Chapter Ten
During the middle years of his service, Deckard and Kitka were lounging about in a holding area, one close to an actual combat zone. The corporations were suffering from the effects of the conflict and were beginning to play a little rough. It was the end of the Infowar and the beginning of the Corpwar. The rules had changed and subtlety gave way to brute force. They adapted a commercial concept to one that more fitted their needs. The "AATV" or Armored All Terrain Vehicle, was insulated against energy and solid projectiles. They had ground contact treads and hover kinematics. Gas shells, N-beams, and 40mm shells were some of the hazards that they exposed people to. The section had come up with its own "AATV". The concept was based on plans that Deckard had acquired months ago. Several of these were in the camp with him.
Camp C-11 was its official designation, but the troopers there called it Fort Apache. This name came from the fact that the Apache Helicopters, flying machines of ancient design, were for the most part, mothballed there. The obsolete flying machines sat, stripped of their ordinance, like the bones of extinct bird of prey, in the rear of the camp. Troopers often ran exercises through there. The hulks provided excellent cover. The shielding absorbed the simulated rounds, as well as any sensor rays being used.
The tanker crews were young and energetic. They played baseball and football in their off time, and oversaw the repair, refueling and outfitting of their machines. The machines themselves were low squat hexagonal things with long barrels. Their sides were complex rotating plates. Deck understood them to be a fractal armor system.
The spinning plates that revolved around the whole machine were filled with a liquid core. This core became solid when not in motion. The plates, each of them with a heat sensor in them, upon picking up an incoming projectile, would stop spinning. The core would become solid and the projectile would hit the plate and shatter the core.
After detonation, the plate would begin its rotation; the shattered core would become liquid again, ready for another blow. They made the most god-awful noise when it happened. The plates had to be constantly adjusted; or they would react to the wind, or tree branches, or what-not. As a result, the tanks let off an audible hum all the time.
The crews called the tanks "Mitts".
"Get your Mitt and let's go!" The commander would yell. They would pile in and crank them up. Deckard peeked into one once. It was painted a light green inside. Fiendishly complicated control boards and yokes surrounded leather, papa-san type seats. It was the chairs that gave the tank its name. They looked just like huge baseball gloves.
Each tank carried a crew of two, driver and gunner. The tanks hovered above the ground about a meter, and would speed off into the forest. Deckard sometimes heard explosions deep in the woods. After about an hour or a couple of days, they would return, battered and smashed. The crews, tired and silent, would pile out.
After a day or so, they would start playing baseball or football again. Life continued in this way. His assignment that led him here had been to escort a defecting board member to a safe location. The board member was senior enough to provide a gold mine of intelligence. It was a tedious process, involving many slow deliberate moves. Fort Apache was not his first choice, but it was the closest. The defector was not used to being on the run and made that plain. Blaine made the decision to make for the closest available spot, C-11. The board member, Wayne Loehr from Jenset Inc, was now being extensively debriefed. It seemed that a rival in Jenset Inc had decided to get an easy promotion by having him killed. When the attempt failed and Loehr complained to the board of directors, they did nothing. That really burned him up. He defected soon afterwards.
Blaine had been given almost no information on the defecting board member, only the place, time and description of pickup. His orders had been explicit about one thing: in the event of capture, terminate pickup and escape and evade. Ultra One-Seven was briefed by an officer he had never seen before and never saw him again. The officer seemed tense and nervous, stressing over and over again how important it was to bring in the pick-up. It seemed he thought that Ultra One-Seven would elect to kill the pickup at the first difficultly. It was only in the event of inevitable capture that he was to terminate the pick-up. After that, Ultra One-Seven was free to use their talents to escape, evade or whatever.
Once the pickup was made, Deckard could see why he had been given so explicit instructions. Loehr was a certified slack-jawed idiot. He was fifty-seven, fat, had brought two suitcases, and didn't like cats. Loehr didn't like sweating or being dirty. He complained and whined the entire way about everything, to the point of giving their position away a couple of times. That was when Ultra One-Seven made contact and requested a change in drop points.
Now Blaine and Kitka had nothing to do. It seemed that they had been forgotten in the excitement of things. He supposed Loehr had been a pretty big deal. The pre-mission dossier had revealed nothing towards that end. His own debriefing had been punctual and short. No questions were asked or taken. In addition, nobody knew anything either, at least no one that he met. The tanker crews were not sure why their position was being attacked.
