And like that, she was away and into the bathroom of the Lucky 38, tugging at the pink pastel dress that Marjorie had given her upon her entrance into the self-appointed ‘better society’ of the Ultra-Luxe.
The Courier came out fifteen minutes later, different, and a woman. Her hair was no longer in its messy tight bun, but falling down to her shoulders in rippling waves like a bronzed sea. The scars on her cheek and temple were absent, covered by liquid foundation and soft powders. She smelled of lavender and ancient roses and the warm, good earth though the dust had been wiped from her knuckles. Her cheeks were rouged and her eyes painted. She was wearing glittering silver heels, and a shy expression of confusion at the feel of something soft upon her skin.
Arcade had seen her as a thousand different things, but never as a woman. He thought she cut a rather nice figure, artistically, and in another place and time perhaps she would have been only ordinary, though not here. He was reminded briefly of Helen of Troy, the woman who sent a thousand men to war by merely living, and he wondered if history didn’t just spiral out endlessly into the darkness, repeating itself like the stuck needle on a gramophone.
“You’re not dressed,” she’d said.
He’d told her that he would be ready soon, he needed a minute. Told her to go on without him and he would catch up. He was good about finding her, after all.
And then she had, leaving Rex to whimper in her wake.
***
Cachino was a beast, and not in the way that Arcade liked to think about some of his old flames. The Courier helped him to power because she realized that she didn’t want to run Gomorrah, but somebody had to. It was a catch-22 of the poorest sort, and Arcade also knew she remembered Joana every time she looked him in the eye. Eventually, he reasoned, the Courier would be the one to kill him.
He had arrived at Gomorrah a little late but hardly aware of anything sinister. The Omertas man at the door asked him for weapons, but he only had two and they were far too hidden for the thug family’s door mongrel to find. He waved the question away and asked for Cachino, only to be told by the greeter that the Courier never arrived.
But he found her, oh yes, for Mr. Gannon was very good at the games the Strip was wont to play. He’d found her with Cachino in the sub level of the Zoara Club, hidden away in one of its darkened private rooms. Cachino was gloating, his voice a purring whisper, having locked her in one of the gilded cages so frequented by his strippers so she could not ignore his words. He was trying to convince her to cave to some demand, and she was trapped, never mind that normally she was far too clever and skilled to be cornered in such a way. In his left hand he held a leash, and at the end of it struggled a centaur, watching her, waiting, unbelievably subdued and the true reason for her inability to run. Perhaps it had been the dress, or perhaps the trip to Caesar’s, or perhaps she was just too worn out to care, but she looked trapped and terrified, pushed as far back as she could go against the bars from the monsters before her.
Arcade did not question the absurdity of the situation, for he could only see the fright in her eyes. His ripper buried itself in Cachino’s back before the man could even turn around, and his plasma defender blinded the centaur before he sliced off its head in one clean blow and a growl of exertion.
The cuff on his suit had been singed by plasma, his hair was no longer perfect and his pants painted crimson with centaur blood when he threw the Courier the key to open the cage. But her look, and then the way she had run to him across the room, forgetting she was in high heels and that elegant pre-war dress, it was burnt forever into his mind. The Courier had hesitated only a moment before throwing herself, shaking and sniffling softly, into his arms.
He had lost his plasma defender then, and they’d ended up on the floor and she’d completely curled against him, like a small child, her head resting over his heart and her sobbing audible as she hugged him fiercely. There were no words to exchange, and none worth remembering anyhow.
Doors Unlocked and Open (1d/?)
The Courier came out fifteen minutes later, different, and a woman. Her hair was no longer in its messy tight bun, but falling down to her shoulders in rippling waves like a bronzed sea. The scars on her cheek and temple were absent, covered by liquid foundation and soft powders. She smelled of lavender and ancient roses and the warm, good earth though the dust had been wiped from her knuckles. Her cheeks were rouged and her eyes painted. She was wearing glittering silver heels, and a shy expression of confusion at the feel of something soft upon her skin.
Arcade had seen her as a thousand different things, but never as a woman. He thought she cut a rather nice figure, artistically, and in another place and time perhaps she would have been only ordinary, though not here. He was reminded briefly of Helen of Troy, the woman who sent a thousand men to war by merely living, and he wondered if history didn’t just spiral out endlessly into the darkness, repeating itself like the stuck needle on a gramophone.
“You’re not dressed,” she’d said.
He’d told her that he would be ready soon, he needed a minute. Told her to go on without him and he would catch up. He was good about finding her, after all.
And then she had, leaving Rex to whimper in her wake.
Cachino was a beast, and not in the way that Arcade liked to think about some of his old flames. The Courier helped him to power because she realized that she didn’t want to run Gomorrah, but somebody had to. It was a catch-22 of the poorest sort, and Arcade also knew she remembered Joana every time she looked him in the eye. Eventually, he reasoned, the Courier would be the one to kill him.
He had arrived at Gomorrah a little late but hardly aware of anything sinister. The Omertas man at the door asked him for weapons, but he only had two and they were far too hidden for the thug family’s door mongrel to find. He waved the question away and asked for Cachino, only to be told by the greeter that the Courier never arrived.
But he found her, oh yes, for Mr. Gannon was very good at the games the Strip was wont to play. He’d found her with Cachino in the sub level of the Zoara Club, hidden away in one of its darkened private rooms. Cachino was gloating, his voice a purring whisper, having locked her in one of the gilded cages so frequented by his strippers so she could not ignore his words. He was trying to convince her to cave to some demand, and she was trapped, never mind that normally she was far too clever and skilled to be cornered in such a way. In his left hand he held a leash, and at the end of it struggled a centaur, watching her, waiting, unbelievably subdued and the true reason for her inability to run. Perhaps it had been the dress, or perhaps the trip to Caesar’s, or perhaps she was just too worn out to care, but she looked trapped and terrified, pushed as far back as she could go against the bars from the monsters before her.
Arcade did not question the absurdity of the situation, for he could only see the fright in her eyes. His ripper buried itself in Cachino’s back before the man could even turn around, and his plasma defender blinded the centaur before he sliced off its head in one clean blow and a growl of exertion.
The cuff on his suit had been singed by plasma, his hair was no longer perfect and his pants painted crimson with centaur blood when he threw the Courier the key to open the cage. But her look, and then the way she had run to him across the room, forgetting she was in high heels and that elegant pre-war dress, it was burnt forever into his mind. The Courier had hesitated only a moment before throwing herself, shaking and sniffling softly, into his arms.
He had lost his plasma defender then, and they’d ended up on the floor and she’d completely curled against him, like a small child, her head resting over his heart and her sobbing audible as she hugged him fiercely. There were no words to exchange, and none worth remembering anyhow.