Changeling

(54)

To add insult to injury, human Nestra now had to wait until Ragnarok’s office was built before she could even get summoned there. Camille stuck around since they had no choice with an A-class on a short fuse around. It took quite some time for a shuttle to land on the central field carrying supplies and emergency tents, the biggest of which was used to triage and heal critically injured enclavers. Nestra had never witnessed such bullshit.

At least people gave her a wide berth. A willowy military medic had just briefly come to check if she was hurt, gave her a regen patch for her bruised arm, and then left for people who actually needed her. Except for that, no one had dared approach either her or Camille. They were just hanging around at the edge of the human equivalent of a kicked anthill.

As far as Nestra could see, Threshold was really helping both loyalists and rebels, though the latter were confined to a secluded area under solid guard. Ilar and the Patriarch landed sometime after 3AM, likely recalled from the portal world they were exploring. Ragnarok had a fast talk with the local leader by which Nestra meant that they gave up all pretense of humanity to talk at accelerated speed, like part of a video moving on fast forward. As for Ilar, he was immediately arrested. His gaze found Nestra as guards carried him to the nearest gunship. They were filled with guilt.

She was left with a choice. Was she angry with Ilar?

Well, maybe a little bit. He’d let pride or some other emotion get the better of him. His priority should have been safety, not dick measurement. Because of his decision, Weiwei and Derek had died. He hadn’t meant for it to happen though.

Nestra was feeling ambivalent. It wasn’t fully his fault. Manh was to blame for the massacre, first and foremost, so she gave him the most sober of nods. He closed his eyes. Was it relief? She had no idea.

“I would have expected you to be angrier,” Camille noted.

“I don’t know. I guess I’m really tired? I don’t feel negative emotions towards him. He wasn’t the one who killed my friends.”

“You were certainly angry against Truong.”

The cocktail of painkillers had long since faded, and it was now clear the hostilities had ceased through the expedient means of A-class Ex Machina, so there wasn’t going to be a fight after all. Nestra zipped up her suit, grabbed a backpack as a pillow, and then she was gone in seconds.

***

Nestra stood inside of her dream palace, in the planetarium room where spheres corresponding to her abilities revolved in a planetary dance. Her feet hovered over a small lake, its waters blue and crystalline. The edges of the small lake stopped at some distance. The waters were not so deep that she couldn’t see a colorless bottom yet. This was the content of her core, an ocean to mirror the sky above.

Well ok, maybe in a hundred years. But the vision was there! Her reserves had improved massively since she’d started on the path of C-class, though she was still far from done. She wasn’t sure how they compared with human ones though. She felt like she had too much to work with, but that was perhaps simply because her magic lagged behind. Humans were also forced to channel mana in different body parts at all times. As far as she understood, this was more of an unconscious thing for her. Truly, Aszhii would be a threat to all of creation if they weren’t as goofy as Sereth appeared to be.

With a spark of will, Nestra approached the spheres. Power and Celerity were first, then Resilience, Awareness, and Mind Speed. The magical spheres lagged behind, as usual. She felt like she had enough power to form one more connection.

Right now, she had enough utility as far as she was concerned. Intuition helped with tracking and reaction. Momentum and Passe-muraille gave her all the mobility she needed on top of the electricity spell. Precision was great for specific enemies with tiny weak points. Immovable was a solid defensive tool in the rare cases where she needed to tank something. No, what she’d lacked against Manh was a… a finisher. Something to inflict massive amounts of damage that wasn’t her bolt spell.

She bound mana power and mana control with a tentative link. Images of a power surge filled her mind, strong yet unreliable and exhausting. That was good, perhaps what she needed, but she wasn’t a mage, at least nor primarily. No, what she needed was, well, more oomph to her bonks.

Nestra linked Power and mana power, the two most offensive abilities she had. The idea of a charged strike filled her mind with the promise of a devastating finisher, but at a cost.

Arcane strike.

“Looks like I’m going to need Shinran’s help. This is going to take a lot of practice.”

