Eye of the Monster

Dawson waited a moment before speaking. "Eighteen months overdue?"

"Lieutenant Sokoth was repeatedly delaying it, saying that your work was too important. He has the authority to do that when he's on duty. And look where that got him."

Dawson's hands balled into fists inside of her coat. Max had been protecting her from this. He'd stuck his neck out for her, and now he had a broken jaw and a concussion.

"There's got to be something you can do," Brandt said, almost pleading. "Ivan Ionfist just escaped from prison! We know he had help, we need every possible resource to find him again!"

"Ohhh," Agatha said with mock sympathy, "Don't worry, detective. The city council just approved a big spending bill that will get you plenty of drones and warrants and new patrol officers fresh from the academy." She set her eyes on Dawson and sneered in an all-too-familiar way. "So long as she gets shelved pending that psychiatric evaluation."

"There's no time for that!" Brandt argued. "At least let her work while it's arranged!"

"Sorry, detective," Culdite said with a shrug. "Lone Star's insurance policy won't cover someone who has an eighty-eight percent chance to do something they know will result in their own death. People are so much more destructive when they think they won't have to face the consequences."

"You're making a mistake," Dawson said softly.

Agatha stood up quickly out of the chair, throwing it backwards onto the floor behind her. "What we make here is money, Dawson. You and Sokoth might have illusions about justice and security but I don't. We make money, and you're an obstruction to that. We don't want you."

For a moment, Dawson was seven years old. Looking up at her wheezing uncle and his hard, tired eyes.

Why didn't my parents want me? she'd asked.

His expression had softened. He didn't want to answer her question. He didn't want her either, but it was him or nobody. Until he died, and then it would be nobody. His cruelty had been coughed out long ago, so he said something he hoped would comfort her.

I don't know, Impulse. I don't know why. Some people just don't want to be troubled.

Trouble. That's what she was. What'd she'd always been.

She turned away from the desk and began walking for the door.

"The evaluation is scheduled for thirty days from this one!" Agatha called out behind her. "We look forward to retaining your services again when you're qualified!"

The manager started saying something else to Brandt when the doors shut, but Dawson didn't listen. She strolled past the most-wanted board, noticing that Ivan was back at the top of the list. Neon Justice would have to stay number two for the time being.

She was in the parking lot approaching the Firebird when Asher's voice called out. "Dawson!"

For a moment she thought about not turning around. When she finally did he was walking down the steps towards her.

"I didn't know about that," he swore. "Sokoth didn't say anything about it to me."

"Why would he?" Dawson said flatly. "Probably thought I'd give it up before it mattered."

Brandt studied her. "What the manager said in there... Was any of that...?"

"What, true?" She turned away again, making for her car. "You heard her, detective. Algorithms don't make mistakes."

"Dawson!" Brandt put a hand on her shoulder and kept her from getting further away, stepping around in front of her and blocking her path.

"How much of it?"

Slowly she looked up into his face and the pain in her eyes must have been all too apparent.

"Oh," Asher whispered. "Dawson. How could I have missed it?"

"Don't blame yourself," she whispered back. "That's what I've been doing and it just got me laid off."

She tried to walk past him but to her slight surprise Brandt threw his arms around her shoulders.

"I don't know your mind well enough to fathom why you'd do it," Asher said, his voice breaking on the last few words. "You have to know the kind of pain it would cause if you did, Dawson."

"Yeah," Dawson said, swallowing hard. "I know. I know, Asher. I'm still... I'm working it out. I'm getting better, you know?"

He stood up straight and used one finger to wipe the tears out of the space below his eyes. "I need your help on this, Dawson."

"I'm bad for your career, Brandt. You have to manage on your own for now."

For a long moment he looked at her, and she saw the fresh-faced academy graduate that had joined up two years after she'd started consulting. I want to be a hero, he'd said to her on his first day. Like Dirty Harry. She'd breathed a little laughter and said, Why don't you try Rick Deckard?

"For now," he agreed. "Promise me you'll come back."

She looked away slightly. "I can promise to try. Apparently it's up to an algorithm now, whether or not the law is enforced."

