LotS/The Story/Playing with Fire (Part 1)

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"Intro"=
Benito Fiduccio's suit was burning.

Flames danced at the corners of his vision. They nibbled away at the blue jacket's pinstriped sleeves, blackening the expensive fabric. Flickering yellow tongues and the smell of singed hair streamed behind him as he ran.

"Boss! You're on fire!" Brasi exclaimed.

The ape-like bodyguard pulled away from his employer. A huge shoulder slammed against the wall on his left, scraped across it, and dislodged a series of valuable old Italian paintings. They crashed behind the sprinting trio.

"I know that, you goddamn moron!"

"But-"

"Shut up!"

"Benito-" Gina's voice was a husky gasp.

She moved away from him as well, her blue dress a quick splash of color on his right. Her stilettos made rapid, machinegun clicks on the hard wood floor. God, Fiduccio wondered, how could the bitch run in those things? The absurd, frivolous thought almost brought manic laughter to his lips. But it was hard to laugh, even manically, when you were on fire. Especially when you were being chased by...

"I said shut up, puttana!"

They raced down the corridor, Brasi's brawny shoulder bludgeoning the wall, Gina's sparkly shoes clicking, Fiduccio aflame. Weapons fire barked somewhere, the angry spitting-roar of bullets flying from barrels. Then there was screaming.

Brasi started to slow down. He looked towards a side passage, his big, chunky pistol clutched in his ham-like fist.

"Keep moving!" his boss said.

"But the boys-"

"Screw 'em!"

The doorway was just ahead -- a broad, tall oblong of salvation framed by gold-leaf Corinthian columns and a pediment of sculpted toga-clad gods brandishing Tommy guns. Gina darted out in front, her long legs eating up the space, leaving her male companions behind. She dashed through the entrance and disappeared.

"Minchia!" Benito meant to shout the word, but it emerged as a near breathless murmur.

Brasi, the big, dumb, loyal ape of a man, dropped behind his boss. Fiduccio plunged into the lofty chamber. His evaporating speed brought him up against the desk on the far side. He leaned there, his damp, sweat-slick hands pressed on the varnished surface. Great gasps of air filled his lungs. In front of him a glass wall looked out across the city nightscape, where a gaudy neon ocean blared beneath an ebon sky. Flames danced in the darkness, licking at his outline. But he ignored them. It was something else that drew his eye and mind, that made him shudder. The heavens were as black as...

In the murky, reflected depths, the bodyguard entered -- his burly body almost filling the doorway. Brasi slammed his palm against the security pad. A female voice trilled in recognition, and a thick metal blast door descended with a clang, shutting out the corridor.

Benito Fiduccio took a deep breath and calmed his lungs. He tried to still his mind as well, but that was harder. The blood, the screams, and the blackness flooded across his senses. So the fire remained, flickering in time with the beating of his heart.

"Benito!"

He turned. Gina was standing a few feet away, her face half-hidden behind a splash of chestnut hair. One eye and one corner of her mouth gawked at him. She had a fire extinguisher in her hands. Of course... Fiduccio hadn't done his own dirty work, used his gift, in years. These two hadn't seen his party tricks before.

"It's okay..."

"You're burning!"

The extinguisher's nozzle trembled in her hand.

"I said it's okay!"

He took another long, deep breath. Perhaps the girl's panic had lessened his own, because this time the flames began to subside. They diminished and dissipated, leaving blackened holes to mark their passage. Benito snatched the extinguisher from Gina's hands and placed it on the desk. She backpedaled, her eye still large and frightened.

"It's okay," he repeated.

Gina took another step backwards, and flinched. She kicked her shoes off, sending them bouncing across the floor, then stood on one leg like a blue flamingo and rubbed her ankle.

"What do we do now, boss?" Brasi asked.

"We sit tight. That panic button..." Benito nodded at the panel the bodyguard had activated. "...will let 'em know we're in trouble. And they'll-"

The sudden strain of orchestral music made them all jump. Brasi's arm came up, gripping the pistol. Gina's raised foot stamped against the floor just in time to stop her toppling over. A tiny lick of flame flickered on Fiduccio's arm.

Benito groped in his pocket and pulled his phone out. A jab from his thumb silenced the orchestra. He pressed the device to his ear.

"Benito Fiduccio?" a woman's voice asked.