The regular troopers were rotated in and out everyday, so he never got to know any of them. The general staff would tell him nothing. Really, it wasn't so bad. He and Channel explored the forest and a small creek during the day. He had to learn passwords and they made him carry a rifle. Nighttime, there was a canteen open to officers. There was a limited bar, a jukebox, and a SV with two channels: News and Sport news. There was also a piano, which a young cyber cryptologist was good at playing. It was just an episode of the conflict. For some reason, Deckard always looked on it as one his fondest memories.
.
After the "Unrest" was over, he saw a "Mitt" cruising a downtown drag. It was painted in day-glow purple and lime, with neon lights detailing it. He could read 'Devastator' in small silver, deco letters across the side of the hood. Apparently, they had gotten to the civilian market after all. It was near dusk, it was crawling along, lights flashing, a low bass thump rattling nearby windows. Deckard was sitting in a busy sidewalk café, across from a target of his from the past. It was on the west coast. He had come to have a look around at a city that he only knew clandestinely and at night. The twist on this one had been that it was four floors below the surface. It was a change from his usual thirteenth floor entrance. He was lost in memory as he thought about the solution he'd finally reached.
Sipping on soft drinks and eating mixed nuts and thinking, he heard a second Devastator approach. The same low hum from long ago. The people on the sidewalk knew something he didn't though, because they began to scramble off the streets. Some cars ran the red light on the corner, and others went down wrong way streets to get away. The white-aproned waiter, who had just come outside, dropped his tray.
"Hey sir, get inside!" He darted back to the door and opened it, looking up and down the street.
Deckard gathered a sleeping Kitka off the table and went in the door. Unlike the others, who sought refuge at the back, he stayed by the window. The first devastator stayed put, music blaring. A second devastator hummed up to the side of it. It was flat black, full tint job, with red detailing. Even the headlights were tinted black. At some prearranged signal, the two gunned their engines and released the brakes and tore down the street. They really tore down the street. The heavily armored vehicles knocked down lampposts, mailboxes, and trees.
The cars in their way were run right over, sparks and glass shards flying and a horrible screeching noise. The two AATVs slammed and side swiped each other as they sped along with no apparent damage. Their hover capability kept them from being stopped by any obstacle, just as it was meant to. The police arrived in ordinary cars to assess the damage, but the perpetrators were long gone. Life on the street began to resume.
"What was that?" Deckard asked the waiter, as he righted the tables on the walk. They were made of high impact polystyrene and were undamaged.
"About a year ago, these
new recreational trucks were put out." He set the chairs in place. "They were really expensive, so there was only one around. Then another showed up, they raced and this happened." The waiter said, looking at the police take down names and addresses. "Since then, they began showing up from all over to race each other. The police can't stop 'em and they don't wreck, so they just destroy everything in their path."
Deckard sat back down, setting Kitka back on the table. She'd remained asleep the whole time.
.
Deckard had been uncertain what to do with Starkweather. Leaving a Tri chieftain alive, alive to take revenge, seemed unwise. He couldn't leave him dangling there, he needed his hook back. In the end, Deckard hauled the man up and put him back in the office with two of the Dobermans. A quick search revealed that the men that had been sent over the side either were dead, or had run for it. From what he had seen of the sheep-like populous, they were used to easier targets. He knew that the police wouldn't respond to any alarm raised about the activities here. Starkweather sure wasn't going to call them. However, he could call Leila Mawson and tip her off to his coming. Houston could be a problem.
The locals called it "Little LA" and that was not a compliment. The city itself had been divided up into racial quadrants, even before Deckard had been born. He'd been there before. The job itself had gone smoothly, but the skyscraper district, over five square miles had been creepy. Highrises surrounded streets and business parks. Powerful floodlights had made the place seem like broad daylight. Only the borders of pitch black surrounding it told otherwise. Deckard and Kitka walked along the deserted streets, seeing no one. No bums, no cops, no G's, not even bats were about. Channelle slunk along, her tail flayed out, her eyes watchful. He could hear his quiet footfalls echoing off the buildings. It was if the entire area was some enormous malevolent beast, too lazy to reach out and smash them as they passed. They bolted for the shadows and made their way up a high building, running from an invisible predator.
Shaking off the memories of dread, he opened up Starkweather's door. The man sat there, looking worn and impotent. The dogs sat, panting. A wave of pity came over Deckard and he fetched a first aid kit and treated their gaping slashes. They sat there, looking apprehensive, but did nothing otherwise, as he tended them. Tossing the kit on the large desk, he sat.
