Broken Ascension

Nostalgia and the Comfort of Strangers

Home again, home again jiggety jig. The Pig came running home. Children’s rhymes were cruel. Poor Humpty Dumpty and poor pig who got no roast beef. Imagine that, a pig having roast beef. He felt like a piece of meat right now. Filleted, pounded, left to age on the hook. But meat did not have a soul. And it was hi soul that was truly battered. People convincing him to rebel. At any time, that could easily be shook off except that he did think about rebelling. Damn the Pope. God, there must have been millions who had said that. He wasn’t exactly in an exclusive club. He didn’t know how to fix his soul but he could make an attempt at the body. He took off his clothes, standard procedure after a days exertions. Examined himself for any new marks. There were the bruises and scratches but that was all. A big black one covering his back. He had been lifted like a child. Next time Gideon would be sure to tear his head off. The bruises, the scratches. The daily signs of his life. He took a look at his latest wound, it had completely healed, and that was only a faint trace of a scar. There were other scars he remembered, there had to be. So many injuries he remembered. Even if his mind didn’t his body did. Perhaps he had received some healing; is that what they did in the scan room? Gave him some form of renewal? He touched his left shoulder. He remembered being shot there. That’s why to this day he always led with his right when in a fight and yet there was no sign of it. Not a scar, not a trace. Perhaps his memory was fallible. He was getting old and tired in body and spirit. That tended to mess with the head. Was he so irretrievably damaged that his memories were so unreliable? That may be, he was aware that he had holes in his head, some very large ones. But the moment of that first wound was concrete. He could doubt many things, but never that. It was his Cogito. He had been shot there on his first shootout. If you could call it that. It was more of a comedy of errors which left a number of people dead. There was nothing glorious about the memory. If anything it was humiliating. It was a stupid moment with tragic consequences.

He had been a Priest then. He didn’t even carry a gun, wasn’t issued one. Normally, Priests were never sent into potentially dangerous situations. Their main objectives were reconnaissance and observation. The Bishops were the action types, carrying enough field experience to handle any heat. If needed there would be a Bishop on site but that rarely happened. If a Bishop was required, the Priests shouldn’t even be there. That day was not supposed to be any different. He was part of Operation Pike, tracking the moments of a gang specializing in sabotaging Urban Wireless Communications. To what purpose he didn’t know, he didn’t have that type of clearance. Such information was always hoarded jealously even from Bishops. But that day he had followed his orders and was one of the guys out there following the movements. Never stopping the sabotage operations though, any direct intervention would have been duties for the Bishops. It could never be dangerous, just a bunch of miscreants running around and destroying transceivers. On that day in the third week of operation, it had been a fairly routine day. There they were, the three saboteurs doing their own recoinaissance in a little suburb out in Surrey. There was a building with one of the tranceivers there, and those guys were surreptitiously checking it out, pretending to fix a punctured bicycle tyre. There they were in front of the park, in their sporty attire, milling around a standard city Bike while stealing glances and taking pictures of the transceiver on its custom pedestal at the corner of the road. Bishop and his Priest partner were about a hundred meters away, pretending to wait for an MTV at the stop. It wasn’t good cover; if an MTV came along they would have to board to avoid looking out of place, especially as no one else was around. They decided to change the venue of their observation. Bishop crossed the road to park himself directly opposite the transceiver while the other Priest moved across the park bringing him within a few paces of the saboteurs. And in a case of doing too much, he threw a comment at them.

“Problem with the bike?” It was rather innocuous, but somehow something gave it away.

“No, no problem with the bike.” One of them looked up, the one with the hooded jacket, studying the Priest.

“Do you have a problem?”

“Hey, I was just asking. I’ll leave you to it then” The Priest shrugged turning to join Bishop near the pedestal.

“Yes. Please do.” The guy in the hoodie said in a flat tone. And then suddenly without any indication he pulled out a gun and shot the Priest at point blank range. The Priest fell forward dying without realizing what happened. The other two got up immediately, they were as shocked as Bishop was.

“What the f**k man! Are you crazy, that’ll bring the police.”

