This hadn't been the first time that Johnathan had been sent down on a patrol of the lower hive; A few years back one of the higher ups of the Emperor's church that preached to the fat, useless nobles had managed to inspire a few of them to do their part for the Emperor by funding a patrol down into the lower hive to purge mutants and heretics. It had been a rather resounding success as well, considering that the general logic that the 'crusade' had run by was that after you went past a certain level where the lights, plumping and air filters didn't work that anyone you encountered was almost certainly a mutant or heretic because since the Emperor's chosen wouldn't be forced to live in such horrid conditions and thus you were pretty much free to light up anything and everything that moved.

He had only just passed basic PDF training back then and had only just used his flamer against practice dummies before then. Setting ablaze living, screaming flesh... the training didn't prepare you for it, but after the fourth day of burning his way through the dark he couldn't help but feel a warmth inside of his chest whenever he pulled the trigger that had nothing to do with the burning liquid that he was spraying.

He had been a wet behind the ears teenager then, covered in pimples and praying to the Emperor every night before going to sleep; Now in his mid twenties, Johnathan grinned widely with fire reflected in his eyes as he pulled the trigger of his beloved flamer, its purging blaze aimed at the backs of those members of his patrol that had been judged unlikely to accept the fact that the Emperor was nothing more then a lie cold by those in power to stay in power.

Even as his fire swept over them to purge them from the world, laz fire opened up on those who were to far away for him to catch in his sweeping field of cleansing flame as his brothers and sisters who had already accepted the truth dealt with those that were to blind... to loyal to the old lies. They hadn't even seen it coming...

Patrols disappearing in the underhive were quickly becoming a norm, so this dying patrol wouldn't be missed to badly... but the real prize was the vox radio that his friend Jacob operated, mounted on his back like a backpack. There was bound to be someone interested in a bit of hired muscle and the ability to know what the PDF were talking about...

"You know the hypocrisy of it, of course? Despite how much of a coward you've proven yourself to be, though, but you know it none the less. Of playing at soldier, when you are nothing of the sort."

The half dead PDF lieutenant, commander of this isolated post, was set in his chair, bound and gagged of course, to prevent him shouting out and alerting anyone else in the building. He was eying the man sitting on his desk, eyes full of a mixture of fear and hate, though that assailant could only be identified from the sound of his voice, muffled as it is through the rebreather the man wore. The lieutenant's wounds were fresh, bleeding openly from the bayonet wound in his gut, and the broken nose from a strike that had rendered him unconscious before he could scream for aid. He wouldn't last for overly long, but long enough for the man to speak his bit. "Playing at soldier, sending men to die, too afraid to lead them and claim the glory personally. They earned their place as warriors, but you? You don't get any such honors, and neither do the cowards hiding here, playing at honor guard."

The Lieutenant tried to focus on the man speaking to him, and the first thing he noticed was how gaunt he was, despite the flak armor and cloak he wore, chameleon by the looks of it since it blurred and made it hard to make out anything beneath the cloak. However, he didn't wear it for concealment right now, showing off the dirty brown colored armor, stripped of markings of either Imperial or regimental markings, thin as the man was already. Facial features were indistinct, the non regulation pattern rebreather covering his face, the red lenses giving his eyes a violet hue, though this surely had to be just a trick of the light due to the previously mentioned lenses. Despite his puzzling, the Lieutenant couldn't place the man, neither who he was or where he had originated, though the gear made him suspect mercenary of some sort, or possibly renegade Guard or PDF. One thing that was noted was that he had several drum magazines on webbing about his waist, certainly nothing that was standard issue for any PDF or Guard forces the Lieutenant could think of.

At that point, an explosion, one that interrupted the man's train of thought, could be heard from the front of the post, and the masked man pulled a knife, cutting the gag free and, though grinning beneath the rebreather almost feral like, watched him scream for help that wouldn't be coming. Once it dawned on him that help would not be coming, that the sounds of isolated battle from the PDF forces fighting unseen foes, ironically unrelated to the main goal that the masked man had used them for. He had been a mercenary, paid to assist the PDF, fighting for cowards that hid behind the manpower that they could use to elevate themselves, but had discovered this harsh truth at the doorstep of death. He refused to accept this and found an offer in his mind at that moment. He would find the strength to fight, to wage war, and all he had to do was keep fighting, keep killing, to embrace the rage that he held against the cowards that sent true soldiers to die.

