Constant in All Other Things

by

Fakeminsk

fakeminsk@yahoo.com

 

Chapter Ten

 

Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the office and affairs of love:
Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;
Let every eye negotiate for itself
And trust no agent

-Much Ado About Nothing

 

"Such a disappointment."

Agent Fosters approached unhurriedly. His bulk seemed to fill the hallway. At six feet and a bit he towered over me. He filled out his well-cut black suit and it clearly wasn't with fat. Expensive shoes sounded a deliberate, solid rhythm at his approach. Each step landed with an almost leonine grace that belied his size. Large, wiry hands curled and uncurled into fists at his side. His smile was sardonic and his eyes glittered cruelly as he watched his prey.

"Listen, can we talk about this?" I pleaded as I took an unsteady step back.

There was no negotiating with this guy. I instinctively understood the nature of this man. He wouldn't kill me out of loyalty to Steele. He wouldn't do it for the money. He would kill me for pleasure. Three weeks ago I sensed the animal that lurked beneath the façade of civility he presented, but now his true nature showed clearly in every fibre of his being. The best I could hope for was to buy some time--time for K to get her secret agent ass to my rescue, for Scooter to engage whatever security systems Asklepios might have. I wasn't about to hold my breath, though. If Fosters was as good as I suspected he'd have his bases covered. Back in the hotel room there had been a partner; where was she?

He shook his head slowly, eyes never losing track of me. His smile grew wide and hungry.

I never considered running. It's what Fosters wanted: the final ecstasy of the chase and the savage joy of the kill. I had a better chance of delaying the inevitable by staying. Feed his appetite but keep him wanting more. It's not like I would have gotten very far in these clothes anyway. This skirt hobbled me to mincing steps. I could barely walk in these shoes, let alone run. Long hair for him to pull me back with. Jangling accessories to betray my location. A corset that strangled my breath. Everything that Agent K and the Clinic had done to disguise me now served me up to the enemy in a state of learned helplessness.

Backing away with hesitant steps from the larger man, it wasn't difficult to appear frightened.

"Please. . . ." A final use of the spray this morning kept my voice feminine. "Don't hurt me." I pleaded with eyes wide with terror.

The sick bastard loved it, the girlish sob that wavered beneath my voice. "What a disappointment," he repeated. "They told me you were a real tough guy," he said. "A bastard. And look at you now: nothing more than a little sissy." He paused in his approach. Twenty feet away. There was a locked door to my back and the hallway continued to my right. He blocked the only other was in or out, and stood just a few feet from the threshold leading into Scooter's office.

"I am going to hurt you, David." The space between us was largely empty: a few framed pictures on the wall, a low sofa behind Fosters with a small table next to it decorated with a vase overflowing with flowers. The flowers were startling bright, beautiful red roses that seemed out of place in their clinical surroundings. They momentarily drew my eye away from Fosters. "I am going to hurt you bad. I am going to break you, then I am going to cut you, and then I am going to watch you bleed."

Lovely guy, this Fosters. If he was talking it's because he wasn't expecting any interruptions. Where the hell was K? "No," I cried, channelling more of Cindy. My hands fluttered at my side and I clasped them together desperately. "Oh God, please . . . don't."

Drinking in my terror, he took a single step forward and eyed me appraisingly. "Beg for you life, little sissy." His eyes shone eagerly. "Or should I call you Cindy? It does not matter; beg, you little faggot, beg for a quick death."

"I'm begging you," I said, nearly sobbing, shaking my head, long blond tresses trembling about my face. "I--"

"On you knees," he demanded. "Little bitches like you beg on their knees."

I hesitated only briefly before sinking to the floor, the smooth tiles cool and slippery through my thin stockings. Looking up through the tangled curtain of my hair I repeated my plea. "Please don't kill me."

He resumed his leisurely approach. Even fixated on me he kept careful awareness of his surroundings, each step deceptively relaxed. My stomach tightened--to the extent that it could, trapped in the corset's grip--as he drew close. Ten feet away. I nearly shook with the effort to remain on my knees.

I had to trust to this man's primal nature. I had to believe when he said he planned to hurt me first. Injuries can heal. Pain can be endured. But if he pulled a gun, which he must surely have--bang--game over. I had no intention of dying, not here, not dressed like this. As long as Fosters was beating on me there was still hope; K might still show; the cavalry might arrive; he might make a mistake.

Fosters stared at me hungrily, and with dismay I watched the delight in his eyes twist and darken. "Disgusting," he said.

"How did you find me?" I dropped the begging but kept the desperate tone to my voice. It wasn't entirely faked.

Pride briefly warred with impatience. The disdain never left his eyes as he spoke. "You led us on a good chase," he grudgingly admitted. "Mr Steele has his agents everywhere, scouring the city for you. My partner was tipped off to the safe house. It seemed an unlikely lead. And I have to admit--when we followed you to that hotel you fooled us completely. Oh, you were convincing, David--very convincing." The scorn in his voice made me tremble with shame--which he wanted--and fury--which I hid. "Being a girl comes naturally to you.

"The rental car gave you away. That bitch protecting you wiped it clean of prints. But she missed something. A tiny spot of blood on the ceiling. Your blood. Once we knew you were in the car the distance logged by it made tracking you here easy. But were you still in the Clinic? That had to be determined. So I watched. Imagine my surprise when I saw Cindy." He stepped closer. "Was she a girlfriend? Were you the man in the shower back in the hotel? Oh, imagine my surprise when I finally realized that you were Cindy! A very good effort, David Sanders. You seemed to have found your true calling."

