The phone rang, its jarring notes slashing through the
veil of sleep that had mercifully drifted across Leon's
mind. Bleary blue eyes glanced at the clock as he jerked
upright on the bed. Goddamn it, after a lousy four hours of
sleep, they were calling him already. Swearing and wincing
at the noise, Leon crawled off the bed, and staggered over
to the phone, hitting the `answer' button. A cheery young
woman with black hair and an ADP uniform appeared in the
viewscreen.
     "Sorry to wake you, Inspector," she apologized. "We
know you're tired, but...."
     "Just what is it this time?!" Leon asked, scrubbing a
hand across his face, trying to shake the heavy, thick
feeling that seemed to be firmly settled over him.
     "There's a boomer running loose, and we need you to
take command of your squad; it's being sent in as
reinforcements."
     "Fine," Leon sighed, reaching to a side table where his
gun and holster sat. "Give me the details."
                            ****
     The door to the shop flew open, loudly smacking into
the part-strewn work bench situated behind it as a tall,
blue-black haired woman burst through, moving swiftly, her
pace somewhere between a very rapid walk and a full-out run.
Sylia came to a halt, swearing softly to herself as her
worried, brown-eyed gaze swept the cluttered disarray of the
tech shop. She'd been right, but hadn't realized until too
late to be able to do anything. Bert had already left, in
his suit, and given his current, probable state of mind, he
had no business at all being in his armour.
     She swore again, running a hand through her hair
agitatedly, mussing it while her mind raced. What was she
supposed to do now? There was a massive inherent potential
for disaster with an emotionally overwrought SkyKnight
sailing around the city. There was only one thing she could
really do, she realized finally. Her mouth set in a
determined line as she turned and strode rapidly from the
shop.
     A few minutes later, Sylia stepped into the hardsuit
storage room, making some last minute adjustments to her
softsuit's fit. Taking a long, deep breath, she pressed the
button to deploy the loading ramp containing her hardsuit;
the door to the storage bay slid open silently, and the
loading boom began to extend out from the wall, a gleaming
white suit of powered armour standing waiting on it.
     As the suit moved forwards into the room, she again
mentally questioned the wisdom of what she was about to do.
Unfortunately, she couldn't see a way out of it; she was
going to have to go after SkyKnight, if for no other reason
than to prevent him from doing something he might later
regret. No one else was available at the moment to help her;
Linna was at work, conducting rehearsals for a big
performance, Priss was still unable to get back into her
suit, and Nene was very definitely unfit for any kind of
mission right now. It meant she was on her own; having
always worked as part of a team, she found it a very
unsettling position to be in.
     Sylia stepped up to her suit, smoothly getting into it
and activating the startup processes. Metallic snaps and
clacks sounded in the stillness of the empty room, overlaid
with sibilant, pneumatic hissing. She reached down and
picked up her helmet, carefully pulling it over her head and
settling the contacts into place. There was a brief hum as
her hardsuit came on-line. All her systems checked out, and
she pounded from the storage room.
     Before she could take off in pursuit of the Knight
Sabers' knight-errant, though, she had to first find out
which way he'd gone. She activated the main computer in the
data control room, and quickly patched the machine into the
concealed surveillance and detection sensors located on the
roof of her building. The sensors were masked inside of what
looked like innocuous solar collector panels, and had a
pretty good detection range.
     After a few brief minutes of tense scanning, the
computer flashed a map of MegaTokyo on the main screen. A
red blip on the map was moving steadily to the east. After a
quick look at the distance readout, she swore again; with
his flight system, SkyKnight was already several kilometers
away, and it was going to take her some time to catch up to
him.
     After a last quick glance at the map, the white-
hardsuited woman charged out of the computer room, becoming
grimly intent on the task at hand.
                            ****
     Night shrouded the deserted, derelict construction site
with an inky cloak, concealing the gap-faced and decaying
buildings. A few assorted construction vehicles, bulldozers
and the like, sat in a neat row, looking somehow like they
were ready to pounce on the crumbling structures in order to
complete the job that time was slowly performing on its own.
New construction materials were tidily piled on pallets by
the last machine in the row, awaiting use. In the distance,
the muted rumble of the sprawling metropolis' nightlife
could be heard.
     A screaming, droning noise split the relative stillness
of the dark air, and a silver streak dropped out of the
skies, slamming into the ground with a heavy, ringing impact
that send clouds of dust and debris skittering outwards in
rolling plumes. As the dust settled, a battered-looking,
silver-armoured shape became visible in the center of the
disturbance. A bright red glow from the v-shaped eyeslot in
its helmet pierced the darkness.
     SkyKnight moved forwards into the derelict site with a
slow and deliberate step. The evenly spaced sounds of his
heavy tread sounded forced, as if walking was an effort, and
every line of his armoured shape was rigid and tense, as if
holding in some inner turmoil. He came to a signboard at the
edge of a cleared spot in the run-down area, and his helmet
tilted to read it:

     THIS AREA SLATED FOR DEMOLITION AND RECONSTRUCTION
               UNDER DEVELOPMENT BY GENOM INC.

     With a snarled, scathing curse that blistered the air,
the silver-clad hardsuit smashed the hapless sign into
flying splinters with a backhanded swing. SkyKnight's helmet
tilted towards the sky, his arms half-raised, gauntlets
clenched in fury. He stalked another couple of steps, his
body quivering as he tried to suppress the typhoon of
emotion boiling in him. He lost the fight a few moments
later.
     "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGH!!!!" SkyKnight's helmeted head
was thrown back, and an enraged, inarticulate bellow of
anger, hurt, and frustration hurtled challengingly towards
the distant starry sky. He furiously slammed a gauntleted
fist into the front of a nearby bulldozer that had been
minding its own business, and the front grille of the
machine was smashed back into the engine. Coolant fluid
gushed from the shattered radiator of the vehicle,
splattering onto the hard-packed dirt as the silver-clad
hardsuit spun around, shaking uncontrollably. In the back of
his mind, he kept seeing a red-haired, green-eyed young
woman saying, "You've changed; you're not the man I fell in
love with."
     "IT'S NOT MY GODDAMN FAULT!!!!" he bellowed like a
wounded bull. Wheeling around, his gaze fell on the nearby
derelict buildings. A moment later, it sounded as if Thor
had dropped into MegaTokyo for a party, as crackling
detonations shattered the night air, and crimson-white bolts
of energy slammed into the crumbling concrete and masonry
structures. Bert poured a withering storm of laser energy
into the abandoned buildings, teeth clenched in fury as a
few angry tears trickled down the sides of his face inside
his helmet.
     After a few moments, the noise and light faded, and the
silver-and-blue hardsuit fell to its knees with a clang,
head and shoulders slumping over in a defeated-looking
posture as the blasted buildings avalanched inwards with a
roar, spewing dust and debris into the air. Angry hurt still
boiled through him, but a sudden, aching surge of loneliness
had attained dominance for a moment. He still couldn't quite
believe Nene's last declaration that she didn't want to see
him anymore. Fear gnawed through the loneliness; he didn't
want to be alone again! Damn it, he needed her, needed ...
somebody.
     Static hissed in his ears. Grateful for the
distraction, Bert checked his suit comm system, and found it
had detected an ADP transmission. He listened to the
panicked cops and dispatcher for a moment before realizing
that they were frantically calling for help against a combat
boomer that had appeared.
     SkyKnight rose to his feet, an anticipatory grin
spreading across his face as a wild, reckless urge for a
fight sprang up. Something tangible he could fight, could
destroy...
     A part of his mind advised caution: he was hurt and
angry, and his suit wasn't fully repaired yet; he couldn't
afford to get into a fight, especially if it was one of the
newer combat models. He slapped that part of his mind down a
moment later, running his systems to full power, preparatory
to takeoff.
     This, at least, was something he could take care of
simply and directly.
     Short silver wings flipped up and locked into position
on his suit's shoulderblades; a moment later, the silver-
blue Knight Saber was volleyed into the high air by howling
jets.
                            ****
     Leon ducked frantically as blazing energy streams
slashed the air around the police lines; troopers either
yelled and dove for cover, or dropped dead in their tracks
as they were blasted by a stray shot.  All over the street,
police vehicles became airborne with shattering explosions,
being propelled by rapidly expanding blossoms of flame and
smoke. Steel scrap and shrapnel shrieked through the air in
a deadly projectile storm.
     Leon swore bitterly, ducking with one arm up, shielding
his face from flying debris while fumbling for his handgun.
Yet more names to add to the `killed in the line of duty'
roster, and he knew with a sickening certainty that it
wasn't going to be the last time, either. A nagging voice in
the back of his mind, one that had become increasingly more
vocal lately, asked him just what the hell he thought he was
doing. Here he was all over again, ducking imminent death
from rampaging biomechanoids, while more good men bought it
around him. WHY?! Why the hell did he stay with such a lousy
job, when all it did was come within an ace of always
getting him killed, and bring nothing but unending bullshit
from the bureaucracy?!
     Energy screamed through the air, and Leon gasped in
pained surprise, jerking aside just a fraction of a second
too late to prevent his jacket sleeve from getting burned
off. The stink of charred cloth and crisped hair filled his
nose, and biting, stinging pain from his right arm made his
eyes water, almost causing him to drop his pistol. Swearing
again, Leon dropped flat to the pavement, trying to avoid
landing on his seared arm, and rolled over and over until he
found the dubious protection of a concrete bench near what
had been a bus stop shelter. He came to stop with his back
propped slightly up against the side of the bench, wincing
as his arm complained about the movement.
     Gasping for breath in the smoky haze that was slowly
crawling along the street, Leon gritted his teeth and
glanced at his arm; the skin was extremely red along his
forearm, up to his elbow, and there were more than a few
white blisters and welts that were forming. Some blood was
trickling from where he'd unknowingly ripped the skin by
dropping and rolling, but it didn't look nearly as serious
as the burns. As if looking at the damage had been a signal,
the nerve endings in his injured arm trebled their anguish,
almost making him black out from the pain.
     Gulping and clenching his teeth to keep from throwing
up, the ADP inspector tore his gaze away from the burned
flesh. Eyes closed, he took several deep breaths, trying to
steady himself. While it looked serious, the fact that he
could feel pain from it meant that it wasn't a very deep
burn, thank God. He set his gun across his leg long enough
to wipe suddenly sweaty hands on his pants, and again
grasped the butt. Bracing himself, Leon lifted the gun, and
rolled over to his elbows; sweat broke out on his face as he
managed to keep from yelling out loud, and he carefully
peered past the end of the bench.
     And found himself staring at a crimson-armoured leg.
     Leon yelped in surprise as he lunged to his knees
instinctively, falling over backwards in his haste to get
away. He was just barely in time, as a downward-driving,
artificially-muscled arm drove a wide blade of some kind
into the asphalt where his chest had been. The knuckles of
the red boomer's hand crunched against the pavement a second
later. Leon crabbed backwards frantically, his gun
skittering away as he forgot everything, even his wounded
arm, his only thought survival.
     Yellow eyes flashed as the killer biomechanoid grinned
evilly; it pulled its arm back from the binding pavement,
the long arm blade scraping free of its concrete sheath with
a nerve-grating scraping noise. A rumbling growl, almost
like a mechanical purr, rolled out of the boomer as it
slowly advanced on the wounded ADP officer. It disdainfully
ignored the scattered weapons fire from the few remaining
ADP troopers, the jacketed slugs whining uselessly off of
its metallic carapace into the night, and continued to
remorselessly advance on the retreating inspector.
     Leon felt his guts shrivel in fear as the boomer loomed
over him, his mouth going dry. A second arm blade deployed
from the boomer's other arm, and both of its arms swung up
and back in what was obviously intended to be a double chop
at the sprawled officer.
     Leon tried to scrabble away again, but found he'd run
out of room to maneuver as his back touched the blasted
concrete of a building wall. Weary resignation suddenly
filled him; after several years, it appeared like he was
finally going to die at the hands of a rogue boomer. His
eyes found the glittering edges of the boomer's arm blades,
and watched with morbid fascination as they started to
descend. A booming voice suddenly overrode the crackling
fires and explosions, crashing into the scene like a rock
thrown through a plate glass window.
     "Mind if I cut in?"
     At the question, the crimson biomechanoid spun in mid-
strike, blades whistling through the air towards where the
electronic voice had come from; there was a grinding, steely
crash, and sparks flew through the air as they were blocked
by another pair of long blades, blades that were attached to
a towering, silver-and-blue armour suit's arms.
     "Now that wasn't very hospitable," SkyKnight remarked
mildly. "In fact, I'd say it was downright unfriendly." The
red eyeslot on his helmet flared brightly, then subsided
into a deep, burning red colour. "Suits me just fine." Leon
could hear the suppressed eagerness in the Knight Saber's
voice, despite the electronic filtering; he wanted a fight,
badly, from the sound of it. Leon tried to keep calm as he
realized things hadn't necessarily improved with SkyKnight's
arrival.
     "Identity confirmed: SkyKnight," the red combat machine
suddenly stated in grating tones. Leon stiffened, staring at
the hulking boomer that was standing toe-to-toe with the
smaller battlesuit; it was the first time he'd ever heard a
combat boomer speak, a precedent he would have been quite
happy not to have been witness to. The boomer continued its
verbal analysis. "Procedure: Exterminate. Estimated Threat
Level: Moderate."
     "That's all?" SkyKnight rumbled back. "Let's see if I
can't make you re-evaluate that appraisal." The silver-clad
warrior suddenly spun slightly, dropping to his right knee,
while kicking out with his other leg. The kick connected
solidly with the boomer's leg, just below its knee. Caught
by surprise, the boomer crashed heavily to the asphalt on
its knees as its leg folded under the unexpected blow.
     SkyKnight belted the crimson boomer backwards with a
roundhouse right to the head, using the momentum generated
by the punch to spin himself back to his feet as the boomer
clanged onto the pavement on its back. Moving with blurring
speed, SkyKnight dropped under a particle beam shot from the
supine boomer, and seized its feet. With a grunting heave,
the silver-blue hardsuit jerked the boomer up from the
pavement, and whipped it through the air, over his head, to
slam it facefirst into the burned pavement of the street.
Having succeeded in clearing the boomer away from Leon,
SkyKnight flipped into the air on hissing jets, and landed
again in the center of the street, a few meters further up
from the boomer.
     Roaring in mechanical fury, the red boomer surged
upright, and began stomping after the silver hardsuit. It
was stopped in its tracks momentarily by a thundering blast
of red-white energy that clawed holes into its armour, but
it resumed its implacable forward advance a moment later,
narrowing the gap between it and the waiting silver
gladiator. SkyKnight dropped into a ready crouch, his left
side towards the boomer, feet set shoulder-width apart, with
his left arm extended towards the biomechanoid, ready to
parry incoming strikes, and his right arm held back to
deliver a response to whatever his opponent might try.
     What the hell is he waiting for?!, Leon's hazy mind
wondered; it was becoming difficult maintaining his
concentration on what was going on, and he dimly realized he
was going into shock. He blinked his eyes, squinting at the
scene in front of him, trying to figure out SkyKnight's
tactics; the ADP officer had seen enough to be able to
recognize his posture as preparing to meet someone, or
something, in hand-to-hand combat. Why the hell didn't he
just shoot the goddamn thing?! The dimly-lit scene in his
vision swam and then blurred; darkness flooded across his
sight in a rushing torrent, and he realized he'd lost the
battle to retain his grip on consciousness.
     Just before Leon dropped into the black softness of the
void, he heard SkyKnight address the rogue biomechanoid.
     "Okay, you bastard: Let's dance."
                            ****
     Bert knew there was a savage, snarling grin etched into
his face behind his helmet visor, but at the moment, he
didn't really care. There was a howling exultation singing
in his blood at the moment, all of the pain, anger and
frustration he'd suffered fusing into one driving urge:
destroy. He couldn't strike back at something intangible,
like the reasons Nene had declared for leaving him, and
Hollister wasn't available to slowly pulverize for having
initiated some of what had been done to him, but the killer
biomechanoid in front of him right now was very real, and
was quite willing to oblige his craving for a fight.
     His forearm snapped up, knocking the boomer's strike at
his head aside, and his own answering blow was deftly
parried as well. The air became alive with a flickering
series of strikes, blocks, counter-strikes, kicks, and
contorted dodges as the silver-clad Knight Saber took out
his frustrations in the whirl of hand-to-hand combat. There
were no doubts tormenting him here, no remorse-laden
memories; here, it was either kill or be killed, with life
hanging precariously in the balance. It was a wildly
exhilarating feeling, fed mostly by adrenaline.
     The world rocked crazily as the boomer slipped a punch
inside his guard, snapping his helmet back on his neck,
sending a blazing spike of agony searing into his skull. As
he tried to recover, he felt the numbing impacts of several
more, rapid-fire punches, and felt the jarring shock of his
impact with the rubble-strewn street a moment later. As he
desperately fought to get to his feet, SkyKnight suddenly
heard a rising whine and crackle come from his armoured foe.