"Yeah! I-"

"Listen very carefully... You're in danger. There are-"

"You frickin' moron! Why'd you think we pushed the goddamn panic button?"

"They're already there? Are you-"

"Goddamn it! Put your capo on the line! Send the enforcers! Get..."

Benito's brow furrowed as something occurred to him. He took the phone from his ear and stared at the display. Where the words 'Contella Emergency' should have been, there were two different words instead: 'Unknown Number'.

"Who the hell is this?"

"My name is [Player Name]-"

"I know you! You're that frickin' psycho-"

"Then you know the Consortium trusts me. Can you get somewhere safe?"

"We're behind a goddamn security door!"

"Good. Stay put until your backup arrives. How many Kalaxians are there?"

"Huh?"

"The people trying to kill you."

"One guy. There's one guy!"

"Just one?"

Images of lunging blackness and spraying blood danced before Fiduccio's eyes. 'Just' one? No...

"He's some kind of..."

A hard, heavy thud shuddered through the room. Brasi whirled round and trained his gun on the door. Gina turned this way and that, her chestnut hair whirling -- making her look like a spaced out club dancer.

"Here!" Benito said.

He scrambled behind his desk and reached underneath. His probing fingers grasped metal. It detached from the wood with a soft click. He tossed the object to Gina, who groped and fumbled before catching it against her breasts. Then she too aimed at the entrance.

"What's happening?" [Player Name] asked.

Fiduccio ignored her. He switched the phone to his left hand. The fingers of his right curled and uncurled.

"Benito!" Gina wailed.

"We're fine! That door was made to stop a frickin' rocket launcher! We-"

The second thud was quieter but sharper. And it left a small bulge in the middle of the shining metal, which bent the light at new angles and made Fiduccio's mind whirl with its sheer impossibility. How the hell...

Gina screamed. Brasi swore. A wave of warmth flowed across the boss' brain, down his neck, along his arm -- a strong yet not unpleasant burning sensation beneath his skin. It tingled through his hand, roasting his fingertips.

"Fiduccio!"

The voice on the phone, that link to a universe beyond this island of fear and craziness, was strangely comforting. But again Benito made no reply. For several moments there was silence. Two guns and a tingling hand were pointed at the door, three pairs of eyes stared at the little bump on its surface.

"Boss..." Brasi said. He didn't look round. The barrel of his cannon-like pistol remained trained and unwavering in his strong hands. "The cameras!"

It took a second for the bodyguard's meaning to reach Benito's inflamed mind. When it did, he cursed himself for not thinking of it first -- and Brasi for not mentioning it sooner.

Fiduccio put the phone down on the varnished wood and reached for the button hidden beneath the edge of the desk. His other hand stayed where it was, poised in the air, throbbing and trembling, fatigue and lactic acid seared away by the burning sensation which now flooded that limb from elbow to digits.

Light blossomed from a point on the dark wooden surface which seemed indistinguishable from any other. It widened and hardened into a series of holographic images, a neat grid of precise squares. Every room and passage in his home was displayed before him. His gaze homed in on the square at the bottom right corner of the arrangement. It was a bird's eye view of the space on the other side of the metal door, with the portal itself just out of sight beyond the bottom of the screen. Both of the corridor's walls and its wooden floor stretched away for several meters, their lines withdrawing towards one another like an artist's perspective study. Fiduccio exhaled.

"He ain't outside anymore!"

The sub-dermal blaze withdrew from his fingers and palm, leaving exhausted tissues in their wake. His right arm dropped from its ready position. He opened and closed his fingers, willing blood and comfort back in. Brasi's thick arms bent at the elbows, pointing his gun straight up at the ceiling, braced and ready to be aimed in any direction in an instant. Maybe he couldn't have multiplied two single-digit numbers, but when it came to fighting and shooting, the bodyguard was a professor. Gina's gun swung down by her side and shook there. Her free hand clawed at her hair, pulling it away from her face.

Benito Fiduccio scanned the rest of the images. The game room... A body sprawled on one of the pool tables, smiling up at the ceiling from a cut throat. Two more men were strewn on the floor, one's head twisted at a sickening angle -- it made Benito's own neck twinge in sympathy. The other's injuries were invisible. But the boss knew his spine was broken. He'd heard the snap...

It wasn't the only chamber tenanted by the newly dead. Here and there lifeless forms lay alone or with others. God... One man? One frickin' guy? Remembered slaughter splattered across his thoughts. Angelo had gone at the intruder with that laser-edged switchblade of his. The man in black had snatched it from his hand and put it in his heart. Then he'd slashed the others' throats.