His rage, however, was a cold rage, focused, bitter, but clarifying anger that gave him purpose. Cowards like this man, and those that would fear warfare coming, would know what their true calling should be. The sounds of battle, of the PDF being overrun by proper warriors, clad in rags and gang markings as they were, but feared no death, and used any tool at hand to achieve their goals. However, none of them would be getting into the room, barred and locked as it was after the fact that he had gotten into the room. The Lieutenant paled, unaware of this, fear overcoming him fully. "Pl..please, I beg of you! I am no soldier, it was demanded of me! I'll do anything you wish, spare me!"

For a few moments, the man's posture did not change. He had appeared, at a casual glance, to be relaxed whilst sitting on the Lieutenant's desk, but closer view betrayed otherwise. He had swept the room already, but he kept a wary stance as he leaned forwards, arms pressing against his thighs. His posture showed a man who was used to operating on his own, never able to trust anyone or anything around him as he listened to the sounds going on, considering what was going on. Frankly, he didn't seem overly concerned with hearing voices and resisting the death that was intended for him, having risen against such supposed fates. All he seemed concerned with was the task at hand, the man in front of him, and had every intention of exacting the punishment he saw as fitting for the man he had cornered. His seemed to be a singular focus to tear down the entire rotten structure, burn it away through war, and let a more fitting structure be built in its place.

The rebreather wearing soldier then sighed, pushing himself off the table, walking towards the door, grabbing his autogun as he walked towards the door. Pausing at the door, he turned and decided against letting the gangers and criminals have this man. No, he would not get to die at their relatively quick hands. Walking forward, he planted a heavy kick right into the wounded man's gut, throwing him down onto the back of the chair, shattering it and forcing the man to cough harshly, sending blood everywhere. The man scrambled, hands raised to shield himself as the man kicked his hands away, ramming the bayonet into his torso again, twisting and ripping the blade free, sending precious life blood spraying across the floor. He raised his hand, a pistol feebly grasped in his bloody hand, but another kick sent it spiraling away.

The Lieutenant was forced to watch as the man checked over his weapon, almost in a caring, doting manner. It had the trappings of an autogun, clearly rechambered for a larger round than originally intended based off the almost strained looking barrel size, though the bayonet lug remained in place, a serrated, blood coated blade still attached. It had an optic on it, and considering the aformentioned cloak, he was likely some sort of scout or sniper of some sort. The toggle that controlled method of fire seemed to not easily switch to fully automatic, clearly used to remaining in a single shot setting through a lot of rough grime and trouble. But toggle it did, and he tugged the drum magazine out, ensuring it was loaded with the preferred ammo. Each round looked like a hollow point with notches etched into it, meant to maximize suffering and damage. Intended for fighting people who cared about their comrades being crippled out in the opening, a sniper's tactic for baiting out others to help them, only to die themselves. But all this meant little to the Lieutenant now as the magazine was slammed back into place, round already chambered from before, and it was pointed right at his chest.

"Now you know the truth, facing death with no way out. There is nothing else in this universe, but to fight. Pick a cause and give yourself to it, body, blood, in totality. Yet you hide from it, and look where it got you. Beneath the boot of someone who you aren't worthy to stain the clothing of with your blood. Yet, you will, and you will know who killed you. Tell your corpse god that Ansgar Staudinger sent you, and I will be coming for him, in time." The man's eyes were wide as saucers as the man leveled his autogun and squeezed the trigger, hosing the Lieutenant down with autogun rounds, going well into the overkill territory. He had made his decision far before now, this was just an eventuality.

There once was a man of little social substance named Darran Parthe. Tall and handsome, possessed of dark brown hair and blue-green eyes and light skin tone, he used to be quite a popular individual during his youth, but as time passed, he found himself drawn into his work as a surgeon more and more. Though he seemed externally to remain as charming as ever, his social life vanished, his internal world shrank and corroded, until it seemed the man piloting the body was rendered all but heartless, connecting with others but barely for the facade he put on, his imagination filled only with how to better his work, to ensure he and the machines he worked with and upgraded never failed to save a life.

And yea, he might have continued on in this work for centuries, for his clientele was always the rich of the world, rich enough that he could afford the gene treatments to keep himself young; but with wealth often comes boredom, and one day, a client of his asked of Darran a most unusual treatment. "A hole implanted into my belly," they asked, "that one might use as they'd use the female genitalia." And whilst very odd, Darran had no reason to deny the client what they asked, not when they were offering twice as much money as for any normal surgery, and despite the uniqueness of the operation, it was performed exactly according to plan.