"What are you going to do now?" Deckard asked. "Remember what happened the last time you weren't forthcoming."
The tri chief licked his lips and then put his head in his hands.
"I don't know." A huge shuttering sigh. "Maybe I'll try to make it to the Keys." Another one. "I've got friends there, from my legging days. They'd hide me for a while."
Deckard was mystified. "What do you mean 'hide'."
Starkweather looked up. "I'm all through here." He put his head back down. "When the Tri commission finds out..."
Deckard thought he had it figured out now.
"This incident is going to cost you your kingdom here, huh?"
"Yes." He looked up again, this time with a look of relief on his face. "Unless you plan to kill me."
"No." Deckard shook his head. It was too late for that now. Starkweather would have to make a move, and it didn't look like he was up for it.
"Well, what if they didn't find out about it?"
Confusion. "How could they not know about this." He stood up. "You showed me remember! Oh, God." He sat again.
How did this man ever become a Tri chief? Maybe he was somebody's something or someone.
"Look, Karl, you're going to have to show a little more backbone here. I can't work this thing without you."
"What do you mean, you already got what you came for." Tears began to form at the edge of his voice. "I broke in the first second, like a little girl." He quavered.
"I still need you for one other thing." Deckard said, thinking of several little girls that he'd known that were way tougher than Karl.
A pause. "What?"
"I need you to clear the way for me to meet Mawson." Kitka strolled in and leapt upon the desk. Deck leaned forward to stroke her.
"Are you going to kill her?"
If he had to, but, "No, I just want a more complete story than I got from you."
"Why do you want to know?" The man leaned back in his chair, his eyes bloodshot.
"Because I'm writing your biography, all right!" Sarcasm spat out. For such a self-evident wimp, this guy was real pain.
"Okay, okay. If we cover this up, and I introduce you and you kill her, then I have no chance to run at all." He seemed to be calming down now. "I wouldn't be able to hide anywhere."
That seemed to make sense, but Deckard was still wary. "It really has nothing to do with the Tri at all, just people that you did business with, a while back."
"All right, but what story do you think we can come up with for that mess in there?" Starkweather reached into a box that was one his desk and pulled out a cigarette.
Anger surged through Deckard. His men were either dead or maimed and this man calls it a mess. His wave of anger subsided quickly, when his conscious came back with the reply of: Yeah, and who did all that anyway?
"How about this: Eight of your men form a conspiracy to discredit and destroy you. Following up on their actions, you invent a threat against you life; get them all here and then deal with them. Your club gets a little trashed,"
"A little trashed?" Cynicism.
"A little trashed," Deckard repeated. "But you dealt with them and now you're stronger than ever." It sounded thin, but Starkweather loved it.
He got up, pushed his chair back, alarming Kitka. He was in the moment and did not notice.
"Yes, Sharky's been a little insubordinate lately, every one follows his lead, it's perfect." He began to pace back and forth behind the desk. Kitka watched him carefully, but was soothed by Deck's hand.
He stopped pacing. "What if one of the live ones saw you?"
No imagination. "Tell them that I was a," Deckard had heard this title somewhere. "Security consultant. Brought in from the outside. Kept it real secret."
That ignited the fire again.
"Of course! That was how you managed to subvert the collars from underneath them. That's how I'll introduce you to Mawson, then you can go see here. She'll think it's about other attempts." Starkweather sat down and flipped up a portion of the desk. A MIL cradle and screen were beneath.
"I'll E her and tell that this might be a more far reaching attempt, and that you looking into it for me." Deckard could hear keys clacking away under the desk.
"Sissy's very paranoid and superstitious to boot, she'll buy it, hook, line, and sinker." "Sissy? Deckard inquired.
"Yes, that's Mawson's nickname, but don't call her that to her face."
.
An hour later, Deckard made to leave. He stopped at the front, and signaled Kitka. She darted up, tail whisking about. He signaled again, and she cloaked. Through his watch video link, he tapped the sides, which would convey to Kitka which way to look. The collar she wore had corresponding vibration relays in it. The dock was empty except for seagulls and rats. A shabby stumbling figure was coming towards her, but he was no thug, only a drunk. Kitka checked him out anyway.
A grizzled old man in a captain's hat and faded pea coat with a set jaw and glassy eyes that had seen better days. Kitka uncloaked in front of him. He took a step back and then bent down murmuring "Kitty, kitty, kitty,"
She sniffed his outstretched hand and then recloaked. He did a double take, shrugged, and resumed his unsteady journey. No one else around. She came back to the front and they left.