     The silver hardsuit sprang up from the pavement,
whipping his body around in a contorted movement, moving
aside just enough that the blindingly-bright green energy
bolt that the boomer spat at him missed, instead blasting a
hole through a distant building.
     Instantly, SkyKnight blurred across the gap separating
himself from the crimson biomechanoid, smashing into it with
renewed fury. Again, the two combatants pounded at each
other, testing who had the best hand-to-hand ability. After
a moment of violent sparring, the biomechanoid again
demonstrated that it had the upper hand, spinning with one
of his punches, and using the momentum generated as it came
around to again knock the silver-and-blue battlesuit
sprawling to the ground with a blistering roundhouse right.
     Bert's breath whooshed agonizingly out of his lungs as
the red combat machine leaped forward, spinning in mid-air
while he tried to straighten up, and connected with a solid
kick to his stomach. He flew backwards down the street,
skidding along the rough road in a shower of sparks and a
clanging bang. Bright spots flickered and flashed tauntingly
in his vision as he fought for some air.
     The air around him turned bright green suddenly; pain
flashed through every bone in his body as he felt the slam
of multiple particle bolts, and again he hit the pavement,
landing in a smoldering, scorched heap. Blackness swam at
the edges of his vision as he groggily tried to summon up
the energy to move. In the back of his mind, anger and the
driving urge to get up and kill the boomer pestering him
pulsed and ebbed. Fear began scraping at him as he saw the
boomer's eyes flare yellowly; twin, rotary cannons popped
out of its shoulders, targeting him.
                            ****
     Wind whistled shrilly past her as Sylia shot through
the air, her flight pack straining, trying desperately to
reach SkyKnight's location. Below her, the brightly lit
streets flashed past in rushing, kaleidoscopic blur. The din
of the active city could be dimly heard from her lofty
position, the inhabitants of the sprawling megalopolis
uncaringly carrying on business as usual.
     Over her comm systems, the ADP dispatcher and on-scene
cops continued to unknowingly give her an almost blow-by-
blow description of the fight that was going on. The
description was not helping to keep her calm; from the
sounds of things, Bert was getting pounded into the dirt.
She mentally swore at him for his angry, reckless charging
off into the night, while at the same time, part of her mind
kept hoping she'd be able to get there before he was
seriously hurt.
     The white hardsuit swiftly banked over some buildings,
getting closer to its destination, as the sounds of
explosions began to thunder in the distance, the blasts
sending tendrils of probing smoke into the air.
                            ****
     Bert flipped over onto his side, narrowly avoiding the
stream of hot metal slugs that churned the asphalt into a
shattered mess. The volley of high-speed death tracked after
him remorselessly as he scrabbled away, diving desperately
to avoid another salvo. His frantic dive brought him behind
the dubious protection of one of the few intact cars left
abandoned by the side of the street; an instant later, a
hailstorm of high-density projectiles turned the luckless
vehicle into a pile of shredded metal resembling a tin
sieve.
     There was a shattering blaze of orange-white light, and
a billowing cloud of flames and smoke engulfed the wreckage
a moment later as the car's fuel ignited. The shockwave from
the detonation knocked the battered hardsuit over, but he
forced himself to roll upright quickly, alert for the next
attack. He moved warily, suddenly realizing that the boomer
had stopped firing; the pall of smoke and flames was
temporarily masking him from the killer machine.
     He took a quick second to take stock of his situation;
his power levels were fine, his armour was showing cracks
and burns from all the punishment it had suffered, and he'd
lost the launcher on his left shoulder. So far, although
he'd taken an incredible pounding, no systems had decided to
malfunction on him. The factor working against him now was
his own stamina. He was rapidly getting tired now, and it
didn't matter how enraged he felt, anger couldn't drive him
past a certain point. That point had now been reached.
     A semblance of reason returned, cooling his mood
somewhat, although the driving urge to smash and destroy the
boomer out there still throbbed at the back of his mind.
Somehow, he had to gain the upper hand long enough to at
least cripple the boomer; crippled, it would be much easier
to fight, and he was dimly realizing that he could use
whatever advantages he could get right now.
     He took a deep breath, wincing as his side, gashed the
night before, decided to complain. He could feel a warm
wetness around the slash; getting into a fight before it had
really had a chance to heal had reopened the wound, and the
dull pain was slowly sapping what reserves he had left.
Coupled with the soreness that had resulted from getting
hammered on by the boomer, he knew he had to finish the
fight quickly.
     SkyKnight glanced around, then ran two quick steps,
diving headfirst out into the street in a forward
somersaulting roll. No sooner did his hardsuited body clear
the concealing smoke around him, then the scream of high-
velocity projectiles cut through the air, and depleted
uranium slugs began hungrily probing the air around him. He
hit the pavement with a bang, rolled over and up to his
feet, and then dodged sideways on his jets. As he dodged,
the deadly spray of projectiles from the boomer stopped, and
the firing mechanisms of its shoulder miniguns could be
heard whirring in futility; the boomer had depleted its
ammunition.
     The boomer snarled viciously, and began running at a
frightening rate of speed towards him as he stood there,
blades sliding out from its forearms. SkyKnight's glance
flashed down; stooping swiftly, he clamped his gauntlets
onto a manhole cover in the street, and heaved. The boomer
was rapidly closing the gap between them as the thick metal
disk tore free. Gripping the disk like a Frisbee, the silver
hardsuit whipped the plate at the running boomer, skipping
it off the street between them.
     The heavy metal disk clanged loudly as it struck the
roadway in a shower of sparks. The force of the throw
SkyKnight had made caused it to continue on, becoming
airborne again, where it struck right at the knee level of
the running biomechanoid. The crimson boomer, not expecting
an indirect attack, had its feet knocked out from under it;
it hit the street facefirst, and started to shove itself
upright again almost immediately.
     The silver-and-blue garbed battlesuit sprang high into
the air on his jets, flipping forwards and twisting around
in midair, landing behind the rising boomer. The boomer
started to whirl towards him, but the silver Knight Saber
leaped on it, wrapping an armoured arm around the combat
machine's neck, while ramming his other gauntleted fist into
the small of the biomechanoid's back, trying to bend it over
backwards far enough that it couldn't get enough leverage to
fight.
     Unfortunately for him, the boomer was a lot taller than
he was, even taking his hardsuit into consideration; the
crimson combat machine began to thrash around, shaking him
off, roaring defiantly at the same time. SkyKnight gritted
his teeth, and fired the guns on the arm he had pressed into
the boomer's back, cranking the power feed to his lasers as
much as he dared.
      Blindingly bright red light filled the air around the
two combatants, as twin particle-laser beams tore through
the boomer's midsection; the shockwave from the explosion
flung the silver-garbed hardsuit backwards from his
opponent. The boomer's armouring hadn't been sufficient
protection against his beam weapons when fired from point-
blank range, and it was now seriously hurt.
     Oily black fluid dripped from the gaping crater in the
boomer's torso as the killer machine turned towards him, and
wiring sizzled and spat from within the hole. The boomer's
eyes flickered erratically, and it weaved a bit on its feet.
SkyKnight smiled grimly to himself as he surveyed his
handiwork, and popped his swordblades into extension. In
response, the boomer's own edged weapons again snapped into
play.
     Drawing upon his determination, Bert gathered himself
for one last attack; he knew he wasn't going to last for
another one. His breathing was coming in gasps, and he felt
desperately tired. Whatever he did now, it would have to be
decisive and final; he had to kill it with one shot.
     With perfect synchronization, Knight Saber and
biomechanoid leaped through the air, aiming at each other
with their swordblades. SkyKnight knew that if he parried
the boomer's incoming weapon, he'd never get another chance;
even wounded, the boomer was still matching his speed and
reaction times. That left one option open.
     He didn't parry it.
                            ****
     Sylia crested the top of a low office building, just in
time to see SkyKnight and the crimson biomechanoid he was
engaged with throw themselves at each other. As she lunged
forward, flight pack straining, already knowing she was too
late to intervene, she saw SkyKnight's swordblade punch
through the front of the boomer's skull casing, and emerge
out the back in a spray of armour shards. She also saw the
boomer's weapon rip through his hardsuit, at the top of his
left shoulder.
     The two foes dropped to the pavement, the silver-garbed
hardsuit landing on top of the dead biomechanoid. An instant
after they collapsed in a clanging heap, she landed a few
feet away from them, an awful feeling hitting her in the pit
of the stomach. She could see blood all over the shoulder of
Bert's hardsuit, staining the scorched and gouged armour
plating, but it was impossible to tell just how badly he'd
been hurt. In the distance, she could hear orders being
shouted by the scattered ADP officers, and it sounded like
they were drawing nearer to them.
     As she cautiously approached the tangled heap of
hardsuit and boomer, SkyKnight stirred, and shoved himself
off of the dead biomechanoid, armour plating grinding. His
feet touched the pavement, and then his knees buckled. Sylia
stepped over to him, grabbing him by his uninjured arm to
give him some support. The silver hardsuit spasmed, then
seemed to catch himself after a split second or so. Sylia
sighed in relief to herself; for one brief instant, it had
felt like he hadn't recognized her, and was about to attack.
     "How badly are you hurt?" she asked him, looking him
over. He didn't look good; every inch of his hardsuit was
streaked with dirt and soot, and scored with cracks, gashes,
and scratches. The most obvious injury was the large tear
through his shoulder, where his armour had been damaged the
night before. Apparently cutting diagonally across the
muscles atop his shoulder, it looked deep, and very ugly;
blood was slowly welling from the wound, dripping steadily
down his armour. "Can you hold together long enough to get
home again?" She decided to save the lecture for later, when
she was sure he wasn't going to pass out on her.
     "I'm fine; I'll make it," he replied in a level,
neutral tone. "What are you doing here?"
     "Making sure you don't kill yourself," she told him,
equally as evenly. "We can discuss this later; we're
leaving."
     "HALT!! You're under arrest!!" an amplified voice
bellowed from behind them. Sylia turned slightly, and could
see at least two ADP K-17s with a score of troopers in body
armour slowly advancing on them, weapons at the ready. She
took a quick glance around SkyKnight's shoulder, and could
see an identical formation advancing from the other
direction.
     "Oh, great, it's the comedy relief," she heard him say.
SkyKnight's helmet came up a bit, and the red eyeslot in his
faceplate began to brighten as he straightened up, standing
at his full height. "Don't they ever get tired of this?"
     "They're doing their jobs," Sylia reminded him, a
trifle sharply. "Just like we do ours, only with a few
changes. Now let's get out of here." The silver-blue
battlesuit didn't budge when she tugged at his arm. "Did you
hear me?"
     "I heard you," he answered calmly, his voice suddenly
picking up a hint of something else. "Just a minute."
     "NOW, mister!" she ordered imperiously. "You are
leaving now, and that's final!"
     There was a moment or so of silence, during which Sylia
could tell he was regarding her; she had the sudden,
unsettling sense that he was assessing her, trying to
determine just how far she was willing to go in order to
enforce her order. The feeling passed as he sighed, his
flight wings swinging up and locking into their extended
positions while the whine of his flight jets began to
increase. She made her own quick pre-flight preparations and
began to get ready to take off.
     "Don't try it!!" the amplified voice of one of the
approaching ADP officers warned. "We don't want to have to
shoot, but we will!"
     "I've had it with them," SkyKnight declared flatly. "I
think they need to cool off a bit."
     Before Sylia could stop him, the silver-and-blue
battlesuit stepped forwards a pace, and his right arm
snapped up to point in the general direction of the ADP
troopers; some yelled and pointed, preparing to scatter
while some tried aiming at him. Before anyone could get a
weapon lined up on him, a bright red energy bolt seared
through the air, blasting off one of the side lugs of a fire
hydrant, just as the troopers were marching past it.
     Instantly, a roaring torrent of foaming white water
gushed from the hydrant main, flattening and washing away
the surprised cops, flushing them back down the street. The
K-17s were also surprised, one of them slipping and sliding
on the suddenly slick pavement to fall over with a
resounding clang, while the other masterfully stayed
upright, being shoved at by the surging column of water.
Water ran down the street in both directions in waves,
making the footing suddenly very hazardous.
     SkyKnight turned sharply, and another crimson energy
beam seared through the air; again, a hydrant burst,
spraying heavy streams of water across the hapless cops,
forcing them back. The heavy force from the pressurized
water stream flattened the K-17s; they hit the pavement with
clattering crashes, and floundered around in the water,
unable to get back up. Further down the street, drenched
troopers were picking themselves up from the ground, and
trying to recover their weapons.
     "I always said they were all wet," SkyKnight remarked,
humour and pain in his voice as his helmet tilted to look at
his leader. Water continued to gush from the shattered
hydrants, and a smoky mist of water droplets began to form
in the area.
     "Home. NOW," she told him through clenched teeth,
trying with limited success to hold onto her temper. He
sighed again, and nodded wearily, resisting the sudden urge
to say "Yes, Mother". She was mad enough as it was, and
there was a limit as to how much he was willing to tempt
fate.
     A moment later, the bloody and battered silver hardsuit
launched skywards, followed by
  Sylia's white hardsuit. The frustrated ADP officers
watched helplessly for a moment or so, then turned to the
task of cleaning up the devastated street.
                            ****
     "Well, I hope you're happy now," Sylia told him
angrily, pacing back and forth across the confines of the
room. She was still clad in her softsuit, and had thrown a
lab coat over top of it to help keep out the chill from the
infirmary air-conditioning. "Except for almost killing
yourself, that little stunt didn't do anything for you. At
the very least, I doubt it improved your reputation any."
     "My reputation can't get much worse than it already is,
in some circles, anyway," Bert replied. For a fleeting
moment, there was a faint trace of bitterness in his voice,
then it disappeared. "And as a matter of fact, it was
useful: I feel somewhat better for having done it." He
shifted around where he was sitting on the examination
table, holding a blood-soaked towel over the rip across his
shoulder. He'd removed his softsuit top, revealing the
reopened wound from the night before, low down on his left
side, just below the ribs; a blood-soaked gauze pad was
temporarily taped over it. He looked a little pale, winced
whenever he moved, and periodically he was starting to fade
out into unconsciousness, his eyes starting to sag shut. It
was a combination of blood loss from his injuries and
general exhaustion; Sylia was keeping him awake until she
could get him treated.
     "You feel better because you went out and got yourself
royally beat up?!"
     "That's not what I meant," he replied, shaking his head
wearily. "I meant more that I feel a lot better for having
been able to blow off some steam. Okay, maybe losing my
temper and brawling with an uprated boomer wasn't the best
method to use," he winced, his eyes squeezing shut for a
moment as an incautious movement jolted his left arm.
"Especially since I managed to get mauled worse than before,
but it definitely helped. I feel a lot more relaxed now than
I did earlier."
     "That's fatigue," she snorted, "not relaxation. You're
almost out on your feet now."
     "True," he admitted faintly, then fell silent. He tried
sitting up straighter, trying to look more alert, but it
didn't work very well; inside of a minute, he was slumping
again. "When's our doctor making his house call?"
     "He'll be here shortly," she answered, glancing at the
clock, concealing again her worry at how he looked.  She'd
described his injuries to her uncle; he hadn't thought
they'd need any more medical supplies than what they already
had on hand. The minutes now seemed to be ticking by slow
enough to be considered hours, and it was driving her up the
wall. Silence stretched for a few moments, broken only by
the faint hum of the air conditioning.
     "May I ask you something?" Sylia spoke up quietly.
Bert's greenish-brown eyes lifted, meeting her brown ones;
she could see he knew what was coming next. He nodded
wordlessly, letting his head hang afterwards. It was
becoming a real effort for him to stay awake.
     "What are you going to do about Nene?"
     "What the hell can I do?!" he snapped, lifting his
head, the angry hurt that had sent him off into the night in
the first place reappearing in his eyes. "She won't talk to
me; I tried that earlier in the day, and that was just over
some stupid, thoughtless remark I made. Now she thinks I'm a
killer, or damn close to one, so I doubt she's going to talk
to me any more willingly."
     "Aren't you going to at least try?" she asked quietly,
an entreating tone entering her voice. He was silent a
moment, suddenly looking drawn and tired.
     "I'm going to try," he conceded, swallowing. "I still
love her, but...what she said...hurt, a lot. I'm..." He
suddenly scrubbed at his watering eyes with the back of his
hand, releasing the clenched grip he had on the bloody pad
on his shoulder for a moment. "She's blaming me for
changing, and it wasn't my fault that I changed," he said
painfully, voice sounding choked. "She's acting like I
wanted to become a hypertense combat-monger; I didn't, and I
still don't, but....but it's happening to me anyway." He
sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. Sylia reached out to
steady him as he swayed on the table, noting that there was
no reflexive response to being touched from him this time.
     "I'm the first one to admit I enjoy the occasional
fight," he continued, opening his eyes and looking over at
her. "But it's the competitive aspect more than anything; I
don't...didn't get any particular kick out of destroying
things."
     "And you do now?"
     "Somewhat," he admitted with a sigh. "At least, I did
tonight for a brief while. I guess it was kind of cathartic;
I've never gone looking for a fight just for the hell of it
before. Cutting loose like that was great stress relief;
exercise just doesn't seem to have that effect. Well, not as
much of an effect, anyway."