The client promised to bring in more patients for future surgeries of this ilk, and keeping their word, new members of the upper class soon began to roll in, requesting an odd implant here, and a cosmetic patchup there, and a queer device attached just so, in addition to the doctor's more usual surgeries. He acquired more and better surgical devices, using his wealth to get into the good graces of his clients, and his own skill to eventually implant his tools into his very body, for though incredibly precise, mere machinery could never match the skill of a human mind unless it was controlled by a human mind.

And finally, certain members of his clientele began to open their hearts to him, revealing their allegiances to a force called Chaos. They did not explain directly what it was, but implied that mere association with its members had damned Darran already, barring him from the God-Emperor's light, though in return opening him to the attentions of beings far greater. The doctor remained unfased, for even religiousness had faded in him, be it of the Emperor or of any supposed God of Chaos; what mattered to him now was his work, and ensuring his work was never inaccurate, not even by a fraction of a millimeter. Such inaccuracies had become ever more unacceptable to him. To err was to fail, and so he vowed he would never err again, not if it meant his surgeries were unsuccessful.

The gaze of Slaanesh had turned upon him. And to those who worshipped her and experienced Darran's work, it might appear that she was very curious to see how he progressed.

Erika didn't know the name of the man she had just killed. He gurgled and gasped, clawing in vain towards her naked and perspiring body as he iron shiv she stuck through his throat acted like an open valve to drain his lifeblood in what seemed a matter of mere moments. The stranger's strength failed him and he collapsed forward, blood drenching both the ground beneath him and soaking the dark, tattered clothes covering his chest. There was a moment of silence as the crowd gathered at the top of the crude gladiatorial pit stopped in their jeering and savage wooping. Erika was certain that this was the end of her existence. Surely men were going to be piling into the pit to take their vengeance on her for killing one of their own. Shutting here eyes she braced for the first gunshot or woosh of air that would signal her execution.

It had been three days since the SkarBlades, one of the more violent and unpredictable gangs in the underhive had taken her and many other rival undergangers prisoner. It was a bold move on the part of the Skarblades to launch such a heavy raid into the territory of the cutters. The Skarblades larger neightbour. Like any woman living in the underhive Erika predicted her life would become very short and very unpleasent. While she wasn't exactly an upperhive beauty princess. Her body too lean and wiry from a lifetime of harsh survival and scrounging only just enough food to survive day by day. She had several scars that gave testiment to how many close calls she had suffered and a mop of shoulder length dirty blonde hair which was now clinging to her neck via a layer of sweat and grime.

She was still a woman, and not an ugly one by the standards of the underhive. A brief existence and torment and gangrape was about all she expected to be given. Being stripped naked and tossed into the fetid fighting pit only reinforced that idea. But being thrown a jagged shiv, and told she had the opportunity for one last fight before the end. That was a generosity she did not expect, and a mistake she intended to make her captures regret. It was rusty and bent, and it cut her hand just holding it just as much as it cut her opponents flesh. But it was a weapon, and as long as she had a weapon she ha a chance.

She had fought like a possessed Hell-bitch and won, somehow, someway she found or was given the strength to win. And now she faced her death at the hands of his pissed off comrades..... Only the jeers and taunts she heard next weren't directed at her. They were directed at the man she just killed. They spit on him and chastized him for losing to a woman of all people. One of the other gangers swung his legs over the edge of the pit and was about to drop down and finish the job when another man pushed his way through the crowd.

Evil was the best single word to describe this man. Evil and maybe hateful. Bare chested like a feral world barbarian with such a thick network of scar tissue it was almost impossible to pick out the strange rune branded squarely over his heart. Almost impossible, but somehow that peculiar brand was very much visible through the lattice of scars running around and through it. It hurt Erika's eyes to look at it for too long so she looked him in the eyes. Somehow that was even worse. His eyes were orbs or pure hate and a bloodlust that went beyond simple psycopathy. They locked her gaze and she found herself unable to look at anything else or take in any other details of this strange man.

“Well fought.” When he spoke it was with an unnatural bellow to his voice and all the other gangers silenced themselves to let him speak. “There is little to say other than this. Damarak was weak.” Gesturing with scorn towards the fresh corpse ad Erika's naked feet. “You clearly are not. Our master despises weakness and rewards the strong. He has seen fit to see you emerge the victor today. As a mark of respect towards your victory and to our masters will, I will give you this opportunity. Join us, take Damarak's place in the Skarblades. Whatever he owned is now yours by right.” Jumping down into the pit Erika was struck by how large this man was, no man in the underhive could hope to find enough food to maintain such a body. She knew he could and would kill her much easier than her other opponent, this Damarak. She watched him bend down to retrieve Damarak's knife, A crude chunk of iron, brutally hammered into shape by the hand of an underhive 'artisan'. It was a crude and ungainly weapon but this new fighter held it out to her handle first.

