Infinity Inc/Chimes/Clamor
From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
Mature Roleplay Warning: This page may contain references to:
- Physical, mental, psychological, or other types of coercion or conditioning
- Physical abuse, sometimes including torture
If any of the above is distressing to the potential reader, please assume that the content here is "villains are real twerps sometimes!" and visit another story; life is too busy to be unnecessarily miserable!
On the fourth day of subtle loitering through the common areas, Opal finished her allotment of practice aerobics ten minutes ahead of schedule. She forced herself not to hurry as she cleaned up. When she strolled into the Hybrid Delta main intersection, the wall-sized touchscreen finally showed the information she needed: Hybrid Delta 104-A had the afternoon and evening blocked off for "advertising".
Translation: the Killing Dance should be out of the base already, on the streets of the islands, practicing his art where potential clients might see. He could not have departed more than half an hour ago, as Opal heard his music in the cell he shared with Grigaere before she went to practice and it was one of the pieces he always played through to its conclusion, not quite two hours long.
The leopard Alpha would be on her way back to her assigned cage, having just eaten.
Opal lengthened her stride slightly. She must encounter the Alpha in the corridors. As she passed the edge of the screen, she hastily tapped out the series of codes to reserve the smallest training room for her impending use. No one liked performing in that room -- four mysterious large buzzing machines were just past its wall, making concentration and communication difficult. There was hardly any room to maneuver, no place viable to hide, and shrieks of agony tended not to carry well. Even the observers tended to leave the microphones off.
Her timing was almost perfect: Fehral crept along near the south side of the main corridor, humming off-key under her breath, wary but not remarkably so. She absent-mindedly crowded an inch or two further to the side when she noticed the redhead approaching.
"There you are," Opal said reprovingly. "Fehral, come with me."
The leopard halted in place, blinking. "Why?"
Opal displayed impatience. "Because I am a Delta, and I tell you to. I have borrowed you for scout work."
Fehral stared. "Dance say?"
"Would I waste my time with you if there were any doubt?" Opal retorted.
Still the leopard stared, and her expression grew more suspicious. "No."
"Of course I would not! So come along."
"Fehral not," the Alpha said mulishly. "Fehral ask Dance first. He say, Fehral do."
Of all the.... Opal scowled, and the ghostly firelight streaming behind her grew noticeably brighter. "Little Alpha, despite what you may pretend, you are still required to do as a Delta bids you! You will obey Brigid's Verse. Right this instant!"
Using that command may have been a strategic mistake: rather than convulse under its hypnotic lash, Fehral rested her spine against the wall long enough to fling a singularly crude suggestion Opal's way in the gesture code. At the same time, she howled "NO!" at a particularly healthy volume. Fehral turned and bounded away, further into the base, perhaps looking for a Corporation employee to accost.
Dammit! Opal thought, and raced after the scrawny cat. She could smooth things over if she could get close enough to halt the fleeing Alpha's progress with a fire ring, even under witness inquiry.
Opal sailed around the sharp corner of the medical intersection and went blind, deaf, unable to breathe. For the second time in memory, Fehral belted Brigid's Verse full in the head with half the contents of a fire extinguisher -- and then, despite Opal's frantic efforts to clear her eyes, Fehral belted her redheaded opponent far more literally with the hard metal tank, making Opal skid on the foam as she tried to keep her balance. One foot started to go out from under her. The tank slapped her hard across her stomach; Opal went down hard, flat on her back, the wind knocked completely out of her and the world reduced to disgusting white fluff-bubbles jiggling every time she blinked.
A moment of darkness: Fehral leaped over her, racing back the way Opal had come.
By the time Opal caught up enough to see the black-haired cat, the latter was racing through the security checkpoint in the base lobby, already rasping into the microphone of her clipped-on comms radio: "Dance? Dance!"
The more senior Security employee stationed by the door called after the departing Alpha, "Those things are jammed until you get outside, kitty-cat."
Jerk, she flicked indignantly, and reached up to the electronic panel on the door to mash her paw flat on the sensor. "Go out," Fehral rumbled. "Find Killing Dance!"
A green light blinked confirmation -- Fehral had permission to depart according to the computerized schedule, probably on the presumption that she would be joining her assigned Delta -- and the lock released.
Opal came to a halt, barely winded, five steps too late: the door hung wide open, Fehral three paces beyond the emergency entanglement field. "I need to go collect that Alpha," she informed the Security trio quite reasonably. "She left a task unfinished!"
Hopefully the unenhanced ears of the employees could not pick out the meaning of simultaneously spoken words, blown in by the wind. One, cool and silken as leather, faintly calling, "I have something for you, Tiny Dancer;" the other, guttural and furious, demanding, "You loan me to Verse?!"