***

Ragnarok entered the room at a brisk pace. Her presence bubbled inconsistently in Nestra’s sense, sometimes a physical weight on her shoulders, and sometimes barely a whisper. The newly minted A-class raider looked tired. She was also holding two steaming paper cups of good size from which the enticing smell of arabica emerged like an enticing promise.

“Here. Flat white, no sugar.”

The A-class placed the cup in front of Nestra. She grabbed it. She took a sip. Angels descended from the dimension of earthly pleasure to deposit their sweetest nectar on her taste buds.

“Aaaah,” she said.

Ragnarok sat down as well.

“And apology accepted,” Nestra added as an afterthought.

After all, Ragnarok had called her out with absolutely no proof of mischief and indeed, Nestra had been beyond reproach: no one had caught her.

“You know,” the old woman replied with narrowed eyes, “I think your file is wrong. You do not really suffer from poor social skills, at least not uniformly. You are one third oblivious to a maddening degree, one third aggressively perceptive, with the last third being that you don’t give a fuck.”

“Oooh yeah, the ‘authority’ thing,” Nestra said.

“See, this is what I mean. I get less lip from some B-ranks than from you.”

She huffed, though it was almost close to a chuckle.

“It appears I have misjudged you. To my defense, you always seem to be at the center of some disaster.”

“Who sends me there half the time?” Nestra asked in a very rhetorical manner.

“A fair point. In any case, Mrs Satya and her team commended you on your incredible composure. I would go so far as to say they remained free and alive in no small part thanks to your efforts. Officers Clint and Cai’s sacrifices will not be forgotten, of course. So… well done. Amazing job.”

“Thanks.”

“I must ask, however. Did anyone see your transformed self?”

“No, and nobody saw me turn back. I retreated into the jungle to do so. The only witness of my tr… transformed self is dead. Camille — that is, Fox Mask — they saw, but they’ll keep it secret. We killed Manh together.”

“You did what? You killed Manh?”

Nestra froze.

“Yeah?”

“Where?”

“In a portal world. Camille and I.”

“You and Fox Mask took down a B-rank by yourselves?”

“Yes.”

Well, there was also Sashimi but she didn’t count. She was more of a fire-and-forget-Nestra-based ordinance with a stomach and an attitude.

“Dammit. I’ll call back the search teams. We thought he had escaped and was planning some guerilla operation!”

The A-class left in a storm. Nestra used the opportunity to sip more flat white. Unfortunately, Ragnarok was back almost immediately.

“You should have led with that,” she reproached.

Nestra shrugged. It was so much like the army to tell her to shut up unless spoken to and then blame her when she did. Ragnarok remained strangely thoughtful.

“A very impressive performance, yes. Hmm. I think we can move forward with… but that will come later. I will make sure you are sent back to the city ASAP. You can expect an interview from Special Affairs that I cannot reasonably block. Beyond that, rest and raid. I will make sure you have priority access to whatever portals we control. Oh, you will probably have the one debrief but after that, I will keep the agents off your back.”

“Will they be hostile?”

“This operation was a disaster due to the loss of life, so yes.”

“What happens now? With the enclave, I mean. I also suggested Fox Mask to join the city as a masked gleam in the future. It wouldn’t be good for them to stay and they were sort of forced into a life of crime anyway.”

Ragnarok glared, though it didn’t last very long.

“Did they accept?”

“They were certainly thinking about it. Their relationship with their clan has been… complicated as of late.”

“You know what, this is an excellent idea. After she’s faced justice, of course. They have proven their capabilities, after all. I shall talk to them. I assume you’re willing to sponsor them? As for your question, we are now at peace after what the media will describe as the enclave’s internal turmoil, which has now been resolved to our satisfaction. Now, we will close the deal arranged by Ilar with a few modifications.”

While sending him to the Red House in disgrace, Nestra thought.

“including a special enrolment program for students who wish to learn other raider disciplines than the blade. We will be prioritizing girls.”

“Huh? Why?”