“He was on to us! He was!” The shooter turned around, searching with his eyes. And looked right at Bishop. Their eyes met and there was a realization. A million thoughts rushed through Bishop’s mind, all in record time. Until one cane to the forefront requiring a split second decision. Cover or rush? 20 meters - could he make the distance – cold calm calculation started forming in Bishop’s mind. And then he sprang into action. Bishop took a dive roll as the hooded gunman fired. He sprung up and headed behind a low wall at the edge of the park. The bullet spun chips of slate into the air. The gunman ran forward, knowing now that Bishop was unarmed and fancying his chances. He leapt over the wall but Bishop had already moved. Bishop shot forward, his shoulder hitting the edge of the man’s hips, sending him sprawling to the floor. Bishop was about twenty pounds lighter than, before he was inducted to Level 13 training and forced to bulk up on muscle. If he had the weight he had now, the move would have been more effective. He managed to send the guy to the ground but he still held the gun in his hand. He fired from the ground, tearing through Bishops shoulder. He could feel the bullet exiting, a cold chill enveloping his body. Ignoring the pain the best he could, he kicked out at the gun. He heard fingers crack and the gun fell away. He bent down and hit out with his right hand looking for a knockout punch. He connected hard with the man’s temple and for a moment there was stillness. But then the man moved and tried grabbing on to Bishop. By this time his two companions had joined him and one of then pulled Bishop up. Bishop reacted by swinging his head backwards, the top of his skull hitting square on the jaw. He quickly reared up and pushed away from the tangle of the bodies. The third saboteur went for the gun; Bishop stuck out a leg and tripped him. He fell face first on to the edge of the pavement. And lay still.

“You’ve killed him!" the guy shouted going for Bishop‘s neck. He crushed his hands around Bishop’s windpipe. Out of the corner of his eye, Bishop could see the other man checking out his fallen companion, ignoring the gun. The man was choking him but he wasn’t especially strong. Bishop grabbed the wrist of one hand and twisted, moving his whole body as he did so. The man felt back, his left arm twisted into an unnatural position. Despite the pain, Bishop lifted up his left hand and punched with full force into the upturned face. This time the guy stayed down, blood puring from his nose. Bishop got up to look into the barrel of a gun

.

“Take it easy. Take it easy.”

“Me friend’s dead man.” The guy was shaking, barely holding onto the gun.

“Well, so is my friend. So why don’t we calm down and talk things over.”

“I ….it wasn’t supposed to be like this. No one was going to get hurt.”

“No it wasn’t. But hey, it happened but we can’t let it get any further eh?” As he spoke, Bishop moved closer.

“I..guess so. I mean I haven’t killed nobody. Redmond’s gone and done that. But not me. I didn’t even know he had a gun.”

“All right, yes. No, you haven’t killed anybody. So okay. What’s your name?”

“I ain’t telling you,” he thrusted with the gun.

“Okay cool. Lets just chill down”.

“Okay, I’m cool. I haven’t done nothing much so I’m just cool I guess. Are you the Police?”

“No man, we’re just security guys. We weren’t even checking on you.” Truth could be overrated at times.

“No you haven’t done nothing. So yeah, lets put the gun down okay. The Police are coming anyway”

The guy nodded. Smiling sheepishly. Gods who were these fools? Suddenly his eyes widen in alarm. Bishop turned ducking, the punch missing by a couple of centimeters. But he fell forward clumsily into the guy holding the gun. It went off and when Bishop righted himself, there was a third dead guy. Poor hoodie, victim of his own folly. Lords of Chaos! Bishop turned quickly to the remaining one, now the eyes were filed with incomprehension and confusion.

“No, no.” The guy was shaking his head and wobbling on his feet.

“Calm down man.” Bishop was just as confused as the other guy was. What now, subdue him? Talk more?

“s**t bastard! I shot Redmond man. I f*****g shot him.” He looked up at Bishop, a kind of madness descending on his face.

“You.” Bishop waved his arms not knowing what to say.

“You know, I’m going to end up putting this gun in my mouth and pulling the trigger but I’m going to f*****g kill you first!” He held up the gun and aimed. Bishop grabbed the wrist with both hands turning the gun away from his own body. But his injured shoulder took his strength from him and he couldn’t keep his grip. The guy broke it up and aimed again. Bishop swept up his arm and the gun fired into the air. He pushed forward and the guy tumbled over. He quickly tried to get up and Bishop got ready to rush him; but there was the sound of a shot and the guy keeled back a bloodstain spreading on his shirt.

“s**t, he mumbled, his eyes glazing over. Somehow, he had accidentally shot himself as he was trying to get up.

What a f**k up. Bishop sank to the floor. He should go. He could hear the Police sirens, finally. Gods, they always came too late didn’t they. It was something like the Kew Gardens principle, nobody bothered to call the police until they were sure things were pretty safe or something like that. What a f**k up. Four dead. Three enemy combatants and he didn’t even carry a weapon. This was the end of his career, it had to be. How could anyone explain this? And yet, in the end it had acquired a legend of its own. Despite his attempt at being factually correct in his reporting, somehow he had ended up credited with three kills. Invariably, it had boosted him on its way to Bishop designation, where he had to subject himself to Level 13 training. The dreaded boot camp that produced the country’s toughest men. Trained to subdue, kill, sabotage and a myriad other things for God and country. He had come out of Level 13, stronger, faster and much more ready to kill. And he’d never looked back since, acquiring a reputation as a prime operative. It had all turned out pretty well, considering the monumental f**k up of the events that started him on his path to where he was now. If there ever was an ignominious start, that had to be it. A clusterfuck of stupidity and absurdity.