= = =

The drive back was a parade of regrets and considerations of the chain of events that had unfolded over the last few months, and years, and decades, while the Firebird stereo emitted sorrowful notes and wails.

"As you look around this room, to-night... Settle in your seats, and dim the lights... Do you want my blood? Do you want my tears, what do you want? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?"

She had some of the clues and a drive was usually a good time to put them together. But every time she started to, she remembered that she was suspended and could muster no support. Her theories would be ignored, she'd get no warrants and her evidence would be rejected. She had... no recourse.

"Do you think that I know something, you don't know? If I don't promise you the answers, would you go?"

Inside she felt as if she should be angry. But what did she really have, at the end of the day? Culdite was right. Until recently. But for the majority of her time spent with Lone Star... that had all been the truth.

"Should I stand out in the rain? Do you want me to make a daisy chain, for you? I'm not the one you need.... WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!"

As she pulled into the parking lot of the apartment building, the reality of the situation finally resolved. Something terrible was building and this time... she had no legal power to stop it. As she switched off the car Dawson felt all her emotion coming to the surface.

It was too soon. She hadn't... she hadn't done enough yet. She hadn't made it right. Maybe she never could, but at the beginning she'd hoped she would one day attain a feeling of peace from the endeavor. She didn't feel it yet. She couldn't relax. She couldn't let it go, couldn't just... just close her eyes and act like people weren't suffering.

Could she even quantify what all her effort had amounted to? Was the world safer, better?

"You can own everything you see... Sell your soul for complete control, is that really what you need..?"

It would be... It would be if it weren't for all the people fucking it up. People like Megiddo, and Reymont, and Ionfist. People who did things they knew were wrong. Who did them because they didn't care about others, or because they enjoyed to see their suffering. It was like she was trying to build a safer world out of sand and people like them kept pissing on it. Getting off with slaps on the wrist.

Someone... someone had to punish them. To give them what they deserved. No law, no trials, no judges who could be bribed or witnesses who could go missing or a jury who could be intimidated. It terrified her to consider that it might be the only way to make things better, because that had been what Illich Mendoza had believed and he had spread his arms wide to greet death like an old friend. For her it would be a reversion, a regression into a monster. A compromise, in pursuit of some nebulous greater good. Giving up purity, giving up mercy, to claw from the sixth world some justice.

Candles understood it. In his way Pickers understood it too, but his view was too low, too narrow. He saw the symptom and mistook it for the cause. Vayger treated the illness in a way that gave her comfort but could never cure it.

"You can lose yourself this night... See inside, there is nothing to hide... Turn and face the light."

Could Dawson be the cure? Or would she just go back to being the disease? If she wanted to punish people... then there was no better person to start with than herself.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!"

Once again she pulled the Accelerator out and held it in both hands, breathing heavily with her head resting against the steering wheel.

That was when Alenia tapped on the window. Dawson's agony fell away like a puzzle being discarded by someone who had suddenly seen something much worthier of her time.

"Sweetheart," Dawson said as the gull wing door lifted. "I've told you not to keep coming outside for me... Or to at least do so while wearing pants."

"Pants suck," the elf said rebelliously.

"You're going to suck tonight," Dawson warned her. "Come here."

= = =

This could have been the worst night of Dawson's life, and the last. In the silence of her sterile and dark apartment her many failings would have haunted her, propelled by the words of the people she had failed and the people who celebrated her failure.

Fairweather friends, detective. Today they're your friends. Tomorrow?

Your mercy poisoned my future.

You're a good soldier, Dawson. But I think that's all you'll ever be.

If you're just some psychopath who wants to kill people, you'll never make it in this gang!

It's not your fault, Imp. Should have known what I was getting into.

The flash of a muzzle and the heat of a discharged cartridge would have been the last flicker of warmth in her life, the backdrop to the question she'd asked her entire existence: why don't they want me? And the world would even have been a better place.

