Hot Neon - Segment 01.4

// Hot Neon Segment 1.4: The Coming Storm

Yoru leads the charge, vibro-katana in hand and a toughness, a sense of sheer rigid purpose, etched on her lips. She casts a big shadow for a woman so small, those delicate features that mark her heritage unmoving, cast in stone.

High-frequency waves resonate all throughout the length of her blade, ceaselessly rippling like the surface of water, and Yoru's body is an extension of it. A whirling maelstrom of kinetic energy, her form undulates with every motion she makes.

She's fast, but so stupidly elegant. It's less a fight for her and more and elaborate dance. The reactive plate armor that clings to her honed frame, and the cascade of inky, sky-dark hair that hangs down to her ass in flowing waves - all of these things are as much part of her as the steel in her hands.

She doesn't come cheap, but in a drag-out brawl between syndicates? Well, this lady is absolutely top shelf. Her father was one of New Japan's few remaining practitioners of traditional sword technique, and his daughter has inherited everything he had.

This battle clears up in almost record time. I don't understand so much as a lick of Japanese, but my implant helpfully chirps machine-translations of her sentiments in my ear.

"Red Hand reps are making a retreat now. I count twenty-six of their number lost in the exchange. I will adjust my prices in accordance with my personal kill-data. They are no longer your concern."

It'll probably run us 50,000 credits for every death she causes, which may take her a mere few seconds and a few flicks of her lithe arm muscles, but we're sending Red Hand a message here. That message being, Blank Card isn't to be fucked with, and our territory will remain inviolate.

No matter how many people they send at us, how badly they try to cut off our head, can still win. As long as we have enough muscle left over after paying out that debt.

I flip out my comm and open the translation settings, a necessity when conversing in her native tongue. I'm sure that there are some nuances missed, but being that I'm the most expendable, qualified rep to lead this charge, it falls on me to interact with our bought star.

All I know about New Japan, I know from vids and books. I offer her my best attempt at a cordial bow, but it feels kind of awkward. "Your assistance is greatly appreciated. It was an honor to observe you fight." With a beep, the comm spits out what I assume to be what I said, albeit in her tongue.

Her response comes back just as smoothly as her blades do, dovetailed by a brisk bow of her own, a nod nearly as quick as those hands of hers - all organic - that never stop moving. "I trust that I have performed to Blank Card Syndicate's expectations?"

The way she asks, without any hint of pretension or conceit, despite the fact that she was a fucking razor-edged assassin, is something I admire. We're not talking about a pretty girl who thinks she's better than everyone else; Yoru is simply doing what she does best. What she has honed herself to do. If we had unlimited funds, I'd want to keep her on retainer just to filet anyone needing a quick death.

"Very artfully. Our coordinator will accept your kill-data and pay your rates accordingly. May we treat you to a drink before your departure?" I invite, though she puts her palm out in a clear gesture of rejection once my comm chirps out the sentiment.

"I do not accept offers of hospitality from business partners," she replies flatly, but then, almost apologetically, adds, "although your kindness is duly noted." She turns, a last flick clearing the errant blood and viscera from the blade, at least whatever the high-frequency vibration hadn't already sluiced away.

Damn shame to see her clear out, but this is how the top-shelf mercs operate. They'll contract out for dirty work, syndicate conflicts, corporate assassination jobs, anyone who can afford them.

They'll do their job, do it disgustingly well, and then fuck off to another city, perhaps another country. You might even get lucky and catch them in your locale again someday. But chances are, you won't. Which means you'll need to hire someone new next time around. Someone less expensive, maybe.

That's the real cost of hiring pros, especially when it comes to fighting. Lightning in a bottle. One shot only. A show you get to observe once, but if you miss it, you miss it. The good ones move on.

But hey, look on the bright side: I got to watch a queen of her craft in action today. Most who could claim that tended to be on the receiving end, all too briefly concluded.

***

I don't think I've quite crawled my way up to middle management in Blank Card yet. Actually, if anything, I'm just a slightly glorified goon, but one who so happens to be able to point and direct a few thugs with considerably more combat acumen than myself.

Rhino is in a whole other tier compared to me. I catch her now and then during hush-hush business meetings, but over the past few months, I've done my best to leave the nest and hold my own in this reprehensible world of violence and creds. My more direct superiors have been patient with me, given me a chance to learn from experience rather than lecture.

