<strong>Hellion<br/>Club Mercy, New York City<br/>11:09 PM</strong><br/><br/>The Jesus and Mary Chain.  Just Like Honey.<br/><br/>Downstairs, the music has changed, but Victoria was beyond its reach.  She was gazing upon the form-fit shell of her second skin, drinking in the beauty of the thing that loved to consume her.  Staring into the dull gloss of the sleek costume was like staring into the void, and knew how deeply right Nietzsche was when he said that the abyss stares also into the gazer.<br/><br/>The silk gown flows off like a single breath of air, and in the fluorescent-washed safe-room she starts the foreplay.  She caresses the reinforced shoulder-joint, eases it from the hanger.  The material must be worked, this cold, in order to make it supple; once it's on, the heat of her body will keep it fluid, but the polymer won't yield until it's woken up.  "That's a good girl," she whispers as she strokes and bends the joints, stretches the sleeves until she feels them slowly, gradually, become more limber.  If she kept the room too warm, it would be easy to slip on, but would 'puddle', she was instructed-- it would lose its adherence to her form, and would take days to fit properly again.<br/><br/>And then, with one leg first, she glides her foot into the resistance of the taut sleeve, her slim leg with its cords of muscle following.  Working it deeper, then deeper, she feels the material accept her, and she smiles very faintly as the seat finds its place on her hips.  The expanse of pale-amber skin that the suit leaves bare are like a phantom emerging from deep space, as if the black, mylar-like material simply ate the light.<br/><br/>Her bare legs aren't exposed for long; She steps into the long boots, their reinforced knees and shins all padded in satin-black leather make her look like some kind of dominatrix, she'd often thought. All the better.  But the rather than some pin-heeled deathtrap, these boots are soled with removable steel studs and a cross-terrain, high-traction tread.  The gauntlets are easier still to don and remove, offering only the resistance of wriggling into a latex surgical glove at the fingers and cinching tight with individual velcro straps, but they'll have to wait; having hooked claws at her fingertips would be advantageous in the street, but they're a pain in the ass in her own home.<br/><br/>Zipping the skull-faced half-mask along her neck and tucking her goggles over them, she knows she's ready.  All of her that is still visibly flesh is between the bridge of her nose and her cropped, wavy-black hair... that, and the several inches of bare leg from her belt to mid-thigh.  With a flourish, the trenchcoat passes over her shoulders, and she cinches the belt tight, giving her the tapered-waist look of some kind of Wall Street girlfriend or high-class hooker.  Beneath the mask, her own smile at this thought is far more demure than that of the grinning skull painted on it.<br/><br/>She whispers the same mantra she's uttered before every outing.  "Everything dies.  Including me."  She closes the locker, spins the dial.  Lots more goodies in there... guns, blades, drugs, explosives... but she won't need those for this evening's activities.  At least, she doesn't believe she will.<br/><br/>"But if it's tonight, I won't go alone."<br/><br/>She makes her way to the trap-door at the corner, a flowing black specter.  Down the tight spiral stairs of crumbling concrete and chipped, ancient paint.  A few gas-lantern fixtures stare coldly out, her only witnesses as she guides herself with a simple plastic flashlight down to the private garage... not much more than a closet, but afforded with an electric lift up from the sidewalk vault to an easily ignored alleyway.  She has a Kawasaki GPZ cycle there in the darkness, a few extra liters of gas, a SPAS-12 gauge tactical shotgun.  She won't be bringing them tonight.  All the "just-in-cases" in the world, and she knows they'd do no good if her number is up.<br/><br/>When she cuts the light and hangs it on the nail by the lift, she lets the darkness envelop her like she imagines death will.  "It'll be a grand bash in hell when I get there."<br/><br/>When she reaches the autumn wind of the street, she breathes the night air like one newly born.