Starkweather had made several calls. A crew was coming by to clean up the mess, another to fix the place up. By noon tomorrow, there wouldn't be trace of anything that had happened there. The diners and patrons would never guess. They would eat shrimp scampi and drink long flat red in the exact spot where Deckard had killed or maimed how many men? Now that it was all over, he couldn't remember. In any event, Mawson's people had been informed of
his desire to talk with her. They apparently bought the story about security and conspiracy. He had an open invite to see her at an address that Starkweather wrote down for him.
Deckard decided that Mallos was his best lead for now. If found and taken alive, he could perhaps unravel this whole tale, and lead him to the plans of the pulse cannon. Since he was alive, Goramund would also be alive. Facing the two of them would be tough, tougher than anything he'd come up against so far. The thought of snakes unnerved him. What was it that Bowden said? The rattle sounded like a machinegun going off in your ear.
The thought of machine guns unnerved him even more. The sound made his blood clench in his veins. He'd been shot at enough, it was true, but in the arena that he operated in, they just weren't that common. Pistols and Sub-machine guns mostly. A lot of those were fitted with silencers, too. Silent and barely noticeable. Soft popping sounds and the action slamming home, then the tear of the bullets and the shower of debris as they ripped into walls, furniture, and office equipment.
Deckard heard them afar often enough, but close up it was another matter. The explosion of the weapon, the intense flash, the scream of the bullets as they mauled everything around them. It was a violation of all the senses at once. You were deafened, blinded and shattered by it. Sometimes, when you realized that the blast was over, you were dead. Sometimes it had taken something from you, like an arm, or leg, or liver, or life. The Devil's paintbrush one solider had called it long ago. He was right. The devil painted in blood and gore. He painted pictures of agony and misery. As Deckard contemplated it, he could almost hear the sound, smell the acrid wind.
Up ahead was the boardwalk, with its lights sounds and smells. Kitka stopped suddenly and fell over on her side, twisting on her back. Deckard stopped and watched her squirm for a moment. She spoke several times. Deck picked her up and slung her over one shoulder. Purring issued from her throat, as they walked along. She was tired and hungry. Shrimp tonight perhaps. It was midnight or beyond.
.
After dinner, near the carnival again, the two decided to go back to Cen. They could go to the Pointe without fear now, and Daria would be there to talk to. Maybe she'd let them stay at her place again. Perhaps they should actually check into a hotel. That was a novel idea. How would they go about that?
Hi, I'd like to check in to your fine hotel here in the middle of the night.
Oh, yes, and will that large cat be staying with you?
Yes, she's my operative acting strictly under my instructions.
I understand perfectly. Will you be breaking into any of the other rooms?
Only if they seem interesting enough.
I see. Do you have any form of ID?
No, but I just turned your local mob headquarters into a slaughterhouse, maybe he'd vouch for me.
Deckard stifled a chuckled thinking about it. Maybe they'd try it one day, just to see. Perhaps it'd be better go see Daria and see if that bridge was burned before anymore. Deckard smiled wryly at the thought of her bare back facing him, as she went to her room and closed the door. She'd let them stay, most likely. If she wasn't mad at him. People often got angry at Deckard. Sometimes he could understand why. Most of the times he couldn't.
Seeing what looked like trolley tracks in the road, they followed them to a station. A bench below a trolley map with colored lines held a number of people, some of them looking bone tired, others quite awake. The trolley was fun. It zoomed along the tracks at a modest speed. The passengers sometimes waited for it to stop to get off, and sometimes they just bailed out. Kitka sat in Deckard's lap, her forepaws on the brass railing, holding her head out into the wind.
After a couple of transfers, they were back in Cen-Cen. The crowd was as gloomy as before. Not as many of them, but the place was still busy, with just as many places open, maybe more. There were at least more vending carts out. Or maybe he'd didn't notice before.
A couple of teenaged girls stared at him from under a theater marquis. They looked incredibly young, in leather jackets and mini-skirts, trying to look older.
"Excuse me?" The taller one, the blonde, asked him as he went by.
He stopped. "Yes?"
"We were wondering about your cat?"
Deckard looked down, as his faithful feline sat, not looking particularly interested.
"What?"
"Well, " She began. Her eyes were fluttering as she looked into his. "Well, I mean..."
Clearly, it was not Channelle they were interested in.