Sometime ago, he had shared his story with a Cardinal in one of the operations postmortems; an operation which he didn’t f**k up that had to be said.

“I can hardly give myself credit considering how it all started.” he had confessed. The cardinal smiled and replied.

“If you look at the careers of all the best, there were bloody disasters galore. No one gets good, if they don’t some how screw up somewhere along the line. The good are those who somehow survive. An agent may seem promising and full of potential but if he doesn’t survive, well he never attains greatness. And it may not do with skill or intelligence or physicality. You can go through round after round of Level 13 but that’s no guarantee sometimes. One small thing, a flicker of butterfly wing, a snowflake, and it all could go wrong in a minor instant. No matter how many times you think you have dealt with something similar, it could just go south due to very minor things. You have survived so long. From what you told me and from your record, you have something rarer.”

“What is that, sir?”

“Luck. I’ve seen it again and again in your missions. An unluckier agent would not have made it this far. So treasure this luck. Not everybody’s got it.”

“Luck. That’s saying that I don’t have real control,”

“Who ever has? Some were born to be geniuses, some were bon to be dunces. If that’s not luck in play what is? Some were genetically predisposed to fighting and some could not break straw. What else but luck?”

“God?”

“If you believe that god has given you this luck or its some random event of the universe, it doesn’t matter. You have it. That’s all there is to it.” Luck, was it luck now that he would become a bigger traitor than even poor old Guy Fawkes. Perhaps they will replace my effigy for his. Luck. But control, control over situations. That’s how you won, how you completed your objectives. No, control was an illusion. He had enough experience on the field to realize that. It was always the throw of the dice and the luck of the draw in all situations. The best laid plans, the path of good intentions,……If God had direct management of the universe, he did it with a roulette wheel.

He remembered how he had felt that the moment, with four dead men lying around him; about to retch his guts out, his knees knocking a rhythm of fear and cowardice. And the tears, the tears the sign of what he once was before. It wasn’t training that had changed that. It never could. All the training in the world, all the simulations and vid real exercises. Nothing changed a man of peaceful persuasion into a trained killer until the first kill in cold blood. Many had failed at that point and had drifted sway to be swallowed by the mists of obscurity. Those who made the shot, the stab, the garrote, they survived and became something else. There were no more tears after that. Often people like to conflate what he was with soldiers. It wasn’t alike at all. Even a sniper who shot from range and cover was different. In a war, you were part of a whole. A chaos ridden, messy f**k up of a whole. But you were ever part of something bigger that was definable, a pawn in the particular chess game. But his game, the game was so amorphous and ill defined that you could never quite grasp it. You had only the faith in your superior’s orders. Your targets were not simply the enemy on the other side of the trench or ridge. Your enemy was often closer, within your own spheres and was never clearly the enemy. Sometimes they were right next to you. Soldiers? No, he never had the luxury of justifying himself with that. A killer, in the service of country and King. That is what it was supposed to be. And how do you be of service to the King? By killing him. He could survive all this while because as ridiculous as the justification was, he did find comfort that he was in service to King and country. Now, where did that put him now?

His first real kill had been so much more morally easier. The enemy was very clear. No one could have argued that the mercenary with the souped up assault rifle was anything but the enemy. No one, especially as he was pouring lead into all alike, men, women, children, animals. And if he came close to shedding a tear over the kill, it was not for his victim but for the irreversible path he now took. But he had survived that day, not just physical survival, but survived the act and gone on to repeat it because it had been glorious. A glorious moment, a heroic moment; in moments like these, it made everything right. What he did, what orders he followed.

It was summers day, that’s how all good memories roll. All on a summers day. It should be, it was a hot day. And it got very much hotter. The day started like any other, people rushing to work or to whatever occupied their days. Children hiving off to school or truancy. People like him, Bishop idling at HQ waiting for orders. The day was a slow pastoral tune until it cracked open with the thunderous melody of guns. The Metal Jackets they were known as to the public. Mercenaries, who found few profitable enterprises for their specialized skills in rather peaceful times. So they had reverted to simpler forms of filling their treasure chest. The good old armed robbery. Robbery had lost some of its flavor over the years as dependency on physical cash had dwindled. But there were always new avenues for the wicked. Fresh from the country’s disengagement from all the wars and joint military operations that had been such a drain on the country’s pockets; the fortunes of all had improved considerably. And a beneficiary of such fortune were the peddlers of Terbrilium crystals. They were beautiful objects reflecting light in surprising and dazzling ways. Men had not lost their luster for gems and these were new to the world which made them so much more desirable. Found in the corner of a faraway continent, somehow the British had contrived to be the sole miners and distributors of these fabulous stones. There were large markets out there in the world for them but their rarity made it that the British were almost exclusive in their possession. The Metal Jackets were hungry to fulfill that demand for Terbrilium from the rest of the world. At the expense of the own country of course. They had swooped on the gemstone establishments with impunity. Charging down streets in modified personnel transports, firing assautlt rifles and discharging gas bombs. They came with tactics of shock and awe and damn the casualties. It would have been a job for the Police, but they were grossly outmatched by this band of well equipped and trained villains.