<br/><br/>*<br/><br/><strong>Hellion<br/>Beneath the streets of New York City<br/>11:41 PM</strong><br/><br/>The trip to the subway terminal was short.  With her mask turned down and her hands in her pockets, she drew no stares except from the occasional vagrant, drunk, or lonely male.  Her black-lined eyes reflected the panel advertisements in the train like bright blue mirrors, and her lips were wine-red; she might well have been going from club to club, work to home, or John to John.<br/><br/>A pale-skulled young man with a tattoo of a dragon peeking from the torn collar of his army-green jacket was staring her down.  She pretended not to notice, kept her gaze riveted to the gashed-up headrest in front of her.  She didn't sense the hostility she might get if someone was eyefucking her hard, or sizing her up.  So many ways to be a victim... they'd take your money, your jewelry, your pussy for a quick ride, maybe some or all of your blood.  She didn't plan on being a victim again.  Ever.<br/><br/>He was approaching her, sitting beside her.  She could smell the lingering reek of reefer and gin on him, mingling with body sweat and oil.  His weight found the plastic seat-- he was stocky, unshaven.  His head had a shock of mohawk on top, not yet grown out to impressive length.  He had sleepy beaten-down eyes and a swelling around one orbital socket.  He couldn't have been a day over twenty years old.<br/><br/>She waited, coiling inside like a spring, but not even flinching outside... she asked herself if she should maybe look scared, sucker him in a bit, but she let that train of thought go as, clearly, it was too late to change tracks now.  Wondering how it would be... would he have a knife, a gun, or just try to muscle her?  Was it drugs he wanted, or just something to do?<br/><br/>Would she let this one live to regret it, so he could warn others like him, maybe straighten his life out, or was he too far gone..?<br/><br/>"Do you have a light?"  He asked in a voice thick with exhaustion.<br/><br/>Blinking once, she turned her eyes to him, looking at him directly for the first time.  He'd produced a pack of Marlboros from his pocket, the plastic and paper rustling as he fished out a wear-knuckled cigarette.  She watched his face, read the creases around his eyes as he forced a polite smile.<br/><br/>She produced the zippo from her trenchcoat after a few moments, letting him take it.  She waited for him to keep it, but he didn't... after lighting up, he passed it back.  "Thanks," he muttered.  They neared the next station, its name whirred by the cart in sickly gray on a field of chipping blue paint.  The young man stood, dragging from his cigarette.  "I didn't freak you out, did I?"<br/><br/>She didn't bat an eye, stood herself just behind him.  "Disappointed?"<br/><br/>He chuckled softly.  "... maybe a little.  Maybe just... I dunno.  Relieved."<br/><br/>She tilted her face and smiled at his back.  "Is that because somebody saw how fucked up you are, but didn't run away?"<br/><br/>He turned, his hand looping into the hand-rail as the train slowed to a stop at the terminal.  "I guess."<br/><br/>Nodding, her reply was barely a whisper.  "I can imagine that."<br/><br/><strong>Hellion<br/>Quincy's, Brooklyn<br/>12:24 AM</strong><br/><br/>From within her pocket, just beside the epi pens, she draws a pair of headphones-- small, with red foam ear pads, connected to the walkman tape player in the folds of her coat.  She hits play, and the wind goes silent as she covers her ears with the tiny metal and plastic speakers.  The music's the new Jesus and Mary Chain album... a song called  Just Like Honey (http://podcast.xs4all.nl/upload/werksman-the_jesus_and__mary_chain_-_just_like_honey.mp3).  She is hovering on the fire escape over an alleyway, perched among the steel landings of rust attached to a burned-out brick shell that used to be a department store.  The night's a massive void out there in front of her, and flooding up from the alleyway is the wash of red neon light from the signs of Quincy's Cabaret.<br/><br/>An 'exotic cabaret'-- really?  And a dog licking its balls is performance art, right?<br/><br/>She eases her back up against the bricked-up window and turns the dial a bit toward the +.  She waits, she watches, she listens to the music.  One black-painted titanium claw chips idly at the brick until a chunk of it the size of a quarter comes free.