But the walk back to her home was not a silent procession down the last hallway she'd ever see, solemn and desolate. It was cozy and slightly embarrassing from the affections of the elf clinging to her side, one hand up Dawson's white shirt to rake over her abdomen while the other held on to her far hip. She radiated want for Dawson, and it was not the cheap in-passing kind that many people seemed to show. The kind that evaporated when they learned about the ruthless things she'd done, or the whimsical things she hoped to do.

Her apartment was neither cold nor sterile, littered with discarded articles of clothing that the former wearers of were too lazy to do anything with but shed when they desired the freedom of nudity. The detritus of devoured meals, snack wrappers and drink cans could be found in places where they had briefly congregated by counters or small tables. Someone's cyberdeck was playing modern music from its built-in speaker rather than privately through the data cable of its user--they had all acquired the taste for atmosphere over isolation, and sharing was synonymous with joy.

Like iron filings pulled by a magnet the girls abandoned their other interests to flock to her as she shut the door. Everyone wanted--no, needed a hug, a kiss, and a stroke of their hair. They needed it like they needed air, or so they insisted. They needed her, and they had neither pride nor shame to keep them from admitting it. Life on the street had destroyed both. The ideology of elven supremacy had done nothing to fill their stomachs and they'd abandoned it in favor of refuge in Dawson's arms... and her bed.

Avalanche leveraged her stature to press her face close to Dawson's neck and oafishly kiss at her, turning her head slightly so that her tusks wouldn't press into flesh. "Missed you a lot," she mumbled. The gently pulsing bulges in her pant legs served as proof of her sincerity.

They didn't care about anything else in the world but her, and each other. Ideas like justice or mercy or order held no interest to them beyond what it would satisfy Dawson herself for them to show. And why should they care? Why should she care? All they had was what they had taken from the world, forced it to give to them at the point of a blade or the barrel of a gun. Even Dawson had not wanted to give them anything, more concerned with her own self-loathing than meeting the needs of anyone else. But Alenia would not be denied, and she had not been afraid of putting her finger on the scale to obtain what she longed for. She'd pressed just hard enough to make the lead of Dawson's heart crack and flake, so that the gold could begin to shine through.

When institutions failed, when the system malfunctioned--or rather, Dawson cynically suspected, when they did what they'd always been intended to do--people could take comfort in those with whom they shared a bond. When ideals were revealed to be unenforceable without compromising them, and the hope of prosperity and peace dried up under the harsh light of an immoral world, the people close to hand and to heart became what mattered most. Dawson took Alenia by the chin and held her gaze, making the elf squirm. Before Alenia could ask what she had done, Dawson spoke.

"I need a shower before we start."

= = =

Dawson had always been willing to admit that tyranny was intoxicating, in the moment. The first time she'd taken from someone else, she had felt a surge of deepest satisfaction from the exchange that lasted as long as the fullness in her stomach. It wasn't until much later in life that she realized it was creating misery for other people.

Now she had come back around to a new appreciation, tempered by the wisdom of her years and applied to a worthy pursuit. The former go-gangers and terrorist muscle knelt on the carpeted floor at the end of the bed, brimming with energy that showed all through their naked forms.

Still gleaming and wet from her time under the water Dawson questioned, "Which one of you is the most eager?" She asked it while spreading her legs apart, one hand resting on a knee and the other touching four fingers to her shaved mound.

The reply was immediate, a chorus of me! coming from the end of the absorbent mattress. All of them wanted to be the first to satisfy their fixation. Their obsession with her that they'd developed from the moment they first laid eyes on her, and knowingly deepened with technology. Perverts... deviants... Her deviants. And why shouldn't they be obsessed with her? She'd made the effort. Sharpened herself into an edge that could protect other people, and dominate them in whatever way benefited them most. She could protect them--from predators both corporate and criminal, from loneliness, from virginity. She did it to make amends and not for gratitude. But she was beginning to accept that it was within her rights to enjoy that gratitude, when it was given so freely. To take no longer thrilled her but accepting obedience... that had a thrill all its own, and a clean one with no cost except soreness. A victimless crime, if it was a crime at all.

Dawson pointed at Nyana. "You. Come."

