial. All eyes in the room turned towards Meela as she let the phone continue its loud entreaties, who seemed take no interest in the source of the noise. Finally after the device had run no less than five times, Meela sighed loudly to herself before reaching to pick up the receiver, her eyes still glued on the pages of the book.

"Da." Meela offered unenthusiastically, making no attempt to hide her irritation at the unwelcome interruption.

"Vladivostok Group?" The caller began, in a heavy accented and broken English. The voice was familiar and Meela couldn't help but let her mouth shift into a light grin when she identified the speaker. Boris was unmistakable on the other side of the line, his deep rasping voice and the pause as he drew yet another deep breath from the cigar he was without a doubt smoking. It was perhaps an irony that despite having spent decades in the North American hemisphere, the older man seemed no closer to mastering the English language. However, he was a man to be respected, Boris the Fixer, his name ran deep to the very core of the underworld, to the first days of Singularity City. An ancient dinosaur of the Russian Mafia he was well into his late fifties, having survived several generations of contemporaries. He knew the way and factions of the criminals like the back of his hand and had emerged unscathed from the early attempt to root out the criminal elements of Russian society. “I am calling to confirm that our order of Black Tea will be delivered tomorrow at noon? You see it is a bit embarrassing but we had something of technical mishap and now we have an irritate customer who absolutely requires the shipment as soon as possible.”

"One moment please," she deadpanned casually, feeling a momentary sense of foolishness at having to play along with his act, but certain precautions had to be taken after all. Turning towards Dimitry, she covered the receiver of the phone with both hands, "Dima, I need you to make this line secure, its Boris."

Dimitry offered a polite nod, before turning his attentions to his computer, his hands racing across the ultra-thin keyboard before holding his fist up and raising his thumb in what was to a Russian clear indication of success. Meela humored him with a brief wink in return and then speaking in her native Russian she addressed the familiar caller. "Alright Boris, the line is secure, if anyone is listening they are receiving one hell of a scramble at the moment, courtesy of Dima. Although I must say your acting is as terrible as always, you really need to put some more work in your delivery."

"My third wife was an actress, she said I was good, a modern day Clint Eastwood," Boris countered,

"I'm sure she did Boris," Meela replied, rolling her eyes slightly, "However, as much as I enjoy receiving a call from you, perhaps you can get to the heart of the matter as they say here."

"Patience, patience dear Meela there is no great rush," Boris lightly chastised, before pausing to draw another drag from his cigar. "We have something of a problem, someone is stirring up trouble again. One of the King Crew's low level dealers was retired, it was a matter of stimulus chips, It was a most sloppy job, they brain jacked some kid and put an armor piercing round through her, no class in such work," he concluded, unable to completely disguise his obvious pleasure at seeing one of the great nemesis of his own organization suffer yet another setback.

On the other end of the line, Meela couldn't help but frown, "Chyort voz'mi...who decided to kick the hornet's nets this time? Was it one of our - "

"No, no, we wouldn't do such a poor job of it, besides if we want a war with the King's Crew, then we will not be asking for it in such a manner. The media seem to believe it was the 22's again, the collective, they appear to be rather unhappy with our friend's encroachment into what they perceive as their territory," Boris interrupted, before launching into a series of deep coughs.

“You don't sound very convinced," Meela said.

"Da, it's a mess as always and at the moment proper information is hard to come by. Besides, I don't make a habit of trusting the media, one never knows who it is that lines their pockets."

“I see, so what do you need me do?” Meela asked, barely containing her curiosity, it had been some time since she had a little bit of excitement on the job.

“Nothing particularly exciting to begin with, keep your eyes open, get everyone ready, if we need to act then I will contact you as always. You knows King's Crew, they are not always so calm-headed and it would be a grave error to expect them to react rationally," Boris mused perhaps somewhat sadly. "Ah! Go see the good Dr. McGuire, he doesn't always react so well to situations like this, it would be a shame if we were to lose a valuable asset like him to the machinations of the rabble. Then see if you can find some information about this tragic matter through your usual channels, the sooner we know what is going on the better."

"Sure thing old man, stay safe," she offered in parting.

"Always, I have not survived this long by taking unnecessary risks. Try not to cause too much trouble this time my dear, it would be a shame if we were to cause a scene..."

Replacing the receiver, Meela snapped her book shut and rose out of her chair with a broad smile on her face before addressing her erstwhile employees in a disturbingly cheerful tone, "My friends, let us go for a car ride, we have some business matters to attend to and please dress to impress things might prove to be an interesting evening."