On that fateful day they had mounted another raid somewhere in East London. Bishop never could recall the exact location but he remembered the age old low shop fronts lined up against the street with its windy bikeways and carefully cultivated hedges. It had been a picture of idyll calm until an armored transport had rolled down the street firing gas bombs. Truth be told, Bishop wasn’t idling his time in HQ. He was there in East London in front of Grossmith and sons, purveyors of Terbrilium and other fine gems with a number of Level 13 certified operatives. It wasn’t difficult to pinpoint the latest target of the Metal Jackets. They were highly trained military types which made them fairly predictable. And the massive surveillance apparatus the Godsmen had definitely helped. They had waited patiently, and five kilometers out the Metal Jackets had been spotted. The MO would be the same. The gas bombs will come first once the transport pulled up in front of the retailer. And it did, right by the book. The gas bombs hit the street and everything was covered with sickly yellow fog. They were not poisonous but breathing them hurt the lungs and it stung the eyes; a refined version of tear gas that was used so successfully in the past. But the Godsmen were ready and prepared, the Metal Jackets having never deviated from their tactics thus far. Success made you complacent if you were not careful and they had had awesome success so far. They would launch the gas bombs, storm the store or establishment firing away without consideration. Whether there were children, guards, Police or what not they were extremely cavalier about whom their bullets hit. It was a tactic that easily took care of any form of opposition. With everyone on the ground either seeking cover or dead or wounded, they could stride in with no resistance. One would stand guard while a second would grab the stocks out in front. The third will locate the vault, blow it with explosives and retrieve the rest of the stocks. And then firing while exiting, they would hop back in their transport and leave. Average time of the raids was no more than ten minutes. Once the unfortunate police had arrived before they had finished. Two units of transports, approximately 14 officers. Without changing their strides, they had just turned their guns on the police as they calmly got back on their transport. There were few survivors. There were a dozen of the Godsmen now, and they would not let this day end with the Pope attending twelve funerals. This time would be different as there was a new equation. The Metal Jackets weren’t just playing with pawns anymore. The Bishop piece had entered the game.

They moved even as the first gas bombs hit the street. Pulling out hand held projectile launchers, they fired their own bombs into the street. Filled with a different type of gas – Tetractil 38 which quickly combined with the yellow gas and neutralized it. At once the air was clear, the combined compound falling as dust to the ground. The Metal Jackets hadn’t quite noticed the change, their senses dulled by their gas masks. They were still striding into the store. One of Bishop’s teammates, a senior one fired, bringing down one of the three mercenaries rushing the store. Bishop noted the bullet hitting just below the left shoulder and tufts of fiber flying into the air.

“Protection! They’re wearing Section Zero protection!” He shouted, recognizing the fibers for what they were. The highest form of body armor. Ordinary guns would not even have made a mark. As if to reinforce his point, the shot mercenary got back up. Now the three turned and fired back at the ambush team. They were wearing protection too, but unless one was encased hair to toe in Section Zero protection there were significant risks when being fired at with guns shooting two hundred rounds per minute. They scrambled for whatever cover they could find. Bishop thought that in the old days, that was much easier, as they were plenty of automobiles on the road to hide behind. Bikes were absolutely useless in this scenario. But there were pedestals and com towers and one or two stone benches. Trained as they were, the Godsmen looked like a bunch of Keystone Cops landing on their backsides. The films and videos always made it looked easier.

