Synapsis at the Firewall Pt. 01

Damien rose to his knees. He could understand what was happening, but his mind wouldn't work. Not a single thought could get through, as his inner breath was knocked out of him. The man that fell over the coffee table was stumbling to get up. The two girls on the couch were cowering, and Buzzcut--

The girl with the buzzcut had a gun. She fumbled to load a revolver with loose cartridges from inside the end table. Damien drew his service pistol. He ordered her to drop it. Buzzcut ignores him. She snaps the revolver shut. Damien leveled his gun with Buzzcut. Her revolver jumped, an explosion erupted, and puffs of drywall explode behind Damien. Damien fired three times and the girl's collarbone and right shoulder exploded into mangled chunks.

The man who had kicked stars into Damien's vision was throwing it out with Juana, she lost the ground battle and backed up for a reset. She was taking blows like a champ, blocking them with her arms held uptight.

"Don't move!" Damien barked; his gun now trained on the man

He wasn't listening, he was too busy throwing punches. Damien's gun blasted twice, the final gunshot an exclamation point to a walk-in gone wrong. The man fell with ragged cries of agony.

Juana jumped back yanking her gun out of its holster. She breathed with a heavy rhythm that matched the hardfire racking her nerves.

With Herculean effort Damien raised to his feet. His whole body had a feebleness to match the groaning man on the floor. The world had stopped spinning, for now, but the spinning turned to a ring.

And the ringing world was one hell of a mess: the girl with the buzzcut lied on her back, her upper torso a bloody mess and her body propped uncomfortably against the blood-splattered wall, her eyes were squeezed shut and her teeth clenched in retched agony; the other man he shot lied rolling in pain; and the poor fool who attacked Juana lied motionless, barely alive, his face battered and red. The main in the drug-fueled coma still hadn't returned to the land of the living.

The girls on the couch cowered in fear like children watching a bad horror movie.

Juana holstered her handgun. "Damn," she sighed, her arms now shaking, "Not bad, Damien. Fuckin plugged'em." She motioned to the man on the floor and then the gore against the wall. Damien winced with anger.

Juana got on the radio and began calling for a trauma unit. "You took a nasty hit," she smiled. Damien could see her body shaking from the adrenaline dump. He felt as though he should be shaking, too, but instead he felt like he needed to vomit.

Juana dusted Damien off to humor herself. It made Damien sick. He couldn't help but glare -- she didn't notice.

"Come on," Juana said, "let's rope this place off, wait 'till trauma arrives with backup to take care of the girls and wounded, and then grab a burger or something." She looked up from the carnage, then Damien.

"You alright? You don't look so good."

"No," he admitted, "I'm not."

-----

The bar was crowded, and the dance floor was packed as bodies swayed like a sea during a storm. There were all kinds of people here: mudboys and dirtgirls, streetjocks and wireheads, chromegirls and boosters. As diverse as the animals in the wild, all these people came together with the pretext of having a good time -- a time to pretend that their miserable and chaotic lives outside the confines of the bar didn't exist. An Italian pop queen's synthetic voice sang an up-tempo love song over the sound system as hypnotic lights strobe across the room. People were taking their poison of choice, a buffet of every vice: uppers and downers, drugs and alcohol, dolls and porn. This small place had it all.

It was Juana's choice to grab drinks at Blue Prysm, it was her favorite bar. The place was like a watering hole to all the dregs of society that couldn't make it into the rat race of the white-collar world. The only reason Juana still went there was that she frequented it before joining the police force.

Damien couldn't believe he agreed to tag along. They lost the police uniforms and got into more casual attire -- Juana stuck with her 'uniform' minus the vest, gun, and badge. The two sat at a small circular booth in a corner by the bar. He swore he saw a group of streetjocks glare cyanide eyes at him from the second-floor catwalk.

"Not drinking?" Juana asked as she slid into the booth, her third beer in hand.

"Yeah," Damien spoke before taking a sip of his beer as if trying to prove a point, "just taking it a little slow."

Juana got busy downing her beer. Damien watched her with judgmental timidness. It wasn't the drinking that tugged at him, it was the crowd she ran with. She was supposed to be a cop, someone who set examples, yet she hung out with and behaved like the two-bit thugs she slaps handcuffs on.

Juana chugged a quarter of her beer and slammed it down onto the table. With a mischievous grin, she said, "You were pretty badass today, you know that?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I don't think I've ever seen you really throw down like that. I mostly do the fighting."

"Yeah, well--"

"Seriously, Damien, when you've been on the force as long as I have, the ability to take a hit and come back swinging is the baseline of what separates those with a career and those fucking dead."

"I shot two people after you pushed them around."

Juana frowned, she scowled as she took another sip of her drink. Damien knew he had said the wrong thing, but it was the truth, and he wasn't going to keep his mouth shut anymore.

"You feeling sorry for those low-lives?" Juana finally replied.

"I'm saying all that shouldn't have happened."

Juana stayed quiet for a moment; she looked over at the crowd. Damien's mind raced for something to say, something to make her see that she was in the wrong. But his thoughts were getting interrupted by the dance serenade blaring throughout the club.