     "We'll have to set up some kind of a target range
then," she noted dryly. "Blowing off steam in public like
that is not a good idea, especially since I doubt that you
endeared yourself to the ADP any in the process."
     "That's tough," he said, his tone briefly becoming
flinty. "If they're going to take hands in the game, then
they'd better be able to pay the ante."
     Before Sylia could ask just what he'd meant by that
remark, the door to the infirmary opened, and the tall, lean
figure of the Knight Sabers' `family physician' briskly
stepped through, a medical kit in one hand, and a carrying
case of some kind in the other. Sylia immediately relieved
him of the case, setting it down on a nearby counter. The
old man sighed in relief, then looked over at Bert, his gaze
sharpening as he noticed the condition of his patient.
     "Picking fights again, were we?" he asked dryly,
shaking his head. The white-haired old man glanced sidelong
at Sylia as he dropped his medkit onto the table end,
popping the lid open. His eyes slid sideways towards the
blood-smeared, red-headed young man seated on the exam
table, then back to hers; Sylia understood his unspoken
question, and shook her head slightly; there was no need for
Bert to know that they knew each other any further than a
working relationship, and that meant no names were to be
used. Her uncle nodded briefly in understanding.
     "I'm going to need your help, Ma'am," the old man
stated, fishing a packet containing some latex gloves from
his case and tossing them to Sylia. "An extra pair of hands
for this would be a help."
     "Certainly, I'd be happy to assist," she replied
neutrally as he tore open a second package and donned his
own gloves. Her uncle went over to the medical supplies
locker, opened it, and after a quick glance at the contents,
began pulling out various sterile-wrapped packets and
packages. Sylia took them as he handed them to her, neatly
arraying them on the counter.
     The two of them turned to the sagging young man on the
examination table. Sylia felt a momentary chill as she
looked at him, but her uncle appeared unfazed as he whipped
out an array of hypodermics, pads, suturing needles, and
other surgical paraphernalia out of his case, and then
perused his selections from the medical locker for a moment,
picking out a couple of items.
     The old doctor stepped over to Bert, and gently eased
his hand from the clamped grip it had on the bloody towel
plastered over his shoulder, dropping his arm back to his
side. The doctor gingerly lifted the sopping piece of cloth
away, and dropped it into the plastic-lined garbage pail
nearby. He then unwrapped an antiseptic pad, and gently
sponged away at the wound until he could see the damage. The
wound started bleeding a bit again, a thick upwelling of
dark crimson.
     "Hmmm....some ripping and tearing of the muscles
involved, but it missed the collarbone, it seems. Another
inch lower or deeper, and he'd have had worse problems,"
Sylia's uncle quietly reported. "All in all, it could have
been much worse." He checked Bert's pulse, and said `Hmmm'
again, twitching his mustache as he mentally assessed his
patient's condition.
     "His pulse is lower than normal, but not dangerously
so," he finally judged. "I don't think he'll need a
transfusion, but I brought a couple of bags up with me, just
in case." Sylia nodded quietly, dividing her gaze between
her uncle and her injured friend. The old medico
straightened up, sighing.
     "Well, Ma'am, if you'll hand me that syringe there,
we'll get started," he directed her. She nodded wordlessly
again, and handed him the indicated hypodermic. He checked
it for air bubbles, and then gently injected his patient
with it. The red-headed young man didn't even twitch when he
felt the needle slide into his arm.
     "We almost don't need anaesthetic," her uncle noted.
"He's almost totally out of it now."
     "Go ahead," Bert mumbled groggily, his eyes just barely
open. "Couldn't possibly hurt worse than anything else I've
had to endure today." He fell silent for a moment, then
added drowsily, "At least these wounds will eventually
heal." The old man's eyebrows hit his hairline in surprise
at the words, and he glanced at Sylia questioningly. She
shook her head, indicating that it wasn't the time or the
place to discuss it, not when one of her friends was slowly
bleeding all over the place. He nodded, then turned back to
the task at hand.
     "Now then, if you'll just hand me that packet
there...no not that one, the other one! Off to your
right...."

THE NEXT DAY....

     Leon strode through the bewildering maze of desks in
the ADP offices, irritably adjusting the sling his burned
arm was resting in. The tall inspector did not look to be in
a pleasant mood; a glowering scowl had replaced his usual
jovial and easygoing temperament, and it made most people
give him a wide berth. Most people.
     "Leon!" a young woman's voice hailed him from the
direction of the secretarial area. As he turned slightly to
see a young woman with short brown hair charging towards
him. She was wearing the usual ADP uniform blouse, skirt,
and a green hairband. Inwardly, Leon groaned as Naoko came
up to him, curiosity alive in her bright blue eyes.
     "What are you doing in today?" she asked. "We heard you
got injured, and were supposed to be having a few days off.
Did the chief call you in? You really look beat; maybe you
should take it easy for a while...."
     "Naoko," Leon sighed, holding up a hand to cut her off;
she'd keep chattering away at him unless he thought of
something to get rid of her, fast. She was a nice enough
girl, but she was the worst person in the department when it
came to gossip, and he just didn't have the energy to humour
her today. "I just came in to check a couple of things and
then I'm leaving again," he informed the young woman.
"That's all."
     "Right," she said dryly, looking at him with a knowing
glance. "Then why do you look like you're brooding on
something unpleasant? Case not going the way you want?"
     "That's really none of your business," he replied, a
bit sharply as his lousy mood prodded him. Naoko blinked in
surprise, artfully looking hurt.
     "Well you didn't have to snap at me," she said in a
wounded tone. "Geez, you're as bad as Nene this morning."
Leon's irritation vanished for a moment, curiosity and
concern replacing it.
     "What's with Nene?" he inquired. "She looked ill enough
yesterday that I thought she'd have stayed home today."
     "Nope. She came in today, but she's been really
miserable all morning, and she's snapping at everything. You
know what I think?" The young woman's voice lowered
conspiratorially, and she looked around as if expecting
spies to be lurking nearby. "I think she had an argument
with her boyfriend," she told him. "He normally drops her
off at the front of the building, but she arrived by herself
this morning, and she won't answer any questions about it."
     "Oh, really?" Leon answered absently, his mind turning
the information around, examining it; it might explain
Nene's apparent depression lately, but there were still a
few unanswered puzzles to be solved. "I'm sure they'll work
things out."
     "I'm not so sure," the brown-haired young woman replied
dubiously, shaking her head. "She's never been this upset
before...."
     "NAOKO!!!" an irritated yell cut across the office,
coming from a harried sergeant at his desk. "Would you quit
shooting the breeze with McNichol, and get me that bloody
report like I asked you to ten minutes ago?!"
     "Oops! Gotta run! Bye!" With a cheery wave, the young
woman sped off into the depths of the offices in pursuit of
her file. Leon slowly continued his own journey into the ADP
offices, a thoughtful look in his blue eyes as he tried
again to reconcile the fragments of information he had so
far into some kind of recognizable picture. He gave up as he
reached the Chief's office; it was just too mixed up to sort
out right now. He paused, sighed, braced himself, and then
knocked on the door. A moment later, he opened it, and
stepped through.
     "You're supposed to be at home recuperating," Chief
Ichinohei reprimanded him as he stepped into her office.
     "Nice to see you too, Chief," he replied. She flushed a
bit, then quickly managed to look irritated with him again.
     "All right, what is it this time?" she asked, sighing.
Leon couldn't keep a smirk from forming at her tone; she
sounded like she was waiting for the building to collapse
around them.
     "Nothing, really," he replied easily. "I just came in
to tell you that I'm going to add a couple of weeks of my
vacation time onto my `sick leave' as you called it." He
couldn't help looking a little sour over that remark; the
Chief had rather peremptorily told him that he was off for a
week until his arm had healed. After some thought on the
matter, Leon had decided that a vacation wouldn't hurt,
either; it had been so bloody long since he'd had some time
off that he couldn't quite remember the last time it had
been.
     "You could have phoned that in," she noted quietly,
sitting back in her chair. Clear aquamarine eyes gazed at
him from across the large desk, evaluating him. "What did
you really want to talk about?" A wry smirk tugged at Leon's
mouth; she didn't miss much when it came to assessing a
situation.
     "I also wanted to go on record as saying that SkyKnight
saved my life last night," he informed her. "I wouldn't be
sitting here right now if he hadn't shown up." A very
fleeting glimpse of irritation showed on the Chief's face.
     "Noted," she said coolly. "I trust you also heard what
happened after he killed the boomer?" Leon nodded, and
decided not to bother mentioning that he'd laughed his head
off when he'd heard about the silver Knight Saber's method
for dealing with the situation.
     "Considering what he did before, I'd say he was
downright nice about it," Leon pointed out. "He could have
done a lot more than just shoot fire hydrants off." There
was no mistaking the irritation on the Chief's face now.
     "I know that!" she snapped. She wasn't pleased over the
fact that SkyKnight had made the ADP look like bumbling
incompetents the night before, and it had been gnawing at
her all morning. "That doesn't change the fact that we have
our orders."
     "Just where did these `orders' come from?" Leon asked.
"We never really got all that worked up about the Knight
Sabers before; why the sudden urge to catch them now?" The
red-headed woman across the desk from him spread her hands
helplessly, looking towards the ceiling in exasperation.
     "I know as much as you do," she told him. "The commands
came from higher up, that's all I know. I'm not entirely in
disagreement with the orders, however; we can't just let
armed vigilantes run loose."
     "Fine. Whatever you say," Leon replied disgustedly,
letting the matter drop. The woman was bloody intractable on
the subject of law and order, and didn't seem to be able to
recognize the need for flexibility at times. The prevailing
mood among most of the officers, even with SkyKnight's
recent violent behaviour, was that the Knight Sabers should
be left alone. However, orders were still orders, and that
was why he needed some more time off. Lately he'd begun to
question just what he was doing with himself, and why; he
needed some time to think.
     Besides, taking some time off would also allow him to
poke around a bit and see if he could solve some of the
puzzling questions that had been dogging him lately.
                            ****
     Nene worked through the stack of reports in front of
her mechanically, one part of her mind performing her usual
work duties with the ingrained ease of long familiarity. At
the same time, the other part of her mind was churning with
a raging mix of hurt and anger. Her long red hair looked a
little messy, and her normally clear emerald-green eyes were
bloodshot with dark circles under them. Even her uniform,
usually clean and neatly-pressed, looked a little rumpled.
     She hadn't slept well during the night; her cubbyhole
apartment had seemed cold and unfamiliar, and she'd kept
waking up from some pretty horrific nightmares, most of them
featuring a twisted mixture of Hollister and a hulking, red
boomer. Each time she'd woken up crying, she'd expected Bert
to show up and offer some solace, and then she'd remembered
why he wasn't there.
     Instantly, her anger at what he'd said to her had
surged back again, giving her something else to concentrate
on other than the nightmares. After a while, she'd managed
to fall asleep again, kept company by her collection of
stuffed animals, but the process had continually repeated
itself through the night. Morning had found her tired and
disheveled; mentally, she felt like she'd been in a
marathon, and her body didn't feel much better. It had been
an effort to come in to work, but she'd forced herself to do
it, mostly so she wouldn't sit at home and dwell on what had
happened the night before.
     She still couldn't believe how much he'd changed; she
wanted the `Knight-in-Shining-Armour' that she'd fallen in
love with originally to come back, but it didn't look like
that was going to happen.
     The very remote voice of her conscience pointed out
that she was overreacting. It wasn't really his fault for
what had happened to him; it had been a change that had been
an inadvertent effect of everything he'd gone through with
his kidnappers. It was going to take time for him to
recover. She didn't listen; if he'd listened to HER in the
first place, then he wouldn't have been captured and
tortured, and she wouldn't have been shot trying to get
Hollister. It was all his fault; if he wasn't so wrapped up
in trying to live up to some dumb image all the time...
     The door to the Chief's office banged closed, startling
her from her work. As she looked up, she saw Leon standing
in front of the door. He looked preoccupied with something,
absently running his hand through his brown thatch of hair.
His right arm was in a sling, and she knew why that was;
she'd heard about the night's events when she'd gotten into
work. Her lips tightened angrily as she also remembered
hearing about SkyKnight's rather public humiliation of the
officers who'd been at the scene. More evidence he'd
changed: he'd always left the ADP strictly alone before,
treating them with courtesy, at least, if nothing else.
     As she quietly fumed over that one, Leon's glance fell
on her, and he started walking towards her desk. She
experienced a brief, irrational surge of panic, then clamped
down on it. She didn't know why Leon could be coming over to
see her; she'd already gotten him his case-related
information a while back. She tried to keep calm and keep
working as he approached, but it was a sham effort.
     "Hi, Nene," he greeted her quietly, a concerned look in
his clear blue eyes. There was also a hint of rabid
curiosity which he couldn't quite hide. "Feeling better
today?"
     "I feel fine," she replied, forcing a smile onto her
face and trying to make her voice sound light and cheery.
"Why?"
     "Well, you didn't look all that good yesterday," Leon
said slowly, watching her, "and Naoko said you'd been out-of-
sorts all morning." Nene couldn't stop herself from looking
sour at his words; God, she wished Naoko would just shut up
sometimes! She opened her mouth to answer Leon, when her
phone rang. Smiling apologetically at the tall inspector,
she picked up the receiver.
     "Hello, Nene Romanova speaking," she said into the
mouthpiece as cheerfully as she could manage; it was fast
becoming a strain trying to appear as upbeat as she had in
the past. She briefly hoped that she'd be able to make it
through the rest of the day without cracking.
     "Hi, Nene," Bert's voice replied. "Can we talk for a
few minutes?" He sounded uncertain and uncomfortable about
something, but she didn't really give a damn what it was; as
soon as she heard his voice, her anger at him for the other
day irrationally surged back.
     "You've got nothing to say that I want to hear right
now," she informed him icily. "Good-bye!" She banged the
receiver down forcefully, hanging up as he tried to say
something. Her eyes burned as she fought to keep sudden
tears from blurring her vision, and she scrubbed a sleeve
across her face.
     "Nene?" Leon's voice intruded on her whirling thoughts.
"Are you okay?" She looked up at him to see concern written
all over him. She flushed a bit, suddenly angry at him for
witnessing her discomfiture. She stood up, pushing back from
the desk.
     "I'm fine," she told him tightly, suppressing the urge
to break down then and there. "It's nothing, really." She
walked away from her desk, heading towards the washrooms,
feeling Leon's gaze on her back like a laser beam. She
ignored it, and the covert, curious gazes from a few other
people around the office. She managed to hold herself
together until she got into a stall in the washrooms. The
tide of emotions that had been wearing at her all morning
finally eroded her restraint, and she burst out crying from
the mix of anger and hurt that still bubbled through her. It
was some time before she was able to pull herself together
enough to go back to her desk.
                            ****
     Bert stared blankly at the dead phone receiver in his
hand, his mind still numbed from the abrupt termination of
his phone call. He sat like that for a few minutes, unable
to assemble anything resembling coherent thought in the
whirling tide of emotion that churned through him. The
predominant feeling was pained anguish; after Nene had
called him a killer the night before, he'd felt like someone
had stabbed him through the heart. Now it felt like the
knife was being twisted and ground around, reaming out the
hole.
     His face twisting in a bitter, hurt expression, he
slammed the phone back down, and sagged back into the couch.
His battered body screamed at him from the movement,
shooting fiery pains along his nerves; he was feeling every
scrape and bruise he'd accumulated the night before, and his
slashed shoulder was the worst. He carefully reached over
with his uninjured arm and adjusted the sling that was
holding his left arm more-or-less immobile while his
shoulder healed, trying to make the arm feel a bit more
comfortable. The pain receded slightly as he sat there
quietly. The physical pain, however, was a minor annoyance
compared to the feeling of empty loss that was rolling
through him.
     After several minutes of sitting disconsolately, he
reached over to the nearby coffee table, and picked up his
mug, carefully sipping at the steaming hot chocolate inside
of it. When he was finished, he set the mug back over on the
table, and tried to stand up.
     Instantly, liquid fire seemed to race through his
veins, as the physical toll of everything he'd forced
himself to do in the last two days slammed home. He flopped
bonelessly back to the couch, gasping, and trying to gather
at least some of the shattered remnants of his vigour,
enough so that he could do something and not have to dwell
on what had happened to him. It didn't work; his body flat
out refused to cooperate with him. For a moment, he wasn't
sure whether to laugh or cry.
     Sighing disgustedly, he settled himself deeper into his
couch, propped his feet up, and lay back on the cushions. He
wished he could've at least reached the kitchen table; the
bottle of painkillers sitting there would come in awfully
handy right now...
     After a few moments, the battered and bone-weary,
heartsore young man fell asleep.
                            ****
     "Interesting," Quincy rumbled, his icy blue eyes
unrevealing as he looked at Madigan. GENOM's C.E.O. looked
as craggy-faced and impassive as he always had, seated
behind his massive oak desk, wearing a light grey suit. His
hands were folded in front of himself on the desktop. An
iceberg would have exhibited more emotion than he was
currently expressing. "What other unusual events have you
uncovered?"