The Metal Jackets continued firing away, confident in their firepower superiority and the protection of their armor. The Godsmen had been prepared for the gas and even the assault rifles but not the level of the body armor. The name ‘Metal Jackets’ should have been a clue, but in this they had underestimated the resources of the mercenaries. It wasn’t by any means standard gear. Even if standard jackets had stopped the penetration of a bullet, the impact would have stunned the person. Right now, the mercenaries were being shot at multiple times, but they just stood their ground. The singsong of bullet fire went on for a couple of minutes and then suddenly stopped. The one good thing about fast firing weapons was that they ran out of ammo quickly. But the mercenaries were prepared, they started reloading. A window of opportunity should never be wasted, when your arse is on the floor and when the closing of the window might mean the end. One of the Godsmen took his time with his shot and fired between the eyes of one of the mercenaries. He fell back, his teammates caught in surprise. Always suffer the little things. As much as the Godsmen had failed to take into account the Section Zero jackets, the Metal Jackets had somehow thought it unnecessary for headgear. Bishop moved from his scant cover behind a pedestal and ran in a loop around the transport. He dived for cover behind the large back wheel. The firing had started again and the loss of their teammate had made the remaining two mercenaries even more aggressive. They started sweeping in wider arcs, their aim now no longer just to suppress but to kill all and sundry. Bishop climbed up the transport, praying that there wasn’t a driver left in it. He crawled on the roof, took a peek into the opened hatch. The transport was empty, thank the gods. But the hatch cover was in his way and he couldn’t slither round the sides like a lizard. He pushed softly at the cover and realized it would require some measure of strength to close it from this angle. And without a doubt, making enough of a sound to give away his position. Well there was nothing left for it. He checked his gun and held on to it with his left hand. Then getting up slightly on his knees, he pushed hard and fast and the cover slammed down with a clang. He fell flat down on his stomach, his arms outstretched. One of the mercenaries turned to look and Bishop fired, the bullet entering the jaw from above at about 40 degrees. It went through the jaw and into the neck. A fountain of blood erupted, shock driving the man’s eyes wide, still locked on to Bishop’s own eyes. He sank to his feet, still staring at Bishop before falling over. A rush of feeling came over Bishop but he fought it down in an instant and fired again. The other mercenary had realized nothing, intent on taking down the Godsmen cowering from his barrage. This time the bullet entered the temple and the top of his head erupted. Bishop would never eat watermelon again. If his first gunfight had not made his legend when he was but a weak kneed Priest, this one definitely made it. He had saved his fellow Godsmen, some who had been badly wounded. The operation was a success, no casualties for the Godsmen and the elimination of the Metal Jackets. But it had been messy, they had been ill prepared and things could have gone a different way.

Thinking it over now, maybe the Cardinal was right. He was lucky. Had been. Perhaps a review of his entire career would definitely prove it. But it didn’t matter how lucky he was in the past. He needed more. One last desperate throw of the dice.

He decided to go out. Sitting in his flat was not helping things. He had never felt it before but it was now stifling. He was just letting memories eat him up. He got up and got dressed. Maybe a walk. Maybe even go for a pint. Do something normal. Go to the museum, something. He had to make a human decision. And he needed to feel human to do that. He stepped out of his flat. Closed the door behind him. If he had recorded himself each time he exited the apartment and viewed those recordings one after another, he might have thought he was watching the same recording played over and over again. Perhaps if he studied the carpet he would find a subtle groove which led from his door to the lift; a groove that told the story of his feet and the reliability of his movements. He was aware of this mechanization, this locking in of his muscle memory. He was aware of it because he encouraged it, things were easier for the mind. There were so many things to consider in his line of work and it made it easier, survivable, to meditate through the routine of his actions. Here he was, feeding the groove, his footsteps a recognizable melody to anybody who would dare to listen. He remembered the android in the Department of Antiquities. There was perhaps a similar groove in the carpets of the building. Android and him, was he more human. Was he a real boy? Or were strings attached. Strings played by the Pope and the Oracle and Azazel. He wanted to be a real boy, he needed to be a real boy, more than ever. He, he was….. she was standing in his way and he almost stumbled. Girl. A girl in his way. No, woman.

“I’m sorry, did I startle you? I was, …I heard you leave and and I wanted to talk to you.” She gave him a warm smile. It was a nice smile. Bishop’s mind drifted to the woman in the shop. And then Azazel’s beatific smile flashed in his mind. But here, here was something nice. Warm and friendly and nothing sinister. He recognized her somewhat. Seen her in the building, knew she was a tenant. Didn’t realize she was a tenant so close by. She was standing by the opened door of her apartment. Not 11A I hope not, he thought but no it was the number nine. Whatever it meant. If it was supposed to mean anything. If there was meaning in anything at all.

“It’s okay. Just a small bit of surprise. This your apartment.” Well, small talk was hard to come by. His mouth suddenly felt very dry. In his stupor he had forgotten his tea.

“Oh yes. Number nine. You’re thirteen.”

“Ah yes.” Thirteen, he had never really thought about the connection until she said it. What was happening to his life? He truly was losing it.

“Hi, I um, look I need some help. I’m hopeless with some things and my um, flat mate is ah kind of away.” A lot of ums and ahs. Was she nervous around him? Why? Because he looked like a killer? More like a King killer.

“It’s okay. What do you need?” He went for a warm smile and hope he succeeded. Run away, run away, I’m a killer about to snap. The thought ran through his mind but she didn’t run away. Maybe his smile was nicer than the Pope’s.

“ Um. My network links are down. I called the company and they gave me a set of instructions but I’m like totally lost. Are you like ah do you have a moment?”

“Sure. I’m not, ah. Sure.” He was ah-ing and um-ing as well. What was he going to do today that would change anything? Tomorrow he will kill the King and that was that.

“Sure, I can help.” She reached out and touched his arm lightly. He almost recoiled from it.