What gave me away? During what brief moment in which I allowed my feminine character to slip away did this bastard spot me? Or had I only been half as convincing as I'd thought, making an utter fool of myself in an environment so messed up nobody really cared?

"But--how. . . ."

Shaking his head, Fosters loomed over me. "Your efforts to delay the inevitable are pathetic," he said. "Mr Steele wants a very painful example made of you, David. The security protocols for the building have been overridden and this wing placed in a lockdown. The doors are locked, the windows barred. No one is coming to your rescue."

With an almost tired sigh he reached down. His fingers coiled roughly through my hair and pulled. I gasped with pain as he hauled me to my feet. "My partner is taking care of your protector." He yanked my head back. His eyes burned into mine. "And I've got all the time in the world to take care of you."

 

"Don't worry, child. I'll take care of you."

The woman gathered me in her arms. She was only a few inches taller than me but seemed much larger, more powerful than any school councillor or parent. Tears of outrage and frustration dribbled down my cheek and stained the front of her blouse as she held me close. I trembled and she smoothed down my hair and made hushing sounds. "It'll be okay," she said, but I was too young and too weak, too angry to listen.

"My name is Sakura," she said, crouching slightly to look me eye-to-eye. "I'm a teacher."

Her 'students' clustered not far behind with faces revealing varying degrees of anger, guilt and surprise. For the last fifteen minutes they'd been first taunting me, then pushing me around, and finally they'd settled on beating the living shit out of me.

"So tell me," she asked, after I'd told her my name, "why on earth did you try and steal from a martial arts school?"

In stumbling, half-choked words I explained about the gang, the initiation challenge and how impressed I thought they'd be if I returned with some kind of weapon or a big wad of cash. Somehow it never occurred to me that I could actually get caught; and if I did, well, I could take care of myself. I thought I was tough. I was eleven years old and an idiot.

"But you weren't strong enough, were you?" Sakura asked, wiping at a spot of blood at the corner of my mouth.

I shook my head angrily.

"You didn't give up," she added. "I watched you fight back."

I glared at her.

She laughed, an airy sound free of mockery. She caught a tear running down my cheek. "These tears, they aren't of pain, are they? They aren't of embarrassment."

I shook my head.

"They're of anger." She leaned closer and spoke so softly only I could hear. "You're very angry, aren't you? You'd like to strike back at them--at all of them," she said, and somehow I understood she was referring to people beyond the walls of this small room. "If only you were strong enough."

There was no need to answer; she understood.

"Would you like me to train you?" Sakura asked.

I nodded.

 

His fist slammed into my face. I staggered back. No stability in those shoes. My ankle wobbled and I hit the wall. A picture frame shattered against the back of my skull. Glass shards rained down about my shoulders. Fosters was on me immediately, another punch catching me in the stomach. Pain flared in my side. I began to crumble, until an uppercut sent me back. My shoulder clipped the wall and I spun into the sofa. I hit the armrest and tumbled forward. His knee dropped onto my back. He hauled my head back by my hair. My scalp burned. I tasted blood. His fingers closed around my throat.

"You pathetic wimp," he hissed. He dragged me off the sofa. I scrabbled useless at his grip. He lifted me up and slammed me against the wall and held me there. "Did you enjoy dressing like this?" His hand released my throat and grabbed at the prosthetic breasts. "Enjoy being felt up?" His rough squeeze went unfelt, but with a tearing sound and the popping of buttons he ripped the blouse open. Fosters' eyes narrowed with disgust at the sight of the grey things stuck to my chest, and the corset that contained them. "Sick," he spat, and violently threw me into the opposite wall.

The wall cracked and dust showed over me as I collapsed to the ground. On trembling hands I lifted myself from the floor. His foot lashed out and caught me across the ribs. I dropped again. With a moan I tried to cover my wounded side, only for his fist to smash me back down.

"Stop!" I cried out.

Ignoring my plea, Fosters roughly lifted me off the ground and effortlessly tossed me away. I crashed into the end table, falling over it onto the sofa once again. The vase shattered beneath my body. Water splashed out and soaked my front. Flowers scattered everywhere. I felt porcelain shards cut my skin as I twisted to stare up at him with terrified eyes. He paused momentarily to drink in my fear, gaze roaming across my form.

Sprawled across the cushions, with the skirt tangled over my stocking tops, with one snapped garter hanging loose and my hair tangled about my face in a dishevelled mess, I presented a helpless, fearful girl. Stray locks caught in my earrings, on my makeup, on the blood that trickled from the corner of my mouth and I hesitatingly pulled them away with a trembling hand. The exposed corset shimmered under hospital lights. A stray rose rested on my chest and contrasted brilliantly with the satin white. It somehow stayed stuck to me as I pulled myself to a sitting position.

"Why should I stop?" Fosters asked, leaning back against the wall. His hands continued to slowly clench and unclench at his side. His relaxed posture was again deceptive. He balanced lightly on the balls of his toes, ready to move. "Will you offer me money? More than Mr Steele has?"

I shook my head. "No, but . . . you don't have to do this. . . ."

He laughed. "Of course I do not have to do this." He shrugged. "But I certainly want to."

"But. . . ." I scrambled for some other way to tempt him, for some way of delaying the inevitable. There was nothing. "I. . . ."

"How about yourself?" he said, leaning forward slightly. "Offer me your body, Cindy."

