Septemer 27, 1999

Necro jumped away from Jeremy's backick, balancing on one hand and flipping backward, automatically focusing and using the power in the cells of his arm to ellongate his arm and thrust it in his opponent's direction. It nearly scored an hit, the young man barely jumping over it, his reflexes not having kicked in as they should. Necro frowned, not the first time he had done this ever since this fight had begun.

He had been relatively accepted by the SCD personel after his help in the Battle of Limerick, in which the Circle Lord Kale had died. It had been very relieving, this form of respect, even more so when others from the organization - Culhen, Castillo and other younger members - had started to be genuinely friendly. Some hadn't accepted him yet - Desmarais and, strangely enough to the others, Hemmerson, but at least in this compound he could feel relatively human.

And it was with very human concern that he watched one of his first friends since his transformation make mistakes and miscalculations he normally wouldn't do. Still, a fight was a fight.

Jeremy charged forward, ducking under Necro's long arms and coming withing reach, delivering a punch to the stomach that the paste-colored man barely dodged. They exchanged swift attacks in close quarters, Jeremy's speed offseting Necro's greater reflexes. Finally a blow went too wide, opening the brown-haired man's defenses for a second.

Not being one to let such an opportunity pass, Necro grabbed the arm, punched the other firmly in the abdomen, shifted and threw him over his shoulders, flinging him far away, nearly at the center of the large practice room. A maneuver frowned upon when there were others practicing, he could use it now that there were alone.

Jeremy flipped in mid-air, landing squarely on his feet, pausing only for the briefest of moments. Far too long. Necro had slammed his arms right in his back before he could turn. No defenses, a thrust twenty feet away, where the young man finally rolled back to his feet and faced him again, his position ready, his feet and fists positioned in the pose of the Storm's Fang, the style which was born with the man's grandfather and was a strictly familial style.

Jeremy frowned. Hearing a sound, Necro turned around, just long enough to see the small punching bag headed straight his way. He blocked it, ooofing at the impact, then was thrown sideways by a kick to the head. His skull rigning, he rolled away, bringing himself up, adn came to his feet.

Not once did Jeremy attack during his timespan of vulnerability, something nearly unforgivable to a fighter of his caliber.

He thrusted forward, catching his solar plexus with his knee, completely bypassing his opponent's defenses. The young SCD gasped as the shot told, and to both his irritation and chagrin, it became clear to Necro that Jeremy hadn't hardened his chaest muscles. Fortunately nothing broke, but the man flew away many feet, and landed rather unsteadily. That was more than enough. The yellow-eyed man raised his hands.

"Alright, time out!" he said decisively "This is getting us nowhere and I'm not getting on with this!"

Jeremy blinked at him, seemingly getting out of some trance he had put himself in - atrance which did not seem to utterly involve combat. For a moment - very frightening to Necro, who knew the man to be firm and decisive - he looked confused and lost, before focusing again, his eyes even, his stance instinctively tightening.

"Time out?" he asked, a bit distantly "Come on, we're not finished with our practice, man! I need more!"

Necro shook his head, letting his arms drop. "I don't think a fight is what you need right now. What you need is to get whatever's on your chest OFF of it."

"What do you mean?"

His yellow eyes flashed. "Oh, come now, friend!" he said irritated "I've never fought you so lame before. You've left so many openings that I had an easy time, and you never pressed your advantage when you could have! You're never this sloppy. With Cammy, you're the best fighter I've seen in SCD and I'll tell you very plainly, it didn't show right now."

Jeremy seemed like he would argue. Like he'd deny that anything was wrong, and that would just bring them back to square one. Stubborn man. Very stubborn. Just like his wife, only he didn't show his stubborness with the same heat. As such, he was very surprised when the man just sighed and nodded.

"I suppose you're right, Nick." he said, using the nickname those who knew him had gotten to call him. Not the kind of name he'd prefer, but it did allow him to feel somewhat human again. "Its about Cammy."

Big surprise. It wasn't like there was anyone or anything else around that seemed to make the man forgetful in a fight. Love was blind and also inefficient, and thinking too much about the braided woman invoked both problems in Jeremy Storm. Normally controlled by the young man, sometimes the emotions came to the fore. What was worrisome was that it took much for the control to really slip like Necro had just seen.