“Once chance to accept. Or you can die here and now in this pit. Choose quickly, neither I nor my master like to wait.” It was an obvious choice to make. Erika had no idea what this man was talking about when it came to masters but to refuse was to die. Besides, there was a part of her..... and perhaps it was just the leftover adrenaline working its way through her veins. But a part of her felt a rush, a new kind of high better than any chem she could remember taking. Sure she had killed before, but that was always for a reason. Survival, food, clothes, etc. She never took any special pleasure in the act before. But this fight was different. It was a more visceral and heady experience. The act of killing never felt so empowering and the scent of fresh blood, a smell that previously repulsed her now reeked of satisfaction. The thrill of the fight was so intense that it was dizzying!

A voice whispered a reassurance in her head that this was not simple adrenaline, but something better. Something she could experience more often and more easily than with chems. She felt a rush of power overwhelm her now that she could properly bask in her victory. The voice promised a life of power. Of strength and the ability to take what she needed when she desired it instead of scrounging for rotten scraps and selling her body for another chem hit. The voice could help her, give her the strength she needed to take the things she wanted....... All she had to do was take it, take the knife and bend her knee..... It seemed a fair trade.

Izrah knelt down over the bleeding trooper. "It's okay, let me help" he spread his hands wide across the wound and started kniting the damaged tissues back together. The soldier screamed and kicked Izrah away, "get the hell away from me freak! i want a medic!" Izrah looked over at the commander of the PDF aid station who very pointedly ignored the exchange. The commander argued long and hard to keep the Bio-mancer out of his medicae tent but had eventually lost the argument and while his orders where to bring the Bio-mancer into the aid station there where no orders stating that he was supposed to use the psyker and he certainly wasn't going to order anyone be treated by a freak.

Izrah shoved the man back down, though he was much weaker than the soldier "Im trying to save your life soldier" he said firmly, but anger rising in him. All the medics where over whelmed by a major battle between a hive gang/chaos cult and the PDF forces. Most of the wounded soldiers had grievous infections in wounds that where only minutes or hours old. The battle was still raging and wounded where coming in from the first contact with infections that could have only grown over days or weeks. Izrah tried in vain to staunch the bleeding and pull the infection from their bodies. Each time he touched the infection with his mind he felt the Chaos corruption in it, but he ignored the danger of it. He was trying to save lives, and he was a Medicae psyker after all. He was trained to prevent corruption.

Nurgle's plague had only touched his mind a few times but they had planted the seeds of a creeping chaos in him. his corruption was slow, growing like a tumor. Months after the cult was smashed and purged Izrah was still unaware of his slipping control. Even now he dreams of the beautiful and deadly poison gardens in Nurgle's domain. When he is allowed to heal soldiers they have all invariably died of infections that where virulent and swift. The commanders have not yet noticed because the only soldiers he is allowed to try and mend are lost causes anyway. The medics pass over Izrah's cases as they are already dead men, their bodies have just yet to realize it.

The Chaos corruption was destroyed but imperial law has been slow in retaking. The PDF still fight slowly regaining control of the planet. Izrah's corruption, still in its infancy, has only killed the wounded at his aid station and caused one of the medics to fall very ill. He was not suspected until he disappeared to serve his patron god and embraced his corruption.

Atella was not always how she would later become, in fact she was very far from it!

Ernst Rutledge had originally been a Sergeant within a Praetorian regiment, part of a much larger crusade to reclaim a lost system near the fringes of Imperial space that had recently broken away from the Emperor's light. The man himself was tall and sturdy, his jawline squared and usually with a peppering of stubble, his sandy blonde hair kept neat and short beneath his standard-issue pith helmet, and his broad-shouldered body kept in peak physical condition through constant training; needless to say he was a hit with the ladies, commonly found to be having relationships with women of other regiments but rarely penalised for it, on the contrary he found himself offered more shots of amasec than he knew what to do with.

Glory in the front line of the reclamation crusade was not to be his however, for he was wounded in combat and sent to recuperate with a number of other Guardsmen, their transport heading for one of the worlds farthest away from the fighting; the 'Garden World' of Salmacis was said to be one of peace, relaxation, and and known haven for wounded warriors seeking recuperation before heading back 'up the line' and into the meat grinder once more.