     "A few weeks ago, an old abandoned industrial complex
was destroyed in a large explosion," Madigan reported
crisply, shuffling through the file folder she held in front
of her. She was standing in front of Quincy's desk making
her report, coolly immaculate in a dark blue business suit.
"There wasn't much left, but the indications are that it was
another hidden research facility, possibly linked to our
mysterious `friends'. The explosion centered on the
facility's power generators."
     "Is there any indication of the Knight Sabers being
involved?"
     "None that I can ascertain," the lavender-haired exec
replied. "There was very little evidence left at the factory
explosion to examine, and we lacked any reliable reports
from our usual sources for that time period. It appears to
be a chance happening."
     "Unlikely," Quincy judged. "Someone going to that much
trouble to conceal themselves would have guarded against
such an occurrence." He paused for a moment, his gaze
turning abstracted as he considered the possibilities.
Madigan shifted slightly, and his gaze snapped attentively
back to her. "Were there any other strange events of note?"
     "None of that type," she responded. "But they were
unusual enough to be considered."
     "Elaborate," he ordered curiously. "Unusual in what
way?"
     "The first incident was an armed car chase, about a
week prior to the factory explosion," she informed him. "Two
armed and armoured cars were reported to be chasing a red
pickup truck. One car was wrecked, the other got away, and
the red truck vanished into thin air. The occupants of the
wrecked car also escaped."
     "A kidnapping attempt?"
     "Perhaps," she replied. "I was unable to obtain enough
information to say for sure. What is certain is that all of
the vehicles involved had been heavily modified, well beyond
the means of most people. Certain covert agencies might be
able to field equipment as advanced as these vehicles
apparently were, but checking with our contacts in those
agencies proved useless."
     "Hmmm," Quincy mused. "Intriguing. However, it would
appear to be a futile line of inquiry." Madigan nodded, and
continued.
     "The second incident occurred after the factory
explosion. A high-profile mercenary `extraction' team, one
we have employed ourselves in the past, was captured by the
ADP."
     "What?!" Quincy, for once, appeared openly surprised.
He leaned forwards, gaze intent. "And how did they
accomplish that?"
     "It was handed to them on a platter," Madigan said
dryly. "They found the entire team stuffed into their
operations van. All of the soldiers were very seriously
injured; some are still recovering in hospital even now."
She shuffled through her report folder until she came to the
page she was after, and then handed it across to Quincy. He
took it, and scanned it quickly, skimming through the
synopsis of the statements from the imprisoned mercenaries.
His face became intent when he reached the description of
the creature that the mercs claimed had assailed them.
     "We have no boomers matching those descriptions," he
stated, looking over at her. She nodded.
     "They appear to have encountered a hardsuit," she
replied. "An independent operative, though, and not one of
the Knight Sabers. Whoever it was, he had no compunctions
about using deadly force; some of the survivors are crippled
for life."
     "Have our operations been compromised by this?" he
inquired, a steely glint appearing in his eyes. "This report
says that the leader was confessing and asking for `police
protection'. He may mention the occasions where we have
hired him."
     "Highly unlikely, now," she replied dryly. "He has been
eliminated as a liability." Assassin boomers were such handy
things to have around.
     "Excellent," Quincy smiled darkly, leaning back in his
chair. He looked thoughtful for a moment, gazing off into
space.
     "Continue your investigations," he ordered her a moment
later. "In addition, I want as much detail as you can get on
that last incident, and on this lone hardsuit." He smiled
again thinly. "Who knows? We may uncover more than we
bargained for." Madigan bowed respectfully to him, and left
his office, closing the massive doors behind her quietly. As
the doors closed, Quincy swiveled his chair to face the bay
window overlooking the sprawling metropolis that lay at the
feet of the GENOM ziggurat. As he gazed over his domain, a
sinister smile of satisfaction crawled across his face.

THREE DAYS LATER....

     "Hi, Linna," Sylvie greeted the black-haired young
woman as she entered Sylia's living room. "How are you
doing?" The young, dark-brown haired woman shed the heavy
jacket she was wearing over her usual bike suit, and
unwrapped a scarf from around her neck; the weather had
turned cold lately, and she'd found out that the extra
insulation was needed if she wanted to keep speeding around
the city on her bike. Without the added clothing, the wind
chill became vicious very quickly.
     "Hmm? Oh, fine. Couldn't be better," came the groggy
reply. The normally energetic dance choreographer was just
barely awake, and was slumped in one of Sylia's easy chairs,
her head hanging over the back. Periodically, she yawned
hugely.
     "Don't go and get all excited on us now," Priss noted
dryly, removing her own jacket and scarf, walking in behind
Sylvie and looking around. Across from where Linna was
sprawled, Anri flashed them a shy smile of greeting. Neatly
dressed in a light-coloured blouse and skirt, the greenish-
haired young woman was sipping quietly at a glass of orange
juice, waiting. Faint noises from the kitchen indicated that
Sylia was putting some refreshments together.
     "It's not my fault the director's had us doing
everything over and over and over again," came the sleepy
reply. "He wants everything absolutely perfect, and I've
gone over the routines with the other dancers so bloody
often now, I could do them in my sleep."
     "Well, well, well," Priss drawled, a sly grin forming.
"So you've finally found out what it's like for the rest of
us to go through one of your workouts."
     "Watch it, Priss," Linna warned, opening her eyes long
enough to give her an irritated, blue-eyed glare. "I'm still
not through with you yet, so I'd be careful with the smart
remarks." Her head sagged back to the chair cushion a moment
later; Priss grinned again, but didn't comment. Anri giggled
a bit, then resumed sitting quietly.
     "It's a little early for our usual meeting," the brown-
haired singer noted, walking over to the coffee table area
and flopping into one of the couches, "but Sylia insisted we
get here ahead of time. So what's this about?"
     "Beats me," Linna replied, shrugging slightly, still
looking like she was going to doze off any minute. "I'm as
much in the dark as you are." Sylvie swapped a grin with
Priss over Linna's condition, then selected a chair next to
Anri, and gracefully sat down to wait.
     As if that had been a signal, Sylia emerged from her
kitchen with a tray holding several mugs, a teapot, and a
carafe of juice. She was neatly dressed, as always, but her
usually calm features bore a faintly worried look. She
nodded greetings to everyone, setting the tray down on the
coffee table, then sat down in her accustomed chair.
     "Help yourselves," she invited, gesturing towards the
beverage tray. Smoothing her skirt down, she took a deep
breath, looking around at the assembled women. "Thank you
all for arriving a bit early tonight," she said quietly. "I
know it's unusual, but I wanted to make sure everyone knew
what was going on before," she hesitated, then sighed and
continued, "before Nene or Bert get here, if they're coming
at all." Her last statement grabbed everyone's attention,
even rousing Linna from her exhausted slump.
     "What's that supposed to mean? What happened?" Linna
asked, then noted Sylia's unusually grave expression. "Uh-
oh, this is bad news, I take it?"
     "That's one way to put it," Sylia replied. She quickly
outlined what had happened between the red-headed couple a
few nights ago, including the aftermath. Uncomfortable and
somewhat shocked silence fell over the room when she was
done.
     "That's....not good," Priss observed awkwardly. "I
can't believe that Nene would say something like that;
that's not like her."
     "Well she hasn't been herself for some time now, has
she?" Sylia said tiredly. "They're both hurt and upset now,
and I wanted everyone to be warned."
     "They'll work it out," Linna commented confidently.
"They've worked arguments out before."
     "Normally, I'd agree with you," Sylia noted. "But this
time, there are a few differences.. ...."
     The sound of Sylia's front door slamming forestalled
further conversation, as everyone exchanged an
uncomfortable, worried glance. A few moments later, Nene's
slender, red-haired shape rounded the corner from the
apartment foyer. The young ADP officer looked worn and
tired, and there were dark smudges under her eyes. She gave
a wan smile to everyone by way of greeting, then sat down on
the other couch, next to Anri, and poured herself a cup of
tea. She settled back into the couch, sipping her drink. So
far, she hadn't met anyone's eyes, and it appeared as if she
was going to stick to that policy. An awkward silence
cloaked the room, as everyone tried to think of something to
say that wouldn't sound lame.
     A perfunctory knock sounded through the apartment, then
the door banged open and closed again, and the sounds of
someone awkwardly fumbling off their shoes could be heard.
After a few moments, a tall young man with an unruly thatch
of red hair came striding into the living room, adjusting
the sling that secured his left arm to his side. Wearing a
dark blue track suit, Bert looked about the same as he
usually did, except that his face was totally devoid of any
expression whatsoever; it was like looking at a robot. His
gaze swept the assembled women, and he nodded a greeting,
but nothing else.  When his gaze fell on Nene, there was a
faint twitch from his jaw muscles as if he'd clenched his
teeth, and something flashed in his eyes too quickly for
those watching to identify.
     Priss was willing to swear that the temperature of the
air around Nene dropped several degrees when his gaze passed
over the young, red-headed woman. From the corner of her
eye, Priss watched Nene's lips tighten as an angry light
flared in her green eyes. The look vanished as an icy-cold
mask seemed to settle over her features.
     Bert didn't give any indication of anything as he
stopped next to the coffee table, just long enough to pour
himself a cup of tea and dose it with cream and sugar. He
was also refusing to meet anyone's gaze, and didn't appear
to notice the definite chill emanating from Nene's end of
the room, or the concerned glances the rest of the group
gave him and the young red-haired woman. Picking up his mug,
he stepped out and away from the couches, walking over to
stare out the large bay window at the city. After a few
moments, it became clear that he intended to stay in that
position for the duration of the meeting. He stood stolidly,
sipping from his mug, staring out the window at the
blackness of the night beyond.
     "Well," Sylia finally spoke up, taking a deep breath
and mentally praying there wasn't going to be some kind of
an explosion. "Thank you all for coming. We've got a few
things to discuss, but I don't think that it will take very
long." She poured herself a cup of tea; as if that had been
a signal, everyone else quickly grabbed a drink from the
tray.
     "The first item on the agenda is next week's training
session," Sylia stated, looking around at them. "It's going
to be a `field trip' of sorts; we need to practice taking
advantage of the terrain, and moving around in adverse
conditions. I'd like to be able to get everyone together at
the same time; that way, we can practice some group
maneuvers." She looked over at Priss. "Do you think you'll
be able to go along on this one, Priss?"
     "Sure, no problem," the brown-haired singer nodded. Her
leg was a lot better than it had been a few days ago;
following Bert's advice, she'd gotten Sylia to set her up
with a specialist, and he'd examined her leg. After giving
her some alternate medication to try, and a very stern
warning to do ONLY the required physiotherapy, her leg was
actually feeling a lot better. It was a huge relief to now
be able to walk around without constant torture from her
injury. The Knight Sabers' leader nodded in acknowledgment,
then turned to the next subject, the status of the two
newest members of the Knight Sabers.
     "I finished testing Sylvie and Anri the other day," she
informed everyone. "Based on the results, we should be able
to begin putting Sylvie's suit together...."
     "Hey, what about Anri?!" Priss interrupted, frowning.
"Doesn't she get a suit too?"
     "I...I don't want one," Anri's soft voice spoke up
before Sylia could reply. The young green-haired woman
looked to be equal parts apologetic and embarrassed. She
flushed as everyone looked at her, but gamely kept speaking.
"I did go through all the tests, but I really don't want
to...go out and fight boomers," she said, her gaze shifting
from Priss to Sylvie. "I'm just not...I don't...I can't
handle the idea of going out and fighting all the time."
Sylvie smiled gently back at her, nodding understandingly;
Priss looked a bit disappointed, but didn't press the issue.
     "There's no shame in that," Bert's voice drifted over
from the window. He was still gazing out the window,
apparently lost in contemplation, but he'd evidently heard
the entire discussion. "Not everyone is cut out to be a
fighter; there's no sense in trying to overextend yourself
by becoming something you aren't. It just leads to trouble."
     "And just what is that supposed to mean?" Nene suddenly
asked sharply, eyes narrowing as she finally looked over at
him. He didn't turn around or look over, but his posture
stiffened.
     "It means exactly what it says," he replied in a quiet,
level voice. "Someone who isn't very good at fighting has no
business getting into heavy combat."
     "Well, excuse me, O Great and Powerful Knight," she
retorted acidly. "Not all of us are walking war machines."
Priss caught her breath, taken a little aback by the
vitriolic tone of Nene's comments, but Bert's face didn't
indicate anything of his inner thoughts. He merely continued
to sip at his mug, staring out the window. Everyone else
tried to keep from looking uncomfortable.
     "Ahem, well," Sylia cleared her throat tentatively, and
tried to force the conversation back into a less volatile
area.  "As Anri said, she doesn't want a traditional
hardsuit. But she did come up with an idea, and it fills a
long-standing need of the Knight Sabers Organization: Anri
is going to train to become our field medic."
     "Congratulations!" It was hard to tell if the overjoyed
exclamation came from Priss, Linna, or Sylvie, but all three
women obviously thought it was a fantastic idea, and they
took turns jumping up and giving Anri a congratulatory hug.
Nene unthawed enough to smile at Anri and lean over to
congratulate her, resuming her silent, slightly hunched over
contemplation of her teacup afterwards. Bert remained by the
window. Sylia glanced briefly at him, then spoke up again as
the clamour from the happy group subsided a bit.
     "I'll introduce you to your instructor tomorrow, and
he'll be setting up your working schedule," Sylia told the
smaller, dark green-haired woman. Anri nodded, still red-
faced and embarrassed from all the congratulations and
attention. Sylia smiled reassuringly at her, then
shifted her gaze over to Sylvie. "I also have some jobs for
you to consider, if you're interested," she offered.
     Sylvie nodded eagerly; after several weeks of
effectively hiding out at Sylia's, she was anxious to have
something to do with herself. Hanging around with Priss,
biking all over the place was okay, but she wanted to do
something useful.
     "Good," Sylia said briskly. "I'll lay out the options
for you in the morning. For right now, I believe that
concludes all the important business. Unless some else has
anything to add?"
     No one mentioned any pressing matters, and the meeting
was adjourned. Anri and Sylvie started bombarding Sylia with
some questions about the jobs she had available, not content
to wait until the morning, and Linna appeared to doze off in
her easy chair. Nene sat expressionlessly, white-faced, her
hands wrapped around her mug as she sipped at it.
     Priss stood and stretched a bit, glancing sidelong at
Nene uncertainly; the red-headed young woman noticed her
glance, then ignored her, refusing to meet her eyes. She was
still maintaining a chill demeanor that discouraged any
conversational attempts. Priss shrugged mentally, then
started to walk around the couches towards Bert, intending
to see if he was any more amenable to talking.
     As she approached, his eyes swept over to her. For a
brief moment, the greenish-brown depths were cold, then the
ice thawed a bit, and a faint smile cracked the surface. She
smiled warmly back at him, letting him see a bit of her
concern for him in her eyes.
     "How's your leg?" he asked as she came up to him,
standing next to him as he gazed out the window.
     "A lot better, thanks," she said, sounding relieved.
She refused to be diverted, however. "Never mind me for the
moment, are you okay?" she queried in a low voice. He looked
over at her, and shrugged.
     "About as well as can be expected, under the
circumstances," he replied quietly, wincing and adjusting
his arm sling. A brief flash of bitterness sped across his
face.
     "Want to...talk about it? I'm not busy right now," she
offered hesitantly. She could tell that his emotional
shields snapped up immediately, blocking everything off.
     "Thanks for the offer, but no. I don't really feel like
talking right now, about that in particular." He glanced at
the clock, then back at her. "I'll see you later; I've got a
few things to see to right now." Priss nodded, and gave his
arm a gentle squeeze, trying to express what she couldn't
say verbally; a brief smile flickered then died out on his
face, then he was gone, striding rapidly from the apartment.
He didn't look around before leaving, grimly intent on just
getting out of the room.
     Priss sighed, watching him leave, a troubled and
concerned look on her face. After a moment, she sighed
again, then grabbed her jacket from where she'd flung it
over the back of a chair. Shrugging into it and wrapping her
scarf snugly around her neck, she left herself.
     She missed entirely the hotly suspicious look that Nene
sent after her as she left.

FOUR DAYS LATER....

     "I'm sorry, Sylia," Linna said, throwing her hands up
in frustration. "I can't get through that shell she's
wearing; Nene just flat-out won't talk to me, or anyone else
for that matter. She's walking around nursing a grudge, and
I don't know why." The black-haired dancer reached up and
pushed some stray hairs out of the way, tucking them under
her hairband. "I'm not sure how she's doing at work, either;
I couldn't even get her to talk about that. I spent the
entire afternoon with her, and I ended up doing most of the
talking. I'm positive I sounded like a complete air-head
most of the time," she said agitatedly, flopping into a
chair. "I was hoping she'd loosen up, but she didn't."