"Yeah, maybe I pushed them over the edge. But if it wasn't us, it would have been someone else. Besides, we probably stopped them from fucking up someone."

"They're just going to be replaced by someone else," Damien replied quickly.

"Yeah, maybe."

He and his partner had disagreements in the past, but this was different. What happened earlier wasn't a typically afternoon brawl. No, Damien had to shoot people that he shouldn't have. There was blood on his hands, and all because Juana wanted to play cowboy, he thought.

"You know," Juana spoke up, the music almost drowning out her voice, "it's no secret I like taking out the trash. You like seeing the bad guys locked up, I like seeing them get what they deserve. We want the same thing, almost."

Damien shook his head, "I don't really think so. You aren't judge, jury, and executioner."

"To the people on the streets, you bet your ass I am."

Damien scoffed. He took a swig of his beer, the harsh yellow foaming alcohol burned with refreshing familiarity.

Juana's roguish smile returned, "What's the matter? Figure out I'm right."

"That's seriously fucked up," Damien said wiping his mouth, "We have laws for a reason."

"Pfff, the laws are suggestions, gato. Live a day in the streets and you'll know what I mean."

Damien felt a burning in his chest. His eyes unfocused, his legs were unable to sit still. He felt like a caged-up dog ready to snap. Worse of all, he couldn't think of a damn thing to say.

Juana finished her beer and began talking, "You know, despite our differences, I like having you as a partner. You're like the yin to my yang. That, and I love pissing you off. You wanna know why?"

Damien didn't answer.

"It's easy."

Juana smiled like a devil. Damien looked away into the crowd. He felt a surge of anger shoot through him like the pilot light of an engine -- one more spark and he was going to light. He hated how right she was and regretted saying yes to getting drinks with her. When he looked back, she still had that smirk he hated.

"Yeah, real funny, huh?" he said.

Juana leaned forward, resting her head on her hand propped up on the table. There was something in her eyes that made Damien want to look away.

"You know," Juana spoke up, "You're kinda cute when you pout."

"What?"

"Sorry I got your feelings all hurt," she mocked, "you're just too darn cute when you're pissed."

Now Damien's cheeks turned hot. He could barely stand to look at his partner. "You're drunk, aren't you?"

"Maybe. What are you going to do about it?"

"You're weird."

"You're nervous."

No shit, Damien wanted to say. He scooted a foot down the booth, but Juana moved closer, her eyes narrowing down on him like crosshairs, her lips curling like an evil jester's.

"What are you running for?"

"You're good and drunk, Juana. You know that? Seriously."

"And you're a pussy. Now let's change that!"

Juana whirled herself onto Damien before he could react. She grabbed his head and pulled him close, her lips meeting his with a hungry fervor, her tongue begging to be met halfway.

Damien pushed her away. The two looked at each other with wide eyes. There was a force between them like glass -- unseeable yet its presence known -- and it made both apprehensive to speak. The world around them was gone. No thumping dance music, no cheering or idle chatter, just two partners staring at each other with eyes like saucers.

Juana was the first to speak, "What's the matter? Coming on too strong?" She sat motionless for only a second or two, but it seemed like an eternity. She put the ball in his court, and the heart beating in her throat was begging for a reply.

"Y-you're drunk," Damien stammered, "Come on, let's go."

Juana laughed like a winner as if ribbons and confetti were bursting out from behind Damien's head. He could almost see it in her dark brown eyes -- the ribbons and confetti strobes of neon light.

"W-what? What are you laughing about?"

"You liked it!" Juana grabbed the beer Damien had been drinking; she downed it like it was water. With a refreshed sigh, she slammed the beer back down onto the table, wiped her lips, and looked Damien in eye, "You liked it!"

Damien moved out of the booth; his partner followed suit. "Where are you goin'?" Juana asked.

He dug the keys to his car out of his pocket and held them up, she got the hint.

They bumped shoulders and stepped on toes trying to leave, Juana cackled like a hyena as if Damien had told the funniest damn joke -- and right now he felt like one. Outside, the city's night air was warm; the street was awash with cold fluorescent and harsh neon, the sidewalk was packed with the ever-constant flow of punks and delinquents. A police aerodyne buzzed overhead, its sirens a crescendo among an orchestra of chatter, advertisements, and traffic. The two walked down the street to where Damien had parked along the curb. Damien looked over his shoulder to make sure his partner hadn't fallen or hurt herself, she kept a leering watch on him. The two got into Damien's car without a word, and Damien pulled into the street and began the drive to Juana's apartment.

"You know, we coulda' walked," Juana chuckled.

"With you being drunk? Not a chance."

"I'm a little buzzard," she joked, "I can take care of myself."

"And if you get jumped?"

"Hell, I've fought worse than some punks while way more fucked up."

Damien rolled his eyes.

The drive was a short one, only two blocks down from Blue Prysm. Damien parked along the curb; Juana watched him swipe his card at the parking meter. He could feel her eyes roaming over him like spotlights over an actor. And the feeling never faded as they rode the elevator up to the tenth floor of the dilapidated apartment building.