And I guess I did okay. After all, I am still alive, right? Granted, she was right. I've had to do some pretty awful things to secure my position, things that make that whole murder and arson gig all that time ago look like a day trip to the park, but I feel like I've at least mostly earned my place among these more dedicated no-gooders.

Do I hate myself for what I've done, the kind of woman I am? Absolutely. Hell, I wish I loved myself, and I don't mean in the way my hand does for a couple of hours at night. But that's where a stiff drink comes in handy. And chems. Lots of chems. A good pop of Cloud or Shimmer, and I'm floating on thin air for a while, the kind of stuff I sold with reckless abandon but thought myself too good, too pure, to touch. Ah, the simplicity of youth.

Yeah, yeah. I know. We've all got some corp-damn vices, okay? If indulging mine means I can earn enough credits to buy a decent apartment, live comfortably, and put food on the table, I'll take it. That's why I'm here. To serve the syndicate. Well, that and hopefully acquire comfortable wealth. Not to enjoy the scenery along the way.

I moved out of the trash heap that was the Black Diamond Towers, and settled into a higher-rise in the Silver District, a swanky little complex called the Horseshoe, which has its own private hoverport. It's nice. Clean. Quiet. Safe. Pretty good place to bring a chick back to, and a nice view when I push her up against the glass and let Little Pepper show her some more of the high life.

Maybe I should try dating. No, scratch that. Forget that idea. There's too much risk involved, and this kind of double life is fraught with peril anyway. All those memories could come crashing down on you if you're not careful. So forget love and romance and relationships.

Just stick with the creds. Keep the creds coming. Fuck a different gal every evening I get the itch to shove something up inside someone - and most are typically the caliber of girl that'd make Pepper-from-a-few-months-ago turn purple with jealousy.

So yeah, I guess I've gotten better at doing this stuff. I've grown accustomed to it, learned to keep my head low, mind my own business, and play by the rules laid out for me, whether or not I've got moral agreements with whatever I'm meant to be doing.

Usually, I don't want to think about how many people I've most definitely screwed over along the way, because thinking about it makes me sick to my stomach, but in Sunset City, you've gotta do whatever you've gotta do to stay ahead. Step on whatever hands and heads you've got to, if it keeps you afloat. Otherwise you'll drown.

***

"Just so you know, this doesn't change anything. I still think you're an unprofessional, trashy, bumbling idiot." Drift teeters a little, her cheeks ruddy with intoxication, her display perched in her lap, one hand still clattering at the keys, running a scan. Cuter when she's on the sauce, and I've found how much this dork loves to knock one back to quell whatever tangle of computer code she's got up in that head of hers.

A pint of Silverstar Rum is clutched in her other, nestled by her slender, nimble fingers. Her words come out audibly slurred, lines of code blazing by in the reflection of her thick glasses. "I mean it," she says to me now, not even looking my way. Yeah, yeah, like I didn't hear her disdain clear as day already.

Her sneakers and socks are in a heap on the floor by my couch, her bare feet in my lap, sometimes brushing over the bulge between my thighs, the warmth from her skin making me squirm uncomfortably.

"Yeah? Well- aanh, fuck- I think you hackers are all stuck-up bitches anyway," I say back, less composed than I'd like, thanks to the friction those little soles make on my dick through my jeans. "Get a little sunlight and, mmnf, right there- some social interaction for a change...!"

I fucking hate hackers. I still do. I've run a few jobs with Drift, and she's been an ice-queen bitch every time, but dependable. Skillful, too. So, sure, I tried to get in the geek's good graces one night, and went with the crew for a few too many drinks after another night of filling our contracts.

No work above the board, nothing even vaguely legal. We just wanted to blow off steam. The booze made us stupid, and we were drunk enough that I found myself saying something about how I'd watch her back if she ever needed help.

She shot back a snide remark and told me to keep dreaming, but we wound up at my place regardless. We didn't exactly get along, but that night, I fucked the hell out of her. It wasn't because of any affection or romance; it was simply because she was there, and we were tipsy, and things just kind of happened.

It quickly became a thing we agreed was a mistake, and not to be spoken of. Some weeks later, we were once again playing a round of Hide Pepper's Wiener, this time in the back of a hovercar after a long day's job. As it turns out, Drift is pretty good at hiding it in her hairy little snatch.