The other girls groaned and sighed their frustration as Nyana climbed up onto the bed and, tongue hanging out of her mouth, crawled towards the person she had convinced herself was her owner. As the distance was covered Dawson extended her arms palms-up towards the elf and mouthed the words come to mommy.

Nyana practically dove face-first into Dawson's torso, latching on with both arms and legs and squeezing herself against the rigidity of her body. Then she melted, like waves breaking against a rocky shore, sighing and lifting her head so that Dawson could catch her chin with two fingers and kiss her right on the mouth, other hand coursing through her thick silken hair. Like her friends she had stopped subjecting it so often to the improvised hair dye they had used to express her individuality on the street. Instead of the bright pink intended to be a warning to potential trouble, the upper half of her back-length mane was a dirty silver common to elves of lower heritage. Her girls were growing softer around their edges: filling out, and unfurling like flowers. If it weren't for the inability of elves to grow body hair below the neck, they'd fit right in with the naturalists at Mother Earth.

"Give me your legs," Dawson instructed. Within fifteen seconds Nyana's orientation was changed and her face was fitting snugly between Dawson's marbled thighs. This placed the elf's nose and mouth directly against the black stubble of her cunt. The leg-lock was strong enough to keep Nyana from moving her head or doing anything other than breathing in the scent and taste of her owner's growing arousal. To complete the feeling of being completely captured, Dawson crossed her ankles and applied occasional squeezes that forced Nyana's features just a little further into her sex.

Once Nyana was settled in, Dawson went to work. She spread apart the elf's legs so that they were at the edges of her shoulders and used her fingers to spread Nyana's buttocks. The lean and wiry build she'd gotten living on the street was all but gone now, replaced with a layer of sensitive plush which Dawson found easy prey. With just her middle fingers she inched towards the defenseless lower lips, through them feeling Nyana's trembling anticipation. Beyond her heavy breathing she could hear that of the other girls at the foot of the bed, waiting for their turn.

Dawson approached sex with the same mentality she approached any rigorous physical activity. Treat as if it was what you were going to be doing for the rest of your life and don't stop until you were unconscious... or at least until you were the last one awake.

To date no one had ever put Dawson down first. While her perception was at times questionable, her memory was nearly indelible and from the very first conquest to the very latest it was an unbroken record of people who had failed to outlast her.

Nyana had no will to be different in that regard. Slow, methodical application of Dawson's tongue eroded her already meager pleasure discipline like ocean waves pulling away sand by the mouthful. The grains were her endurance, and her sanity. To Dawson it felt like her prerogative to eat away at those things, and more importantly it felt right. Based on the way her toes were curling and her back was arching fecklessly against Dawson's full-body hold, Nyana also felt it was right. Dawson imagined that this was what most people in the world wanted to some extent or another. Someone to enfold them, make them feel protected, loved, considered. Overwhelmed. Once, Dawson had employed overwhelming force exclusively. Now she found it more to her liking to impose a little order. A little tyranny... How could she help herself, when they drooled over her the way they did?

The elf moaned into Dawson's pussy, rubbing her features into it as much as the leg-vice would allow. Her hands clutched at the blanket below them while Dawson made a meal of her, her heavy tongue wielded with the same precision and relentless skill she used with any weapon. Maybe Instinct could reach a little deeper, touch places that the human tongue couldn't... But Nyana wasn't complaining. Her scream of pleasure was cut off suddenly as Dawson squeezed with her legs, turning the escape of her hot breath into nothing but dull vibrations in the lips of Dawson's cunt and lower abdominal muscles.

For a full minute after the elf went limp, Dawson continued to eat at her. All that Nyana could do was spasm and moan, lacking the necessary stamina to be Dawson's oral toy for any extended period of time. Elves could be such pushovers. Once it was clear the girl's energy was spent, Dawson let her go and allowed her legs to slide to the bed before pushing the dazed thing to one side of the mattress.

Her face wet with Nyana's arousal, her bare body beaded with sweat and her chest heaving, Dawson turned her attention to the rest of those in waiting at the end of her bed. Avalanche was panting. Alenia shuddered under the weight of her gaze.