“Because of your recommendations,” Rangarok said with a pointed glance. “Because you demonstrated that abuse complaints were either shot down or not filed to begin with. Oh, but that is not all. We will also offer reconstructive surgery services at very favorable rates, payable by raiding around Threshold for those who cannot afford it. Again, all thanks to your observations.”

Rangarok allowed herself a cat-like smile.

“You’re just going to poach underused talents, aren’t you?” Nestra asked.

“You need to accept that Threshold can be generous and serve its own purposes at the same time, young Palladian. Threshold lost precious people in this adventure, and I’m afraid dear Ilar’s career will be on hold for a decade after he’s promptly exonerated — that should happen shortly after the elections. Fortunately, the Sword Kings will be part of our sphere of influence beyond the walls, as well as provide us with a permanent raiding base and supplier for a few of the new continent’s more exotic resources. All in all, a great gain at a relatively minor cost.”

She raised a hand to deflect Nestra’s condemnations.

“I know, human life is sacred. But if I have to spend Threshold’s blood then I will get all I can out of it. And by Riel, we just did. Off you go now. You deserve rest.”

Nestra left the tent, only to find the negotiation team along with Chandra Satya standing at the exit. They’d changed and showered at some point of the night which made her irrationally jealous. The smile and nods were nice though. It made Nestra’s shriveled black heart all warm and mushy.

“Hey, you guys are alright,” she said.

“Yes, thanks to you. We were picked up near the gunship’s wreck! Poor Donovan stepped on a wasp nest but otherwise we’re all in one piece. You saved us!”

Donovan, whose face had doubled in volume, gave her a pained smile.

“We were just here to say thank you,” the negotiator concluded.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Several others nodded. A tall man slapped her on the shoulder in a very awkward way.

“Never seen someone so calm in my life. It really helped me stay grounded despite…”

He faltered.

“Hey I get it. I’m just glad it’s all over now.”

“Yeah,” another said, “I can’t wait to be back. I need a drink.”

“Several,” a third added. “Tea, preferably.”

Nestra made some small talk before leaving. This was one of the prizes, honestly. To get people safe, or at least, as safe as she could make them in this place. She basked in that precious light when she said bye to Fox Mask who was going to get their own golden parachute to Threshold if Ragnarok was to be believed. The trip back was quick: she was repatriated in an empty shuttle that had brought supplies there. They would land at the Threshold airport, the military one, south of the city. She hadn’t been there in ten years.

Her visor beeped as soon as they were close enough to get a signal. The top message left after a long series of beeps came from Helena.

‘Holy shit Nes you absolutely popped off. You’re so wired! Wow!’

‘What?’ she immediately texted back.

In response, Helena sent her a short video, an extract from one of the city’s more popular news networks. An anchorman with more work done than the average house spoke confidently to the camera.

‘... enclave where a government delegation was caught in a succession crisis, causing the death of two pilots. The rest of the delegation was only saved by the heroic intervention of their legal expert, an ex-MaxSec agent by the name of Clytemnestra Palladian, who managed to extract them from the compound by force. Representative Sun has questioned the circumstances that led to such a disaster ..’

A grainy footage of Nestra firing her shotgun on someone out of sight moved on a loop to the right of the screen. She was looking pretty badass, she had to admit. The focused expression and good posture made her look confident and not half stressed to death. She was surprised the footage had escaped censorship, to be fair. The city tended to keep things under wrap until they’d finished all they wanted to do.

‘You’re famous!’ Helena added.

But all Nestra could feel was dread, a deep fear that lodged itself in her stomach like a ball of ice. A few seconds later, as if driven by fate itself, she received a call.

There was no escape.

“Hi Mom.”

“Clytemnestra Palladian, where the hell are you?”

“On a shuttle heading to the airport where I’ll land in a couple of minutes.”

“Right. Don’t move.”

Nestra sighed. Not like there would be much of a choice.

“Look,” her mother belatedly added, “I know you can take care of yourself. I just don’t know why you leave on diplomatic missions, and then I check the news and what do I see? My daughter fending off gleams with a goddamn shotgun? Can you explain?”

“Well. It was unexpected. Took me by surprise to be sure.”