"My . . . body?"

"That lovely mouth of yours. That tight bottom. I do not suppose you have a pussy buried away down there? Too bad. Go on, Cindy, suck me off. Maybe if I fuck your ass I will let you go."

The look of revulsion that crawled across my face couldn't be hidden. Sick bastard. The inevitable loomed ever closer. "If I . . . if I," I swallowed nervously. "If I give you a blow job . . . you'll leave me alone?"

He was on me immediately, his fist lashing out and catching me across the chin. With a strangled cry I fell back onto the sofa. "What do you think I am, some kind of queer?" he demanded, features twisted by rage. "You think I need some shit-stabbing pansy for that?" He lunged forward and grabbed me by the hair again. He dragged me from the couch and ignored my feeble cries as he hauled me across the floor. "I'll fuck your skull if I want to!" he yelled down. "I'll rape your cock-sucking corpse!" With a final kick he sent me stumbling into Scooter's waiting room.

I scrambled away from him on all fours, my ass in the air and spike heels slipping and the carpeting burning my palms and knees, until I ran into the far wall. Twisting, I stared back at Fosters, framed in the door and blocking any escape. He watched me contemplatively and slowly smiled. The quick transitions from psychotic rage to contemplative delight were unnerving. "Perhaps I should give Mr Steele a call," he said, patting at some inner pocket. "I am sure if he knew of your . . . disguise, he might be tempted to make it a little more permanent. Would you like that, David? I bet you would, to spend the rest of you life as somebody's bitch, taking it up the ass, sucking cock in some drugged-up haze, a slave to whoever Steele lends you out to?"

"He . . . doesn't know?"

Jeremiah-fucking-Steele didn't know . . . he didn't know! This sick bastard hadn't called in to report yet. Maybe Steele knew about the Asklepios Clinic, but Cindy remained anonymous. I felt a desperate hope blossom; all my efforts weren't wasted. "So the sissy thinks he has found a way out, does he?" Fosters shook his head in disbelief as he stepped into the room. "Do you think me so stupid not to recognize your pathetic efforts for what they are?" His voice hovered on a knife's edge between anger and boredom. "But no phone calls, David. No hope.

"Mr Steele will be most pleased when I tell him of the state in which you were found--how you begged to live--and how painfully you died." He was warmed up now, ready to begin with the real hurting, with the pain that would end in my death. I couldn't afford to delay any longer. Rescue wasn't coming after all; I had to fend for myself.

"Ready to die, bitch?" Fosters stepped closer. His smile grew at the sight of his feminized victim curled up in fear against the wall--wavered--and I saw the first shadow of doubt creep into his eyes.

Up to now he'd been taking it easy, slapping me around like his bitch and holding back his full strength. Even so, my chest should have heaved with fear. I should have been doubled over in agony from the brief but savage beating, clutching at my side, stomach; blood should have been streaming from my face, from a shattered nose or busted lips. Where were the tears, the abject supplications; the sheen of sweat; why hadn't I even tried to escape?

Hey, I'm a good actor but not that fucking good, yeah?

I picked the rose from my chest, the thorn only reluctantly letting go. I momentarily appreciated its brilliant, vivid beauty. So delicate and fragile; with a sigh I crushed the flower in my palm and it tumbled to the floor. Rising to my feet, an easy flick of the head sent that mane of hair back over my shoulder. I straightened my skirt and a slow smile spread across my face.

"Hey, you know what? I don't fucking think so."

The surprise quickly faded from his face. "So the little sissy thinks he can fight back?" His voice dripped with contempt. He reached into his jacket. If he pulled out a gun . . . but no, it was a knife, a sleek, double-edged thing that gleamed coldly. It settled comfortably in his grip. "Taken a few karate classes, have you?" He chuckled grimly. "Do your best, David. Make this interesting. It is time to bleed."

The fucker was fast, I'll give him that, faster than I would've expected considering his size. He blurred forward, silently, blade stabbing straight for my chest. It wasn't meant to kill--just to cut, badly, make me bleed and disable my arm. Meeting his charge, I caught his attack at the wrist. The tip of the knife wavered an inch from my chest. For a moment our two bodies pressed towards each other, our momentums clashing. Fosters was bigger, his footing surer; I fell back a step, then another; and then I was back up against the wall.

Fosters' breath was sure and measured, his eyes gleaming as he pressed forward with all his weight and strength. Now my chest did heave with effort, pulse pounding in my ears as I fought his attack, desperately struggling to suck in air despite the corset. My muscles swelled as I pushed against him. It wasn't enough; he was stronger than I was, bigger and heavier, better dressed for combat, eager to kill.

The knife drifted closer. The tip touched my right breast, hesitated, and slowly sank into the prosthetic flesh.

"You are going to die, David," whispered Fosters. The knife sank a fraction of an inch, another, into the prosthetic. Those breasts were all but dead but I still felt the dull throb of that blade sinking into artificial flesh, the pain growing the deeper it penetrated. An acrid stench of rot escaped from the wound. He continued to press down. "Try, you little wimp. Fight!"

I pushed against him, muscles burning, sweat erupting across my body, burning into my eyes. My breath came in burning gasps, made feminine by the spray. I refused to die--like this--squeaking like some bitch in heat!

"Not enough," he murmured. "You never had a chance. I am a killer, David, born and trained." His eyes bore into mine, burning with desire, hate, hunger--the animalistic thrill of killing.