One of the junior employees glanced down at his desk screen briefly. "You are not authorized to exit today, Brigid's Verse." All three men stared at her dispassionately.
As the door swung shut, Opal heard the remote male voice react in rising hostility: "...No! DO I NEED TO CUT HER?!"
Just ... great. Fuming, Opal turned back toward the main hall. Plan C it is.
Fehral lost herself in the visceral sensation of hunting live prey. Most of her chosen targets never knew of their danger at all: she spotted them, studied their movements, stalked them across the greystone streets of the neighborhood, touched no more than a wisp of hair or the hem of a garment, slunk away again undetected. She had no need to kill. Most of the prey could not help being prey.
Maybe it was not much use for advertising her services as a leased minion through the Corporation. No one saw her, no one knew she was there, no one cared. Certainly no one with money and need of an assassin would be impressed.
Fehral did not care either. She was a monster by design; her appearance was advertisement enough. She did not think the Corporation had any good use for more money, more esteem, more connections. More blood soaking its carpets, she thought darkly, and turned from the broad street to infiltrate an alley.
Anyway, this harm-free sort of hunting was fun, and good practice. It would be more fun if she could teach her "close working companion" how to do something like it. Maybe they could go play tag in the trees of Fortune's Wheel later, though she'd have to steer him away from the carnival grounds every so often.
If only the Killing Dance would show up!
Fehral glanced through a barred window, impatient, as she left the alley for a more interesting plaza. She and her Delta reported into the Corporation base very close to their deadline the previous night. After a short discussion of Verse's false claim, probably another crude attempt at manipulation of the Dance through his assigned Alpha, they had served his "advertising" task adequately near one of St. Martial's many casinos and then tackled a side project. One of the targets prompted a very nerve-wracking conversation between them, physically exhausting for the Dance and emotionally wringing for them both.
Watching, listening, as he tries so hard to give me the map of inside his head ... hurts. Heartbreaking. But anything that might help us get each other out, alive and with enough of our minds still intact, is worth it!
She coaxed him off to a secure corner where she could guard a nap, so the Dance would not seem wounded by the time they checked in. Fehral admitted to herself that she cut the timing much shorter than she ought. Stupid Verse! If the damnable redhead had been lying in wait, there would not have been time left before lockdown for her to try anything; as it turned out, Brigid's Verse made no appearance at all.
Fehral hoped the woman stayed away from all the rest of the Deltas for a few more days. Everyone could use a break. Dance never mentioned a gift, or new exercise equipment, or any overture more complex than Verse trying to join his meals: Verse probably had second thoughts about Fehral's advice. And didn't bother tell me so! I can't teach that idiot woman how to get along with the rest of the Hybrids if she won't test an example!
Five fifteen, the ornate clock in the plaza claimed, and still no Killing Dance. Fehral tapped the communication radio headset hidden in the hair below her left ear, worried. An automatic click told her that it had power, at least, and an open channel.
The plaza proved mostly empty. Fehral guessed the cause of this vacancy to be the trio of Marcone crime bosses gathered near the northeastern edge.
One wore a white suit!
Two pointed weapons at a terrified flunky, a flabby college boy in the Marcone crime uniform of hat and tie, hands chained behind him.
Chortling mentally, Fehral slunk into position behind the white-suited mafioso. Bullies were not at all like the helpless prey on the street: bullies chose to frighten and hurt.
Bullies fought back when violence erupted among them, convinced of their power, assured of their victory.
Bullies died very, very spectacularly when torn apart just so.
Spirals of blood soaked the three tattered suits as Fehral straightened her back, breathing heavily. She stepped delicately over the pile of bodies, careful to keep the frantic young man's attention centered on her dripping claws. Very dramatically, very deliberately, she reached around him to slice through the cuff on his nearer wrist. "You work for wrong master," she growled. "You go find nice work, quiet, no gun. Clean hotel, maybe."
He did not argue. He also did not stay to offer payment for her service, or to ask who made her. Fehral hid a snort of amusement.
Can't blame an Alpha for not having her Delta around to do the talking. Speaking of whom, her thought trailed off, and she scanned the surrounding rooftops in vain for any hint of a charcoal-black figure.
When she looked back at the plaza, she easily spotted the approach of a figure she knew ... not the one she wanted. The rope-binder, Kinba Kushi, waded quietly through the evening's first faint bright spot under a street light. He was a thin, medium-sized, unassuming man even in his blue-and-grey armor and helmet, but no one questioned his place as the most privileged, most respectfully regarded Delta Hybrid at the facility. Even some employees deferred to him -- perhaps including the one accompanying him. White lab coat, a corner of Fehral's mind noted disquietly: scientist or technician. Don't recognize the body movements, though.