     "Damn," Sylia sighed tiredly, taking a swig from her
coffee cup. She'd been hoping that someone would be able to
crack the stony walls of silence that had gone up between
Bert, Nene, and everyone else, but it was proving to be a
protracted siege. Neither was willing to say anything, to
anyone. "We'll keep trying," she decided, trying to keep her
worry from showing. "They can't stay uncommunicative
forever."
     "Want to bet?" Linna asked glumly, shaking her head.
She shifted around in her chair, trying to get comfortable.
"You're talking about Bert, for one thing; he's as stubborn
as Priss is, if not more so. Between the two of them, they'd
be able to give a mule lessons in obstinance."
     "Maybe she should try and get him to open up," Sylia
said with a faint smile at Linna's description. "Immovable
object meets irresistible force."
     "Right," Linna snorted, grinning a moment later. "Maybe
we'd better have the paramedics standing by; that could
become messy." The two women exchanged a smile that somehow
made things seem a little bit lighter, despite the
circumstances.
                            ****
     Bert sealed down the last section of armour plating,
and stepped back from the worktable. Swiping a sleeve across
his streaming forehead, he stretched a moment later, wincing
at the fiery twinges from his just barely healed shoulder
and side. With a sigh, he scooped up the portable diagnostic
scanner from a side bench, and swept the red-pink hardsuit
laying on the table with a sensor probe. A faintly self-
satisfied smile crawled onto his face briefly; according to
the readouts, everything was perfect. All that was left was
for Nene to actually field-test the modifications sometime.
     The smile disappeared as a fresh wave of depression
threatened to break over him at the thought of the red-
headed young woman. Trying to hold it in check, he tipped
the worktable up slightly, standing the empty hardsuit up,
and carefully slid Nene's suit onto the waiting dolly,
grunting a bit with the strain of moving the heavy armour
around. Once the suit was secure, it took him a few minutes
to wheel it back to the hardsuit storage room, and a few
more minutes to heave it back into its accustomed storage
bay. He stifled the swear words that sprang to mind when his
shoulder complained about the labour.
     The loading ramp for the bay slid back inside, carrying
the red-pink suit with it; a moment later, the hydraulic
door hissed shut, hiding the armour from view. Bert stared
morosely at the metal portal for a moment, shoulders slumped
a bit, as gloomy thoughts churned around in his mind.
     Abruptly, an irritated expression swept over his
features; straightening up, he pulled a crumpled checklist
from one pocket, extracting a pen from another, and made
some notes on it before crossing off one of the tasks in the
`to do' column. He scowled blackly at the crinkled sheet of
paper for a moment, then stuffed it back into his pocket
along with the pen. Grabbing the now-empty dolly, he made
his way back to the shop.
     Stowing the dolly out of the way, he turned to the work
bench along the side of the cluttered room, and began
assembling an impressive array of tools and esoteric-looking
parts on the countertop. He studied the pile of
technological accessories for a moment, then vanished into a
shadow-cloaked corner of the cavernous room. A minute or so
later, he reappeared, wheeling a beaten and scorched-looking
hardsuit on another dolly. The suit might have been silver
with blue trim at one time, but it was mostly burned black
now. Gouges and deep scoring marred the plating, and there
was a crusted red stain around a jagged rip on top of the
suit's left shoulder.
     With some effort, he awkwardly managed to lever his
SkyKnight armour next to the worktable top, which was still
tilted up into a vertical position, and strapped it to the
surface. Carefully, he lowered the slab again, leaving the
suit laying on its back, ready to be repaired. Stifling a
sudden yawn, Bert kicked the dolly out of the way
impatiently; it rolled away further into the shop, hitting
something with a bang.
     The red-haired young man didn't notice, but stepped
over to the hotplate at the end of another, out-of-the-way
bench, and poured himself the last cup of coffee that had
been slowly distilling in the pot. He added some large,
heaping spoonfuls of sugar with a splash of cream, and
slowly drank the concoction down.  Wiping his mouth on his
sleeve as he set the mug down, he rolled up his sleeves,
grabbed a tool from his selected pile, and got to work.
     Minutes soon blurred into hours, and the hours
stretched until they seemed to extend an unimaginable
distance into his memory. He was conscious of stopping
occasionally for another cup of tea or coffee, or a side-
trip to the washroom, but he wasn't really paying attention.
His mind seemed to vanish under a computer-like efficiency,
as thoughts of his hardsuit consumed his mind.
     The wrecked battlesuit on the worktable seemed to
metamorphose, losing all its armour plating, and becoming a
jumbled heap of myomer bundles, circuitry and microchips. He
glanced at a set of blueprints occasionally, checking what
he was doing, then continuing to overhaul his suit. The suit
began to regrow its skin, bright silvery plating covering
twisted circuits.
     The hand that suddenly dropped onto his forearm was as
unexpected as a bolt of lightning from a clear, sunny sky.
He spun harshly, arms coming up, half-ready to attack
whoever had grabbed him, when his mind frantically caught up
with him, pointing out that it wasn't an assault. He
abruptly reined himself in, forcing his pulse to slow down,
trying to relax.
     A young woman with concerned-looking red-brown eyes,
and long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail was staring
at him. She was reasonably tall, and clad in a fairly form-
fitting red and black leather bike suit. It was an
indication of how far gone he was that he didn't immediately
recognize Priss, but instead stood staring stupidly at her,
trying to figure out who she was, and how she'd gotten into
the building. It dawned on him suddenly that she was
speaking.
     "Bert, are you bloody listening to me?!" she demanded,
her tone halfway towards becoming angry. "What the hell have
you been doing?! You look like shit!" He shook his head,
trying to clear it while rubbing the back of a hand across
his eyes.
     "Uh, hi, Priss," he rasped, distantly noticing that his
voice sounded somewhat hoarse. He cleared his throat, and
stood a bit straighter. "What are you doing here?" Her eyes
narrowed, and a few flickers of anger flashed in their
depths.
     "Checking on you, you jerk," she informed him, putting
her hands on her hips, glaring. "Now answer my question:
What are you doing?"
     "Fixing my suit up," he replied, shrugging and
gesturing towards the worktable. "Surely that's obvious."
     "That's not what I meant!" she stormed, stepping a
little closer, glaring at him. "Why the hell have you been
avoiding everyone for the last two days?!"
     "Two days?" he echoed vaguely, frowning as he tried to
remember, scratching his jaw and noting absently that he
needed to shave again. A few days after the meeting, he'd
been able to remove his arm sling. The minute he'd been able
to work again, he'd run some computer simulations, then he'd
rebuilt and upgraded Nene's suit, then he'd started
rebuilding his ....uh-oh. It was entirely possible that he'd
lost track of the time.
     In fact, sifting back through the hazy memories and
counting up the tally of mugs of tea or coffee he'd drank,
she was quite likely telling the truth; caffeine was likely
the only thing keeping him upright at the moment. A moment
later, his stomach rumbled hollowly, confirming his theory.
Priss watched him as he tried to piece his memory back
together, scowling and crossing her arms over her chest,
while tapping a foot impatiently.
     "Two days," she confirmed. "You've been even more
reclusive than usual since the meeting a few days ago. Why?"
     "Uh, I lost track of the time?" he tried tentatively.
     "Bullshit," she spat. "You're hiding again, aren't
you?!"
     "Well can you goddamn blame me if I am?!" he suddenly
shouted, fatigue finally cracking the restraints on his
temper. The hurt and frustration he'd been bottling up for
days suddenly bubbled forth like steam from a geyser. "Why
the hell doesn't everyone just bugger off and leave me
alone?!"
     "Because we care about you, you jackass! You and Nene
both!"
     "Well, isn't that touching," he said bitterly, turning
away towards his suit again. "Just go away; leave me alone."
The brown-haired singer stepped forwards, grabbing him by
the arm, and spinning him back to face her. Her expression
had changed from anger to an entreating look.
     "Bert, please," she said quietly. "You've got to talk
about this, or you're going to blow up, maybe in more ways
than one. Please, let me help. I...I care about you, damnit,
and I don't want ... you doing this to yourself," she
finished. There was just the faintest hint of a flush in her
cheeks as she fell silent, a beseeching look on her face.
     "I don't...I can't....talk about it," he gritted,
intense pain abruptly visible in his face. "I don't even
want to think about it. Damn it, just let me leave it alone,
please."
     "No," Priss said quietly, but firmly. "This isn't
helping you, and you're deluding yourself if you think that
pretending it didn't happen will make it go away. Now drop
the tools, and come back to your apartment. I...."
     "I'm not pretending it didn't happen," he snarled,
fists clenching unconsciously. "I was goddamn there; I KNOW
it happened!!" A memory of a tearful, red-haired young woman
saying that she didn't want to see him anymore flared in the
back of his mind. He physically flinched away from the
memory; it still felt like a raw, open wound, even after a
little more than a week. "I've got to get my mind off of it;
I've got to do something," he told her, his tone only a
shade more reasonable. "I don't want to just sit by myself
feeling miserable."
     "You don't have to sit by yourself; you do have some
other friends, remember?!" she reminded him sharply. "Why
the hell don't you try considering their feelings once in a
while?!"
     "I was," he replied simply. "I was staying away. I
can't burden everyone else with my problems."
     "Oh, right," she snorted, her tone dripping acid. "I
forgot: honourable knights have to bear these things by
themselves, suffering nobly in silence, right?" She suddenly
stepped close to him, grabbing the front of his sweater in
her fists and jerking him forwards towards her. Red-brown
eyes bored into his. "You're done for the day," she informed
him grimly. "Hell, you're done for at least a couple of
days. We are going to go back to your apartment, you're
going to eat something and get cleaned up, not necessarily
in that order, and then we are going to talk, whether you
want to or not."
     "I'm...."
     "Either come willingly, or I'm gonna crown you with a
pipewrench and bloody well drag you out of here," she cut
him off flatly. "And don't think I won't."
     Bert stared back into Priss's determined-looking eyes,
his somewhat hazy mind trying to decide if she was serious
or not. She certainly looked ready to clobber him with a
wrench, or something else equally heavy. As he looked at
her, he thought he detected genuine worry, concern, and ...
something else? He woke suddenly to the fact that having her
standing so close to him was unsettling, and flushed a bit,
slapping his mind down for seeing things that probably
weren't there. Proof that he was tired: he was starting to
hallucinate.
     "All right, fine; I'm done," he surrendered, sighing
deeply. Priss released the clenched grip she had on his
shirt, and stepped aside, jerking a thumb towards the door,
her lips set in a grim, disgusted line. Bert started to say
something else, but then thought better of it as her gaze
narrowed. Sighing again, he left the shop, the irate young
woman following a moment later.
                            ****
     Leon sipped carefully at the mug of nearly-scalding
coffee, wincing and setting it aside. He leaned back in his
chair as he gazed out the front window of the small coffee
shop he was lounging in, idly watching the pedestrians get
blown around by the chill winds that had been scouring the
city for about a week now with unseasonably cold weather.
     After a moment, he turned back to the file folder
sitting on the table in front of him, with its contents
spread all over the small tabletop. He sighed as he looked
at the small pile of painstakingly searched-out files and
reports; all that effort expended, and all he had was a
puzzle still as perplexing as before. What it all meant was
that there was something damn strange afoot.
     The forensics report had matched the cartridge casings
he'd found with ammunition and firearms used by a now-
defunct mercenary kidnap group; the mercs were out of
business because the ADP had managed to capture them. The
only reason that the ADP had caught them was because
someone, or something, had beat the crap out of them and
left them to be found. The descriptions varied, but after
sifting through all the coherent testimony from the
imprisoned mercs, it sounded like they'd encountered a
hardsuit.
     It was where they'd encountered the hardsuit that had
been surprising; two of the injured soldiers had said it had
been at the house of some guy they were supposed to catch.
While they'd refused to be more forthcoming about exactly
where it had all happened, one of them had let slip that
they'd been looking for somebody with red hair, somebody
that their employer was willing to spend obscene amounts of
money to capture.
     Leon didn't believe in coincidences, not to this
degree. He knew of only one person with red hair, who lived
in an isolated spot. To his mind, that fact that he'd found
matching cartridge casings at Bert's house proved that it
had been him that the mercenaries had been after. The
question was, why?
     Leon picked up his coffee cup again, and sipped
carefully, taking a larger mouthful when it proved to be
cool enough to drink. His blue-eyed gaze roamed around the
mostly-empty coffee shop as his mind pondered the
possibilities.
     Nene's boyfriend was supposedly an engineer, so it was
possible that he had some specialized knowledge that someone
could be after. If it happened to be related to some
government agency, it might possibly explain why there had
been a cloak-and-dagger shrouding of his past; he didn't
believe for a moment that the miraculously materialized
historical files were legitimate. At the same time, however,
it didn't....feel right. This didn't feel like it concerned
a covert government agency.
     The other option was that it was a corporate concern;
corporate politics and maneuvering could get just as ugly as
`official business' could. Whatever the cause was, it was
evident that the red-headed man was hiding something, and
whatever it was, it meant a lot to someone.
     Then there was the matter of the strange hardsuit. From
the wildly varying descriptions, it was anywhere from six to
ten feet tall, coloured black and dark blue, with talons and
wings. While Leon doubted the veracity of some of the
descriptions, the colouration of the suit, and the remark
about wings sounded vaguely familiar. It had been a while,
but he still had a vague, hazy memory of being carried,
bloody and battered, into a hospital by a tall, blue-black
suit.
     If it was the same battlesuit that had saved his life,
then what was it doing hanging around somebody's home? Just
what was going on around here?
                            ****
     "Okay, now talk," Priss commanded, dropping into the
couch across from his recliner. She was cradling a steaming
mug of hot chocolate in her hands, identical to the one Bert
was holding. Her intent gaze never left his face as she
sipped at her drink.
     "Well what the hell do you want me to say?!" Bert
retorted wearily, reaching up and brushing his damp hair
back out of his eyes. He felt a lot better having showered
and eaten something, but now his extended building spree was
dragging him down to where he felt like doing nothing but
going to sleep. Priss, however, wasn't about to let him doze
off just yet.
     "You've got to tell someone about what's happening with
you and Nene," she told him. "You can't just sit there and
stew over it."
     "Nothing's happening, at all," he replied bitterly.
"She thinks I've turned killer, and she won't talk to me.
Throw on the fact that I made a stupid remark when I
should've kept my mouth shut, and you've got a fine mess."
He fell silent, sipping at his mug; while it was delicious,
he couldn't enjoy it for some reason, and it wasn't helping
to cheer him up any.
     Priss sat quietly for a moment, sipping her own drink.
Her curious side wondered what the stupid remark had been,
but she kept silent about it; she could understand how
painful remembering it all was for him, and didn't want to
aggravate things. He kept speaking as she drank.
     "The dumb remark was just the tip of the iceberg," he
noted sourly. Taking a deep breath, he outlined what had
happened that night when the K-17s had tried arresting him,
and the aftermath once Nene had found out, including her
remarks to him at Sylia's. Recounting the events was
painful, especially since he didn't really want to remember
some of them, but in some odd way, he felt something ease
within him at the same time. He did feel a bit better by the
time he'd finished speaking. Priss listened attentively to
him the entire time, nursing her mug in her hands, leaning
forwards with her elbows balanced on her knees; she'd heard
most of it before, but getting him talking about it was the
only way he was going to be able to get over it.
     "Have you tried talking to her since then?" she asked
quietly, although she had a good idea of what the answer was
going to be.
     "Of course!" he snapped, gulping down the dregs of his
chocolate. Angrily swiping a hand across his mouth, he
banged his mug down on the coffee table. "I've tried phoning
her at work, several times; she's now screening her calls
through one of her secretary friends, and I don't know what
she's told them, but ice would be warmer than the reception
I get when I say who's calling." The churning emotional mix
of heartache, anger, and resentment over his treatment
threatened to boil over for a moment, but he throttled it
back with some effort. Practice, part of his mind noted
sourly.
     "What about outside work?"
     "I couldn't get her to answer her door," he replied
flatly. "And I almost had the cops land on me because
somebody reported a suspicious individual lurking around the
building."
     "Oh." Priss fell silent, unsure of what to say. She
absently ran a hand through her hair as she tried to think
of a way out of the emotional impasse he seemed to be in.
Offhand, she couldn't. Nene had to at least be willing to
talk first, and she was very effectively stifling any
communication attempts.
     "So what are you going to do now?" she asked quietly,
setting her mug over on the table.
     "Nothing," he said tersely. "I know I've changed
because of....everything that's happened. I don't like
what's happened in a lot of ways, but I didn't really have
much say in the matter, did I?" He suddenly stood, and began
pacing, suppressed anger in his movements.
     "I've been asking myself how I could have avoided this
for days now," he told her. "And I keep coming up with the
same answer: the only way I could have sidestepped what's
happened to me is if I hadn't helped Sylvie and Anri, and
I...."
     "You're...you're not blaming them, are you?" Priss
interrupted hesitantly. He shook his head.