And in my eyes--he saw himself reflected, saw the same feral beast stare back, hungry and angry, and his confidence momentarily wavered. "Yeah, know what?" I snarled. "So am I."

With a final effort the blade sank deeper. Savage, burning pain flared across my chest and seared through my head. . . .

 

. . . and I curled into a tight ball to escape the relentless pounding but it was no use, there was no escape; Sakura's attacks continued. Her kick found my undefended stomach; when I dropped my hands to cover my torso she punched me across the face. I tried crawling away only for her to seize my leg and twist it so that I thought it would break.

"Stop," I gasped, begged, barely able to breath. "Please--I can't. . . ."

I stared up at her as she walked around my prone form, her soft steps silent across the hard wooden floor. She kicked my side, nearly hard enough to fracture a rib. "Get up," she said. Her face was an expressionless mask.

"I can't!" I insisted, breathless, defeated.

She crouched by my head. "Get up." She slapped me, and then punched me in the shoulder. "Get up."

My eyes burned with sweat but not with tears, even though the sense of betrayal was nearly more than I could bear. I did want to get up--for her, the sense of failure was nearly sickening, but my limbs were dead to me, my lungs burned with exhaustion and the pain was overwhelming. "I. . . ."

Her fingers curled around my throat, cutting off my words, cutting off air. "Get up," she said and my vision began to swim and dance. I must have blacked out, but somehow a moment later . . . I was standing on unsure, weak legs, only half-conscious--but upright.

Sakura's expression hadn't changed. "Fight back," she said. Her punch to the stomach sent me back to the floor.

It took ages, but somehow standing once again became easier. "Please!" I cried out, blinking back tears.

Another hit, another drop to the floor. "Fight back."

"Stop," I gasped, but she didn't and knocked me back again, and I clambered back to my feet and tried again, "stop!" angrier this time and how could she do this to me, I was her student and she promised to take care of me and what the hell was she trying to do, kill me? "Stop!" I yelled.

"Stop it!" I screamed and only then realized I'd just blocked her punch. A rush of pleasure coursed through me--until her second attack slammed me back into the wall.

I stared up at her in shock. "But--"

"Fight," she repeated, hitting me again, and just like that--my anger boiled over.

"Bitch!" I screamed, and launched myself at her, a flurry of wild punches and blind kicks and rushes that never came close to touching her as she danced away; but I chased after her, back and forth across the training hall, blood rushing like pouring sand in my ears, vision reduced to a lurid crimson tunnel and my heart pounding furiously in my chest. "I'll. . . ."

My body gave out. I collapsed to the ground, unconscious, the taste of vomit flooding my mouth.

And indeterminate time later I came to. Sakura knelt beside me. A look of such tenderness filled her face that I felt an impossible swell of love for her. It nearly swept away the newfound hatred that sat, like a jagged, heavy stone, at my core.

"I thought you were going to kill me," I whispered, incapable of speaking any louder.

"Only if you fail me," she said, and I desperately sought humour in her words.

"You don't train the other students like this."

Sakura smiled. "You're not like the other students," she said.

 

Five years of practice and training and pretending were stripped away in a moment. Ever since Kate's death I'd played nice and voluntarily wrapped myself in chains of civility and good behaviour. The scorpions, the slimy and horrible things that lurked within--five years ago I locked them away under the harshest of bondage and taught myself to forget what I knew existed deep down within.

Those chains and shackles fell away and I released a cry of exultant, savage joy.

I forced the attack to the side. The blade cut deep but sliced lengthwise, slashing through the prosthetic but only nicking the real flesh beneath. The taut skin of the breast split and the innards swelled out like the meat of a sausage. Intense pain flared across my chest and then suddenly cut off. An oily black fluid abruptly sprayed from the ruptured breast and caught Fosters across the face.

He hissed in pain and surprise and briefly dropped his guard. I threw my entire body forward, slamming my shoulder into his chest. He staggered back a step. The knife slashed upwards, blindly, nearly catching me across the shoulder but I used my momentum to slip past the man, hitting the floor, rolling out into a low crouch across from him.

The bastard moved away, nearly doubled over, the knife held between us, his other hand swiping at his face. Black slime from the split breast dribbled and bubbled down my front. Instead of pressing the attack I took advantage of his distraction to grab at the zipper of the corset. I yanked it down and air rushed into my lungs. If only there was time to unlace these crippling stilettos from my feet. . . .

Fosters straightened opposite me. His face and eyes were bright red and teary but promised pain. "You should have run while you had the chance, bitch," he hissed. The knife rested loosely in his hand.

When I touched one delicate finger to the edge of my mouth it came away with blood. Lipstick, nail polish, blood: all the same brilliant crimson. I wiped my hand clean against the blouse that hung loosely from my frame. Slowly rising from my crouch I couldn't suppress a grin, thin and cruel, from spreading across my face. The bastard had about seven inches of height on me, fifty pounds, a longer reach and a knife. He probably had a gun as well, though he wouldn't use it unless absolutely necessarily; Fosters liked to kill with his hands.

Through bleary eyes he watched me warily--but not warily enough. Fosters still had absolute confidence in his ability to take me down at his leisure, and why shouldn't he? Everything he knew about me suggested I was an easy mark: a twenty-something average Joe with a dull past, a corporate middle-manager who'd just spent the last three weeks prancing around in drag. Too bad for him it was all lies, a pretty little packaging concealing a violent past. Otherwise he'd be taking me a hell of a lot more seriously. He'd be scrambling for that gun. Because after five goddamn years of denying myself utterly this most exquisite pleasure . . . yeah, I was going to enjoy this. I really was.