If Kinba Kushi were here, openly and obviously walking at a sedate pace toward her, then Fehral knew he must have come to collect her. A minor concern would have some voice on her communications radio bidding her return, not the idiot fire-maker but her own Delta or any other among the series modified to put the right pitch and timbre into the key words.
She was in trouble for something.
Since they did not send the Killing Dance to fetch his Alpha back, she was in more than a few hours' worth of trouble, whatever it was.
Surprised it took so long! her internal critique pointed out. I thought I was going to have to stage something this weekend so the Observers would not start investigating me for hidden activities. I've never gone six weeks without at least a brief attitude adjustment. Don't want them looking at Dance too close!
Nervous, Fehral ran through a mental list of her pockets' inventory: but she had not visited anyplace where she kept the detritus of her secrets, and she had not brought along forbidden tools. Nothing should point where she had to keep the Corporation from looking.
Kinba Kushi kept his hands relaxed at his sides, his torso straight, his pace measured. Halfway across the plaza still, he was showing Fehral that he was not angry, he had no plans to start the torture early, he meant to be as pleasant as he could in his work. In trade, Fehral put the curve of her hunched spine flat against the pawn shop's brick wall. She probably did not look welcoming or friendly -- she could feel strain around her wide eyes, the quick flutter of her drooped whiskers at every shallow breath -- but she knew she would be clearly visible, knew he would understand that she was complying.
This part, at least, was going to go all right.
The two men approached to within twenty feet. She even saw the glow of Kinba Kushi's eyes dim, a certain indicator that he genuinely was relaxing rather than trying to lull his target with an act.
"Fehral," Kinba Kushi greeted her gently.
The scientist chimed in, his voice pitched to carry as best an unaltered human could manage. "Fehral, chains."
Sure enough, he already had a loose grip on the five-point restraint system of chains and manacles, sized to keep her movements tiny and painful.
Not that Fehral had much time, this time around, to study it: the instant she heard the dreaded command, her body sprang into motion. Every memory of being suspended from her first trainer's favorite toys howled along in her wake as she fled, terrified, for the alley.
Kinba Kushi turned briefly to his scientist. "You idiot," he snarled, "you don't say that while they still have room to bolt!" An instant later, Fehral heard his accelerating footsteps as he gave chase.
They had been hunting in the neighborhood of St. Martial called "the Flop" for weeks, Fehral and her Dance. She did not yet know all its secrets, but she knew the regularly hazardous gathering points for the local street gangs and she knew stealthy paths by which a very short, fast-moving creature could slip directly through them. Fehral raced through a loafing crowd of Freakshow, wove her way between feet among an impromptu Arachnos-versus-Marcone brawl, skimmed low to the ground as she passed inches away from the heels of an Arachnos surveillance trio. The electric crackle of adrenaline-spiking Freakshow encountering her pursuers carried forward at the edges of her hearing range. She scurried around the corner of the next building, a nice financial headquarters for some firm, and swung herself up onto the drainpipe just past the dumpster.
Maybe on the first setback ledge, she could stop. Look for the danger. Look for a place to hide. Let her heart slow, the horrific miasma pass her by. Maybe she could start to think again, not just run--
Sparks exploded all around Fehral as soon as she crawled onto the hard granite of the ledge. She had one clear view of a statuesque redhead, draped in brilliant red light, before flames higher than Fehral's ears washed out the entire world.
The only safe thing to do was to huddle in a tight ball on the dirt-streaked floor, try to breathe as shallowly as pain would allow, and pray that Brigid's Verse ran out of stamina before the circle ran out of oxygen. Unfortunately, when Fehral dropped to her knees, the circle contracted until she had no room to curl forward.
A pristinely oval fissure appeared in the flame, about half again the size of Fehral's paw, as if a tunnel had been shoved through from outside. Verse projected her tirade down through it.
"You set me up, you little hellcat, how dare you lay a trap for me?! I reported your sabotage, oh yes. I would have handled this privately, but you ran to hide behind him, you defied me and went to his protection, flaunting your handiwork, and now it has come back to you!"
If she'd had the breath to speak, Fehral would have gladly shouted back that she had no idea what the crazy Delta was talking about. It had to be something about that squabble yesterday, when Verse claimed to have loan of an assigned Alpha instead of picking out any handful among those not associated to a particular combination.