---------------------------

Some twenty minutes later, a large greyish colored van, pulled up to the side of the Doctor McGuire's clinic disgorging Meela and her five subordinates. Stretching her legs after the brief journey, Meela looked up at the holographic advertisement which was projected onto one of the walls of the clinic, shaking in her head in slight amusement, it was very certainly not beautiful but somehow it summarized the mentality of the lower levels perfectly, profit was all that mattered. Approaching the well-concealed personal entrance, Meela withdrew a small case from a pocket of the black leather jacket she had donned, putting on a pair of contact lenses embossed with the image of an iris not her own. Although she didn't particularly dislike the Doctor, if anything she viewed him with a professional respect, but such courtesies only extended so far and Meela did not trust him. Certainly, she would not provide him with something as compromising as her retinal patterns. After all no two people shared the same patterns and should the biometrics data somehow fall into the wrong hands it would prove less than ideal.

“God save the Czar,” she muttered loudly as the security system positively identified her unlocking the heavy door which guarded the clinic. “I think the doctor might have a sense of humor after all...”

Meela stepped aside as Vladmir, Pytor, Mikhail and Stanislav moved past her, entering the building in a surprisingly military manner although they did not draw any weapons. Each man covered a corner or angle as he surged forward and trust his comrades completely to watch their own sectors. Dimitry followed close after with Meela forming something of a rear guard. Walking past Dr. McGuire's office, Meela could hear the familiar voice of the medical practitioner in the sole operating room of the facility. She hated too interrupt when he was with a patient, but they were on a tight schedule...besides dramatic entrances were one of the added perks of the job. The five others had stopped in front of the door and Stanislav looked at Meela for a confirmation, she smiled slightly and nodded as the four man team seemed to leap through the doorway.

“Dr. McGuire, it has been far too long since our last visit, my apologies for the interruption but we found ourselves rather busy-,” Meela began as she entered the large room, spotting McGuire next to an intricate and expensive looking machine, in all likelihood some type of scanner and the tall, fair skinned patient being examined who sat impatiently nearby in a state of undress. Meela couldn't help but feel there was something familiar about the women and momentarily she found herself at a loss for words, her eyes tracing the other woman's form in effort to remember. She found her eyes drawn to the dark, metallic grey arm of the woman and followed the flowing lines of the prosthetic they traveled upwards, gently passing over a small part of her chest before ending elegantly at the slope of her neck. Noticing the long braid of copper hair that reached just past the other woman's shoulder blades, Meela was struck by sudden feeling that she had made a grave mistake as she looked at her face. Peering into the bright blue eyes of the woman, recognition finally dawn on Meela and her face began to turn a deep shade of red. Her eyes grew wide in surprise and she nervously brushed a hand through her hair before clumsily stammering, “Remy?”

--,---,--

Lower Levels. Second level. 215 Street West. Health Clinic 9:50PM

Dr. McGuire was preparing his complex scanning device, powering up the scanners and positioning the thing so that it would scan Remy's entire arm and tell him if in fact the metal had caused any scarring on her nerves, or if it needed to be adjusted in any way. In fact, he was about to begin the scan and turned to Remy, about to say "extend your arm please and keep it flat for me.". But he never got the chance. He heard his side door opening, the theme song of sorts was recognizable to him. That could only be one of two people; himself or Meela. As it happened, she entered, with her men who spread out to corners and "secured" the operating room. They stood along the sides and when she spoke to him, Jeffrey looked up. If she was out to startle him, she'd done a great job of it. The doctor jumped slightly at her words, causing the machine to move just enough that it wouldn't scan properly. He saw her become quite embarrassed with herself; once she recognized just who his patient was. It had to be a first; but just as before when she came for her "visits" to his clinic, the doctor was nervous and his tone; as he readjusted the machine onto Remy's arm again, while looking at Meela blushing, changed and indicated a certain professional respect for his guests. He spoke to his patient quietly and somewhat coolly,"Remy, extend please. Keep it flat, if you would."

Then, he turned his head around the room, glancing at each man as he stood in the corner and remarked,"You all are... fortunate that I'm not right right in the middle of an implantation; otherwise that door would have been locked you all would have to wait patiently...or wear masks." he sighed then, and turned finally to look upon Meela and said,"Yes, Meela your visits are...always welcome. He thought about politely reminding Meela's men that there was no smoking in here, as Russan were known for their bad cigar habits and So, I suppose you've heard the news then? it's a real shame...but I must ask, what brigs you to me? Have you finally made that decision?" The doctor looked questioningly at her. He'd tried, many times, to dangle the carrot of augmentation in front of her before; but she'd always refused. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he imagined himself outfitting her and her "army" with all sorts of cool augments, and upgrading himself, of course. But this was just a fantasy that he had. There were others; i.e. returning to Sixth Level and taking his Russian friends with him. Forming their own medical company. In that dream, Remy would come, too. She'd have to. She was his patient after all and wherever he went, she went too.