He scratched his far-too-smooth chin thoughtfully. "Cammy? What about her?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. There's something worng with her, I can feel it. But she denies it when I talk about it, gets all jittery and says I'm imagining things." he sighed. "If that's so, why does she do her best to keep me away? Why do I have the feeling - the very horrible, unshakable feeling - that she's hiding something from me?"

"Thats because she is." a voice sounded before Necro could even think of a reply. Both men turned.

There, against the doorway, stood Albert Desmarais, looking his usual smug and self-confident mien.

Immediately Necro frowned and Jeremy glared. The lower-level Elite had never been very popular, and had been nearly kicked out when the Washington team, which Storm had commanded, had nearly been destroyed because of his arrogant heroics. Not only was he oblivious to the fact he was more a nuisance than an helping hand, Desmarais always looked as if the other Elites - from the newbies to the experienced ones like Castillo or White - were below him. Thus, it wasn't surprising Jeremy took the man's statement with outright hostility.

"What are you trying to pull, Desmarais?" he hissed, his tone deliberatly soft, a softness that told he wasn't about to take any foolish. "You have some nerve coming here and start spouting your insinuations!"

Desmarais took on a look of hurt that seemed too precise and too clean to be genuine, at least to Necro's eyes. "I'm hurt, Storm! I'm just trying to tell you something I think you really deserve to know! But if you tale it that way..."

"Stop the damn theatrics and spit out what you want to say." was the tense, irritated sentence. The smug Frenchman stopped. He turned back towards them with a smile. Something in it made Necro's skin crawl. Whether his friend saw it was uncertain, in the tense way he was holding himself.

"D'accord, I will tell you. After all, can't have you become a father without your knowledge, eh?" he said gently.

No one knew what he intended to have as a response by that sentence, although the deformed man was sure it wasn't what happened. Before he could utter another sound, Jeremy was beside him, hauling him of his feet and holding him aloft with both hands, his arms not even showing a sign of strain, so fueled by anger and shock was he. Necro, for his part, was also riveted into place, knowing what the declaration meant but not fully wanting to believe it. Could it be? And if so, why wouldn't Jeremy know of it?

Genuine fear flickered through Desmarais's face as he was shaken like a puppet by a furious Storm. "I've just heard about enough of you today, Albert! You tell me what I need to know and then you get your sorry ass outta here!! UNDERSTOOD?!?"

Desmarais nodded nervously, sanely deducing that the time for slickness was past and that he'd played with fire more than enough. And so, stuttering, he spilled everything.

And the world, it seemed to Necro as he heard it and saw his friend's expression, quickly came crashing down.

Around the same time...

"That's it, nina. Keep up the lack of movement. Don't worry about anything else than staying silent and unmoving. You're a statue, a shadow - not present yet present. Dismissive yet deadly. Remember, movement means discovery, discovery means combat. And combat means to be hurt!"

The cold relentless serenade was being uttered in a great personal gymnasium of marble and crystal-clear, bulletproof windows which let the light of the Spanish day pass inside in a radiant joy which the one pronouncing the dire litany did not feel one bit. The gymnasium, for all its beauty and grace, wasn't a place of entertainement or pleasure. It was a place of honing and of hurt. It was, after all, the sanctuary of Vega, the formidable Spanish assassin.

Vega was prowling around a little form dressed in the white of a ninjitsu initiate. Going no higher than Vega's knee, it was but a blonde, almost white-haired little girl, who was standing one one foot and trying her very best to be immobile, very much trying to please, obviously scared of the punishment if she failed. Round and round Vega went, his blue eyes icily scanning her, waiting for a chance to pounce, to hurt, no sign of compassion present.

Seconds ticked by in silence, becoming a minute, then two, and still the child was holding up, her body trembling only slightly, her face a mixture of fear and concentration. But she wasn't one of endless strength. At length her nerves jerked, her foot shifted and she fell off-balance, with a tiny shriek.

Vega had been waiting for this, had wished for this. His own foot came at the child, kicking her three feet away, coldly and with extreme brutality. The young girl came down with a thud and a groan. She stirred and writhed a second.

"You bastardo nino!" he growled angrily "You think you'll amount to anything if you keep announcing your presence with such whimperings?!? Do you, Dessara?!?"