     "No, I'm not. I've replayed what happened back then too
many times to count," he replied, sighing. "I get the same
result every time: I would still have gone along with
Sylvie. All right, so I wasn't much help at the time; I
still couldn't just let a friend go off alone. It's the way
I am, and the way I'll probably always be." Priss nodded,
relaxing a bit; she'd been half afraid he was going to be
blaming Sylvie for what had happened to him. Sylvie had
certainly been blaming herself there for a while.
     "You want to know what really hurts?" he asked
suddenly, dropping into his chair again abruptly, and
rubbing at his eyes tiredly. "Being called a killer was just
part of it, but knowing that she actually believes that I'm
capable of... killing someone in cold blood is what really
hurts. I thought she knew me better than that." His hands
came down and clenched into fists as he gritted his teeth.
"I've fought against this for weeks now, against becoming
too callous and ready to resort to force as a solution. I
know I'm less patient than I was, and shorter-tempered, but
I haven't turned into a killer, and I won't."
     "I'm sure she doesn't believe that, deep down," Priss
tried reassuring him. "The rest of us don't."
     "Thanks," he replied glumly, "but I don't think that's
going to help. It looks like Nene doesn't...want to see me
anymore, for whatever reason." The thought cut and burned at
him like a stroke from one of his lightsabers, and his voice
thickened a bit. "Excuse me, but I think I'd better get to
bed and get some sleep." Before Priss could stop him or say
anything, he stood and strode across the apartment into the
bedroom, closing the door behind him a moment later. Heavy
silence settled over everything, somehow giving the entire
apartment an air of depressed gloom.
     "Shit," Priss muttered disgustedly, slouching back into
the couch, worry and sympathy in her red-brown eyes as she
gazed at the closed door. Well, at least she'd gotten him to
talk about it; she was just going to have to settle for that
for the moment.
     Standing up with a sigh, Priss gathered up the empty
mugs and dumped them in the sink after a quick rinse; they
could be washed later. She looked around the apartment
again, then shrugged. She walked over to the closet by the
door, and pulled her jacket and scarf out of it, intending
to leave. Slowly, she started pulling her coat on, then
stopped, her eyes again going to the closed bedroom door
while an indecisive look pulled at her face.
     After a moment, Priss shucked the jacket off again, and
tossed the outerwear back into the closet. The brown-haired
singer walked back over to the couch area, and picked up the
pillow and folded blanket that were tucked into the seat of
a nearby chair. With a sigh, she settled into the couch,
sticking the pillow behind her head, and draping the blanket
over her legs. Folding her arms behind her head, she stared
at the ceiling for a while as her mind wandered. After a
while, she dozed off.

THE NEXT DAY....

     Priss jerked upright on the couch, muzzily looking
around at the unfamiliar surroundings as knocking again
sounded from the front door. After a moment of groggy
floundering around, she managed to get loose from the
blanket that had somehow become tangled around her legs,
although she fell off the couch at the same time, hitting
the floor with a loud thud.
     Swearing under her breath, she stood up, irritably
pitching the offending blanket over a chair, and padded
across the apartment, brushing her hair into some semblance
of order with her hands. She hadn't heard any noises from
Bert's room, so it was unlikely he could hear anything.
Sighing, she opened the door.
     "Priss?!" Linna said, obviously surprised. "What are
you doing here? Where's Bert?" The black haired aerobics
instructor was wearing a scarf and bulky coat, both hanging
open since she was indoors. Her cheeks were bright red from
wind exposure and cold.
     "Sleeping off a two-day engineering spree," Priss
informed her, stepping back and letting her in. "Yesterday I
went to see if I could get him to open up and talk; he'd
been up for two days straight, and he was so bloody out of
it, he didn't seem to know who I was at first. I had to
threaten to slug him before he decided to call it quits for
the time being and get some rest."
     "That's always your solution to his stubbornness
problem, isn't it?" Linna asked. A moment later, an impudent
grin split her face.  "We'll have to try it the next time
we're trying to convince you of something, if it works that
easily."
     "Oh, very funny," Priss muttered. Linna grinned again,
and began peeling off her jacket, scarf, and shoes as Priss
closed the door behind her.  "Any more wisecracks at my
expense, or was there a purpose to this visit?" the
disgruntled singer asked.
     "There was," Linna nodded. "We'd scheduled a practice
session for this morning, and I was supposed to meet him
here." She sighed as she draped her coat and scarf over the
back of a chair by the door, then flopped into another
padded easy chair. "Good thing I don't have any other plans,
since it looks like this might be a long wait."
     "Maybe not that long," Priss disagreed squinting at the
clock as she sat on the couch. "He's had a bit over twelve
hours of sleep now; he'll probably be up before long,
insisting nothing's wrong with him."
     "The voice of experience speaking," Linna deadpanned,
smirking at the flat look Priss gave her. "You still didn't
answer my question about what you were doing here," she
noted a moment later.
     "Uh, well," Priss flushed uncomfortably. "Someone had
to keep an eye on him. Just so he couldn't go sneaking back
to the shop," she added quickly. "That's it." She reddened a
bit further under Linna's appraising gaze.
     "Would you quit staring at me like that?!" she demanded
crossly.
     "That wasn't the only reason, though, was it?" Linna
asked quietly, tilting her head and giving Priss a knowing
look.
     "All right, I felt sorry for him, and I thought
somebody should be here if he needed someone to talk to,"
the brown-haired singer muttered, then glared at her friend.
"Happy now?"
     "It sounds to me like you're falling for him," Linna
remarked, cocking her head sideways and grinning impishly.
     "Falling for him?!" Priss spluttered indignantly.
"Don't be goddamn ridiculous! He's a friend, that's it!" She
couldn't help flushing a moment later, however, as she
suddenly remembered the feelings she'd had when he'd kissed
her a while back. It had been a ... pleasant experience, but
one she'd been trying to forget. She'd kept telling herself
that he'd meant it as a gesture of friendship, nothing more,
but she hadn't been able to banish the incident from her
mind.
     "Uh-huh, right," Linna replied in a tone that made
Priss want to throttle her immediately. Linna's normally
cheerful bright blue eyes suddenly turned serious. "Did you
consider what might happen if Nene had decided to stop by
and found you here? I mean before you decided to spend the
night watching him?"
     "The thought had occurred to me," Priss admitted,
sighing. "Given the way she's handling this problem, though,
I don't think she's going to be dropping in for a visit. If
she did, I doubt she'd listen to any explanations about the
situation, either." She suddenly looked irritated. "So what
am I supposed to do then? Stay away from him so that I don't
offend anyone? Not bloody likely!"
     "I never said that," Linna replied quietly. "I just
wanted to know if you'd considered what she might think." An
awkward, uncomfortable silence dropped between the two women
as they became preoccupied with their own thoughts.
     A muffled thud sounded from the direction of the
bedroom, and what sounded like someone swearing briefly
could be heard. Priss and Linna swapped a knowing grin, then
Priss stood and went over to the kitchen area and started a
kettle of water boiling. As the kettle worked away at its
task, she leaned against the counter, folding her arms
across her chest, watching the doorway. Linna remained in
her chair.
     The door opened, and a scruffy-looking, bleary-eyed
form with hopelessly messy red hair shambled out from the
bedroom. He groggily stumbled across the room to the
bathroom, entered, and fumbled the door closed. Priss and
Linna swapped another grin, shaking their heads; he hadn't
even noticed their presences, proof that he was still out of
it.
     By the time Bert emerged from the washroom, looking
more groomed and alert, Priss had whipped up a pot of tea,
and already gotten herself and Linna a mugful. The two women
were now seated in chairs by the coffee table, watching him
with faint smirks on their faces. Like iron drawn to a
lodestone, the red-haired young man went to the teapot first
and mixed up a large mugful of the steaming beverage, taking
a huge swallow right off the bat.
     "Why, good morning!" Linna called over in a bright,
cheery tone. "It's so nice to see you again, too!"
     "What the...?!" Bert was startled by the unexpected
voice, and inadvertently inhaled some of the liquid in his
mug. Coughing and spluttering, he managed to avoid dumping
what was left on the floor, exerting some ironclad control
on himself long enough to shakily set the mug over on the
countertop while he hacked and gagged into the kitchen sink.
     "That was mean," Priss muttered under her breath to her
friend, unable to keep a smirk from forming as they watched
him sputter.
     "No meaner than what you do to him at times," Linna
replied impishly, sipping her drink. Priss flushed guiltily,
and fell silent. After a few moments of tortured coughing,
Bert wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Glaring at the
two friends, who'd artfully assumed innocent expressions, he
retrieved his mug and walked over to them, carefully sitting
down across from them.
     "And to what do I owe the pleasure of your unexpected
company?" he asked sourly, swigging some tea. There wasn't
much in the way of cheer in his face; he looked more like he
was about to go to someone's funeral.
     "We had a practice session today, remember?" Linna
asked, refusing to be put off by his dour appearance. "I was
supposed to meet up with you here, and then we were going to
hike off to the club."
     "Oh yeah; I did agree to that, didn't I?" he mused,
sighing and shaking his head. "Well, I don't really feel
like..."
     "You're going," Linna said flatly, her cheeriness
vanishing like a burst balloon. "I'm not letting you sit in
here all day, moping and groaning about your problems. You
can't just expect everything else to stop because you're
having difficulties; life goes on, you know."
     "I wasn't going to sit here...."
     "Well, you're not going back to the shop, either,"
Priss cut him off, slashing her hand through the air.
"You've overdone it enough for a while."
     "Can I please get a sentence finished?!" he demanded in
exasperation.
     "NO!" they immediately chorused. "You are going," Linna
told him implacably. "Even if we have to drag you."
     Cold greenish-brown eyes met determined blue ones in a
contest of wills for a moment. Bert's jaw muscles tightened
as he briefly considered telling his friends exactly what
they could do with themselves and their idea, but he
dismissed the impulse. There was no need for pointless
invective just because he was in a foul mood; they were
concerned about him, that was all. Something eased in him a
little more at that thought, and he gave up.
     "Fine," he sighed, throwing his hands up. "I'm going.
Just give me a couple of minutes to get my track stuff
together." Linna nodded, and he stood and went into the
bedroom, dropping his mug on the counter along the way.
Priss and Linna exchanged a smug smile of satisfaction.
     "Well, that went better than I expected," Linna
remarked, sighing.
     "You couldn't see yourself," Priss said dryly,
smirking. "You almost looked like you were about to start on
a martial arts lesson right here."
     "Speaking of lessons," Linna said thoughtfully, looking
over at her, "isn't today when we were supposed to do
another rehab session? You can come along too; I can do your
rehab right after Bert's session, and it'll save me having
to hunt you down later."
     Suddenly wishing she'd kept her mouth shut, Priss
sighed, and mentally began preparing for a long day.
                            ****
     Madigan sighed irritably, shoving the file folder in
front of her off to the side. She leaned back in her chair,
allowing herself the brief luxury of a stretch before she
sat up again and stared at the data files cluttering her
desktop. She ran a hand through her long lavender-hued hair
in unconscious frustration.
     Days of searching, and she still didn't have any better
leads as to what was going on. Investigation of the captured
mercenaries hadn't provided anything beyond the vague hint
of a description of their quarry at the time, and the fact
that their former, unidentified employer had been willing to
pay a small ransom for the `acquisition' of this person. Why
this person was being sought was yet another mystery to add
to the heap.
     Investigating the Knight Sabers hadn't yielded results,
either. After SkyKnight's second brief altercation with the
ADP, humiliating the cops in the process, the armoured group
had apparently vanished again. Of course, the lack of boomer
rampages lately might have had something to do with that;
she made a mental note to requisition more boomers for
`testing purposes'.
     Madigan dismissed the Knight Sabers from her mind for a
moment, turning back to the puzzle with the mercenaries;
there was at least a bit more information to work with. As
she considered her options, she stared unseeingly out the
window of her office at the clouded, drab gray sky beyond.
After a moment, an idea formed; there was one way to get
some more information after all.
     A grimly determined smile appearing, she reached out
and picked up the phone.
                            ****
     "Would the two of you PLEASE quit griping?!" Linna said
exasperatedly, hands on her hips as she regarded two
tracksuit-clad forms slumped on the side-bench. "It wasn't
that bad!"
     "Easy for you to say," Bert muttered, wincing and
gingerly rubbing the back of his neck. "You weren't the one
had their head get snapped backwards." He shifted around on
the bench, trying to get a little more comfortable, making a
mental note to get the benches padded.
     "Well it's your own fault," his blue-eyed Sensei
snapped peevishly. "I told you to keep your guard up, and to
pay attention, but you weren't, were you? Maybe now you'll
listen to me when I'm instructing you!" She'd been trying to
show him a block to use against certain kinds of hand-to-
hand attacks, and he'd been slow in getting his hands up,
the result being that she'd made his bells ring with an
unintentional uppercut. She couldn't help feeling mildly
guilty over it, but at the same time, she was irritated that
he hadn't been paying attention. She had a pretty good idea
of what was distracting him, but that wasn't an excuse;
boomers didn't stop trying to kill you just because you were
depressed.
     "You know, it wouldn't kill you to learn to show a
little sympathy for your students, Linna," Priss noted, her
leg propped up on another section of the bench. She winced
herself and rubbed fiercely at it, trying to massage some of
the soreness out; it had greatly improved over the past
couple of weeks, but every time Linna browbeat her through
another rehab session, it felt like she'd gone back to
square one again. "At the very least, it might make putting
up with the classes a bit easier," she added. Linna threw up
her hands exasperatedly.
     "Priss," she said almost despairingly, "I've done
nothing BUT show sympathy for almost the last month, and all
I keep hearing from you is the same grumbling and
complaining about your leg, and how it feels lousy." Her
voice suddenly dropped to a tolerable imitation of Priss's
tones. " `Well YOU get shot through the bloody leg muscles,
and we'll just see how spry you are afterwards!' " Bert
couldn't keep a smirk from twitching at his mouth as he
glanced sidelong at Priss.
     "I'm getting just a little tired of it," Linna told the
brown-haired singer, sighing. "Your leg is fine, and it's
gotten a lot better. Soreness from a workout now just means
that it's mostly healed, and the muscles are getting back
into shape. There's nothing to worry about anymore, so I'd
appreciate a lot less hassle, please!!"
     "Sorry," Priss mumbled, flushing a bit. "I'll try to
stop it."
     Linna nodded acknowledgment, considering the matter
closed. She picked up her track bag, draping her towel
around her neck, and turned to go. She hesitated a moment,
then turned back to her exhausted friends.
     "When did you want the next practice session?" she
asked, directing the question mostly at Bert; Priss' rehab
sessions were pretty much already booked and set.
     "I don't suppose I could just skip it?" he queried
hopefully, then raised his hands, warding off the glare
Linna gave him. "I know, I know," he sighed, forestalling
her before she could speak. "You're not going to let me sit
by myself, moping and groaning, right?"
     "Right," Linna confirmed, looking determined. "Shall we
say, three days from now? Good. I'll catch you later then."
Before anyone could say anything, she turned and swept from
the room.
     "Well, thanks for asking for my input," Bert muttered
sarcastically to the empty room, sighing and shaking his
head. A faint smirk twitched at Priss' face at his remark,
but she didn't comment herself. They say silently for a few
minutes, Priss still massaging her leg. At length, Bert
sighed and stretched a bit, looking over at her.
     "I, uh, guess I should thank you for dragging me out of
the shop," he told her hesitantly, not quite meeting her
gaze. "I'd probably have keeled over eventually if you
hadn't."
     "Hey, no problem," Priss replied quietly. "I just
didn't want you ... overdoing it."
     "Well, it's nice to know someone was concerned enough
to look me up," he said, smiling a little. "Thanks." He
stood up and stretched again, towering over everything else
in the room for a brief instant. Priss swung her leg off the
bench, and prepared to try standing up.  He immediately
offered her a hand, which she accepted.
     "Thanks," she told him, using him as an anchor while
she pulled herself upright; her leg throbbed a bit, then
seemed to quiet down. Yes, it was definitely a lot better.
"I don't think I could have done that by myself." She
realized she was still holding his hand, and released it,
trying to seem casual; he didn't appear to notice.
     "No problem." Bert looked hesitant for a moment, then
his greenish-brown eyes met hers. "Will I, uh, be seeing you
later in the week?" he asked, flushing a bit. "I'd, uh, like
to, if it's all right with you. Just so I don't start
regressing," he added, a bit hastily. Looking into his eyes,
she could see suppressed loneliness there, and she smiled
reassuringly back at him.
     "I'd like that," she told him, reaching out and giving
his arm a brief squeeze. "You should know you don't have to
ask; we're friends, remember?" He smiled back, relieved.
They stood quietly for a moment, each briefly preoccupied
with their own inner thoughts.
     "Well, we can't hang around here for the rest of the
day," Priss said briskly, snapping them back to the present.
"Let's get out of here; I've got a few things to do today."
Bert nodded wordlessly, and held the door open for her as
they left the exercise room.

TWO DAYS LATER....

     The energetic hum of the throng of people crowded into
one of the myriad shopping plazas around MegaTokyo pervaded
everything, like the buzzing of bees in a disturbed hive.