Ever the dramatist, Brigid's Verse raised one hand so that Fehral might see it through the window. Like a master villain in a fantasy movie, Verse clenched that hand slowly into a tight fist; mirroring her gesture, the walls of the fire ring contracted still tighter around its contents. Fehral scrambled up to the balls of her feet, the closest she could approach to standing flatfooted since she became an Infinity, Inc subject. She bore two physical remnants of her once-human existence, her nearly-five-foot basic skeletal structure -- even that held many localized modifications -- and the superfluous straggly black hair which still cascaded down past her waist. As she felt her dragging tail start to burn and her balance begin to sway, a flitting thought passed that Verse meant to steal both of those last human relics away: hair scorched quickly, bones would warp in the blistering light, and neither would grow back the way they had been.
She could not prevent the agonized whimpers that escaped her, but damned if she was going to draw enough boiling air into her lungs to scream.
A red-gauntleted arm shot past the sliver-sized fragment of vision Fehral still allowed herself. It covered her muzzle, cupping just enough to keep a teaspoon of air. Unseen, another gloved hand settled hard against her ribs. She felt herself yanked through the fire wall as if thrown during combat.
Blessedly cool stonework propped her up. The hand at her muzzle lifted away, bracing instead at her collarbone while someone smothered the burning patches of her hair, her shirt, the fur on her legs and tail and lower arms.
"This," Kinba Kushi angrily chastened someone on his left, "is exactly why I don't include you on recoveries. You stand there, you keep silent, you dismiss all of your fire, and you do not move from that spot until I tell you otherwise!"
Desperately thirsty, Fehral thought about begging for some water. She peered up through her tousled hair at Kinba Kushi's chin, or at least that part of his helmet. The tag-along scientist stood behind him, a little wide-eyed, also gazing toward Fehral's right in a disapproving way.
I'm being retrieved for punishment. I ran. Probably nothing I can do will go over too well right now. Right on the heels of that came another thought: Where the hell is my Delta?! He has to be looking for me by now! He won't save me, he couldn't if he tried, but he can get them to tell me why, he would give me something to ease my throat and make sure I only get the suffering I've earned, he can explain that I didn't mean to run so I wasn't really escaping, and he would make all of it something tolerable, something I can withstand!
Kinba Kushi pulled Fehral away from the wall. He turned her in a quick circle so he could check for leftover cinders, then hustled her a symbolic few steps further away from Brigid's Verse. When the bulge of a window blocked Verse from her view, Kinba Kushi set Fehral down again so that her shoulder blades, part of her spine, and the top curve of her tail pressed securely against the hard wall. His voice was just right for handling a dread-filled animal, soft and reassuring and firm: "You have to do this. You know fighting only makes it take longer. You know I won't hurt you if you don't make me."
Fine, fine, if she could just....
Kinba Kushi's left hand wrapped around her right forearm just above the elbow, slowly forcing that arm up and out, tight against the wall. Fehral did not need to hear the clink of chains approaching to start fighting, fangs bared in a wild hiss. Kinba Kushi stepped inward at an angle, his right knee hard against the wall between her thighs so that she had no room to kick. Leaning forward slightly, he braced his other arm across her chest, pinning her in place, and hunched that shoulder against the scrape of her left claws.
Fehral looked around at the shadows desperately, ignoring the tiny recording drone keyed to follow the scientist. She was not strong enough to yank herself away from Kinba Kushi, and she could never dig her way through his armor fast enough in this position. The employee stepped up to attach that first manacle around her right wrist, Fehral felt her claws spasm frenziedly as if the shock-capable metal already pinched at her tendons. She sucked as much air as she could get into her lungs, powering one hysterical wail:
"Daaaaance!"
The Corporation employee must have learned to follow Kinba Kushi's lead, because he paused in mid-motion to glance down at her wild eyes, and address her firmly but calmly. "No, Fehral. The Killing Dance will not be available to you until after your punishment is complete."
Fehral stared up at him, stupefied, while the manacle clicked shut around her wrist. She wrenched her gaze over to Kinba Kushi in disbelief; nodding very slightly, he confirmed it.
The resistance in her eyes, in her body, sputtered and winked out. She still struggled against the restraints themselves as they were fastened into place, but Fehral sagged between Kinba Kushi and the wall, moaning, only yanking against the manacles in jerks until she took enough automatic electroshocks to lose all function in that muscle group.
In the background, Brigid's Verse watched irately. She had been excluded, again, from collaboration with another Delta's art; yet again, the leopard's doing. It is enough, Opal consoled herself. She will be corrected. The aberrant behavior is at a most vile end. It is enough to satisfy me.
One could not have the Master's golden boy made to suffer as well, she had deduced. The worst he would experience would be calling for his pet, and having it fail to come running straight away.
It is enough to satisfy me.
If she told herself so often enough, it might even come true.