The man in black...

Fiduccio's eyes darted from screen to screen. Then he exhaled again, stronger this time.

"He's gone!" A peal of crazed laughter tumbled out with the words. "The bastard's gone!"

Brasi's huge muscles seemed to deflate, and a dumb, happy grin opened his big ugly face. Moisture glistened at the corners of Gina's eyes. Her mouth softened into an expression of relieved disbelief that made her look like a schoolgirl. She crossed herself and started murmuring the words to a Hail Mary.

Benito snatched the phone up.

"We're safe. Now start talking! Who the hell was that guy? Who ordered the hit? Tell me, and I'll make 'em wish their whore mothers'd flushed 'em down the goddamn toilet!"

"They're-"

Her voice was lost amid the crash.

Shards of plate glass erupted from the armored window and rained into the room like gore from a wound. There was blackness amongst the sparkling storm. A shadowy shape hit the floor, rolled, and unfolded.

Gina opened her mouth to scream. But the hellish crack came first and silenced her. The man in black stood there -- eyes twin azure fires within a featureless mask, umbral hands on Gina's jaw and the back of her head. Her body dangled lifeless in his grasp.

Brasi's weapon barked. A chunk exploded from the wall behind where the man's head had been. Gina's corpse was on the floor now, blackness crouched over her blue dress like a horrific vulture. Something glinted in her killer's hand.

The bodyguard fired again. So did Benito Fiduccio. A yellow-orange column blazed from his hand in a long, raging stream -- flooding the air with roaring warmth. But both flame and bullet passed through empty space when the man in black rolled.

He pulled the trigger of Gina's gun as he rose. Brasi's splattered brains flew out of a gaping hole in the back of his head.

The black mask turned to Benito. Blue eyes flashed.

Fiduccio screamed. Flames gushed from both his hands now, a burning torrent. It swept across the room in a wide arc, devouring the air, rolling towards the man like an incendiary tsunami.

There was a blur of blackness. Pain exploded in Benito's left arm an instant before the snapping of bone reached his ear. A cry rose in his throat, but was crushed by a powerful grasp. Another seized his right wrist.

He stared into a smooth black mask and two terrible blue eyes. That visage filled his senses, driving away even the agony of the arm which dangled broken at his side. The man in black made a noise halfway between a sniff and a growl. His head twitched, like a dog sampling a scent.

"The connection is weak," he said. His voice... It echoed. Soft, strange, well-spoken tones were accompanied by something so fierce it made Fiduccio's stomach tremble. "You are of no consequence."

"Who... who'd you work for?" Benito rasped the words through his constricted throat. "We... we can..."

The grip on his wrist disappeared, as the man reached inside the boss' jacket.

Fiduccio's eyes widened. His arm was free... Warmth raced across his brain, an undulating wave of fire that surged down his uninjured limb, into his hand. It erupted in flame when he pressed it against the man's chest.

Black fabric charred and melted. An oily stench tingled in Benito's nose. But the man in black didn't even flinch. And pain ripped through Fiduccio's innards. He looked down, as his own knife, lifted from his pocket, tore fresh agony across his abdomen. The fire died around his arm.

His throat was released. Benito collapsed, and hit the floor hard. Blood poured from his ruined gut, seeping into his torn blue waistcoat and carrying his life away inch by inch. He stared up at the black terror, the creature of shadowy body and burning eye. The man's top was knitting itself back together where the fire had damaged it. The fabric was rebuilding itself thread by thread, like a spider's web coming to fruition. Before the gap sealed, the boss had a glimpse of what lay beneath. More blackness, but it was...

"Fiduccio..."

His phone lay beside him, its display veiled with blood.

The man in black picked it up. And if Benito Fiduccio could have spoken, he would have screamed a warning -- told [Player Name] to hang up. Don't talk to him... This man's the devil. And if you talk to the devil... But he could only manage a groan.

"[Player Name], I think."

"Who is this?" the voice on the phone demanded. It reached Fiduccio as a faint, surreal whisper.

"My name is Noir. And soon I will come for you."

The phone clattered on the floor as Noir walked away. Benito Fiduccio's blood and life flowed around it. |-|

"Faith and Flame"=
A week earlier, in Al-Sahaf City...