“How surprised were you if you brought your shotgun with you on a diplomatic mission? I was with you when you purchased it, remember? Was it also part of your attribution, miss legal expert? If someone had told me my daughter who can’t remember to close the damn bathroom door would be the authority on any sort of rules, I would have strangled them. After laughing myself prone. This is such an obvious cover that I don’t know how you can even say this to my metaphorical face. And showing off your sword skills was also part of the legal work? Good form, however. Your father is very proud.”

“What, you guys saw the demo?”

“Yes. I assume it was better footage than you blowing people’s brains out, so we got to see that one on the news. As I said, your father is very proud and so am I for saving all those people. And you’re right, we must trust you to fight, just like we do. But we would also appreciate some foresight so I don’t spit my damn coffee all over the table again? Please? Where are you now?”

“Still up in the air heading to the airport.”

“Right. See you soon.”

Nestra didn’t need radar to know a flying object had just taken off from Threshold’s residential area. Someone was going to get a speeding ticket.

She just hoped they wouldn’t hug her too tight because her ribs were still tender from Truong’s kick.

***

Nestra drummed her fingers on the table. Ragnarok had warned her that she would be interrogated, but it was now past 2PM and she’d only eaten an energy bar in the past 18 hours so her patience was running thin.

“Can you again, in your own words, describe the way you disabled the two gleams?” the Special Affair gleam asked in a motherly tone that didn’t match her youthful air. Seriously, the woman was younger than Nestra.

“Don’t you have the footage? I think I sent you the footage. Five minutes ago, as a matter of fact.”

“We are asking you.”

“I already told you twice and it should match the footage.”

“Agent Palladian, we —”

The small room shook ever so slightly. The old school datasheet in front of the gleam slid towards Nestra by a few centimeters, as did a few other loose metal items in the room. It suddenly grew cold. Nestra could see frozen dendrites crawl over the ceiling like grasping fingers. The gleams also felt the long, suffering mana sigh coming from outside the door.

A few seconds later, one of her superiors entered the room with clear displeasure.

“Not done yet?” she asked in a very cavalier fashion.

“I was just checking a few last details with Agent Palladian here.”

“I’m sure it can wait, hm?” the superior asked, red eyes flashing dangerously. “Miss Palladian, you are free to go.”

Nestra happily left the pair behind. Once again, she was saved by her ‘guanxi’, her network of acquaintances. Meanwhile, the junior interrogator was going to get a lesson on prioritization and political awareness. A part of Nestra felt disgusted that one could get into trouble for doing their job properly. On the other hand, interrogating the heroine of the day as if she were a suspect was the sort of inept use of working time that needed to be addressed sooner rather than later. Common sense ought to prevail over protocol.

Also she was hungry.

Nestra returned to the waiting room to see her mom, dad, and Helena sprawled over the bench in the same way a pride of lions lazed on the savannah, with hooded eyes that told everyone they were full for now but could go for an extra. Sadly, Ulysses wasn’t here, which wasn’t a surprise. Aunt Claire wasn’t either. She was probably raiding somewhere.

Nestra sighed. Straight out of the frying pan and into the napalm.

***

Nestra’s family let her go home late in the afternoon. She immediately turned around to drive to the Emporium, the gleam marketplace. It was good to visit its cavernous arena filled with visiting gleams of all levels of power and affluence. She saw a nervous young awakened inspect staves with someone who appeared to be his mother, and her heart felt a prick of nostalgia for what could have been—all those special moments she’d missed out on. She approached the counter, only for one of the attendants to greet her in person. He had the perfect butler composure and the cold blue eyes of an ice user.

“Hello, Miss Crescent. Welcome to the Emporium. Will you be requiring a new blade?”

“Yes.”

“We have one prepared for you made of Black Steel, an unusually resilient material normally reserved for B-class armor. General Lindstrom authorized the use of restricted materials for this case.”

The man left, soon returning with a case, muscles bulging under the impeccable suit. Nestra opened it with relish. Swords were much lighter than most people realized, except this one apparently.