The little girl sat up, her face pain-filled, her eyes watering. She didn't seem to hear him much, and instead started to sniffle sadly. Either it was from the failure or the kick, he wasn't sure, but strangely opted for the latter. Not that it mattered to him. The fact was that the child was bawling on him, and it grated him. Normally he'd simply kick such an annoyance into silence, but doing so would incur the wrath of Everick, Bison and the Ancient named Belsar. And he wanted no problems with either of those particular three, who were all much more powerful and more influential than he was.

As such, he took the only way he had left. Threats.

"Don't you dare start crying on me, child." he hissed "Do you think you'll ever have the respect you so crave from Lord Bison if you start weeping every time you get hurt? Think again!"

That stung. That positively shook the little brat, until she bravely, with something which Vega almost took as a glare to him, swallowed her tears and her pain and got up to her feet, albeit unsteadily. She was good, for a mere three year old. Far better than he had expected, and that was worrisome. At three, she was able to do the tricks children of five should do in the same situation. What would it be when she reached ten, fifteen?

And he knew that Everick was teaching her as well, although it was clear the Shadow Walker was taking smaller, gentler steps - whether it was because he cared for the brat or because teaching psychic powers was more difficult or indeed both he did not know and did not care. The problem remained that within a few years - ten at the most, the child would be his equal. And then he would be stuck with someone who will be starting to outrank him, someone who would remember only beatings from him.

Not pleasant, these thoughts.

And it was because of these very clear future implications that he spoke next. "That will do for today. Tommorrow Everick will come to get you so he can teach you for the next fourteen days. So go get the servants to wash you and then rest up for the rest of the day." he growled.

Dessara seemed to perk up at this, and Vega was annoyed and a trifle worried when her eyes seemed to suddenly shine when he spoke Everick's name. It appeared that the black-garbed man's training, however harsh it may be, was paradise next to his. This was not good; the fact that this little squirt was possibly being trained to take the reins of Bison's empire one day made it all the more bleak.

But it wasn't his concern right now, as he heard the soft ringing of his cellphone, which lay on an oak table, not far away from him. He waved a cold good-bye to the child, then walked and picked it up, not for the first time feeling the pure enjoyement of walking, something which he thought he'd lost for a while, a good while ago. He flicked the device open.

"Vega." he said softly.

"Sir," came a firm, satisfied voice. "She has taken the bait. She will be coming to Burgos in eleven days."

His heart started to thump faster in his chest, and his eyes, usually cold blue ice, acquired a definite tint of expectation. He grinned for the first time since the brat had shown her pathetic little face. This was what he had been waiting for, had prepared for so long.

"Are you certain of that?" he asked, trying to maintain his tone as neutral as possible but unable to keep the eargerness completely off.

"As certain as the sun will rise. The tidbit that she may meet someone who knows what happened to Doraļ Lee definitely got the lady worked up. She's coming, senor, you can count on that."

Vega couldn't keep a crafty and cruel smile from forming. "Excellent!" he intoned "Excellent! You will receive twice the agreed money within the hour!" Without waiting for whatever reply may come, he closed the connection, and let himself fall into the nearest carved chair. His smile was fast becoming more cruel, so much it bordered on being rather dreamy. "Chunli Lee." he whispered.

No name invoked more hatred, more anger and more twisted lust than that particular name, and for that he savored it. Never in a hundred years would he forget the magnificient, stubborn bitch, the only woman who had ever really stood up to him, the one who had sent him into his disgraceful state.

Most unforgivable of all, the woman who had DISFIGURED him.

How he remembered it all. Having been asked by his Master, Bison, to go and have 'fun with Miss Lee', he had entered her appartment in New York, intent on doing just that, and had even had a very pleasurable peek at her figure, which had stirred his blood. And so he'd waited, and, when her attention was completely diverted, he'd attacked.

She sensed him at the last moment, but it didn't save her at the beginning. Although she had fought him like a demoness, the fight had been squarely going for him, until he had been sure that she was finished, and that the real fun could begin. In a fit of what he knew now had been sheer stupidity, he had removed his mask and proceeded to brag to her.

Unfortunately she still had strength and fire, and had managed the feat of throwing a whole couch at him. That had left him dazed, and he'd fallen, and then had been kicked as he rose, falling again. And then, before he could do anything, she'd promptly stepped on his face and twisted, disfiguring him. He had lost it then, and the battle had gone downhill from then.