"Allahu akbar!"

The Emerald Mosque's minaret was like the hilt of a gigantic sword driven deep into the world. The thick yet elegant column of green marble rose high above the city streets, against the dawning pink sky, where it culminated in a dome that resembled an immense gemstone. It was from those gleaming facets that the muezzin's voice seemed to come.

"Allahu akbar!"

The call to prayer, intoned almost as music, rolled through the streets and across the rooftops of the Muslim quarter. It reached into each home and business, alerting every ear -- waking those who slept without adequate countermeasures -- until it came up against the sonic barriers which prevented it from spilling into the sprawling city's Christian and Jewish quarters.

"Allahu akbar!"

That voyaging call drifted through a pair of arched balcony doorways, into a chamber where a man and two young boys stood upon three identical prayer rugs. Each blue mat was a lavish Persian style work, decorated with gorgeous calligraphic designs spun around a central, many-sided space. Two cyan slits shone in that expanse, like eyes driving the golden artistry back with their unblinking glare.

"Kalaxiahu akbar!"

The man's dark, handsome face was serene. But his voice was firm and strong. It drowned out the muezzin, even before his sons lent theirs in accompaniment.

"I bear witness that there is no god but Kalaxia," he said in Arabic, "and that Judith Ashdown was her messenger."

Al-Husam prayed. His sons echoed his piety, mirrored his movements on either side. The three knelt and prostrated themselves in the manner of the worshippers who filled the Emerald Mosque and the Muslim quarter's other homes. But their words were of their own faith.

Three dusky foreheads were pressed against soft blue prayer mats, three lips mouthing words of praise and entreaty to the azure wyrm, when a chime sounded. Three heads rose from the luxurious fabric. If it had been a different chime, that of the doorbell or any other device in their house, they would have ignored it and finished their prayers. This noise heralded something even more important, however. Pious words were all well and good, but when it came time for holy deeds...

The boys scrambled to their feet, seized their rugs, and left the room. Al-Husam waited till they'd withdrawn down the hall before he went to the terminal on the other side of the chamber.

There was a flash of cyan light as it scanned his retinas and brainwaves. Then he spoke the words of the Kalaxian shahadah, the same he'd voiced during his prayers. This time the reward of faith was immediate. A screen appeared in the air, and Emera Tresc's face obscured the calligraphic depiction of a dragon on the wall behind.

"Grandmistress." Al-Husam bowed his head.

Emera returned the gesture.

"Lady Victoria has had a vision," she said.

The Arab's eyes glittered.

"What has Lady Ashdown seen?"

"Fire..."

Some minutes later, Al-Husam was donning his keffiyeh. And his scimitars clicked into place on his back.

The present day...

Alison Haelia was the best. Granted, there were no ranking tables in her profession. No award ceremonies where excellence could be recognized and suitable prizes bestowed upon the deserving. But in the world of urban courier work, bad couriers' careers could be measured in hours. So could the remainder of their lives. And since Ali wasn't dead yet, she believed this was a point in her favor. Still alive, and the jobs kept coming. The credits kept flowing. Yes, she was the best. Or at least damn good. Too good to be zipping across the muddy countryside in the pouring rain.

Her short orange hair was soaked. Water ran in rivulets down her top and red pants, along her bare arms and lower back. It splashed across the animated tattoo on her left arm, dampening the moving flames.

They wanted to know why she hadn't brought a jacket. If she'd brought a jacket, they wouldn't be so cold...

"Shut up!"

They didn't like the rain. And they didn't like being out here in the sodden countryside, among the grass and trees. They made sure Ali knew about this.

"It's not my fault!" She gave the bike's handles a sharp wrench as she turned to avoid a small pile of masonry. An arc of mud sprayed through the air. "This is where the jerk wanted to do the handover..."

In truth, she was just as annoyed about that as they were. The client was probably some idiot who'd read too many spy novels. Clandestine meetings in the middle of nowhere... Stupid. It meant that a simple job was eating up most of her day. On the other hand, Ali mused, she hadn't ridden like this in a while. Oh, she enjoyed racing down highways and swerving through streets and alleys. But there was something fun about carving up a rustic landscape instead -- like a lunatic taking his scalpel to a beautiful woman's face. If she treated it as a day off, it wasn't so bad. Or at least it wouldn't have been, if it wasn't for their constant whining...