The stalwart Praetorian had not taken serious injuries, being back on his feet and without any major scarring within a couple of weeks, soon back up and practising his drills outside the largest hospital of the planets capital city. Such activities were not uncommon and, as far as he was concerned, he would be back in the fight within the next week or so...but this would never happen.

“Sergeant Ernst Rutledge of the Praetorian LXXXII went AWOL on the Garden World of Salmacis during a period of convalescence after suffering of injuries in combat. This is a disgrace to the regiment, and a permanent stain on the record of an otherwise exemplary NCO.”

So read the official statement issued by the Munitorum – the true story is more complex, and much weirder.

Garden Worlds are also called 'Pleasure Worlds' for a reason, and indeed it would not be a surprise to scholars of arcane lore to find that a Pleasure World is usually a good haven for a pleasure cult; in the case of Salmacis there was already a cult dedicated to Naedea – a local deity with a light side and a dark side, the dark side being a simple covering for the true divinity behind the name, Slaanesh – the servants of the God and cult members of all classes constantly on the lookout for fresh flesh.

It was during one of his practises, a wooden lasgun clutched in his hands, the waning light of dusk setting in, that Ernst was assailed by cudgel-bearing figures swathed in silken robes. Although a proficient fighter, and able to fend them off for no small amount of time, his bruised skin, split lips and bloodied skull were the aftermath of what was a most determined struggle.

Bound and gagged, swaddled tightly in silk lashes at his wrists and ankles, he awoke to a circle of chanting acolytes gathered about an ancient natural spring. Looking this way and that, but staring mostly at the dripping ceiling, it appeared that he was in the cities sewage system; it was at this point that he dropped his head in acceptance, for he would never be found if these murmuring citizens did not wish him to be.

A sudden pause in the vocalisations allowed for the approach of eight or so hooded people, strong arms lifting him onto their shoulders, his acceptance turning to another struggle as he realised he was being taken toward the luminous water source. Hovering just above it, his captors turning him to face feet-first, he prayed silently to the God-Emperor and fell.

Water tinged with a lucent brightness surrounded him and consumed him, the Praetorian unable to do anything to stop himself getting closer to the bottom of the surprisingly deep spring, and just as he thought he was about to die was when Slaanesh decided that such a specimen was of more value to Her alive than as just another corpse.

---

What awoke from within those waters was not the same as that which had entered them, slipping their narrowed from easily from the bonds – bonds tight enough to hold a man, but loosened by the transformation that had overtaken their captive – the sylphlike sacrifice powered through the depth and surfaced in a splash of water; what emerged was a figure of over average female height, slender with wiry and visible muscles, the lean musculature of an athlete or a martial artist...or a stripper, and a face that was both male and female at the same time and yet neither at all - full lips and high cheekbones that were distinctly feminine, but with a more squared jawline and a dimpled chin applicable to a male - glacial blue eyes looking out from beneath arched eyebrows and set on either side of a pointed nose, and a small pair of horns peeking from long hair or darkest black.

This was the beginning of a new life, a rebirth in the vision of her patron deity, the old ways and the God-Emperor cast aside and forgotten.

Atella was born, and Ernst was dead.

The underhive was dirty, dingy, dangerous and decrepid. Doubly so if you were walking like she was, heels clacking against the hard flooring, occasionally poking through stray trash. Her tail, long and grey, small black circles barely visible throughout the limb, and with a white ending, was limply hanging down, curled underneath a flowing robe that didn't leave very much to the imagination, nor hid the laspistol neatly secured just above where her tail joined with the rest of her body.

She turned at the corner, fingers grazing the walls long since covered in spray paint and chemscorches, the remnants of auto-injector doses littering the floor, with a staggering lack of sterile coverings to match. Not her concern, sharp amber eyes cutting through the dimness. Even in a hive there were places where there was little bustle, but even so enough people were walking back and forth to make her feel more comfortable. True, she was the only one with feline ears perked up above ornately styled hair, her pale skin the only one with the practically imperceptible fuzz of fur along it, but that didn't matter to her.

Another corner turning, and she swallowed slightly. A vehicle of some kind shot by-far too fast to identify, and it was shortly followed by another, a few on the streets instictively diving for cover in case a spray of bullets had chattered out from either of the noisy things.

There was her destination. Two burly gents, perhaps seven foot tall, towering over her petite frame easily, and with veins sunken in and eyes the twitchy, diluted ones that marked Jago abuse. One of them held out a bear-sized paw at her and looked her up and down. "Anyone expecting you?"