And because of that, he had been too weak to do anything when Castillo came to exact his own revenge. It was all her fault.

But now, thanks to the services of plastic surgery, a great neurosurgeon and his drive fueled by hate, he had recovered and increased his skills well beyond his old ones, beyond those of this stupid bitch should have as he had calculated. He was prepared, fit and ready for a rematch. He would not do the mistakes which had nearly ruined his life.

He was ready to make the girl pay and suffer. His fun would simply have killed her back then. Now, it would be a kind of fun which he'd find even more pleasurable. He would break her spirit.

"And when you weep, bitch, when you weep, you will feel the humiliation that I suffered at your hands." he said softly.

And he lay there long, thinking, rehearshing, preparing.

Readying for revenge.

Around the same time...

Jeremy Storm had suffered a lot in his life.

Contrary to what most people thought, he remembered the pain of losing his father when he was but a tiny child. He remembered the crippling of Nathan McIntyre, his childhood friend and later the agonizing death of Melissa Chastel, whose death scream he could still hear, haunting him, when his nerves were frayed. Both had been killed by a man he had grown up with and come to treat as a brother.

And then later on. SCD. The two years of existing, fighting, with emptiness in his heart and soul. Until he had been asked for help by a woman whose sould had been locked away by a maniacal tyrant, a woman he had come to like, than to love, more than Melissa, more than anyone. Even then the pain hadn't stopped. Many friends had died during the Battle of SCD HQ, and he'd nearly lost Cammy, his love, to the doll programming.

And if that hadn't been enough, Tom, his murderous cousin, the one he had once trusted with all of his heart, had returned, passing through London and leaving a trail of death and terror behind him, trail which had ended where it had begun, in Greenway. There, he had killed the man who had become a monster and a killer of children.

Yes, Jeremy had had more than the usual share of suffering and grief in his life.

Yet it was nothing, nothing compared to what he felt right then and there, walking briskly through the hallways of SCD Headquarters, intent upon seeing his wife, and learning if what the smug man called Albert Desmarais had said. If it wasn't true, he was returning, he would return in search of the fool and proceed to beat the living daylight out of him, with intense relish to boot. If it was true...

If it was true...he didn't know.

He hadn't intended to look hostile while making his way to the workroom where the SCD Elites of London worked, but he faintly realized that he hadn't suceeded. Wherever he passed, people would give him a wide birth, or stare and whisper, looking at him with pointed glances. He felt like being the school bully passing through the halls, ready to beat someone. Not a thought he cherished.

He tried to relax his pace, to calm himself, but the turmoil within him wouldn't let him, and he could only push forward, until he was inside the workroom, with faces looking up at him in curiosity and various degree of irritation. Faces he knew, and a few who called out to him in a friendly way.

He didn't even see them, intent upon one head, blonde, braided, and still bent upon her work. Feeling stupid, feeling a trepidation and a fear he couldn't pinpoint, couldn't explain, he walked toward her. Finding her hellbent upon a report, he tapped her shoulder to obtain her undivided attention.

She turned towards him, and when she recognized him, smiled that smile that always, somehow, made the pain he had suffered in his life worthwhile. It was a smile of tenderness, meant only for him. It always helped his mood. However today he sense an hesitation in the smile, a fear which prompted him to continue with his course of action, if only to clear matters.

"Cammy." he said, far more gravely than he intended "I...I have to talk to you."

More hesitation, the smile faltered a moment, but remained. "Yeah, sure." she answered pleasantly "What is it?"

There it was. He had to say, had to pull it out of himself, for himself and his peace of mind. He opened his mouth, then forced each word out as if it was a blow from a tired arm.

"Are...you...p-pregnant?" he asked, rather weakly.

And the smile, that beautiful smile which had so often been the last thing he saw before he closed the light, before he wallowed in the comfort of her love and closeness, was scrunched flat, and she blanched. And he had his answer, as certainly as the sky was blue and that the Earth circled the Sun. It was like something and torn in his heart, as he looked at her losing her composure, even tought she regained it after a moment. She looked at him with uncertain eyes.

"So, its true." he said, closing his eyes a moment. "Why didn't you tell me? Why did I have to learn it through Albert of all people?"

"Jer, please..."

"Dammit, Cammy, why?!"