I was going to tear this motherfucker down. I was going to rend this motherfucker to pieces.

We both moved forward simultaneously. He threw a lazy jab, another, testing me. I leaned back and avoided his fist and when the cross came I blurred forward, slapping his arm away and twisted in, elbow aimed for his head. Momentary surprise flashed in his eyes but he reacted quicker than expected; he dipped beneath my attack and his knife stabbed upwards seeking my armpit. With one knee I knocked his hand aside at the wrist, but my back foot swayed in four-inch heels; I fell back a step and from his low stance his foot thrust out, aiming high. I twisted aside but his kick clipped my hip, staggering me.

I hit the far wall but controlled the impact. He rushed forward, knife ready. The bastard continued to underestimate. I recovered quickly and snapped out a quick, low kick. Knife already extended in attack, the tip of my foot caught his hand and sent the weapon flying. Unfazed, Fosters stormed through the attack, one heavy fist catching me in the side. I grunted as fractured ribs on the mend flared with pain but retaliated with a quick strike of my own, easily blocked. A flurry of up-close blows between us, quick punches and opens hands sliding to wrists, elbows, deflecting each other's attacks. A frozen moment, both our arms held in check. Between the frame of our interlocked limbs Fosters smiled once again, still feral but different now: his animalistic thrill was underscored by a very human delight in the challenge he'd found and the surety of his victory. There was no special empathy in my understanding: the same manic grin illuminated my face as well.

His head smashed forward seeking the bridge of my nose. Shifting backwards I used my shoulder to lock his and used the energy to throw him into the wall. The impact smashed a hole in the plaster but he twisted quickly, arms raised defensively, to face me. My hair swirled in a golden halo as I lashed out with a massive backhand. It would've torn his jaw off had it hit. Continuing to twist he ducked beneath my strike and threw out a quick uppercut. Dropping my elbow I took the hit on the meat of the arm and stretched out, the edge of my open hand seeking his collarbone. Fosters dipped his shoulder and uncoiled like a spring, throwing his whole body forward. He caught me square on and I barely managed to throw his weight aside as we both hit the floor.

I found my feet but the shoes and skirt slowed me. He surged across the room and landed a massive side-thrusting kick square in the chest. Pain erupted through my torso as the other prosthetic exploded; black slime spattered everywhere. I went flying back. The glass door shattered behind me. I tumbled into the examination room. Hitting the floor I slid several feet before lying there, dazed and winded.

Glass crunched underfoot. Fosters stepped into the room. I could almost hear the tight clenching and unclenching of his fists as he approached. The bastard was taking his time. He thought he had me beat. The way things were going, he was right. These fucking clothes were crippling me. I could barely stand or walk, let alone fight. Far worse: it had been too long. I'd lost my edge; my instincts were dulled from disuse. I'd kept the body in shape but the spirit had weakened.

Fosters foot stomped down for my head, a debilitating blow. I twisted my neck aside and my legs found his, sweeping them out from beneath him. Glass lacerated my back and side as I rolled away; glass slivers cut into the palm of my hand as I pushed away and found my feet even as he found his.

The larger man lashed out with another big kick; I slid beneath it and riposted with a quick snap of my own to the groin. It would've dropped a lesser foe but he merely grunted and fell back a step. I pressed my advantage, rushing in with a sequence of quick punches. He managed to block a few but slipping within his longer reach I landed a few solid blows to his side. My small frame contradicts the strength I can throw into a punch: Fosters dropped back another step and I felt something give beneath my knuckles.

Showing the pain, he retaliated with an almost desperate swing. I ducked and hammered his abdomen. Fosters threw a hook. I jammed it at the shoulder and pounded his jaw with a rising elbow. Even as he fell back against a table, sending books and papers flying, a surprisingly fast kick scythed out for my head. I danced back out of reach.

Blood trickled slowly from between clenched fingers. Ooze drenched my tattered front, soaking the unzipped corset black and burning the skin beneath. My stockings were in shreds, shaven legs slick with sweat and blood from a dozen minor cuts, framed by snapped suspenders that swayed like dispirited snakes about my thighs. Not ten feet away, Fosters slowly straightened. His face remained burned red, eyes swimming with tears. He lightly touched at the corner of his lip and found blood. He stared at the red spot staining his finger and then his eyes slowly slid over to me.

"No more fucking around," he growled.

As he indulged in dramatics I took advantage of the brief pause to dig into a hole torn in the side of my skirt. With a loud rip the fabric gave way and I created a thigh-high vent. Renewed confidence flowed through my veins. This douchebag was absolutely correct: no more fucking around. It was time to show this asshole just who the fuck he was dealing with.

I took the offensive. Threw a blistering combination of high and low strikes. He shouldn't have been able to block. He did. The bastard had been holding back as well. I barely dodged his counter. I whipped out a crescent kick to make a little room. His leg jammed mine and his fist slammed into my abdomen and something nearly ruptured down there. His second punch never landed. I caught the arm and tried for the throw. He reversed; so did I; our arms blurred across each other without finding purchase; a soft spot; my arm slipped through, elbow clipping his face--blood spurted from his nose--and my hand grappled his neck and threw him forward on the recoil. He smashed into the computer cart and hit the ground, the equipment crashing around and atop him.