“Oh okay. Thanks so much. Ah here, this way, welcome to number nine.” She laughed and he thought her laugh was pretty. She was dressed casually unlike the girl in the shop all in finery. But somehow this was preferable. Had he ever noticed her prettiness before? He might have, just didn’t quite factor into the old brain. Fact is, he barely remembered her and he had been here a long time. But yes she was attractive. He lived a Spartan life but it didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate beautiful things. He had thought the scene in East London extremely pretty until the Metal Jackets had shook it all up. He turned suddenly expecting a fanatic or a mercenary to burst out and shoot the pretty girl in the head. But there was nothing, his nerves were getting frayed.

“Is something the matter. My flat smells?” She giggled.

“Oh no, Just something in my mind. Your flat smells perfectly fine. Lead away.” He followed her inside. It was nothing at all like his place. This was a place that people lived in, slightly messy in places, collection of personal items abounded. And it did smell perfectly all right. There was a distinctive smell, a kind of fragrance. What was it? Perfume, scented candles? No, it was the smell of a person. Her smell. And he found things in him awakening that had long been suppressed.

“Its’ over here. The unit. Sorry about the mess.” She half heartedly tried to tidy some things up. She picked up a bunch of clothes from the couch and dumped them on a chair. A small blue pair of underwear fell to the floor. She quickly picked it and stuffed it into the pile of clothes. Bishop noticed it and he felt a kind of nervousness that he never felt even when he was in a dangerous situation. But this was a situation that could be dangerous. What if his sudden awakened desire make him do something regrettable? Make a fool of himself or worse act like an animal?

“I’m really sorry about the mess.” She shook her head prettily.

“Its okay. That’s life. I always figured that truly neat homes were not lived in.”

“Hmm, that’s comforting. Makes me less of a screw up.” She shrugged.

“Don’t put yourself down. We all screw up sometimes.”

“Well, I suppose so.” She smiled again. He wanted more of it. More and more. He took a look at the unit. Nothing extraordinary. It was a simple matter actually, perhaps to him. But then he couldn’t for the life of anyone baked a cake could he? That was unfair, that was sexist? Maybe he could ask her.

“So what do you do?” he asked as he fiddled with the unit.

“Oh, I design protocols for the travelling path of MTVs. Nothing very exciting.” Maybe she couldn’t bake a cake as well. Who could nowadays with the autokitch.

“That’s important work. Think of the mess if the travel routes were not optimized. The whole country could collapse.”

“You’re mocking me.” She bit her lip.

“Actually I’m deadly serious. I depend on the MTV a lot. I like that there are very few surprises.”

“Okay.” She shrugged, a kind of embarrassment on her face. Perhaps she thought he was flirting. Was he? Was this how your flirted? But he wanted that smile. Crack a joke, but he didn’t know any.

“Here you go, I’ve done this a thousand times before so it was no big deal.”

“Oh, I seem quite useless about it. My, ah flat mate was the one who dealt with it.” The hesitation in the word. Not for the first time. Not just flat mate. Lover. Recently left. There were sign someone else stayed here and it seemed like a man. But there were signs that she had been alone for a while too. No s**t, Sherlock.

“Sure, its okay. The unit rehashes to prevent network theft and sometimes it doesn’t recognize the receivers. Sort of like too much rehashing and it gets itself confused.”

“I guess there’s always a price to pay for security.”

“Oh yes, definitely a price.” They looked at each other awkwardly for a moment before she found inspiration.

“Would you like some coffee?” She pointed to the kitchen turning away from his eyes.

“I don’t,..do you have tea?”

“Yeah, uh sure. Hang on.” She went quickly to her kitchen and took out a box. Then went for the autokitch. Ah, it wasn’t going to be a particular good cup, but to drink in her presence could make up for it? . She was pretty as all women in the flower of youth and health could be. So why would he be attracted to her and not someone else? He dealt with women all the time, some vary attractive too. What made this any different? Perhaps the setting. The smell of living. The warmth of living. Real living. Perhaps in someway he could sense her loneliness. And perhaps, it couldn’t be explained as in so many things in life. Yes he was attracted, not in a speculative way. Not in a wondering way. It was real and the realness of it caught his breath. When was the last time he felt like that? Was she so special or had the turmoil of the recent days contributed? He had been more aware of the other s*x recently, that was definite but this?. Yes, he had met just a few days ago, he should have remembered. That thing Oracle had talked about, it had seeded thoughts in his mind and awakened something. The girl in the shop, even Azazel had really brought it all to the forefront. But those were just thinking about possibilities, this was more real. Did she, did she feel the same? And he felt more nervous about that answer than staring down the barrel of a gun.

“Here’s your tea.” She placed the cup on her small dining table and indicated for him to take a sit. She took a bottle of water for herself.