She and I still don't like each other, so it's nothing like that. We both just happen to like a good bang every once in awhile, and when she's feeling a little antsy, when she's got a dry spell in need of getting broken, she at least knows that I have no qualms about helping her scratch that itch.

Just two ladies blowing off a little steam together. Nothing wrong with that. And it certainly beats being alone, right?

"I'll have that database you wanted in... hm. 45, maybe 55 minutes, " Drift concludes, her little birdlike face lit by the blue glow of her display as her feet continue to tease my cock through my pants. She looks away from the screen briefly, taking note of my reaction. "How 'bout that, you tactless ass?"

My eyes flutter shut involuntarily, and I feel a little shudder pass through my body. My breath catches in my throat. Whatever. We pick on each other, but deep down inside, I can admit that she gets me off. "I'll bounce you the credits, just like we agreed. You're the best in the biz, Driftie."

She rolls her eyes, grunting as she pushes her glasses back up. "First of all, don't call me that. Second, I am aware of my capabilities. Third, you're only saying that because you're drunk and hoping to put your dick inside me tonight." She wiggles her toes against me, sighing. "You know what I want?"

"Uh-huh," I reply, my voice soft and breathy, getting increasingly aroused as I sit there, trapped beneath her bare feet. I'm hoping what she wants is this ferocious boner, ideally shooting off all over her if not autographing her innards in pearl. "Tell me."

Drift makes a show of peering at me curiously, leaning closer until our faces are mere inches apart, her lips curving into a sly smile. Jeez, bad posture has its perks sometimes. She's a flexible thing. "What I want," she whispers, her voice low, almost conspiratorial, "is to see you and the rest of the dullards in this syndicate go back to their primitive smash and grabs, and leave the contracts requiring some brainpower to the professionals like me."

Like I said. She's belligerent, and so am I, but we put those concerns aside from time to time to just do what our bodies want. We might not respect each other, but that's not part of the equation. No deeper meaning, no affection, no complications. Just a good ol' fashioned hump.

And it feels great. There's something kind of liberating about fucking the brains out of someone who hates your guts. Drift isn't going to change her mind about that, but she'll still let me shoot off a hot load in her pussy from time to time.

Sure, she's kind of an odd duck in the bedroom, but I guess that goes with the territory for someone who's got an unchecked superiority complex.

When you prefer computer screens and subroutines to interacting with others, it probably makes you just a little bit socially awkward. But, hey, that's fine by me. I'm not here for conversation anyway.

Call it hacker motivation, or whatever gets her to do her job that little bit faster: Drift likes having her belly rubbed, in a sense. Usually, that means parking her butt on my face and getting my tongue up her box while she fixates on that fucking display she seems surgically attached to. That's how she wants to play it. So I give it to her. Sometimes I even coax her into a few rounds of Hide Pepper's Wiener.

It's a strange dynamic, but we make it work. As much as two women who cannot fucking stand each other could, anyway. I'm this close to undoing my jeans and just letting her bring me off right now, but I decide to wait instead. If we're gonna fuck, then I'll damn well do it right. Speaking of which...

"Hm?" the mousy dork intones as I shift a bit, sparing my prick from the wicked assault her little foot has been dishing out on it. "Had enough already, pervert?"

She pushes those glasses back up, and I practically hear the self-satisfied snort-laugh as I grab her ankles and shift on the sofa. I all but wrench open the button of her cargos, and... why, yes, I do lean in to clutch the pull of her zipper between my teeth and yank it down, giving myself free rein to reach down into the depths of her underwear.

The stuffy, earthen aroma of her arousal fills my nostrils. It smells vaguely of sweat and the tang of her wetness, with just a touch of sharpness. Not bad. Just the healthy, ripe fragrance of a woman's puss.

For all her bluster, Drift radiates heat from her crotch already, though I imagine that her being kinda pretty drunk also helps matters along. The scent is sweet and enticing, and only more so as I take hold of the waist of her cargos and panties alike, and fervently yank them off her pale ass.

A faint gasp escapes her lips. I shift onto my front. She should appreciate the difficulty of assuming this position, given the fact that my cock is hard enough to hammer a nail right about now. It pushes awkwardly up against my tummy, throbbing. I swear I can feel its pulse.