Fosters tossed the cart aside with a furious yell. He threw the computer at me as he rose. I ducked and charged forward. The screen exploded against the wall behind me in a shower of sparks. My punch fell short; he blocked and landed a quick roundhouse that had my vision swimming and sent me sprawling against the examination bed. An axe kick scythed down and I desperately rolled aside. Catching the edge with his heel, Fosters nearly flipped the heavy, steel-frame bed end-over-end and it crashed heavily to the ground on its side. An opening: the delay left his midriff unguarded. With a wild yell I unloaded the strongest kick I could muster into his sternum.

Disaster: the heel of my base foot wobbled, snapped. Four inches of stiletto heel stabbed into Fosters stomach even as I felt my other ankle pop, dislocate--break. Pain flared up my leg and spine and I couldn't suppress a despairing cry as I hit the ground heavily. Even drained of its full power my kick sent Fosters tumbling across the room; he crashed into a row of cabinets and amidst a show of glass collapsed to the ground.

Gritting my teeth and crawling through the burning pain, I forced myself to roll over and rise to my feet. I felt like fucking Ralph Macchio facing off against his final opponent in 'The Karate Kid'. Yeah, just one difference: in 'The Karate Kid' that last guy didn't pull a gun.

Fosters didn't stand. Suit jacket undone, broken glass settling like dandruff across his broad shoulders, the white shirt beneath stained red; and the shoulder holster empty. Painful clarity descended and I watched in near slow-motion as, from his sprawled position, his arm swung around, the ugly .45 ready in his grip seeking a quick end to the fight. Blood ran in criss-crossing rivulets from his crushed nose, from his split lip and forehead and stained his manic grin an ugly red.

The moment released us. The pistol roared and flared. With desperate strength I threw myself away. Pain exploded in my side as I grabbed the edge of the bed and fell behind the metal frame. A second shot rang out and ricocheted away. Heavy wetness soaked the corset from beneath and dribbled down my leg and fire filled my lungs and my strength rapidly began to flag.

No. No fucking away. I wasn't going to die. Move. Move, dammit--quick, the bastard was getting up! I focused on the pain--made it the only thing that was real--for a brief moment of utter whiteness I felt it all: the wet throbbing in my side that echoed my pounding pulse; the burning of my lungs with ever breath; the jagged hurt in my ankle; as long as there was pain I was alive. In the centre of that pain I found my instinct. A bullet slammed into the underside of the bed and tore a jagged fist-sized hole and nearly took out my hip but suddenly I was moving again.

I launched myself away from the bed with my good foot. Something exploded behind me. The broken, heelless shoe hit the floor; bone grinded against bone, ligament snapped and my leg gave out but force carried me forward to the counter even as the flooring behind me erupted. I seized the counter edge and pulled myself over. Fosters dashed forward to catch me on the other side but with the sure, strong arms of an acrobat I reversed my momentum and twisted across the surface as if riding parallel bars. I briefly touched my good foot down, tightly coiled beneath me, to the edge of the countertop--and launched myself through the air, arms reaching for my enemy even as he charged towards me.

A final, wild shot lanced out, clipping my shoulder. I slammed into Fosters--my fist broke his jaw--velocity carried us back and we hit the row of equipment behind. Fosters bore the brunt of the impact. The gun went clattering across the room.

We collapsed to the ground and laid nearly side-by-side for an exhausted, dazed moment. Tried to rise--failed. I felt the blood pouring out my side. Not now. One hand grappled for something to hold and found purchase on a bookshelf and I used it to haul myself upright.

Fosters staggered to his feet. He clutched a heavy length of metal snapped away from an equipment frame broken beneath his weight. His moves were far slower than before; so were mine. The metal bar swept in a low arc, aiming for my bloodied side. I threw up the useless weight of my leg; the metal bar slammed into my shin and splintered bone.

I dropped to the ground. Fosters stumbled forward. The metal bar hammered down. I threw up one desperate arm as a shield, the other scrabbling for purchase, for some kind of weapon. The bar hit my arm and glanced off and the entire limb went numb. He raised the weapon again and brought it down again. Another hit and my forearm broke and my other hand closed about something and with a demoniacal howl I jackknifed forward and drove the impromptu weapon into Fosters' foot.

He roared with pain and the bar dropped to the floor with a loud clang. My hand released the severed four-inch Jimmy Chou spike, now firmly imbedded in the arch of his foot. Before I could pull him down his hands dug into my hair and yanked me to my feet with such ferociousness that my scalp bled and the hair extensions tore and ripped away.

"You fucking," his fist pulped my nose, "little," another punch sealed my eye, "sissy!" he screamed, and with a final hit he sent me flying into the far cabinet. My face shattered glass and surgical implements lacerated my arms and hands. A moment later--was it a moment?--I think I blacked out--Fosters charged across the room, metal bar raised high--I couldn't move, couldn't breath, couldn't see--that same lucky hand closed around something--the metal bar connected with the side of my skull even as I pushed forward, my arm flailing out wildly. . . .

Everything went black.

My eyes snapped open. I was lying on my side on the floor across broken fragments of glass and plastic and in a slowly growing puddle of blood. My eyes reluctantly focused on my hand, lying limply open. Across my palm rested a slender metal instrument that gleamed dully in the light. The tip was stained red. A scalpel.

I heard a faint gurgle. Grudgingly, painfully, I slowly shifted towards the sound. Fosters sat slumped against the wall. Both hands clutched at his throat and wild eyes stared in disbelief. Crimson welled from between his fingers and overflowed and ran down his front.

