Black Cats, Red Dogs

“Do you enjoy fighting?”

“No.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“Do you enjoy asking stupid questions?”

“Let’s stay on target.”

“I do it because I keep thinking that one day, I’ll do something big enough that the whole world will know about it.”

“A bit dangerous, for a spy.”

“I’m a mercenary, shrink.”

The man across the smooth black table was not a typical shrink. I watched him move for a moment. Burly, blond, reddish grey eyes that would flick you over, and then stare as though were a mutant brain in a jar of formaldehyde. He scribbled something down, shorthand. I considered destroying it, and then thought better of it. Celestine deMonde would not take kindly to a rogue mercenary taking out her shrink, even if I was the best.

“One more question.”

“The rate will be doubled.”

“I need to know.”

“Shoot.”

He looked me over for a second, and then said, “How did your mother treat you?”

“I didn’t have one.”

“Sister?”

“I had an estranged aunt, who kept me clothed and fed, but not much else. You got a reason to know?”

“There are certain men,” The shrink said smoothly, “That would object to taking orders from a woman. Especially one as young, beautiful and inexperienced as Ms. deMonde. Prominent female figures in one’s life have a tendency to set the bar in the way of obedience.”

“I follow orders.” I growled. “I make money. I don’t really care who is attached to the hand that points.”

“Very well.” The shrink snapped his notebook shut, and the clicked the little combination lock attached to the front closed and whirled the tumblers. Psychotic.

I stood with him, letting my armor’s hydraulic gel muscles free themselves of kinks. I followed him.

Outside the door I was handed my rifle, which I then slung over my back, a pistol, my bandolier of radioactive cartridges, and a long, curved knife. I hit the switch to check the battery, the tiny fluid valve lit up three-quarters. The guard that did the handing was a kid, probably about eighteen, eight years younger than me. He was still holding my helmet, looking over it with interest. I grabbed it and pulled it over my head, pulling the telescoping mirrored neck guard down and locking it into place. The helmet linked with the Oracle in my brain, feeding the helmet cams’ output into my vision. The readouts lit up, three hundred sixty degree vision returned me to comfortable omniscience. The shrink was still moving, but I didn’t hurry to catch up to him. He would wait for me or arrive without me.

He waited, eventually. Everyone does. It doesn’t pay to meet an employer without Waterfox.