All along the lengths of the walkways, people were browsing
the windows for bargains, or dodging into and out of stores,
searching for the last items on their lists that still
eluded them.
     Two young women slowly made their way through the
bustling crowds, carefully maneuvering to get through the
teeming hordes of people. Both of them were wearing ADP
uniforms, although heavy jackets and scarves had been added
to the usual uniform skirt, blouse and jacket out of
deference to the chilly weather. Brown paper-wrapped
packages were tucked under their arms, their acquisitions
for the day.
     The most energetic of the pair was blue-eyed, with
freckles, and short brown hair held in place by a green
headband; she was chattering animatedly to her friend, and
looking around at everything. Her friend was quieter, a
slender, attractive young woman with vibrant, shoulder-
length red hair and eyes that were a deep emerald green.
There was a subtle hint of depression around her, and it was
obvious to any interested observers that she wasn't really
paying much attention to her friend.
     "Hey, Nene," Naoko prodded her with an elbow, frowning.
"Are you listening to me?"
     "Of course I am," Nene lied, resisting the urge to sigh
at the same time; Naoko was a good friend, and she meant
well, but she just couldn't seem to grasp the idea that
she'd wanted to be left alone, not badgered into a shopping
trip on their lunch break. She was having a hard time
maintaining a facade of at least partial interest in things.
     "Well?"
     "Well what?"
     "Well did you want to stop here and get something to
drink?" Naoko repeated exasperatedly, gesturing to a small
coffee shop/cafe off to the side. Nene considered the
question for a moment, then nodded, deciding that she could
use something warm and cheering right now.
     The two ADP officers entered the cafe, and selected a
seat by the window, overlooking the sidewalks with a fairly
good view down the street. An apron-clad waitress came by,
took their order, and returned a few moments later with two
mugs of hot chocolate and some cookies. Nene picked up her
mug and sipped slowly at it, savouring the rich chocolate.
Naoko followed suit, mercifully keeping quiet while she
drank. The cookies slowly disappeared as well.
     Nene gazed quietly out through the cafe window at the
milling crowds, feeling a brief stab of envy over how
carefree some of the people roughly her own age looked. None
of them looked like they were contending with horrendous
nightmares, or a boyfriend who'd changed on them. It was a
measure of how depressed she was that Nene found herself
wondering if she'd have been any better off by staying out
of the Knight Sabers. She regarded the rest of the team as
her extended family, but in many ways, she was wondering now
what she might have paid for that privilege.
     She ordered another chocolate along with Naoko, and
they again sat quietly drinking; her usually talkative
friend seemed to have finally picked up on her mood enough
to be able to tell that she didn't really feel like
speaking, and was keeping quiet. Nene was grateful, since it
gave her some time to try and resolve her thoughts.
     She glanced again at the restless stream of shoppers,
not really seeing them as she tried to sort out in her mind
just what it was that was bothering her. Part of it was
definitely the nightmares; what had happened with Hollister,
and the renegade red boomer weeks later had scared her, more
than she was willing to admit. Sure, she knew their work as
armoured protectors of the city was dangerous, but it had
always been someone else who'd been hurt. The last couple of
times, she'd very nearly been killed, and she didn't like
having to confront reality quite so brutally; it just wasn't
fair!
     The quietly nagging voice in the back of her mind that
had been pestering her for the last couple of weeks again
pointed out that she was being childish; nothing was fair
most of the time, and whining about it was pointless. The
voice also noted that maybe it was time for her to stop
being stubbornly immature about her problems with Bert;
screening her phone calls through one of her friends at the
station had been unkind, and not answering her door or the
phone at home had been the act of a sulky young girl.
     Nene tried strangling off the unwelcome voice of her
conscience without much success; it had gotten a lot
stronger, and she couldn't just ignore it anymore. At the
time, she'd wanted to hurt him as much as he'd hurt her; it
had really been painful for her, hearing Bert tell her she
should stop acting like a little girl.
     She wondered if he even had any idea of how much that
remark had hurt; after almost three years of a relationship,
it had seemed like he still considered her a kid, and didn't
take her seriously. His remarks at the meeting a few days
ago had been almost the same; he had a lot of nerve saying
what she shouldn't be doing, especially considering the
messes he usually managed to get himself tangled up in.
She'd been nursing a grudge for a while now, but the effort
of maintaining it was starting to wear her down.
     Adding to her somewhat confused state of mind at the
moment was uncertainty over his state of mind. Although he'd
improved in the interim since his encounter with Hollister,
she was still a little afraid of what he might do; he seemed
a lot more impatient and unbalanced at times than he used
to. His actions against the ADP seemed to confirm her
analysis; he was less careful, and more apt to use force.
     But had he really changed all that much? That was the
question she'd been trying to resolve for a while now,
without success. She'd finally accepted with great
reluctance the fact that the original `Knight-in-Shining-
Armour' she'd started going out with was gone. The thought
had given her an obscure kind of pang, but she'd finally
realized that it was inevitable; no one could go through
some of what he'd endured and not be altered by it. She'd
been altered herself by what had happened, and she hadn't
even been a direct participant in most of it.
     She sighed morosely to herself, gloomily staring out
the window of the coffee shop. It had been almost a week now
since he'd last tried to call her. Could he have given up?
He wouldn't have before, she was certain of that much at
least, and that might indicate a change in his feelings. She
ignored her conscience when it pointed out that her
behaviour might have had something to do with that.
     The question was, now what was she supposed to do? She
flushed slightly, as guilt gnawed at her. Given the way
she'd stonewalled him, she supposed it was up to her to make
the first move now, and try apologizing to him. She consoled
herself with the fact that he'd probably accept it; he'd
likely be happy she was speaking to him again. Slightly
cheered by that thought, she drank the last of her
chocolate, setting the mug down.
     "Ready to go now?" Naoko asked her cheerily, noting
that her friend looked a little better. Nene nodded
wordlessly, and the two women gathered up their packages and
prepared to leave, Nene tucking the ends of her scarf into
her jacket as she stood up. As she rose from her seat, her
gaze fell on a gap in the crowds outside, and she froze
solid, an icy-cold feeling suddenly seizing her.
     Through the momentary gap she could see two people. A
tall man wearing a black, knee-length coat and a wide
brimmed brown hat was walking along next to a somewhat
shorter woman in a red leather jacket and scarf, with long
brown hair pulled back into a ponytail.
     Bert and Priss.
     There was an explosion of some kind in the back of her
mind, and everything seemed to become green-tinged for a
moment, anger and jealousy flaring brightly like an erupting
volcano. Suspicion crawled through her like serpents,
writhing in and out of her thoughts. No wonder he'd quit
phoning; he'd started going out with Priss!! Boy, that
hadn't taken long, had it?! She supposed she shouldn't have
been surprised; it had always seemed like he'd confided his
problems to Priss before her, and this was just one step
further along. And to think that he'd denied any involvement
with the red-brown eyed woman only a few weeks before!
     Her teeth clenched as she watched them walk closer; he
appeared to be saying something to the attractive singer,
and she laughed at whatever it was that he'd said, giving
him a mock-irritated nudge in the ribs with an elbow. That
was all Nene saw before the crowd surged around them again,
hiding them from her view. The red-headed ADP officer became
dimly aware that she had a clenched grip on the table's
edge, her nails digging into the artificial wood veneer. She
relaxed her grip with an effort.
     "Hey, Nene, are you all right?" Naoko asked, really
concerned now. "You just turned white!"
     "It's nothing," Nene replied, pasting a phony smile
into place. "I just thought I saw somebody I knew." The
freckle-faced young woman nodded dubiously, but didn't
pursue the matter. Picking up their packages, the two
friends left the cafe, merging into the teeming crowds
outside.
                            ****
     The hoarse, agonized screams of a man being driven
beyond his limits that had been reverberating around the
chamber for several minutes died abruptly; the straining
form strapped to a metal table that had been emitting them
went limp, twitching slightly, his breathing ragged and
faltering. A metallic hemisphere that had been positioned
over his head retracted towards the ceiling of the vaguely
dome-like chamber, the electric hum from the device fading
into silence. Other than the table containing the tortured
prisoner, and the hemispheric device attached to a
telescoping arm that came from the ceiling, the room was
bare, the harshness of the cold, grey metal walls unrelieved
by any semblance of humanity, or even warmth.
     Madigan turned away from the thickly-glassed
observation window, her inquisitive gaze spearing the white-
coated laboratory technician at the control panel. The
younger man, black- haired, with brown eyes, and a nervous
face, looked back at her anxiously; having the executive in
charge of GENOM's corporate security concerns in the same
room was unnerving to say the least. Madigan was always
coldly aloof to her underlings, and everyone who dealt with
her felt like they were being prepared for possible
execution if they made a mistake.
     "Well?!" she demanded impatiently. "What happened?!"
     "The, ah, subject has gone into cardiac arrest," the
young man said hesitantly, adding as diffidently as
possible, "I did, ah, say that was a, um, possibility, given
his poor health."
     Madigan stared icily back at him, her blue grey eyes
glittering like sapphires, anger seething in the air around
her. It was bad enough things hadn't gone as expected;
having some snot-nosed upstart who shouldn't even have been
there in the first place telling her `I told you so' just
made it worse. Somebody as young and green-looking as he was
had no business being near a project as sensitive as this
one was. The hapless lab technician sat sweating under her
gaze, feeling his guts shrivel in fear as she silently
fumed.
     The Deep Psychology Scanner was one of GENOM's closely
guarded secrets; only a very select few in the upper
echelons knew of its existence, and those few underwent
rigorous screening before they were even made aware of its
existence. The scientists and technicians who were trained
to use and maintain the device were also screened
thoroughly, to ensure that there wouldn't be any
embarrassing `information leaks'. There might be rumours of
an `interrogation device' elsewhere in the corporate entity,
but nobody knew for sure. Those who got too persistent in
trying to find proof to go with the rumours usually vanished
mysteriously.
     Madigan turned her gaze from the tech, staring through
the observation window again into the sealed chamber beyond,
at the dying man on the table. It had been her decision to
`acquire' one of the luckless mercenaries the ADP had
captured, and have him questioned. After some simple
manipulation, she'd arranged for one of the wounded mercs to
be transferred to another hospital for better treatment.
Instead of that happening, the helpless former mercenary had
found himself whisked into a cold, sterile room and strapped
to a table. Then the real agony had begun for him.
     The DPS was capable of sifting through someone's mind,
and finding their psychological weaknesses. How exactly it
did that was a detail only its designers knew, but the
results were very understandable to anyone.  If the subject
being probed by the scanner didn't answer a question, or
lied, the device triggered hallucinations in the victim:
waking nightmares based on the victim's worst fears. The
more the subject struggled to resist, the more intense and
painful the experiences became.
     Given time, the process eroded everyone's will to
resist, as the pain became such that the victim was willing
to do almost anything to end it. Co-operative subjects could
survive the process with relatively little mental trauma;
those who fought died, if they were lucky, as they tended to
suffer heart attacks or similar occurrences. The unlucky
were usually reduced to drooling vegetables.
     The mercenary they'd picked had proved very tough, and
had lasted for about an hour; then his weakened condition
had combined with the strain the DPS put on him, and caused
him to suffer a heart attack. She thought she had the
information she wanted from him, but she had wanted to make
absolutely sure first. Unfortunately, that wasn't going to
be possible. Damn.
     "Make sure that the body is properly disposed of," she
directed the technician.
     Turning and leaving the laboratory, the lavender-haired
executive walked slowly though the maze of hallways that led
from the DPS chamber deep within the bowels of GENOM's
ziggurat, paging slowly through the data file she'd managed
to glean from the mercenary. It wasn't much to go on, but it
was more than she'd had previously. She now had a location
for where the mercenaries had been beaten, a description of
the man they'd been after, and even a tentative contact for
whoever their former employer had been.
     It was time to begin getting to the bottom of the
puzzle.

TWO DAYS LATER....

     Soft, white, crystalline flakes of snow drifted down
from a murky grey sky in heavy sheets, shrouding the
sprawled city below with a thickening blanket of pristine
whiteness. The air was crisp and numbingly cold. The fact
that the winds that had been mercilessly buffeting people
for days were blessedly still for a change made the day
actually seem pleasant, and made the city feel oddly
peaceful.
     Another interesting change about the city was that its
normal activity was muted, hushed by the unexpected arrival
of almost two feet of snow overnight. Although MegaTokyo's
Public Works department possessed some limited snow removal
capacity, the abrupt snow dump on the city caught them
unprepared, and unable to meet the demand. The work crews
were working overtime to clean things up, but they had a
long way to go yet. There were some streets that had been
cleared, and some limited bus services were available, but
that was it.
     All over the city, businesses were closed, schools were
silent, shopping malls were deserted, and the roads were
almost uninhabited. There were a few brave, or foolhardy
people, depending on your point of view, who risked the main
roads and highways to try and get somewhere. They were
either mired in snow, unable to move, or were slowly plowing
their way along. Most people looked at the evidence that
nature could thumb its nose at them anytime it wanted to,
and went back to bed, seizing the opportunity catch up on
missed sleep.
     One of the exceptions to this rule walked along the
deserted, snowbound sidewalks, plowing almost cheerily
through the fluffy snow. Clouds of powdery white billowed
around the tall figure, clad in a heavy black coat, gloves,
and a wide-brimmed brown hat. A scarf was wrapped around his
face, concealing all of his features except for his eyes. A
cloud of wispy steam was following him as he walked,
drifting from behind his scarf. Periodically, he stooped,
scooping up a handful of snow, which he then packed into a
compact ball and pitched up into the air like an overgrown
kid, watching them splash into the undisturbed snow in the
center of the street.
     Bert grinned to himself as he watched the plume of
snowflakes that erupted from his latest snowball's impact
with the ground drift downwards again. He felt oddly
refreshed and youthful for a change, as if the snowstorm
that had paralyzed most of the city had somehow lifted some
of his burdens from him. Everything looked brand-new, clad
in purest white, untouched by corruption or the stains of
everyday life. His hardheaded practical side wouldn't let
him entertain the illusion for very long, but for a few
moments it made a nice picture.
     He reached up and pulled the scarf away from his face,
his breath rolling out in a plume of white steam. The air
bit at his skin with icy teeth, and he drew a deep breath of
the frosty air, holding it in his lungs for a moment,
somehow feeling invigorated by the cold. He exhaled another
billowing cloud, like some kind of red-haired dragon. He
smirked a bit more at that thought as he continued to slog
his way through the snow.
     After a few more minutes of travel, the shape of
Sylia's building began to draw nearer to him.  The mirrored
glass panels of its sides were dulled by the drabness of the
sky above, and it made an odd contrast, the building
seemingly gray, with a white cloak of snow. The window
displays of the assorted stores located in the ground floor
of the building were dark, even the `Silky Doll' ones; it
was doubtful anyone wanted lingerie in this weather. Keeping
warm was probably uppermost in their minds.
     He grinned again to himself as he glanced around at the
wintry landscape surrounding him; unlike most people, he was
enjoying the sudden snowstorm immensely. He hadn't seen snow
in what felt like eons, and in some weird way it was
revitalizing him, and cheering him up, dissipating the gloom
he'd been under for the last few days. Besides, back in his
old home area, this kind of a snowfall wouldn't have been
considered unusual.
     Two figures appeared in the distance, laboriously
toiling their way towards him through the snow. He squinted
in their direction, and after a moment he was sure it was
Priss and Sylvie that were approaching; the two forms had
vaguely feminine shapes, and one of the women was wearing
blue-white garb. Sylvie was about the only person he knew of
who wore that colour combination more-or-less constantly,
and Priss was generally partial to red, which the second
figure was wearing.
     A sudden, slightly evil-minded thought struck him. He
tried resisting the admittedly
mischievous impulse, but failed miserably. With a sly grin,
he ducked into the empty front entryway of a closed store,
and waited.
                            ****
     "Goddamn bloody godforsaken lousy weather!!" Priss
grumbled, angrily kicking at the snow in her way. The deep
snow made it impossible for her to use her favoured mode of
transport, her motorcycle, and it was really pissing her
off, especially because she'd been reduced to using the bus
and hiking to get anywhere. "Why on earth did Sylia have to
schedule another blasted meeting in this weather?!" she
complained. "Surely she could have waited until we had clear
weather again!"
     "Oh, come on, Priss!" Sylvie sighed, rolling her eyes.
"It's not that bad! I think it's kind of neat!" Bright
golden-brown eyes looked around at the snowbound scenery,
drinking in what was, for her, a brand-new experience. "Look
at how clean and white everything is!"
     "It turns dirty and sloppy when it gets warmer," the
recalcitrant singer growled irritably. "And all it's doing
right now is buggering up the roads."
     "I still say you're wrong," Sylvie replied defiantly.
"I'm sure there's something good to all this; you just need
to change your way of looking at things."
     "Oh yeah?!" Priss demanded, glaring at her friend.
"Well then, tell me ONE thing that all this," her broad
gesture of frustration took in the expanse of snow around
them, "is good for!"
     WHAP!!