There was water all over her! Terrible wet stuff, usurping their place -- embracing her body. That was their job! Stupid rain...

"Just a little further," she muttered.

But what about the journey back? More rain! More cold! Maybe she could find a jacket?

"Out here? Don't be stupid."

Oh, yes... We're the stupid ones. We're not the ones who went out in the rain without a jacket!

"If you don't like the cold, do something about it!"

What? She expected them to exhaust themselves dealing with her mistake? That was just... Fine! But she'd better make it up to them...

Warmth rose through Ali's body, a glorious internal conflagration that heated her blood, organs, and bones. It seeped through her muscles, before finally tingling on her skin.

Steam rose from her, before being swept behind by her motorcycle's speed. It billowed in a long trail, as though she were being pursued by an army of ghosts.

You owe us for this, they informed her. You'd better let us feed...

"I will. As soon as I can."

They grumbled a little, but subsided when something appeared on the horizon -- half-hidden by the overcast gloom and the pouring rain. As the bike devoured the distance, scarring the grass and spreading its gore on either side, the object sharpened into focus as the remains of a small brick outbuilding. And there were more behind it.

Is that it? Are we finally there?

"Yeah. That's it."

Good! Hurry up and find him!

The bike slowed to a stop beside the first broken structure. There were bricks and God knew what else scattered across the ground, lost amongst the tangled plants. She had no intention of putting her wheels through it. So Ali jumped off her bike and walked.

"Don't move! I'm armed!" It was a man's voice, from somewhere on her left. And it seemed to shake as though battered by the downpour.

"That's great..." she replied. "Now can we just-"

"Are you the courier?"

"No, I'm a tourist... My hobby's taking pictures of ruined farmhouses."

"Oh..."

"I'm joking. Yeah, I'm your courier. And I know you're the client. We're probably the only two people dumb enough to be out here in this weather."

"Prove it! McManus said you'd..."

They didn't like this man. Who was he to speak to their mistress like that? Perhaps they should teach him a lesson...

"No!" she exclaimed.

"What?"

"Not you... I..." She sighed. "You want proof? Watch the tattoo."

Ali waved her left arm. The animated fire danced up and down her bare flesh.

"Come on!" she whispered.

Why should we? We could just destroy that twerp instead! Why... Oh, fine...

The tattoo burst into flames. Red-orange-yellow tongues surged and roared around her limb. Then they vanished.

A gasp told her the man was suitably impressed.

"That's what McManus said I'd do, right?"

"Y... Yeah."

"Great... Then I'm going to turn round."

The man scrambled out from behind a fragment of wall that reminded her of a chipped tooth. He was wearing a hat and a trench coat. Yes... He's definitely been reading too many spy novels, she decided.

At least he's warm, they replied. We should rob him and take that coat. And maybe the hat...

"Here it is," Ali said.

She pulled a small plastic-wrapped packet from her pocket and offered it to him. The man looked left and right before scampering towards her. He reached out and took it from her hand.

He brushed the raindrops away and inspected it with wide eyes.

"This is it!" he said.

"Yeah, that's kind of how this job works. I bring people the things they want. It's what they pay for. So if you're satisfied, I'll be heading back to-"

"Hand it over!" someone cried.

The man whirled round. Ali sighed. She'd heard that demand innumerable times over the course of her career. It seldom led to anything pleasant. |-|

"She's On Fire"=
"Don't move!"

The speaker mopped his shaggy, rain-soaked hair off his face, revealing an equally shaggy and rain-soaked beard, and waved a handgun at Ali's client. Wet footsteps squelched behind her.

"Call the others," he said, looking past Ali to whoever stood there.

There were a few electronic noises, and the unseen man began muttering.

"You..." The gunman glared at the man in the hat and trench coat once more. "Give it here."

"No! You can't have it!" He clutched the plastic packet against his chest. "Help! Someone help!"

"Don't bother," Ali said. "We're in the middle of nowhere, because some idiot thought it'd be a good place for the handover..."

"Then you help! Help!"

Ali rolled her eyes.

You should have let us kill him, they said. Look how annoying he is! We could have killed him, taken his coat, and-

"Oh, shut up!"

"You can't let them do this!" wailed Mr. Trench Coat (as Ali was beginning to think of him). "We had a deal!"

"Hey, you paid me to bring it to you. I did that."

"They're going to rob me!"

"And we'll murder you too," the gunman said, "if you don't hurry up!"