"Please, not here. Lets go to the meeting room and talk about it, all right. Please."

He frankly didn't see why he should do so. After all, she owed him an explanation. He, for his own part, was clean. But he had never been able to withstand her pleading eyes, her sad gaze for long. He had stared into the eyes of many dangerous people without flinching, and yet one look of helplessness from her and he shattered. He sometimes wondered what to make of himself, was he a romantic or a fool. Nonetheless, he cracked as he always did, and tensely followed her into the empty meeting room.

She slumped against the door as soon as it closed , and he knew for a fact that whatever would come out of this conversation, he wasn't going to like it at all.

Silence stretched, until finally she licked her dry lips and coughed uncomfortably. "I...I'm sorry. I never told Desmarais. Just...just Rose and Julia. He must have overheard when I went to see the major."

He glared at her. "I really don't care how he learned it right now! What I want to know is how it is that he knew it before I did. And how did Rose and Julia find out?" his lips curled down "Or am I the father at all?!?"

She blinked, gasping, as he said this, and finally tensed with a returning ire, her teeth gritting, her hands clenching "How can you ask that?! Of course you're the father! There's no other man I'd sleep with!!"

He fought down the shame and the relief he felt upon her answer. "Then why didn't you tell me?!" to his discomfort, he found he couldn't keep the waver out of his voice. She must have picked it up, for her anger seemed to evaporate, and she looked away.

"I...I know." she stuttered. "And I wanted to tell you. But...I was scared..." her voice died away upon her last word, echoing through the empty room.

He coukdn't belive he was hearing this. Cammy was scared? Scared of what? Of course, he'd heard how special and hard pregnancy and the birth could be, but compared to all she'd faced, how could it be this terrifying. He couldn't fully get it, and so asked his blonde young wife to clarify her sentence. Which she did, with great reluctance.

"I was afraid that...that you might...you might leave me." she said, her eyes moistening "I know its stupid. I'm sorry, its stupid, but I really thought that. But I swear I was going to tell you tonight. I'd made my decision. I was going to tell you tonight!"

He looked away at that, his mind reeling. Part of him wanted to believe what she was saying, reminding him of how much she loved him, of the fact that she'd suffered so much anything related to sexuality might very well make her flip out. Another part of himself was angry, uncertain of her, seeing this as a form of betrayal that he couldn't take. Both sides were at poles, with no clear victor yet.

She saw that easily, saw the doubt raging inside him, and pulled closer. "I know its lame, promising when the secret's out, but I swear I never wanted to hurt you. I was scared Jer! This was new to me! I wanted a child of you, but it was so...so soon. I thought you might...and that I..." she coughed to clear her voice. "I'm sorry."

He knew she meant that, knew that it was a turning point in their relationship, and that the next thing he would say might change a lot of things. However, what could he say? He was hurt, but did he need to hurt her too? She was sorry, and yet she had been wrong. It all came to choosing...

And after all, it wasn't such a difficult choice, was it?

He turned to Cammy, finding her waiting expectantly, and even a little fearfully, and opened his mouth.

"Cammy, you've hurt me more than you can imagine..."

Two days later...

The great City of Denver was geographically nearly at the heart of the United States of America, and as such, could consider itself as protected as any city could from direct agression, and it was reflected on the confident lifestyle of its inhabitants, who walked the streets certain that no danger could touch them. They were right...as far as tangible threats existed. But to the vast underworld, which had far different boundaries, Denver was no different than any other, and had its degree of corruption.

A great part of this corruption was bottled up in one, oak-panneled room. With windows over looking beautiful gardens, anbd rich paintings hanging on the walls, it seemed a place of high culture and refinement. And it was just what the grey-haired, balding man sitting at the head of a great table rich Brazilian design, dressed in a perfectly-cut business suits and surrounded by seated men, usually wanted.

His name was Carlton Landerk, and he controlled a large part of the city's underground through drug cartels and illicit weapons dealing. And today he was angry, very angry, and seemed intent for everyone to see it.

Banging his fist, he faced the men around him, his face all but catching fire, so read and furious it was. "How dare Shadowlaw try to take my city away from me! These thieves think that they can pummel me into obeying their rules. Well, that's too motherfuckin' bad! But Denver is my city and my jurisdiction!"