Her hips rise slightly, and I steady my hands on her thighs, pushing them apart. Okay, so I'm not entirely crazy about the rug-burn her pubes give me after a long, thorough munching, but Drift doesn't seem to care, and optional maintenance like that is something she gives little thought to herself. Her clit is swollen, and her folds glisten. And that's all good enough for me.

I spread apart the pinkened flesh of her labia with a couple of fingers, and dive in to drag my tongue over the newly-exposed interior. Once I'm settled in better to lick and slurp at her noodle bowl, I hook my arms under her legs, palms on her ass cheeks as she groans.

Above, I hear her clattering at her keyboard, and trying still to ignore me. Rude, given how I'm busy chowing down on her snatch, but maybe that's just the way things are when you spend most of your life in front of a monitor. Maybe she thinks she's too cool to get turned on by such a simple thing. Yeah, that's probably it. Fucking hackers. Seriously.

Can't stand them. Can't stand her, most times, but she's got that cute little ass, and it looks real good impacting against my lap. I've got a mouthful of her slick, wet slit, and I'm licking away happily at her inner walls. I've got my nose buried deep in her twat, and I don't plan on pulling it back out for a bit either.

"Just queueing some scripts. After the database scrape is... complete, I'll work on getting the authcode table built, and start busting codes so that data will be flowing soon," she huffs out, somewhere above me. Good luck with that.

My tongue laps over her clitoris, but only for a moment. Drift gasps, and makes a soft noise as if she were about to speak. Yeah, I get it, she wants to act like this doesn't thrill her or anything. Forget the data - the juices of her pussy are already flowing. Specifically, down my chin, while I'm tasting the tang of her nectar.

Ideally, she will set her display and keyboard aside soon. Let her computing processors work on busting codes, like she said, while Drift and Pepper work on busting loads. Mine, to be precise, ideally spewing out all over Drift's face, glazing her sullen features and stickying up her pasty skin. She hates it when I cum on her, but hey, I love doing it.

As much as she likes to pretend otherwise, Drift does enjoy it sometimes. Her increasingly heated breaths are a good barometer for how far gone we both are. A few moments later, I know that I must have gotten her close enough. I resurface for air, and she's got that glazed look about her. "Fuck, Pepper..."

I snatch the bottle from her hand, and barely show sufficient restraint not to throw that, or her gear, across the living room floor. Words and vitriolic back-and-forth aren't exactly what I want here. No need to make a quip, no need to waste time on any kind of conversation. We're both too hot and bothered for that.

So, yeah, instead, I simply shove myself to my knees, using my own thighs to press hers apart as I lean in over her prone form, and spit into my palm. Little Pepper is a rather dribbly girl when she's worked up, but I think a bit extra help isn't a bad idea when I'm about to stuff my dick in Drift's sweltering snatch.

She knows what I'm planning. There's no mistaking the sudden intake of breath. The slight widening of her eyes, and the tightening of those lips. I rub the head of my cock against her opening, and watch her squirm beneath me. Leaning down over her, forehead to forehead, I mount her. Our breaths are hot on each other's faces. I push inside her, and she moans loudly.

We've done this before, of course. A decent few times, in fact. It doesn't diminish the pleasure of the act. Not one bit. My length stirs with livelihood as it disappears into her, sliding in easily and deeply until I hit bottom. Thrust again, and feel every last inch of her squeeze me tight. Fuck, this feels great.

I start to roll my hips, and she hikes a thigh, letting it sort of halfway wrap around my waist. My hips begin to beat a tempo, pushing into her repeatedly. Soon enough, the creak and thump of the couch, the furniture none too thrilled with what these two bitterly-allied women are putting it through, fills the room.

That, and the mingling of our belabored breathing, or the drumbeat of my body slamming against Drift's.

Look, it isn't because I like her, and I know damn well that she doesn't like me either. I'm just saying - sometimes, in the heat of the moment, a little bit of smooching is nice, right? Especially since we're stuck together, anyway.

This is one of those times.

Our lips mash together, my face making her glasses go askew, smudged and fogged up, wild purple and subdued brown hair mixing as I push my tongue into her mouth. She's moaning now, and I can feel the tension building inside her. Her hands claw at my shoulders, her body jolting as I hump into her a bit harder.