     There was a sudden spray of white across her vision,
and she felt something relatively soft impact with the side
of her head and face. Priss stood very silently for a
moment, then reached up, brushing her fingers across the
lump of stinging cold wetness that seemed to have become
attached to the side of her head. As she touched it, the
shape of a loosely-packed snowball fell off, dropping to the
snow-covered sidewalk with a quiet thump. She could see
Sylvie's surprised face, but rather than shock or outrage,
her friend was trying hard not to laugh out loud.
     "Um, are you okay, Priss?" she queried tentatively, her
lips twitching as she tried to keep from openly grinning.
"Say something."
     "Whoever it is, they're dead," Priss stated flatly, a
deadly look in her red-brown eyes. She turned towards the
direction the frosty missile had come from, glaring with
particle-beam-like intensity. Her smoldering gaze landed on
a grinning figure in a dark coat and wide-brimmed hat. He
was leaning nonchalantly against the corner of a building,
about fifty feet away from them, negligently tossing and
catching another snowball in his gloved hand.
     "Hi Priss!" Bert said cheerily, an innocent, kid-like
grin plastered across his face. "Is something the matter?"
     "Why you lousy...." Priss spluttered. "What the hell's
the big idea, chucking snowballs at me?!"
     "Well, I did hear you ask what snow was good for," he
replied blandly, his grin taking on a gloating aspect. "I
figured I'd show you."
     "You're a dead man," Priss promised grimly, stalking
through the snow towards him. "I'm going to wipe that grin
off your face." Despite her annoyance, there was something
about his grin that was infectious, and she found herself
grinning despite herself. Her momentary anger dissipated
almost instantly. She was still going to get him though.
     "Oh, PLEASE don't hurt me!" the tall red-head pleaded
in a mock-terrified voice as she approached. The act would
almost have been convincing, except the grin he was sporting
belied his words. "I won't do it again! Honest! I had no
idea wh...AAAAGH!!!!" His voice ended abruptly in a
surprised exclamation, as a whistling snowball thwacked him
square in the face. Priss turned, surprised, to see Sylvie
thoughtfully hefting another snowball of her own.
     "That was sort of fun, you know?" the tall, dark-haired
woman remarked with a grin.
     "You're as bad as he is!" Priss exclaimed, grinning
fiendishly. Behind her, she could hear Bert spluttering and
coughing from the shot he'd taken, and she smirked wickedly
back at him for a moment. Unfortunately for her, he chose
that moment to blindly fire the other snowball he'd still
been holding, and it clocked her in the face as well. After
a moment or so of surprised gasping, Priss wiped the snow
off of her cold-numbed features and glared at him.
     "Of course, you realize this means war," she informed
him, scooping up a fistful of snow for herself. Bert
straightened up, wiping the melted snow from his face with
one gloved hand as he seized another handful of nearby snow
with the other.
     "Oh yeah?" he shot back, unintimidated. "Then prepare
to defend yourselves!" The air abruptly became filled with
round snowy missiles, as the two women enthusiastically
pelted him with hastily-formed snowballs, and received the
same in reply.  Priss was positive that at least a few of
the ones that hit her came from Sylvie's direction, but she
was mostly preoccupied with avoiding Bert's devastating aim,
and barraging him with her own salvos.
     The grinning red-haired young man was getting the worst
of deal, being outgunned by two-to-one, but he didn't ask
for a cease-fire. He pounded back at his attackers,
snowballing the two women impartially, and occasionally
whipping in a wickedly-fast shot at them that left them
gasping. After a few minutes of cold, chaotic warfare, Priss
decided that she wanted to get him just a little better than
just with a snowball; ducking suddenly, she rushed him.
     He seemed to instantly guess what she was going to do;
he started backpedaling, and tried nailing her with another
snowball with the intent of forcing her back. She dodged his
shot, and scooped up some loose snow as she sprinted,
flinging it at his face, trying to blind him for a moment.
As he ducked the snow flurry, she reached him, grabbed his
coat while he was trying to get his balance, and threw him
headfirst into a nearby snowdrift. Unfortunately for her, he
managed to latch onto her arm at the same time, and pulled
her in with him as he went down.
     Snow geysered into the air as they fell into the deep,
soft drift. The air around her seemed to be filled with
cold, stinging flakes, and for a moment she couldn't
breathe, sneezing and snorting in the snow. After a moment,
she became aware of the fact that she was laying on top of
someone who was also spluttering and coughing. With a
cheerful grin, Priss scooped up another handful of stray
snow, and plastered it in Bert's face, quickly scrambling
out of his reach.
     "Feel better now?" Sylvie asked dryly, looking at Priss
as she emerged from the pile. "I think you got him." Behind
the snow-covered singer, a large snowdrift sneezed and
coughed explosively.
     "You better believe it!" Priss crowed exultantly,
grinning. "That'll show him not to pitch snowballs at
people!" As she stood there basking in the glow of victory,
she suddenly shivered, and became aware of the fact that she
was soaked to the skin from melted snow. Her hair was a wet,
limp mess, and chill began to eat at her.
     "We'd better get inside," Bert's voice came from behind
her, still sounding amused. She whirled towards him, half-
expecting to get more snow in the face, but he raised his
hands in surrender. "Easy, just take it easy," he soothed,
smiling. He was as wet as she was, if not more so, and he
was still frosted from head to foot with snow. "You have
won, M'Lady, and the field is yours this day," he declared,
bowing and straightening up with a grin. There was a
brightness to his eyes that hadn't been there in weeks, and
the brown-haired singer suddenly didn't find the weather so
objectionable, if it had managed to snap his depression even
briefly. "Allow me to offer my hospitality," he said in
courtly tones. "At the very least, I can get you a towel to
dry your hair off," he finished, grinning.
     "Okay, fine," Priss accepted his offer. "I'd say it's
the least you owed us for the snowballs." He grinned again,
unrepentant, and gestured towards the shape of Sylia's
building. The three friends started walking through the
snow, Priss trying hard not to shiver as the cold soaked
through her wet clothes and gnawed at her skin.
     "What were you doing out here anyway?" Sylvie asked
curiously, looking around at the deserted streetscape. "You
already live where the meeting's going to be."
     "Because I like this weather," he answered simply,
shrugging. "I've always liked the winter, and this kind of
snowfall is something I haven't seen in years, so I was out
walking. Felt kind of nostalgic, I guess."
     "Nostalgic?! About snow?!" Priss said disbelievingly.
Bert nodded, but didn't elaborate, hiding a faint surge of
homesickness, and kept walking. Priss glanced at Sylvie, who
shrugged; she didn't understand why he'd suddenly clammed up
either. They hurried to catch up with him as he reached the
door into Sylia's building.
                            ****
     "What the heck happened to you?!" was Linna's surprised
question as they trooped into Sylia's living room. She was
sprawled in one of the padded easy chairs by the coffee
table, idly paging through a magazine.
     "We ran into a snowstorm on the way in," Priss answered
dryly, flicking some still damp hair out of her face. She
was a lot drier now than she had been, but she still felt
chilled and a bit clammy. Her hair was limp and bedraggled-
looking at the moment, making her look like someone had
tried drowning her.
     She selected a seat on the couch and sat down,
pointedly ignoring the wide grin Bert was sporting as he
hummed innocently off to her side. Sylvie sat next to her,
while Bert went and leaned against the large bay window of
the apartment, staring out at the snowbound city.
     "A snowstorm?" Sylia repeated as she came into the room
from the direction of the kitchen. Nene was trailing her,
balancing a teapot with some cups on a tray. "What are you
talking about?"
     Priss sighed, glanced at Sylvie, and started explaining
as Nene placed the tray on the coffee table. She noticed
that there seemed to be a hint of animosity in Nene's eyes
as the young red-head looked at her, but she couldn't think
of anything she might have done recently that would cause
Nene to be mad at her.
     Shrugging mentally, she continued her explanation,
aware the entire time of a smug grin from the far side of
the room. Linna rolled her eyes, looking over at Bert and
shaking her head disbelievingly. Sylia's lips quirked
slightly in a ghost of a smile, but she smoothed her face
out, and shook her head as well. Nene sat on the other
couch, mostly expressionless. She hadn't looked at Bert,
although Priss had caught a couple of glances from him being
directed at the slender ADP officer. When she was done her
recitation of events, Priss grabbed a cup and poured herself
some steaming tea. She sat back, sipping at it in an effort
to drive off the lingering chilled feeling that was bugging
her.
     "Well, it certainly sounds like you enjoyed
yourselves," Sylia remarked. Sylvie nodded and grinned, a
grin echoed by the tall red-head at the window. Priss tried
to look sour, but couldn't keep a faint smile from creeping
across her face; it had been kind of fun, actually.
"I'm glad you're all so energetic," the Knight Sabers'
leader added, smirking again, "because we're going to be
busy today...."
                            ****
     "WHOOPEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!" A swirling explosion of snow
blasted through the air, momentarily obscuring everything
from sight.
     "Oh for...!! Do you bloody MIND?!?!" Priss half-
shouted, brushing the snow from off of her blue-armoured
shoulders, and irritably shaking her helmeted head. Behind
her, Linna was muttering something uncomplimentary under her
breath while performing the same task.
     "What? What'd I do now?" SkyKnight asked innocently.
His brightly polished hardsuit was undimmed by the darkening
cloudy grey sky overhead, and seemed to flash like a
challenging beacon against the snow. Steam drifted in wispy
threads from the ventilation slots of his helmet, concealed
at the bottom of the visor, where the helmet's jawline was.
A long trench was spread out behind him through the snow,
like something had just crash-landed.
     "You know damn good and well what I'm talking about,"
Priss countered flatly, glaring at him; there was no way it
could affect him, given that they were both helmeted, but it
salved her soul a bit just doing it. "That's the fifth time
in the last hour."
     "Gee, was that how many it's been? I haven't been
counting." His tone of voice gave the lie to his words, and
the blue-hardsuited woman briefly considered trying to bury
him in a snowbank. She dismissed the notion as useless,
figuring that he'd probably enjoy that kind of punishment.
     "SkyKnight," Sylia's voice came over the helmet comms,
sounding a little exasperated, "would you PLEASE stop that?
We're not out here so you can play in the snow." Their white
hardsuited leader wasn't in their immediate area, and was
quite happy that was the case; Bert had taken to giving a
quick exhaust burst from his flight system turbines as he
did a sliding, sideways landing skid, almost like someone
braking on ice skates. The result of that particular landing
maneuver was that the area around him became shrouded in a
whirling vortex of snow for a few seconds, covering
everything, and everyone else who happened to be nearby, in
a powdery white blanket.
     "Okay, okay," he sighed in mock-disgust. "I'll knock it
off."
     "Thank you," Sylia's voice replied. "I'll give you the
signal to start in a few minutes. Until then, behave, okay?"
     Everyone replied affirmatively, then lapsed into
silence to await the command to start the next exercise.
While he waited, SkyKnight idly ran sensor scans of his
suit, checking and re-checking all of his systems to make
sure all of his repairs and upgrades were functioning.
According to his diagnostic software, everything was
perfect. Nearby, Linna's green hardsuited figure waited
patiently, humming some piece of music to herself. Priss
wasn't as calm, tramping back and forth irritably through
the snow, her arms either folded across her chest, or
swinging agitatedly.
     The exercise they were about to engage in was almost
like a `capture the flag' game in some respects; they were
to attempt to cross the long stretch of the Canyons that lay
spread out before them, hopefully avoiding getting tagged
with a sensor marker by their suit battlecomputers that
would indicate that they'd been `shot'. There was no actual
weapons fire involved; Sylia had set up the suit computer
and sensor systems to keep track of that aspect of things.
If they were exposed long enough for someone to get a target
lock and a clean shot on them, their suit computers informed
them that they'd been tagged.
     The only way to avoid being tagged out was to use the
scattered car wrecks, rocks, and derelict buildings as cover
while advancing towards the `finish line'; taking the direct
approach in this instance, the open stretch down the center
of the chasm, was sure to result in being caught and
eliminated. Sylia was using the course, combined with the
weather, to give them some practical experience at adapting
to adverse conditions.
     The glowing red aperture of SkyKnight's helmet eyeslot
swept the snow-sheathed terrain, while his sensor arrays
probed the empty-seeming canyon. He couldn't detect them,
but he knew they were out there somewhere....
                            ****
     Sylvie fidgeted anxiously, unable to keep a slightly
nervous, anticipatory grin from spreading across her face;
this was going to be exciting! She scanned her suit
viewscreen again, but it was a pointless action; Sylia
hadn't given the command to start the training exercise yet.
     She shifted around again as she crouched in an alcove
between two snow-blanketed buildings, getting used to the
feel of her suit.  It was a remarkably comfortable fit, snug
and somehow reassuring in its presence, almost like a friend
was nearby.
     It was definitely a more pleasant sensation than what
she'd felt the last time she'd worn a battlesuit; she hadn't
told anyone, not even Priss, but the feelings she'd had when
the D.D. Battlemover had forced a synchronization link on
her and taken over, imprisoning her in the process, had been
the most horrifying thing she'd ever experienced. Some of
what had happened to her at Hollister's hands had come close
to equaling it, but hadn't replaced it. Irritably, she
jerked her attention back to the present; the past couldn't
hurt her anymore.
     Her sensor displays blinked cheerily, and she could
hear the faint background hum of the hardsuit's circuitry in
her ears as she waited. She stretched a bit again, becoming
impatient; how were they supposed to field-test her suit if
nothing happened?!
     Sylvie extended her armoured arms out in front of her,
and flexed them a couple of times, testing the suit's
responses again. As before, it moved easily and without
interference. She grinned again, unable to get over the
thrill of feeling like a kid with a new toy.
     She mentally pictured what she must look like to any
outside observers at the moment: a tall, sleek hardsuit with
distinctly feminine curves, with dark red and gray armour
plating, and white stripes on the helmet and legs. While her
suit looked similar to Priss's, its armour was slightly
heavier-looking, and it was without the protruding antenna
spars on the sides of the yellow-visored helmet. Her suit
arms were where the weapons were located; her right arm was
equipped with a particle-laser cannon, a railgun launcher,
and an extendible swordblade, much like SkyKnight's suit.
Her left arm carried a backup swordblade. In the event she
felt she had to physically pound on something, the gauntlets
of her suit were reinforced across the knuckles.
     She knew her choice of colours for the suit hadn't been
understood by her friends; Bert had looked very
uncomfortable when she'd told him what she wanted. Priss had
been curious, but hadn't prodded. Sylvie hadn't tried
explaining why she'd wanted the old D.D. Battlemover's
colour scheme as her suit colours to anyone; she knew why
she wanted it that way, and that was all that was necessary.
     To her, it was a symbol that she was the one in control
now. What had started her down the road to her current
situation had been something she'd been forced into by
circumstances and dire need; she'd had to use the
Battlemover in order to get the blood Anri had needed to
survive while at the same time hoping to somehow gain
freedom for the both of them. Now, she was doing this of her
own free will, and no one was going to ever take that away
from her again. In a way, she considered it fitting that she
was going to be using the same colouration, and some of the
same technology, although greatly evolved by now, to redress
some of the wrongs she'd had to perform.
     "Okay," Sylia's voice crackled across the comms,
disrupting her intense thoughts. "We're starting now.
Linna? You're first; go!"
                            ****
     From the top of a crumbling building, a white hardsuit
with a blue visor watched as a dark olive-green armour suit
started ghosting its way nimbly through the twisted obstacle
course set out, keeping under cover, and not revealing
itself for longer than a few seconds. Sylia smiled to
herself as she watched Linna slowly advance; she was using
the natural cover perfectly, and her weapons tracking
sensors weren't able to lock onto the approaching hardsuit
long enough to score a `hit'.
     As the Knight Saber leader watched, Linna dove,
somersaulted , and flipped her way past the last few
obstacles in a continuous blur of jet-assisted motion,
passing the finish line safely. She'd bypassed all of the
obstacles without problem, and no one had been able to score
a hit on her, not even Nene's enhanced sensors.
     "Well done, Linna," she congratulated her. "If you
want, you can watch from up here with me. Priss? You're
next." As she listened to the acknowledgment from the
distant blue hardsuit, hissing jets announced that Linna had
just arrived. Steam and some condensation rolling off of her
suit in the chill air, Linna stepped up next to her, leaning
carefully on the retaining wall running around the edge of
the roof.
     In the distance, a blue hardsuit began charging through
the snowdrifts towards them, leaping for the shelter of some
of the snow-draped car wreckage.
                            ****
     Bert watched Priss cautiously advance through the snow
from his vantage point, well back of the starting line. He
wasn't really paying attention though; rather than
concentrating on how she was doing, his mind was carefully
going over what he was going to do himself.
     SkyKnight noted that only Sylia was immediately visible
in the distance, silhouetted on top of a building. The
reason for that was obvious: by making herself visible, she
was drawing attention away from the fact that there were two
other hardsuits hidden out there somewhere. If he paid too
much attention to Sylia at her lookout point, he'd get
nailed by one or both of the snipers out there.
     A grim smile flickered across his face; it wasn't going
to get a chance to work. He wasn't going to quietly go along