The outburst was accepted in silence by those who were seated around the Denver crimelord. Most had been working for him for years, and knew him well enough that it was better to wait until their boss cooled off. As for the others, they were probably too scared - or too much in awe, which suited Landerk fine - to say something stupid. Still, one of his older underlings, however, seemed to consider this wasn't the time for anger.

"Sir, I agree with you that Denver still remains under our control," he said critically "But with Shadowlaw buying out the Reinstem Family and instigating hits against us, our grip is slowly loosening."

Landerk made no response to that, and it prompted other comments from around the table. "With Shadowlaw taking control of most of the Circle's money and influence, they have the ressource to keep this war of attrition they are doing for as long as they need to. Even the Steel League or the Brotherhood won't dare too much against them now. Bison's got so much money and manpower now..."

Another tried another tack eagerly. "They have proposed an interesting act of annexation for us, and it might well be..."

The fist banged on the table again with great strength, silencing the underling in mid-sentence. "SILENCE! I don't want to HEAR anout some shitty annexation plan on their part! I didn't spend all those years building this business to give it to some fat-chined, bloated bastard like Bison!" his eyes contracted in a fierce line. "I won't accept crumbs from anyone, even that arrogant 'Lord' of Shadowlaw, @#%$ it!"

"Why, what a most colourful language." came a cold, even voice.

Surprise gripped the seated group and the guards around the room, for none had spoken which they could see. And then someone gasped, and all were drawn to the shadows in a corner, which were gathering as if making a doorway. And out of that surreal place calmly strode a man. Tall and broad-shouldered, garbed an outfit made entirely of black, he came to look at the assemblage of stunned men with an unblemished face that was rather handsome even though his eyes - indeed his entire face - reflected no emotion whatsoever.

The guards were comprehensibly stunned by the spectacular, eerie appearance of the stranger, but they were quick to regain their mental footing, reacting as they had been trained and were being paid to do in the presence of someone endangering their boss. The two closest charged the black-garbed man as others went for their gun.

The man seemed unphased as the two muscle-heavy bodyguards came at him, and moved only when they were within striking distance. Then the man moved. Dodging a punch with sudden quickness, he caught the large wrist and dragged it forward, while bringing his knee into the grunt's stomach so hard the muscled man jerked in the air from the blow, before collapsing, half-counscious, gasping and retching, curled in a ball on the floor.

The other never even had the time to try a punch, as the man's clenched hand came out and punched the grunt right in the face. The impact was immense. All heard the crack of the nose breaking and saw the eruption of blood as the bodyguard dropped to the ground, uncounscious or dead.

The last two bodyguards had had time to get their guns out, but before they could even get in a shot, their pistols flew in the air, and they themselves were flung with unseen force against the walls, one broke his neck as he encountered the wall at an unusual angle. The other was only very winded, the impact having knocked the wind out of him.

The pistols flew into the man's hands, and he examined them thoughtfully for a moment before he let them fall to the ground, as if it was nothing but trash and below his immediate notice. Thirty seconds, no more, had passed since the man's arrival, and Lander and his men were riveted to their seats by shock, fear...and vague recognition. The dark-clothed individual turned his ever-expressionless face towards them.

"Gentlemen." he intoned as if they were meeting to discuss which baseball team had the better chance of winning during the next season. "I apologize for my rude appearance, but I wished to expedite matters. Allow me to present myself: I am Everick, once serveant of Kale, Lord of Limerick, now serving his brother, Bison, Lord of Shadowlaw."

The fear increased upon hearing that name. Everick, better known as the Shadow Walker, was a figure of cold, a person whom the lowlives on the streets spoke in fear and respect and the greater crimelords in guarded tones. It had been whispered that Everick had been killed during the attack on the Circle, while others seemed to say he had joined the side of Shadowlaw. They had just been proven which theory was right, and it wasn't one to their liking.

Some of the men made moves to rise, but they were stopped by a sharp gesture from the feared man. "There is no need for this. It would be foolish to attempt resistance, or indeed to call more guards. This entire coumpound is surrounded by over three hundred Shadowlaw Shock Troopers, who could break through your defenses in mere minutes."

"Is that so?" Landerk said, his deameanor still angry and defiant, but far more subdued than before. "I...err...I assume there is a point to this, Shadow Walker?"

A slow nod. "Yes. You must immediately give away command of your operations in Denver so that we may seize control of this city for our purposes."