"I'll... I'll... I'll pay extra!"

"How much?" Ali asked.

"Watch it, bitch!" The gunman pointed his weapon at her.

Alison Haelia smirked. That was a big mistake...

They seethed. This bastard, this wretched shaggy-haired bastard, was pointing a gun at their mistress! They'd put a stop to that...

Ali's left hand shot out. The gunman shrieked, but not for long. The ball of fire that exploded in his face saw to that.

His partner lunged at Ali from behind. Her backfist caught him on the point of the jaw. Then she turned round, and there was more fire. This time there was no screaming. Two bodies burned and smoked in the mud and the rain, sending out wispy tendrils that smelled like roasted pork.

Finally! They'd been allowed to feed! Now, if she just let them take Mr. Trench Coat as well...

"No."

It'd been worth a try...

Mr. Trench Coat stared at Ali. He gawped at the corpses. He looked at Ali again.

"So," she said, "about that extra payment..."

An engine roared in the distance. Mr. Trench Coat squealed. Ali sighed. |-|

"Wheels of Fire"=
The two cars -- one black, the other navy blue -- were like insects. But their sloping metal carapaces were nearing by the second, enlarging into something far more menacing.

Ali swore and ran for her bike. Mr. Trench Coat's hand grabbed her shoulder. They didn't like that, and they told him so with a burst of flame beneath his fingers. He leaped back and emitted a fresh squeal.

"Save me!" His singed hand steamed in the rain. "I won't get to my vehicle in time!"

"It'll cost you."

"I'll pay anything!"

"The magic words. Hop on."

She mounted the Phoenix Cycle. He tumbled on behind and wrapped his arms around Ali's waist in a frantic death grip. They didn't approve of this. But their mistress seemed to want Mr. Trench Coat to survive, so they refrained from immolating him. For now...

The motorcycle shot off almost as soon as Ali turned the throttle. Mr. Trench Coat's head bumped against her shoulder, and his arms tightened as though he were a wrestler seeking a hold by which to suplex her off the bike.

There was a booming crash. Ali looked round, just in time to see bricks scattering from the blue car's hood. Armored... And if it could smash through a wall like that, she didn't want it getting anywhere near her bike. She accelerated. The powerful engine's hum grew louder.

Water splashed from above, raking her face. Mud splashed from below. Waves and chunks flew from the bike's wheels on either side. Amidst it all, Mr. Trench Coat's voice was a soft moan at her ear. Perhaps after this he'd lay off the spy novels...

The cars were fast. The blue one was already uncomfortably large in the rearview mirror. Ali looked to either side. The trees coalesced into a forest in the distance. Maybe her Phoenix Cycle could find gaps between them where the cars couldn't follow... But that was risky. If the bike got tangled up in the foliage...

No. If she kept going, making for the road, perhaps she could...

Let us do something about this.

"I'm using my hands," she replied. "I need them to steer."

"Huh? What?" Mr. Trench Coat shouted.

Make him do it, they urged. If you won't let us destroy him, at least make him useful!

"Fine! But if you get us killed..." She turned her head, putting her mouth close enough to Mr. Trench Coat's face to kiss him or bite his nose off. "Take over!"

"What?"

"Grab the bars and keep us going straight!"

"But I-"

"Now!"

He disengaged one arm, and grasped her so much tighter with the other that she nearly headbutted him to stop him crushing her guts. His free hand trembled its way to the right grip. Ali moved her own hand off it to make space. There was an instant's sharp jerk. He wailed, but it made him snatch hold of the grip without further hesitation. She had to grab his hand to stop him swerving them towards the nearest tree.

"Take the other!"

The second transition went smoother. Now came the hard part...

Ali brought her legs up, and span herself around in a single swift motion. Mr. Trench Coat's face gaped at her from behind the raindrops that fell off the brim of his hat. When she wrapped her legs around him, the bike swerved.

"Keep us steady!"

She grabbed his wet coat with her right hand, and put her face almost on his shoulder. Her left hand took aim.

The blue car was only a few yards away. A woman was pulling herself out of a rear passenger window, clutching a vicious looking sub-machinegun.

It's wet, they said. We'll need help.

"You've got it..."

Ali clenched and unclenched her fist in a rapid motion. The bracer she wore on that arm hissed. Flammable fluid spurted out. Deep in the core of her being, they reveled. Fire flashed around Ali's left hand. It gobbled up the liquid and flew out in a long, blazing stream.