She nodded nervously. Jago made people aggressive, and the last thing she needed was to catch her death by acting suddenly. As if to make his point clearer, and her more worried, he revealed his shotgun, and pressed a small button attached to his collar. Whilst he was doing this, his partner grunted and made a 'spin around' gesture with his finger, and she did as he said, the guard reaching underneath her clothes and pulling out the gun, tucking it in his belt. "You'll get 'at back w'en yous come out." She nodded and patiently waited as the goon's partner opened the door.

Inside, it was a lot more crowded than the street. Whilst this place wasn't quite a recognised cult area, it was certainly getting there, the floor stained in blood and chemicals as much as it was other, more unsavoury liquids. Music pounded out from a set of speakers, one woman with her head pressed right by the huge disks, and the felinid could swear she could see a trickle of blood coming from her ears.

There wasn't time for pleasure though. As much as she would have liked enjoying the party, she had a client to attend to. That meant a short walk to a less noisy area, the music here filtered and the floors... Well, to call them sterile was most certainly an exaggeration, but grease, oil, alcohol and the usual underhive dust was here, rather than splotches of red and white.

Another guard blocked her as she reached the stairs, and she simply rolled her eyes as he insisted on a 'pat down search,' before walking up the stairs quickly. She had gotten used to handsy bouncers and even PDF handcuffs. It was all the same to her.

Well, this wasn't the same, but it was similar enough. The room she was looking for was easy to find, and she entered it without knocking, a young man turning to face her, along with another woman.

At a glance, one could tell the difference between street trash and consort, and she was looking at a prime example of the former. Unlike her own cleaned and brushed hair, hers was dirty and wretched- and she had a screen of dust all over her. Her skin was pale- even more so than normal, and her eyes were wode and questioning... A nightsider. How curious.

The man himself smiled. "Mademoiselle shines again! What a specimen you are..." he stepped closer to her and ran a hand along her arm, before moving behind her- almost gliding, and running his hands from top to bottom. "Exquisite." He returned to the other girl and indicated for her to open the bottle sitting on the desk, which she did easily. "Three glasses. Extra large."

It was strong stuff. The fumes alone would have been eye-watering if she had not been used to this kind of brewed poison. "Now, before you drink, can I get the luxury of your name?"

"I am Thenine. Thenine Laysios."

"A name fit for one such as yourself." He raised the glass. "Drink."

They all did.

Then he turned back to the bed, where he lay down in it, reaching to a velvety looking box by his side. He opened it and held it out to the pair, showing a set of beautifully crafted silver knives.

This is almost too easy.

Whilst the other girl looked concerned, she moved quickly, picking up the box and taking one out. It had a scapel-like make to it, but felt heavier and balanced in her hands, and when she ran it along her finger, it cut it easily, blood dripping down.

"Another follower? So good..." Her client had taken off his shirt by now, showing a body criss-crossed with scars.

"But the knives aren't for you... Hurt me. I'm sure you know all the best ways..." he laughed, and for the first time she realised he was high as hell as well. Still, when you had an invitation like that... Well. She straddled him, the Nightsider moving beside him, and ran the blade along his shoulder, and then curled down to his bicep, the skin parting beautifully underneath her knife.

She moved it up towards his neck, and his hand stopped her, although it felt weak.

"Not the face. I like to keep that pristine." She was surprised he could talk- he looked delirious with pleasure. Moving her knife to her left hand, she ran it back along his other arm, making sure not to slice his wrist open, and then curled it back along to his bicep.

Then she struck. The knife cut through his throat easily, and his hands shot up, futilely pressing down on the wound. Blood gushed- beautiful blood, but she had to deal with the other person in the room, the felinid athletically springing backwards, landing first on her hands, then pushing herself into a spin and onto her feet. The Nighsider was standing there shocked, looking at him bleed out.

"How much was he worth." It didn't seem like a question.

"Oh, enough."

"For your next hit."

"And the on after that, and my next meal, the two hits after that, the binding formula..." She smiled and approached the other abhuman, the man's eyes having glazed over entirely, hands now not bothering to stop the flow of blood.

"He seems to like it."

The felinid's hand reached across and touched the Nightsider's thigh. She didn't flinch away. "Are you going to kill me as well."

"What? No. Of course not." She spun the other woman around and lightly bit down on her neck, pulling her into an embrace. "I'm just suggesting you don't waste the trip..."

A little dust never hurt anyone, after all.