The suddenly not-so-formidable crimelord forgot himself at this. "Out of the question! Bison has no authority here! He -" he stopped abdruptly as the man in front of him, the neutral-faced man who could kill a man or save a life on a whim, actually frowned at him. It wasn't much of a frown. In fact, from most it would have been taken as no more than a sign of displeasure.

No with this man. Whith the this man, the slight frown seemed to speak of untold rage, carefully kept under wrap and awaiting release. Landerk actually recoiled as Everick came to stare at him right in the face.

"Mister Landerk, you are not in a position from which you may choose." was the calm explanation he received. "Shadowlaw needs Denver right now and my master's patience is fast nearing its limit. And I doubt I have to detail what might happen if the limit is crossed and he becomes riled."

There was no need to tell it, no need to explain it. Throughout the underworld, and even up to a point in the upper world, Bison's wrath was something no one wished for, and of which many horrifying stories circulated. Many of Landerk's underlings blanched just from the fact Everick had used 'Shadowlaw' and 'riled' in the same sentence. The one who had been master of Denver for fifteen years knew he had just lost them.

It appeared Everick read his thoughts - or maybe he really did read them - for the next words were on that very subject. "Yes, Landerk. You are alone now. Shadowlaw gives you a choice: rule under our rule or die today. The choice is yours."

And Carlton Landerk almost laughed at the dangerous man's face, knowing that in this choice there was no choice. It was simple: submit or die. And he knew what he would choose. For if Bison brought his full weight against him, he had no chance.

And so, while two minutes before he had been adamant about keeping his sovereignty over his city, the grey-haired man took the opposite choice in the face of the odds. He surrendered.

After all, what could one do, against a man who had The One Who Walks the Night as his servant.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

The day after...

The backstreets of Los Angeles had never been for the faint at heart, ever since the foundation of the city two centuries past. And now, even surrounded by the greatness of its skyscrapers and the clear blue Californian sky, the streets which none of the ordinary, middle-class citizens never would dare walk through was even worse, filled with corruption and the smell of immediate danger.

And yet, incongruously enough to those who were used to a certain breed of people, Sharon Dame walked through the backstreets without a shadow of fear, her demeanor and bearing cautious but hardly impressed. And the thugs and leg-breakers stayed well-away from her.

It wasn't that Sharon was that impressive when one looked at her for the first time. Athletic and graceful, dressed in leathers, shirt and jeans, the red-haired woman had the kind of beauty which seemed more to bespeak of a movie start instead of the feared respected fighter and assassin she was. However, those who shied away from her through the streets she walked had seen beyond the surface, had felt thet ruthlessness and the skill, sometimes litterally, and knew this beauty was a rose with heavy, deadly torns.

Sharon herself saw the fearful respect and had mixed feelings about it. Certainly, a part of her enjoyed it. She had made Los Angeles her home base and had worked years to make herself the reputation she had. She also knew, that, unlike her more fight-directed sister, she needed the fear more than the respect, and that was exactly what she had achieved. She as such deserved and accepted what she was given fully.

But another part of her felt as if she had missed something by dedicating herself to this lifestyle. Certainly, it had more than its share of advantages - the thrill of the hunt, the danger of each of her missions, being very poignant ones. However, it had its glaring disadvantages. Enemies. A life which excluded most things normal people had or shared. And mostly, the blood on her hands and the memories that went with it. Yes she deserved the respect and the fear she received, but at what cost had she bought it?

But today wasn't the time for doubts or inner questionning, as she made her way towards a well-shadowed door and recognized a man she both was relieved to see and despised all in one package. The man saw her as well, and gave her a teeth-gaping grin, the very ones that sent shivers of disgust through her. She approached him briskly, confidently.

"Hoy, there, babe!" said the man in a sort of gruff, twisted affection. "Your looking as good-lookin' as ya ever did, luscious! That outfit done to turn me on?"

"Cut the crap, Morris." was her curt, controlled answer. "Your little excuses for pick-up lines never gave any rise out of me, so just admit it and lets just talk business like we're supposed to."

Many men would have been irritated, hurt, even angry at being rebuffed so coldly and decisively, but not Morris. The oily man had been one of her main contacts for years, and his crappy ways of seductions - and her stony answers - were part of their little ongoing rituals. The gaping grin only broadened for a moment before becoming more reasonable. Fishing in the long pocket of his brown overcoat, before producing a photograph, which she took and examined thoughtfully.