The woman screamed. Her gun dropped from her hand and was lost in the muddy, churned-up ground. She fell back into the car, taking the conflagration with her. An instant later the door flew open, and a boot from the other rear passenger sent the burning woman flying out. She splashed and rolled in the mud -- until the black car's wheels went over her.

Ali smirked. Her incendiary stream played over the blue vehicle. The windshield bubbled.

When the frantic driver swerved, desperate to get away from her line of fire, the blue car span out in front of the black one. The crash and crunch of metal were music in her ears.

Ali cheered. So did they.

Then she unlocked her legs, span back round, and took control of the bike again -- just in time to zip into the road in front of a truck. She laughed when the driver's horn blared. In a few seconds his lumbering vehicle was far behind. |-|

"The Man With The Keffiyeh"=
Kyburn McManus had been waiting for the phone call. But he still nearly jumped out of his chair when its ring eviscerated the silence of his penthouse. He glanced up, blinked, and pressed the button.

Alison's face appeared in front of him. Her pretty mouth and eyes were narrow, like blades.

"Ali, I-"

"Where the hell are my creds, McManus? I made the delivery. I even saved the loser's life."

"There was a... problem with my account."

"Funny how there's never a problem when it's money coming in instead of going out."

"Look, my bitch ex-wife's lawyers are digging through my accounts. The whore says I've been holding out on her!"

"You have!"

"Well, yeah..."

"Anyway, I don't give a crap about your divorce or your wife. I want my creds!"

"You'll get them. Come to my place. I'll give you them in hards. Nice and untraceable."

"You expect me to lug that many hard credits around? Screw you! Maybe I'll give your wife's bloodsuckers a call instead..."

"I'll give you five percent extra!"

"Deal. I'm on my way."

Ali disappeared. McManus released the breath he'd been holding.

"Very good, Mr. McManus."

The man with the green keffiyeh grinned at him from across the room, beside a rain-lashed window. A flash of lightning illuminated his dusky face. His cyan eyes glittered with its electric hue long after it had vanished and yielded to thunder.

"The girl..." McManus said.

"No harm will come to her."

Kyburn McManus forced himself to feel reassured, and turned away from the Arab's predatory smile.

"And... the creds?"

"They have already been deposited in your account."

"But you don't even have her yet!"

"Consider it a token of my good will."

McManus pressed a series of buttons on his terminal. His eyes widened.

"A generous sum, is it not?" Al-Husam said.

"It's more than..."

"Than I promised? Yes. The people I represent are prepared to handsomely reward those who assist us."

McManus stared at the screen. It was a lot of creds...

Ali stepped out of the elevator, into the lounge of McManus' penthouse. Perhaps a dozen windows surrounded her -- like dark blue eyes, with the black structures of the nocturnal city swimming in their depths behind a veil of rainwater. It made the place seem like a castle under siege. The castellan himself was sitting before an immense fireplace, obscured by an armchair's high back.

Synthetic flames, they said. Disgraceful... Like painted whores.

Ali murmured for them to shut up.

"Where are the creds, McManus?"

She stood there for several moments, while the rain lashed and the firelight flickered. But Kyburn McManus said nothing.

Something's wrong, they said. You should leave.

"McManus?"

Flames flared up around both of her shoulders in blazing epaulets. Dancing tongues licked along her arms and wreathed her hands. Dark presentiment gnawed at her innards. But she had to see...

Ali crossed the room.

McManus' eyes were large and unblinking. She took him for a corpse until he spoke.

"I'm sorry!" he whispered.

She ran towards the elevator. Then her mind exploded.

"Is she what we are looking for?" Al-Husam asked.

Two masked cultists, a man and a woman, flanked the kneeling form of Alison Haelia. Each of them held one of her hands. If the woman was aware of this, or of anything else, she gave no sign. Her face was emotionless, her eyes glazed.

A pair of smooth, light blue masks turned to the Arab. Their cyan eyes glowed.

"She has a strong connection," the man said.

"The strongest I've ever felt," the woman added.

"Masha'Kalaxia! Then she will live, for now." |-|

"Al-Husam"=
Wake up! Hurry!

Deep inside Ali, the flames screamed at their mistress. But she was insensible, her mind submerged beneath the weight of the psionic assault. They could feel it too... Probing, shoving hands. These people were dangerous!