While he waited for her answer, the doctor started his scanner on Remy's arm; listening to whatever story Meela had to share. The data showed a little scarring and a good bit of wear and tear, but; with that particular augment type, some of this was normal. he tuned to Remy and using that same tone, informed her,"Everything looks fine from an initial scan. You have some scarring in the arm, and...I'd like to keep an eye on that; but I need you to try and make more appointments. I can't treat you properly, if I only see you once in a blue moon." He gave Meela another anxious look. She didn't intimidate him; she never really had, it was just...he was slightly afraid of her...and what she could do to him.

The doctor turned once more to his patient once more,"Remy...I'd like to schedule a more...invasive scan of your arm. It's going to take longer than what I just did, because I want to see the extent of that scarring. I can only tell that there was scars with that machine. When is a good date for you?" He kept his eyes on her and waited for to answer that. When she had, he turned back to Meela; unless Remy had more to say. But, to Meela he said,"All of this...conversation. It all stays here. I don't need unwanted attention." He smiled, or well, more accurately, forced himself to smile at her. The dcotor stood on a razor's edge, then; as he was unsure how all of this would go over with either of them.

Remy had already been moving, anticipating the doctor's request that she hold the prosthetic still and level. She had gone through the same routine a thousand times during the physical therapy following attachment, and every time she had noticed something a little odd, just as she did now. The scanner seemed to make something along the arm tingle, as though it were inducing current in the "nerves" that made the prosthetic much more complex than it looked like might be. Nothing else - or, at least, nothing else that Remy had been nearby since, including the exotic equipment in her shop, had done the same thing. She would get around to asking about it some day.

She pulled her arm back, laying it on her folded jacket as the door slid aside with a bang of something massive being drawn aside quickly. Her eyes flickered over to the door, and her fingers almost unconsciously slipped into the lining, the tips of her fingers brushing against something hard and cool as large, heavily-built men bustled into the room, obviously armed but not ostentatious about it. A couple she recognized, having built a handgun for one particularly grim-looking man. He asked for something that would fit his enormous, bearlike paw. It hadn't been cheap, but the price had paid for the complex holoscanner she'd needed to get a decent mould of his hand. The corner of the engineer's mouth quirked up as she saw the grip poking out of his suit coat, not quite hidden, and looking like a part of some deep-sea creature. She'd enjoyed carving it, it had made her shop smell nice for a week.

The price had bought a lot of no questions, and Remy had been fine with that. Still, she had suspicions about who he worked for. She never looked into them, of course. That would be bad business. Well, it would be if she got caught. It would be bad for a whole lot of things, come to that.

The doctor finished setting the scanner up again, and the strange tingle ran up her arm, spreading to the seam on her chest where skin met metal. As the four men clomped into the room, establishing lines of sight despite its not exactly impressive footage, a fifth set of steps, lighter, clicked on the tile floor outside. Remy turned to look, and had to swallow down a moment of not-inconsiderable surprise. Short, dark hair, and a frame like a porcelain doll, with a typically Russian grimness and eyes like emeralds, it took her a second to make the mental adjustments to understand exactly what she saw. Some part of her felt a certain satisfaction that the other woman seemed just as surprised.

"Remy?" The other woman stammered. McGuire nattered on, but Remy's thoughts had left his concerns behind as soon as the recognition hit. Meela had come in here like she owned the place, and had brought a lot of muscle to reinforce the fact. Remy thought about what little she knew about the dark-haired woman, other than their shared fondness for tea, books, and intelligent company. The pieces started to slide together and make a picture that didn't exactly set Remy on edge, but still triggered a certain number of mental readjustments.

With a practiced, casual air, she took her hand out of the fold of her jacket, and held it straight out in front of her, neatly in the scanner's envelope. The tingling swept up her arm to where her skin met the metal of her implant, and it seemed to pull her out of her reverie a little. One corner of her mouth quirked up as she pulled her eyes away from Meela, sweeping them over the nearest couple of…bodyguards.

"Lyudmila," Remy said, her French accent rich and a little playful, "You know your friends are going to have to pay for the show, oui?" She leaned back - as much as she could, while the scanner still beeped and twittered - and took a deep breath, lifting her admittedly modest chest and letting it out slowly, "And you brought so many. Going somewhere afterward, then?"

The doctor's words sank into her mind, and she sighed, turning her blue eyes to the nervous-looking surgeon, "I'll find the time somewhere, Doctor," her voice not nearly so jocular, "No promises, though."