“Balanced according to your preferences and… adjusted size.”

He gave her a long look. She didn’t react. Size changes were pretty standard for transformation powers. Most of the time related to the user’s mana reserves.

“We also have an assortment of powerful yet useless armor sets that could be of interest to you. Artifacts of good value.”

The Skin was growing a bit more discerning lately so shitty apprentice-made artifacts of cheap steel leaking mana like a drunkard leaked piss wasn’t cutting it anymore.

“Tell me,” she suggested.

“A suit recovered from a sunken ruin by divers: C-class. Made of awakened olivine. Very durable. It allows its wearer to breathe in the abyss despite the pressure.”

“That sounds rather useful.”

“Provided the user has gills.”

‘Much less useful then.”

“Indeed. We also have an extremely heavy full plate armor that can stop heat as high as 800 degrees, including fire mana spells. It is suitable for people no taller than 140 centimeters.”

Those were clearly designed for other species. Nestra wondered if this was a glitch of the portal network, or maybe a leak? She hoped she had nothing to do with it.

Actually if it was someone’s fault, it was definitely Sereth’s. Fucker kept punching holes in reality.

“I mean. A strong child?”

“I’m afraid not. There is also a dearth of users affected by dwarfism, so I’m afraid we have a very limited demand. I also have a heavy gauntlet that heals people it hits. It also weighs over five hundred kilograms. The gauntlet must be slammed on the wounded person for the regeneration to take effect. I’m told the punch is fully felt by the victim, that is, the patient, sorry.”

“Wouldn’t healers keep it as a deterrent?”

Mazingwe would probably love to have it in his office as alternative treatment for the most annoying of his Aszhii clients. As a matter of fact, she should probably take it now before he learned of its existence.

“Sold. Anything else?”

“I have horse armor, or centaur armor but it makes little difference, a leather cape of invisibility that only works in complete darkness, and an explosive bone shield that explodes on both sides. The grand total will be three hundred and twenty thousand credits.”

Nestra would cry if she could. That would wipe her out. On the other hand, she could earn that much again in less than two months of serious raiding now that she was C-class. And besides, money wasn’t good when you were dead.

“Oh alright then.”

The man smiled before packing all of her stuff. She isolated herself in a separate room for safe consumption. An atrocious violation of the laws of the universe later, the Skin assimilated her latest findings. She had a close look at how it was growing.

She had shoes now, and even an integrated mask if she asked for it. The skin was thicker than most bodygloves now, with a rather thin chest plate, bracers, and greaves. Bony extensions protected her neck while a diaphanous cape floated behind her shoulders like a fancy shawl. It would only deploy properly if she tried to hide. The garment was dark and crossed with geometric lines on her limbs where the armor remained thin. It still looked like she was wearing really thick socks rather than proper shoes. It was still fine though.

Now she only had to become obscenely rich and all her armor issues would be solved.

***

“Hello Crescent.”

Nestra sat up instinctively from her comfy sofa. Ragnarok had to be the busiest woman on the planet right now, so the fact she took the time to talk was significant.

“Yes?”

“Right to business if you don’t mind. I have a promising young prospect by the name of Andre Iorescu freshly landed from the Bucharest enclave who has been missing his appointment. Unfortunately, the appointment was a court summons and the cause is that young Iorescu sent a driver to the hospital after causing a hovercraft accident.”

“Very daring.”

“Indeed. Now, Mr. Iorescu has a bright future ahead of him if and only if he understands that we take the rule of law very seriously here. He is currently holed up in the VIP section of the Sling.”

“Oh, fancy.”

Everyone knew of the Sling. It wasn’t as popular as it used to be back when she was a teenager because new and more ‘wired’ places had opened since then, but it remained a pillar of Threshold’s nightlife. Getting admitted to the Sling on sight was a sure sign that someone had made it. It was also considered neutral ground, a sacred law few dared to breach.

“I need you to go there and retrieve him. I will have a car ready, should you accept.”

“I’m sorry, I need to clarify a few things.”