“I’m sorry it’s not real tea, I don’t have that stuff. I hope it’s okay.”

“ Real tea?” He looked at her with a puzzled frown.

“You don’t know about Tea Subs?” She seemed amused.

“Ah, actually no. I didn’t know they had such a thing.”

“Oh, well Tea Subs. Real tea, Camellia something something is apparently getting hard to grow. The environment and all that. It’s not very cost efficient, so it’s getting really expensive. So some people came up with other plants to substitute, cheaper to cultivate. That’s what that is – Tea Subs. Other plants that taste like tea. Or try to be.”

“God, has England come to that?” He was perturbed, genuinely affected.

“You’re a real Englishman huh?”

“I … well…I can’t say. I’m not aware of my real ancestry. But yes, brought up as an Englishman.” He drank the tea.

“Well I can’t tell the difference.” She gave him an appraising look.

“Actually I can, but it’s really not bad.” She smiled pleasantly. She took a drink of water her eyes never leaving his. He continued drinking his tea. But his mouth was still dry. Perhaps her lips could cure him of that. Her moist lips. He felt a stir in his body. He hoped that there we no physical signs even if his mind was turning into a rage of thoughts. Impure ones to be exact. He crossed his legs.

“You must be well to do, able to afford real tea. So what do you do?”

“I’m a kind of Exterminator.” There was no hesitation in the answer. Tell the truth but partially. It was always better than outright lying.

“Ugh, they were right weren’t they?” She made a face, wrinkling her nose.

“Pardon?”

“The roaches. They would survive h*******t. Tons and tons of tech devs and yet we can’t get rid of roaches.”

“They’re intricately liked to humanity I suppose.”

“Sorry to say it, but sounds like a nasty job”

“Well, as they say, someone’s got to….”

“Do the dirty work", she laughed. And yes, he was totally absolutely ensnared. Such unfiltered joyous laughter. You could be the most glamorous person in the world and yet without a laugh or a proper smile, … drink you tea man, and be a proper gentleman. And yet if he only knew, how ungentlemanly she was expecting him to be.

She had always been aware of him, even when she was deep in love with Paul. He had a unique presence; he was muscular amd well built but not the largest of man. And he moved with such balletic grace. So sure of his movements, like liquid steel. His face was, well he wasn’t boyishly pretty like Paul but he had kind eyes. And a turn of his mouth that indicated a sense of humor. And now, seeing this sense of stillness in him like a deep pool of water. So mysterious and tantalizing. He was mature, no doubt about it and he had the sense of someone well experienced and weathered even if she could not figure out his age. An old head on young shoulders her father used to say. Not that young, but younger than he seemed to be. Yet, there was this innocence to him. If she had been attracted before, she was burning now. It may be because of her loneliness and her need for someone to fill the void of Paul but she had opportunities with others and she never felt this way. She looked at his hands and imagined them cupping her breasts, sliding down her thighs, going between them. God she was horny. It had been some time with Paul and she wasn’t about to be a nun for his sake. But to go out and find some casual connection, it didn’t feel right. So she had abstained. But here right now, it felt right.

“I’m sorry but I don’t think we have been properly introduced.” He spoke in his calm quiet way and it broke her fiery thoughts. Just in time before she strayed too far and did something she would regret. No regrets, there’s nothing to lose. Loosen a button, play with your hair, lick your lips. The art of seduction. Did he think her attractive enough? Perhaps she should have taken some effort and tart up. Over the years men had progressed but there were things that would forever guarantee interest from a hetero male. Unless he wasn’t hetero. Well, there was always a 50/50 chance.

“I’m Callista.” She thought of flicking her hair as she said it but she dismissed the idea. If he was to feel for her, he would. Stupid nymphet affectations would not help. Not for a man like him anyway she surmised.

“That’s a pretty name. Greek?”

“Name is. I’m actually Irish. And you, sir?”

“I’m….” He almost said Bishop.

“Peter.” The first of his kind. She bit her lip to prevent herself from going into hysterical laughter. Was she robbing Peter or Paying Paul? Was this some kind of cosmic joke?

“Well, nice to meet you Peter.”

“Likewise Callista.” He leaned back, sipping at his tea. A sudden stillness filled the air but it was not uncomfortable. He studied her, noticing a flush creeping into her cheeks. Well, was she attracted to him? Perhaps he should explore this connection even if only to see whether he still could. Of course he could, the discomfort between his legs a sure sign of that. What do you do? Do you ask politely? Excuse me ma’am but I was wondering if I could make love? What did people do? What did he used to do? Did he just walk up to a girl and planted a kiss? That was assault wasn’t it? What if she did it to him? His eyes studies her looking for signs of … welcome?