Wake up!

"Bring her," the dark man said.

No! They're going to take her somewhere, to a place with more invading minds -- and maybe worse. We have to do something!

The flames seethed. They tried to surge, to burst from Ali's body and lay waste to their enemies. But their mistress' psionic fugue had turned her entire being into a cage. Her mind, both conscious and subconscious, was frozen. There was nothing for them to latch onto, no spark of cognition to hurl them into action.

Wake up!

"For... for now?"

McManus, the man who had betrayed their mistress, was on his feet.

"What?" The one with the keffiyeh stared at him.

"You said she'd live for now. You're going to kill her!"

"Consider the bonus your blood money."

"You bastard!"

McManus' hand whipped out from behind his back. Something shone in the artificial firelight.

The weapon's blast zapped across the room. It seared past the masked man's head, scorching his featureless face. The window behind him exploded.

His psionic grasp faltered. The flames surged.

Waves of fire whooshed down Ali's arms. These people tried to hurt their mistress!

The masked psychics screamed. Screamed, and burned.

Ali blinked. Her mind rose to consciousness, and found two immolated forms beside her. Water was raining down on her from the sprinkler above, soaking her hair and sending plumes of smoke up from the bodies.

"What the hell? What did you do?"

We saved you! See? We told you there was danger here! You didn't listen, but we-

"Shut up!"

The masked man and woman were silent and motionless, their smoking flesh charred and roasted. But someone else was screaming now... McManus was on his knees, a crimson ocean gushing from his chest. He looked at Ali, mouthed unintelligible words, and flopped onto his side.

A dark man, dressed in an almost chitinous armored jumpsuit, stood over the corpse. He had a green keffiyeh around his neck, and a scimitar in each hand. The one in his right was covered in blood.

Ali's hand shot out. A globe of fire roared towards him, throwing dancing orange light and waves of heat through the room, making each of the sprinklers burst into life as it passed.

The Arab threw himself aside, diving through the door beside him with a crash of shattering glass. A mirthless smirk hardened on Ali's lips. He was screwed... That was the door to the balcony.

Destroy him, the flames insisted. But this time she needed no urging.

Alison Haelia stepped through the doorway, glass crunching beneath her boots. The Arab was waiting for her, his weapons raised, rain splashing across their blades.

"Kalaxia has chosen," he said. "So be it. One of us must die."

---

The man was burning. But he didn't cry out. The only sounds were the pouring rain, the raging flames that were steaming, flickering, and smoking beneath the water's assault, and the swishing of his swords.

His scimitars were burning as well. They carved flaming trails through the air in front of Ali's face as she leapt backwards.

Who the hell was this guy? She and the flames asked the question in the same instant. How was he...

It doesn't matter, they told her. We'll handle this.

Fresh torrents erupted from her body, a vast wave of consuming flame -- an avalanche of fire. It bombarded the Arab, surrounded him, submerged him. And still he came, a blackened, ruined form staggering through the inferno, his swords slashing.

But then he stumbled, and collapsed.

"Kalaxiahu akbar..."

The cracked, burned rasp crept from his charred throat with his final breath.

Ali stepped through the shattered glass doors, into the burned and sodden mess her fire and the sprinklers had made of the lounge. Her flames huffed. Their beautiful handiwork, ruined by water... This displeased them. But at least their mistress was saved. Perhaps she would let them burn more things as a reward...

She gave a start as the elevator doors opened. Her hands came up, and her flames flooded them with fierce warmth.

A woman emerged, dressed in armor that a vague part of her mind recognized as Sian. There was something familiar about her face as well...

"Who are you?" Ali asked. If this one knew what was going on, she'd burn the truth out of her...

"[Player Name]. And it looks like I got here too late." She held up her hands, palms outward. "I'm not your enemy."

Don't trust her! The flames hissed. Let us destroy her, before she can hurt us!

"Shut up!"

"Huh?"

"Not you!"

[Player Name] blinked. A look of confusion crossed her face.

"You said you came too late..."

"Yeah, I-"

"Then you know who these people were?"

"They're Kalaxians. Part of a cult."

Religious fanatics... That part seemed believable, at any rate.

"What did they want with me?"

"That's a long story."

"Then tell it fast."

"Okay..."

Afterwards, may we burn her?

"Maybe. It depends how good her story is..."

"What?"

"Never mind. Just start talking..." </tabber>