“Mr Iorescu is a very proud, top level C-class boulder at the ripe age of 23. He will not be armed but he might have followers. Let me be absolutely clear. You are not to kill him, and you are not to maim him, however you are allowed to use violence. His psychological profile shows he had an extremely rough childhood and might see Threshold’s authorities as weak as a result. I want him to be — what is it the younglings say these days? — ah yes. Wire checked. My people will make sure he awaits my return in a cell. Again, do not kill him and do not maim him.”

“Understood.”

“Your diction has improved, by the way.”

Nestra blinked. It was true that she hadn’t hissed at people for some time now.

“Getting used to this form.”

“Good. Now please go fetch me my raider. Payment as usual.”

It would be the perfect opportunity to test her Skin in public.

“On my way. Oh wait.”

‘Yes?”

“Will they let me in?”

Ragnarok didn’t reply. She chuckled, then hung up.

***

It was past 11PM. Even the most ambitious of office drones were out, and the night was pleasantly cool. Nestra rode down the ramp to the nondescript warehouse that hid the Sling, its secrecy ruined by parking spots filled with high-end cars. It didn’t really matter that much. The Sling was a victim of its success. It was a legendary spot featured in more than a dozen gleam vids as the hip place young up and coming raiders visited to mingle and relax after bloody expeditions.

Nestra slowed down her nice motorcycle before the entrance and the queue of hopefuls who might see the insides of this exclusive venue. A gleam valet strode to her with a smile that did little to hide his concern. She waited until he was close enough.

“Welcome to the Sling, Crescent. May I ask, are you here for business or pleasure?”

Ah so she was famous. Nay, infamous.

“Business,” she replied. “Iorescu.”

“Ah.”

The valet fidgeted. Nestra had the law on her side. Being Ragnarok’s attack dog meant that people naturally assumed she was there on the old monster’s behalf. Most of the time, they were right. She was basically telling them to pick a side between a rowdy upstart and the planet’s newest A-rank who also happened to be on the side of law.

She was confident about their answer.

The valet checked his visor for around three seconds. The verdict fell according to Nestra’s predictions.

“VIP section. Second floor. Please do try to keep damage to a minimum?”

She clicked a key and the front and right side of her motorcycle opened, revealing the hilt of Nestra’s new claymore. She grabbed the hilt.

“No promises.”

She placed it on her back while the bike left to park itself. Far behind, a police truck drove down the ramp. Mr Iorescu’s carriage, she presumed.

She was let in by a bouncer only slightly shorter than she was.

The warehouse gates opened into a quiet antechamber, not unlike an airlock. Once the front doors opened, she was hit by a wall of sounds, smells, and leaking mana. The bass-heavy song made her eardrums shake with every beat. It was a powerful, compelling call to dance. Dancing was nice. It had been a very long time since she had last danced just for the hell of it. Unfortunately, it also smelled of sweat, perfume, and arousal. The heady cocktail woke her up from her hesitation. She was here to hunt.

Nestra strode by a cloakroom that doubled as an armory, apparently. A hauntingly beautiful aug with cat-like implants made a gesture to stop her, but then she touched her visor and let her through. The music doubled as soon as she stepped down from a platform and into the mass of bodies.

Gleams danced with a grace and speed that no baseline could match, and that was doubly true for well-trained raiders who made up the majority of the people there. Their eyes shone on the vast floor to mirror the strobe lights above them in blues and yellows and greens and more exotic hues besides. Their mana leaked with every frantic pulse. This wasn’t a place for socializing, but one to forget, a celebration of life done with full abandon, from people whose life always hung by a thread. Some people were making out here or against a wall. There was a lot of flesh to be seen. Bare arms. Bare midriffs. Sometimes, questing fingers disappeared down garments.

Nestra parted this living mesh of predators like a sea. They felt or saw her, and they stood aside, their gazes curious and hazy, but not afraid. Never afraid. They were here for a little fun, she suspected. Sex would do, but so would a little scrap, so long as it provided a good show. She wasn’t sure but she thought some of them recognized her.