She studied him in return, wondering what he was thinking, feeling a sense of warmth suppurate her body. s****l mores were constantly changing over times, the value of virginity going up and down like the oscillating function of a wave. It wasn’t any issue for a woman to express s****l need but yet intimacy with a stranger was not without ramifications. What made her feel bold and ready to make the first move was that she might never see him again. Not having to deal with potential awkwardness from the close proximity, no emotional fallout to deal with. She was leaving, the leftover presence of Paul still in the place. But right now she needed someone to want her. It was almost self debasing, finding worth in feeling like this, but humans had ever craved this validation, men and women alike. We were not made to be alone. She wanted someone to want her. She wanted him to want her. She reached out to touch his arm. She left it there and what words could not explain, touch did.

Strangers in the night, the old lyric went. But there was never anything wrong seeking this type of comfort, when two were willing. It could be the most beautiful thing in the world, it could be utterly underwhelming. But there was never anything wrong. She remembered when Paul and her were in the blossom of their romance; how his mouth and tongue awakened each part of her skin, inch by inch. How his touch was, slow, lingering like a breeze – cool, yet exceedingly warm and smooth. So smooth. But then their lovemaking had turned and she should have known that was the end. He had gone to her with an almost mechanical desperation, the tenderness subdued. The unmistakable ugliness of pure physical s*x, all grunt and thrust – no respect, no caresses for her body. Oh, she should have known but as much as some things change, some things remained eternal. Ours was a species in eternal denial. Was she in denial now? No, because he moved forward, his hands clutching her jaw, his eyes reading thoughts in hers. He had no doubt now that he was still alive between the legs. There was no Vow of Chastity. There never was. Over time, he had adopted that stance because he thought his life demanded it. There was no vow to another person. This here and now, take it and live. He kissed her on the lips; they parted, her tongue brushing gently against his own. When was the last time he had been with a woman? Did he know what to do? Would he hurt her, trained killer that he was? She reached between his legs as if looking for confirmation and he could feel her relax. He picked her up, their lips still locked, her tender frame no issue for him. Carried her to her bed and laid her down as gently as he could.

“You don’t have to be so gentle, I’m not made of paper “she whispered in his ear. But no, he had to be gentle because where was there ever opportunity to be so? Gentleness had long crept out of his life; let him be some form of an earlier himself for the moment. She waited, wanting him to tear through her clothes and devour her but he did not and she realized perhaps he was right. Perhaps it should be this way. He unbuttoned her shirt and exposed her pulsating, ready body. He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the base of her neck and she knew that this could never be a mistake whatever the consequences.

They lay in bed later, cuddling, his body pressed against her back. As good as s*x was, she always like this, ‘afters’. When their skin was still warm and flushed. Lying there, enjoined, breathing in each other. His hands travelled her skin and a sudden thought of Paul entered her mind, stinging her eyes. He felt it in her body.

“Is there something wrong?”

“Bad memories. It’s okay, you help keep them away.” She turned slightly and patted his cheek. He held her hand there, pressed against his face.

“Glad to be of service, ma’am.”

“Sounds like duty, soldier boy.”

“Duty can be enjoyed thoroughly.” She pressed harder into him and felt him getting aroused again.

“Yes. It can.” She breathed, enjoying the movement of his reaction against her body.

“You’re leaving aren’t you?” he asked, a hesitation in his voice. That shook her and she turned around.

“How did you know?”

“There are enough signs. Is this, what do they called it. Is this going to be all there is?”

“No. It doesn’t have to be. No.” And she meant it.

"I can’t stay here but this is not the middle ages. Its not like I will be lost forever. There’s always social media.” He didn’t want to tell her he had none of those.

“I know. I’m sorry but I’m not sure. I’m not sure whether there’s going to be a next time. I mean, you’re beautiful and lovely and I feel strongly for you but I’m in some state of mind that’s going to make things difficult. If I solve these problems of mine, I would, I would gladly see you again. And again.”

“It’s okay. I’m not sure myself either. I mean I just ended a relationship” What a dreadful lie. She did want to see him again. Needed to. Not that she would die of a broken heart if she didn’t. But their connection had such beauty for her. It would be wretched to lose it. But this was right, this moment now. Why wouldn’t it be? The comfort of strangers can be an exceptional thing.

“I’m glad you understand. This moment has been beautiful. Even if it is for one moment.”

“But you know, this moment can be a little more than just a moment.” She took his face in her hands.

“Well, it will need to be as long as it can.” He smiled. He reached out and touched one breast lightly and her body shook with hot anticipation.

“Would there be injury later if the moment stretches too long?” She laughed, eyeing his engorged member.

“Nothing a health module won’t fix. Now, lie back and let me find the taste of you.” She did as he told, his strong hands spreading her legs. She had been oh so hungry but she did not anticipate the sweetness of his own hunger. A song entered her head as she felt her whole body gasp.

There'll be bluebirds over

The white cliffs of Dover,

Tomorrow, just you wait and see,

Tomorrow, just you wait,