"What she means is," The shorter brunette chimed in. She wasn't as thin as her friend, nor as pretty, but she was obviously the brains of the pair. "Is we were wondering if your cat was some type of Abbysianian-mix?" She looked hopeful, as that maybe wasn't too dumb a thing to say.
He smiled at them. They were cute as kittens, and just as clumsy.
Giving a short whistle under his tongue, He caught Kitka as she jumped into his arms. Resettling herself, as Deckard pet her, he answered.
"Yes, she's part Abbysianian, as well as others. She's sort of unique."
The blonde one reached out to Kitka, but she growled loudly. The blonde withdrew her hand quickly.
"Careful, she's a little high strung." A pause.
"Well, bye." He turned and walked down the sidewalk. He could hear them giggling at their bravery as he left.
He stopped in front of a shop with a sign in deco letters that read "Future Modern Furniture". It was across the street from the Pointe.
In the window were replicas of sofas, tables, and chairs from the post World Wars era. It looked authentic. They also had an assortment of old looking telephones that had been converted to cordless. The street was reflected in the big window in front of him. He'd stopped to have a look at it. The feeling that someone was following him was strong. He stood there until a large enough group went by. Going through the middle of them, he crossed the street, just as a trolley passed. Nodding to the bouncers, Deck went down the steps and ducked just behind the wall. Releasing Kitka, he gave the appropriate hand signal. She faded, and he turned on his vidlink. The stairs, someone came in. A guy with a girl, dressed to the nines. No. Kitka advanced up the stairs. The street, one way, then the other. No one seemed to be taking a great interest in anything. She swept the scene and leapt onto a windowsill of the club. The higher vantage point also revealed nothing but the usual unusual. Wait, just at the corner, a man. He was standing there trying to see something. He looked up one side of the street and then the other. He was too far away to be seen clearly. Kitka stood up and was about to move closer, when he mixed in the crowd and was gone.
So someone out was there. Deckard nodded and tapped the recall button. The vidlink flickered and powered down.
Kitka rubbed on his leg and then faded into view. The two returned to their spot from before.
Daria was in the back of the club and spotted them. She came up to them.
"Deckard Blaine!" She hesitated, then held out her arms. He looked at her, slightly confused.
She let out a noise of exasperation, and stomped her foot, then held her arms higher, smiling. Oh. He hugged her tightly, and she squeezed back. She was a warm and compact little bundle. He let go, and he knelt to exchange courtesies with Kitka. Holding out a finger, Channel looked at, nosed it, then ran her jaw along it and was scratched under the chin. Meanwhile, Deckard looked at Daria. She was wearing a dark purple knee length dress with hose and her buckle boots from before. It was very form fitting, made of some thick stretch material. Daria rose and laughed at him.
"I didn't think I'd see you again." She showed them to a round table in the back, where she'd been sitting. The club wasn't quite full as last time.
"What happened around here?" He asked as he sat. "Cen's a little emptier than before."
"Well, it is a weekday, but yesterday there was a gun fight a couple of blocks from here. That always spooks people." She picked up her glass of red wine.
"Nothing to do with me?"
"Oh,
no. Sometimes people just get shot at."
"Hmmm." He folded his arms and drummed his fingers on the table.
"Yes," She rested her chin in her hand. "Hmmm."
Kitka got into Deck's lap, and poked her head above the table, looking about. This made Daria laugh again. Kitka then got on the table and began sniffing at Daria right eye. This made her laugh even more. When she tried to pull away, Kitka put her front paws on Daria's shoulders, and continued.
"I'd let her have her way, if I were you," Deckard said into his glass of beer that had been set in front of him. He smacked at the taste. "She can be determined."
Looking at him for a few moments, she stood up and drained her glass of wine.
"Deckard Blaine, you are going to take me out on a date."
He sat there. "I am?"
"Yes, you are going to take me out on a date tonight, and you are going to be my boyfriend all night."
This was going to get her hurt. Deckard caught her by the hand. "Daria, there's things that you don't..."
Silencing him, she looked down. "I know it'll be just pretend, but I want to do it anyway." Her voice was small and quiet. She looked back up. "C'mon, it'll be fun."
She led him out of the club, through the back, to his relief. Her car sat there. Flicking out her MIL, she spoke into it briefly.
"Okay, Sam's covering for me. The books'll be a mess tomorrow, but I don't care."
Walking over to the passenger side, her put her hands on the car roof, then her chin on her hands.
"Where are you taking me on our date?"
The last time he was in a situation like this, it was about a million years ago. It had not been a success either.