"Now, Doctor McGuire, you know that is a very personal question and as I am here strictly in an official capacity, I hardly think it is an appropriate topic of discussion." Meela replied sternly as McGuire appeared to broach the subject of augmentations yet again. Though she did not begrudge him such comments, thoughts or opinions, despite their alarmingly frequent and repetitive nature, his sense of timing was certainly wanting. She threw a quick glance towards Remy, lamentably it was a bit late for regrets, doubtlessly the other woman wouldn't believe that Meela was simply there for an appointment, especially not considering she had brought friends. With little reason remaining to pretend or lie, Meela decided to simply answer McGuire's questions, even if Remy was there to hear it,"No, as much as I enjoy our idle conversations doctor, I am simply here to deliver a message. In view of certain tragedies which have recently occurred in our beautiful city my superiors were concerned that you might react in a less than optimal manner if things happen to become a bit exciting. So they asked me to remind you how highly we value your talents Doctor McGuire and in light of the kindness you have been shown over the years what a shame it would be if something were to interfere with our happy arrangement."

"Relax, Doc, in this case you needn't worry, I am just here to see that everything is alright, appearances must be maintained after all and it was "along the way" as I believe the expression goes," Meela added somewhat belatedly, making a conciliatory gesture of sorts. She wasn't there to scare the doctor, well at least not too much, but rather to remind him of certain rules which had to be followed. "Besides, we were in need of some fresh air, weren't we gentleman?"

Unfortunately, her generous manner lasted only for so long, there was something in the Doctor's tone of voice or perhaps his suggestion that she wouldn't keep her mouth shut that sparked within Meela a feeling of great irritation and while she was not in the habit of letting her emotions get the better of her, like so many of her contemporaries did, there was a limit to how freely she was prepared let the doctor speak. It simply would not do if he forget his place and the nature of their positions. Making no effort to hide the frown which had take shape on her face or the slight indignation in her voice Meela responded coolly, "McGuire, you disappoint me and presume far too much. I am not in a habit of discussing private matters with others, nor do I have a specific interest in garnering the attentions of anyone in particular. I appreciate your concern but I am not some school girl in need of lecturing and it would be most welcome if you did not forget that in the future..."

-----

"Pay for the show, hmmm, well that does seem rather fair, however, perhaps I can convince you to accept some tea in lieu of hard currency? As luck would have it, I happen to have received a lovely shipment of Chinese tea just last week. Keemun Hao Ya, apparently it is a black tea highly regarded for its distinctive taste. It is very fruity, with a touch of pine, dried plum and flowers, it reminds me of a sweet wine and I think you may find it to be to your liking my dear." Meela began, playing along with Remy's jest and hoping to entice her with the offer of something delicious. "I am really very sorry about this whole mess Remy," Meela continued, adopting a rather serious tone as she fidgeted nervously with the end of the short skirt she had worn over a pair of delicate black leggings. She felt a sudden heat on her cheeks and knew she was blushing again but it couldn't be helped, intruding on the privacy of her friend wasn't exactly how she had imagined the whole affair would go. "If I had known you were here I wouldn't have made quite such a dramatic entrance...I would have knocked...at least twice...I promise..." It was perhaps slightly curious that she didn't feel a need to extend any similar sort of apology to the McGuire, Meela considered, but he hadn't been the one sitting half dressed when five strange men came barreling in through the door.

"Going somewhere? Well, I suppose you could say that," Meela offered coyly, having recovered from her second wave of embarrassment in the span of only a couple of minutes and finding enough courage to speak again,"We have some business matters to attend to, a meeting of sorts, unfortunately, I suspect it will be a rather droll time spent in less than preferable company as always seems to be the case. Although a certain thought does occur to me...I don't see a reason why we can't mix business with pleasure, if you have the time perhaps you would join me for a drink? You can be my guest for the evening, I am sure no one will object."

"Eh, boss?" Dimitry hesitantly interjected in a low whisper as he moved next to Meela. "We can't exactly bring strangers along,"

"Stranger!? Dima! Remy isn't a stranger, she is my friend! Where are your manners? Are you trying to embarrass me again?" Meela loudly declared as she glared angrily at the young man who took a fearful series of steps backwards.

"No, no, of course not boss, I was just...I mean...I wasn't...," he continued struggling to find a proper term of apology or way to explain himself. "It's just that...well you...know...we have to be careful. She might talk-"

Meela however had already long since returned her attentions to the other woman and simply raised a hand which brought an abrupt end to the Dimitry's faltering speech. With a mischievous twinkle in her eyes and a broad smile, Meela spoke, "Talk? Oh, I wouldn't worry about that Dima, I am sure our French friend can keep a secret...right Remy?"