I dragged myself closer. I stared deep into his eyes and with a great sense of fulfilment, watched him die. He pulled one hand from his throat and grappled futilely for me. I caught his arm by the wrist and yanked him forward until our foreheads nearly touched.

"This sissy just kicked your fucking ass," I whispered.

Fosters glared at me with venomous hatred until his eyed dimmed, and finally closed, and his body crumpled and slid to the ground, dead.

 

"How is he?"

She closed the door behind her. Sakura displayed no anger as she crossed the room but over the last couple of year I'd learned that Sakura only shared her emotions when it suited her. Her footsteps remained effortlessly silent as she walked; even at the age of fourteen I understood that there was something very different, very enigmatic about this woman. What I felt for her was something impossible to put in words; not love, precisely . . . awe, maybe, with all the passion and fear that word suggests.

I was afraid of Sakura, but it wasn't out of fear that I so desperately wanted to please her.

"He's on his way to the hospital," she said. "Thomas' parents are very angry."

I nodded. I didn't apologize, for the simple reason that I wasn't sorry for what I had done and I wouldn't insult her by lying.

"How did it happen?"

The other students must have already given their account of what happened. I saw no reason to either exaggerate or diminish my responsibility. "We were sparring. The longer we fought the more intensely he came at me. I saw it in his eyes—he wanted to win, he wanted to hit me . . . he wanted to hurt me. He escalated the conflict and tried an advanced technique." I tried unsuccessfully to keep the disdain from my voice. "That's when I finished the fight."

"You shattered both his elbow and his jaw," Sakura said. "He's sixteen and he'll probably never have full use of that arm again. He was our top tournament fighter and he may never return to the martial arts again."

Her voice remained flat and unreadable; she gave no hint of how she expected me to respond. Unable to think of anything to say, I simply shrugged.

"Do you not feel any remorse for what you did?"

I considered that for a second. "No."

Sakura cocked her head to one side and watched me curiously. "Did you feel anything, then?"

I hesitated before answering. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

I shrugged again. "Yeah. No. I felt . . . happy? Yeah, maybe just a bit. I mean, he's such a jerk, yeah? And so full of himself. But he couldn't even bring himself to go full out, you know? It was just sad, yeah, real sad watching him work up his courage." My voice grew stronger as I played the fight back through my mind. "I mean, how pathetic is that? He desperately wanted to win but couldn't bring himself to really try? To try and hurt me? When he finally came at me with that technique, ha, I saw it coming from miles away. . . ." The surprise in his face when I reversed the attack, the shock, the pain that flooded his eyes and escaped his throat in a howl as I snapped his arm . . . yeah, I enjoyed it. But only briefly.

She watched me for another moment and then nodded.

"Are you angry?" I couldn't hide the tremor in my voice.

"A little," she said. She opened a small wooden box on her desk and pulled out a bottle and some cotton swabs. She took my hand and started to tend to my knuckles, which I'd split against the sharp edge of my opponent's jaw.

"I'm sorry," I said, not for having hurt the boy but for having disappointed Sakura.

"Don't be." She shook her head. "I'm not angry at you."

"Then why?"

She hesitated. "Because you won't be able to remain a student of this school any longer."

My breath caught in my throat. "But--"

She waved her hand dismissively. "Don't worry," she said. "Even if you can't stay here you'll be fine. It was almost time for you to leave anyway. Another few months and you would have asked of your own choice." Even as she said it I realized that she spoke the truth. I had been building myself up towards asking her to leave. "You've been talking about trying to find your mother; settling scores with your old gang; even going back to school."

"I like it here," I stated.

"And now it's time to leave," she said. "I'll help you with your next step. You might be able to help me as well, actually."

"I--"

"Do you know why I took you in?" Sakura asked, distracting me from my fear and hurt at the thought of leaving Sakura.

I shook my head.

"That first afternoon over two years ago. You dropped yourself into a fight you could not win. My students found you and hurt you. As I recall, Thomas was the first one to hit you. During that beating you never gave up. You didn't cry out and you didn't beg for them to stop. And in your eyes: such anger, such hatred and desire. You wanted to hurt them back. And you have, haven't you? Over the years. Every single one of those students you've had your revenge on, one way or another, whether they know it or not."

"But--," I started to protest, and then shut my mouth. Apparently I wasn't half as clever as I thought I'd been.

"And Thomas was the last one."

He was, although I hadn't set out to hurt him today.

"I promised to make you strong and now you are," she said.

"You have nothing more to teach me?"

She laughed. "I have more to teach you than you can possibly imagine. And I will continue to teach you, when the opportunity exists, for as long as we both live, though no longer from this school. You understood from the beginning that I did not treat you like the other students; that when they left their lessons exhausted and made their ways home that you had merely completed your warm-up. They train to learn discipline, to stay fit, for confidence or to impress their friends and family.

"Why do you train?"

The answer should have been an easy one. For nearly three years now I had trained with this woman; nearly every single day had started with the aches of the previous night and ended with newfound bruises. To undergo such pain and suffering—though truth be told I'd never thought of it as such—there had to be a clear reason. Yet I couldn't think of one.

"To make you happy," I replied, the first answer I could settle upon.