"Going to help me inside?" Juana said once they arrived, she leaned against the door to her apartment, Room 618.

Damien sighed; Juana's advances were beginning to wear thin on him. Annoyance gave him the courage to face down the leering woman, and he looked his partner in the eyes-- her appetite clear from behind those dark brown eyes.

Juana tutted, turned, and punched her electric key into the lock. She opened the door and flicked the light onto an apartment that had seen better days. The drywall was bare and grey, the piping exposed. In the center sat a couch from the Regan administration that sat like a worn-out dog. A flatscreen, setting a few feet from the couch, peeked out from behind the entranceway corner.

Juana braced the door with her foot and turned in the doorway. Her eyes met Damien's, and the man's heart began to pound, his veins grew hot, and his feet became planted. His body knew something he couldn't quite catch, something that she knew, but something he refused to acknowledge.

His partner grabbed him by the belt loop by one hand and his neck with the other, "Get the hell in here."

And he let himself be pulled in. The door slammed behind him. Juana was all over him; her hands explored his body with feverish delight, her lips and tongue played with his.

His mind worked overtime, every thought interrupted by the sensory overload that was the woman touching him, kissing him. He asked himself just what the hell he was doing, but his conscious wasn't available, his body was doing the talking. And talk it did, as he found himself returning the favor. His hands wrapped around his partner and explored every inch. Her back, her stomach, each part like finding gold.

Juana pushed him up against the door, moving her lips to his ear, "Touch me like you want me, lover."

He didn't hesitate.

He trailed both hands down her waist and back around to her ass. He took a handful; Juana took delight as she purred and bit his earlobe -- Damien winced. He had never been with a woman like this, and he was more than nervous, but the thrill was eating him alive. There was no saying no.

The whirlwind made its way to the bed in the corner, clothes, and modesty alike lost in the maelstrom. For a moment, Damien's world slowed down, every second and minute blended into a muddled mess of a crawl. Their bodies burned, each touch and kiss electric.

Damien fought to keep up with the woman in his hands. She was fierce, like an animal. Each movement deliberate. She knew what she wanted and wasted no time in getting there.

She rolled Damien over and climbed on top of him, striding him on her knees. She broke the kiss, her eyes never meeting Damien's as she focused on his hard member. Taking it into her hands, she guided it to the pulsing wet heat between her legs. And slowly, she lowered herself onto him. Damien could barely keep it to himself, he shook as the wet fiery heat enveloped his member.

The body above him began to rock, back and forth at first. Juana leaned back, her eyes closed, focused on nothing but the carnal pleasure. Damien took the sight in: her beautiful athletic body, the soft ample breasts upon her chest, the small dark patch of hair tucked between her legs.

Like a cowboy, she began to ride him hard and fast. Damien took hold of her ass, squeezing the soft flesh with a hunger to match the jaguar riding him. The speed rose, and so, too, did the moans and groans of the two lovers -- their pleasure in sensual tandem. She tended to herself with one hand, loving the overwhelming sensations. Damien felt himself going over the edge, his member throbbing.

Her body heaved, and her moans became deathly silent. Her legs began to shake, she didn't stop. Suddenly her body erupted into heavy quakes as the ecstasy of her climax crashed over her body like tidal waves. One after another, each wave harder than the last. Damien couldn't hold on, didn't want to. Everything squeezed around him and suddenly he felt himself explode into a similar quake of intense orgasmic bliss, his member shooting hard.

They lay together for a moment, arms wrapped around each other basking in the blissful glory of a climax. The room smelled of sex, their bodies heaving and sweaty.

Reality came back with a vengeance. Juana rolled over onto her back. "Ok," she said with an exhausted sigh, "I think it's time you leave."

Damien's heart dropped. He looked at the woman to who he made himself vulnerable, with who he rode a skyrocketing climax. "W-what?"

Juana's voice was rigid, her voice like the ice in Damien's veins, "Yeah, just... just go."

There wasn't anything else to say. He climbed out of his partner's bed, stumbling to his feet and his clothes. Like him, Juana said nothing but stared at the cold ceiling above. All he could think about was scraping up the last bits of dignity, of not looking like an idiot, despite feeling like one.

With his pants and shirt hastily pulled on, Damien made his way for the door. No goodbye, no look back, he simply let himself out. He walked to the elevator, his mind and body still reeling from everything the shock. He felt hurt, confused, and embarrassed. Did she, though? Was his partner still picking up the pieces from her shattered dignity like him?

The chaos of the night hit him like a truck as he stepped out of the building. The crowd was thick, and the traffic was heavy. Commercials played from video boards scattered around the concrete canyons. There was a scream from down the block, and a group of men in leather jackets and red bandanas walked past him towards the scream. A pack of dolls in chrome and latex worked the street next to him, their pimp in earshot.

"Never have a lonely night again!" A barbie doll of a woman, all tits and hips, smiled from a video board across the street. "With Toshiba's Bio-sculpt, you can be the stud or babe you always dreamed of!"

Damien took a deep breath, dug his car keys from his pocket, and prepared to go home.