It was the image of a middle-aged man, stately-looking, with a grave expression in his dark eyes which his salt, and pepper hair and well-trimmed beard seemed to make wise instead of dry and boring. He was dressed in a business suit which reflected a career as a lawyer, and an easy, agreeable way of posing that bespoke the man was used to talking to large crowds - and being listened to.

As she made these quick deductions, Morris skittered a step closer and supplied information she automatically engraved on her memory.

"That's Denis Farraday of the Benton & Stern law firm. He's an activist for increased Canadian rights in the Pacific Ocean and also of the straightening of certain laws that have to do with the USA-Canada treaties and the monopolization of the British Columbia economy by the American companies."

Sharon smiled as she heard this. Morris was actually an extremely intelligent fellow, and hid his intelligence and fairer speech beneath a scruffy appearance and uncouth talk. But when in the middle of business, the mask fell away. She nodded.

"Let me guess." she mused "Some people are getting tired of hearing him rant and rave about his views."

"Bingo. But its even more than that. Canadian industrialists and some of the members of the Canadian Ministry of Commerce are starting to listen to him a lot, too much for the comfort of certain people I'd be rather foolish to name. If this keeps on, he'll have enough influence in British Columbia to hamper American interests."

Sharon could see where this was going. "And they'd like the remove the sting before there's permanent harm."

"Can't hide anything from you, gorgeous."

"Permanent?"

"Yup. They don't want a comeback from this guy." was the even answer. "They want him out, not scared."

She almost sighed, only barely refraining out of pride. More blood on her hands. And even worse, she wasn't even going to be killing a crook or someone with unjustifiable motives, but rather a man who had simply irritated the ears of some industrialists. Not a rejoicing way to keep things going. But it was the way she lived and she had no place to say she had never been warned - by Blair, by friends and by her own conscience.

She faced Morris squarely. "He's no crook. By that, you know it means my fee is high. What did they say to that."

A split-second hesitation, then the grin returned. "You got lucky with these bigwigs. They're willing to pay the fee and even double it if you get things done in two months time - just before the guy's supposed to speak at the Assembly of the Ministry of Commerce."

She couldn't help but frown, both at the small hesitation she had felt far in the spectrum of her mind's eyes and the unusual, clean way her fees had been accepted. Her fees for killing those she judged innocent were especially high, and on those jobs the offer had been retracted often. Why not now, especially for a man who yet posed no true danger. This was weird. Faint alarm bells went off in her head, warring with her curiosity. She hesitated for a moment.

Morris seemed to see that. "Hey, babe? What d'you think about it? Do I go and say you're going to do it or not."

Curiosity for the mission and apprehension for the mission warred withing Sharon for long moments without a clear victor. However, without eveidence to back her refusal, she felt she had no choice, and nodded slowly.

"Just as long as I'm paid half my fee in the next three days." she warned, trying to quell her inward doubts. The man in front of her nodded eager - too eagerly, it seemed.

"Not a problem. I'll go and tell them that right now." his intelligent face was then replaced by his gruff face, and when he spoke again it was with the loud voice of a man who seemed to know no manners and no culture. "Why, toots, nice speakin' tee ya! We'll have tee do dath again s'metime! See ya 'round, baby!"

And he left, slightly staggering, hiding the fact that he was a dangerous man like Sharon flaunted it. For his kind of business, it was needed. After all, someone who appeared unassuming and rather foolish was often dismissed, allowing said person to hear very interesting things and sell them to the highest bidder. And Morris was exceptionally good at hearing things people would prefer to keep secret.

Still, this did not ease the disquiet she had felt since the end of this conversation. It was clear the man had appeared relieved of her answer, as much as he tried to hide it. This was unusual, for he wasn't known on fearing official toadies and industrial smartasses. No, this was the kind of man who was scared of little. So who wanted the man on the picture dead? What was really going on here?

As much as she wished to retract her offer, she knew she couldn't now. Curiosity had won the fight, and overriden her doubts, albeit probably temporarily. She would go through with this job, and see what was what. That was the only way her mind would be at ease. And yet...

And yet...why did this all feel like she was making the worst mistake of her life?