"Well," it seemed old fashioned. "We could go to the movies?"
"Perfect!" She opened her door and got in. Deckard opened the driver door and got in.
"We'll have popcorn and soda, and we'll go out for breakfast after, on the beach. I know just the place." Sadness crossed her face for a moment, but was replaced with all smiles.
"We won't think about what happens after that at all." She sat back.
"No," He agreed. "We won't." Kitka, following them, settled in the back window shelf, sitting right in the middle, swishing her tail.
Deckard started up the car and drove out of the alley.
.
Daria directed him to an all night movie house that specialized in film-noir. It was a grand old place that had seen better times. Big, red, velvet curtains and matching seats. The insomniac that took their tickets, also sold them their popcorn and soda, and ran the film. There were only about ten others in the whole place. Kitka curled herself into a ball on one of the seats and fell asleep. Daria held onto one of his arms and munched popcorn, making sighs of contentment. The movie was corny as all hell. He'd tried not to evaluate, but couldn't help it. A private eye had picked up a girl, who was naked in a raincoat on the highway. The checkpoint he crossed was ridiculously easy. During a gunfight, the hero fired his gun 17 times from a six shooter without reloading. The acting was all fem-fatale and square-jawed justice, but Daria seemed to like it. Deckard had to admit, for the first time in a long time, he felt normal. After, they drove to the beach, ate breakfast tacos and watched the sun rise. She was quiet during breakfast. They walked along the seawall in the morning brightness.
Back at her car, she got in to drive and drove him to her place. "Thanks for taking me out," Daria kissed him lightly on the cheek. "I know that I've kept you up, so I want you to crash out on my bed and then you go, okay?" She said this, while pretending to straighten his collar.
Deckard opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. She turned and went into the kitchen. He went down the hallway and into her room. It was a cozy room with a four poster bed and lots of old framed photos on the wall. Kitka crawled up on it and turned about several times before curling up. Lots of lace and whispy material. The mattress was real down and he was asleep in an instant. Dreams, when they came, were forgotten.
.
When Deckard awoke, he was bare. How had that happened? His clothes were cleaned, and neatly folded on a chest at the foot of the bed. His pack was also near. Kitka, lying on the pillow he was using, rose, streching. The house was quiet. Daria, perhaps not wanting to see him go, had already left. The sun was sinking below the horizon slowly, casting an orange glow in the small house. He showered off and dressed. Sitting on the floor, tailor fashion, he disassembled his wrist rockets, cleaned them with a kit from his pack and reassembled them.
Fitting them into place, he fit the spike thrower in place of the 10mm. The spike thrower used the same principal as the 10mm, but had a lower charge and with a smaller range. The darts were coated with deadly poison or a powerful sedative. The 10mm were not going to last, not after that firefight at Tubby's. The grappler and dart rounds could be reloaded with a fair amount of ease, but the 10mm were a little harder to get.
The actions were buttery smooth as he worked them and let them retract into their metal housing. Deckard stood, looking around. The bedroom was cozy and very homey. He and Daria could be very happy here, with her club to run. His leverage with the local Tri would make things easier for her. If they tried to reassert their control, he would make them see it his way. Daria and He and Kitka would go out to eat, and to movies, plays, out to see bands. Kitka could catch birds in her small back yard and eat tuna Daria opened for her. She would take very good care of him and Kitka. It was yet another life that he would pass by. There was something out there to find. He had to find it. He closed the door, locking it. Daria was sitting on the curb, waiting.
Deckard went to her. She stood and began to speak, but he took her face in his hands and kissed her slowly, passionately. She stood, limp in his arms, as they kissed, and he felt hot tears stream over his hands. Finally, he broke it off. Dark had fallen now. They locked gazes. Hearing a bus as it passed, He jerked around to look, shot her a knowing grin, then raced after it. Kitka sprinted by his side and they picked up speed. With a small leap onto the bumper and a big one onto the roof, they were away. The wind blew salty sea air in their faces, and it was uplifting. He stood and stretched his arms, careful to keep his balance on the moving bus. After a bit, Deckard looked back, the little house was far behind them. He took a deep breath and sat down cross-legged and grabbed Kitka. Roughing her up and stroking her fur the wrong way, she grabbed on to his hand with all four feet and bit around on his thumb, kicking her back paws. He murmured to her happily and straightened out her coat, as she purred and licked his hand. They were free again. It was time to get the hell out of here. Maybe the next place would make more sense.