A hint of a smile touched her lips, but she shook her head. "No," she said. "Though I'm flattered. That's not why. The reason you have trained so hard these last few years, the reason I took you in, is because you have a gift. Some people believe that we're all blessed with a single gift—with a skill—with a natural talent for one thing in life. One of the greatest tragedies of human existence is that so few of us ever discover what we are truly skilled at, or even worse . . . to know your talent yet be unable to practice it.

"One glance at you and I saw your gift and understood your potential."

Her words filled me with pride. "Martial arts?"

"Oh my, no," Sakura said, and shook her head, that suggestion of a smile growing slightly. "No. Your gift is pain: the acceptance of it, the giving of it. You have an instinct for pain, an intuitive understanding of how best to hurt other people." She held me gently on either side of my head and kissed me softly on my forehead.

"You're very special," Sakura told me, her voice as soft as silk. "And you're mine."

 

Goddamn ringing. Can't a dying man have a few moments of peace?

Reluctant eyes slowly opened. The still form of Agent Fosters lay slumped a few feet away. I must have drifted off. Stupid. My feeble efforts to staunch the flow of blood weren't enough. I'm no doctor but I've been seriously hurt before, and I had a sneaking suspicion my wounds were fatal. I'd lost too much blood, absorbed too much pain. Lying in shock I started to feel a dangerous detachment from my body. Sleeping now meant not waking up.

Again with the fucking ringing! What the hell was it? I forced tired eyes open again and my head lolled drunkenly to one side. My battered face made a grotesque red blur reflected in a broken pane of glass. I felt this sudden crazy urge to fix my makeup--fucking Scooter and his conditioning. An involuntary giggle rose to my lips and burbled there wetly. Bubbles in the blood at my mouth--the first bullet must have punctured a lung while tearing a chunk out of my ribcage. God, I was seriously fucked up . . . worse even than when Kate died.

Maybe I'd meet her in Hell. I deserved this; I really did. I hadn't been able to save her and it occurred to me, as I felt my heart weakly pump the rest of my existence through the gaping hole in my side, that that simple fact had defined my life ever since. A peaceful acceptance of my end settled over me. I wanted to apologize to Katherine, to many people, but this goddamn noise kept interrupting. . . .

The fact that the insistent noise came from Fosters' corpse finally penetrated my exhausted brain. Bemused, I half-rolled, half-collapsed onto his body. Clumsily, I peeled away his blood-soaked jacket. My hand fumbled between the folds of the stained shirt beneath in search of the continuing noise. Beneath his shirt I discovered an elaborate tattoo inscribed into his chest, a colourful spread and pattern I'd seen once before. Interesting. My hand closed about a vibrating object and emerged with Fosters' mobile.

"Hello?" I said. My voice sounded strange to my ears: giddily happy from blood loss, distorted by pain, thickened by stiffness; my jaw didn't seem to be working quite right.

There was a heavy pause on the other end, and then: "Who the fuck is this?"

I'd recognize that voice anywhere. "Mr Steele, I presume," I said.

There was another lengthy pause. "David Sanders?"

"You betcha, you son of a bitch."

"And Mr Fosters?"

I glanced down at Fosters. His chin rested against his chest and if it wasn't for the darkening apron of blood spreading across his front you'd almost think he'd just nodded off. "Agent Fosters can't make it to the phone right now," I said. "On account of my having killed him. Can I take a message?" Saying so much in one go sent a sharp stab of pain up the side of my face.

Jeremiah Steele sounded only slightly annoyed. "Very impressive, David. You don't mind if I call you David, do you Mr Sanders?"

"Yeah, no prob," I answered. "And I'll just call you Cocksucker, yeah?"

Barely restrained anger thrummed beneath the surface of his cool, controlled voice. "You're digging a darker and deeper hole for yourself, David. Your death will be slow and painful."

"Yeah, so I've heard." I chuckled, and coughed, and blood spattered across the mobile. "That's what Fosters said. Let me check." I roughly nudged Fosters' body and yelled, "Hey, fuckface! Was my death slow and painful?" The effort flooded my mouth with more blood and I choked.

"You don't sound very healthy, David."

"I'll live," I said wetly.

And at that moment I decided that, yeah, I was going to live. I didn't know how; it was easier said then done. My vision was growing dim and everything seemed to come from very far away. Everything but Steele's voice; it was the only thing keeping me rooted to the here and now. But as we spoke I felt my earlier peace burn away to be replaced by an all-consuming rage. This man had killed me; not Fosters but this bastard sitting in his comfortable chair far, far away, pushing buttons and placing calls . . . this bastard kills me and gets away with it? No!

"For how long, David? Wherever you hide--I can find. Whoever protects you--I can kill."

Suddenly, more than anything else I wanted revenge; visceral hate filled me to the brim, with such intensity that I suddenly found myself standing, surging to my feet, leaning heavily against the wall and screaming into the phone: "Try it, you piece of shit, you ass-ramming fuck! I'll slit the throat of every motherfucking cunt you sent after me! And when I'm done with them I'll come after you! You hear me, Steele? I'm coming after you! Whatever it takes!"

But the effort was too much; I collapsed to the ground, slumping across Fosters' body, the cellphone cradled in my hand. Darkness overtook me. From very far away I thought I hear the sound of doors opening, of pounding footsteps approaching and my name being called . . . but I barely heard them over the mocking sound of Steele's laughter filling my ears. And even that faded until all I could hear was the faint beating of my weakening heart, slowing . . . stopping, and then I knew nothing at all and dropped away into the night.

The end of Constant in All Other Things.

 

Continues in season two. . . .

  

  

  

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