She had expected it from valets and bouncers because it was their job to recognize people. It was weird seeing nods and glares from people she’d never even met.

Two C-class bouncers stood aside to let her through the VIP stairs. She took her time climbing them, enjoying the vibrant mess she was leaving behind. Humanity had taken a hit these past fifty years but they were clearly not out.

The second floor was designed for drinks, whispers, and showing off. Large seats designed to accommodate couples gathered around glass tables loaded with liquor, flutes, and snifters. It was a study in crystals catching the lights above, reflecting it in liquids, and in eyes, and then fading away in the ever-present dark. Raiders lounged there with the languor of those whose bellies and wallets were equally full. Many of them were C-class. The cream of the crop at their age. Enthroned in the middle with beautiful raiders on either side was Iorescu himself. He was a short man with small piercing eyes against a tall brow. Powerfully built, he emanated a trickle of brown mana. The file marked him as a strong bruiser while his companions were a mage and a markswoman, respectively. It made Nestra want to test them. It also filled her with a strange sense of exhilaration. She was an Aszhii wearing the disguise equivalent of a fake mustache, yet none of those hunters around recognized the alien facing them. They didn’t know. If they did, they would kill her. Or at least, they would try. But they didn’t, and so she was practically screaming her otherness in their face, and their only reaction was to reach for another shot of rum.

The dozen or so raiders at the central table tensed as she approached. One by one, they adjusted their postures. Nestra wasn’t too concerned.

She stopped in front of Iorescu who purposely ignored her. In one swift movement, she leaned forward and slapped a glass from his hand as he was going to take a sip.

She had his attention now. He was still smiling but his rage bubbled at the public disrespect. Nestra was fine with it. She wasn’t here to negotiate, this time. She reached for her back sheath and picked up a folded piece of paper from there. Threshold could be old school when it came to law.

She unfolded it under the rapt attention of the gleams.

“This is a summons to a court of law in which you stand accused of a variety of crimes. You are already late. You will be coming with me, one way or another. I’m giving you ten seconds to decide.”

Nestra stood back to her full height. Behind her, a drunken reveler broke the silence.

“Come on lady, chill.”

He was the only one to make the attempt. Iorescu waited, an amused smile on his face while she counted down in her head. He raised his hands at the very last moment.

“Alright, alright.”

He slowly stood. Nestra wasn’t duped. He was going to choose violence. She could feel it.

And he did.

Iorescu kicked the glass table her way. She kicked it back almost at the same time. It broke on the bruiser’s sturdy frame, showering his two companions with broken shards. Music thrummed dangerously in the background while Iorescu threw a punch. Nestra did as well, at the same time. His blow glanced off her shoulder. Hers slammed in his jaw. It was incredibly hard for a C-class, and might have broken the hand of an unprepared fighter. Not Nestra, however. The hook landed with a nasty crack that made him stumble. She’d really put her hips into it.

She punched him again with all of her power. The first strike had left him blinking but standing. The second made him kneel. The third was an uppercut that broke through the reinforcement to smash him down into the couch. She grabbed him by the collar as he sputtered ‘Ce Naiba!’, which she assumed was Romanian, and also a curse. She grabbed him before he could recover and punched him in the gut, hard. He threw up some very expensive gleam liquor on the glass-strewn floor.

“Holy shit,” someone said.

The raiders were standing now, but none were intervening. Even his two companions sullenly watched from afar. She grabbed Iorescu by the neck, had one last look around.

No one made any move to stop her.

Crossing the dance floor again felt like a coronation. The gleams didn’t even stop dancing, but they gave her space as she walked across it at a sedate pace, a dazed Iorescu firmly held in her grip. The bouncers opened the gates to let her through. Outside, the queue of people waiting for answers gasped when she appeared. She heard the click of unmuted visors taking pictures and videos.

The police truck was waiting, alongside a pair of D-rank officers who took possession of the neutralized raider. Nestra left without a word. She moved towards her bike which was parked at a short distance.

There was a man waiting for her. He was a tall anglo with an honest face and the shiny golden eyes of a light user, reminding Nestra of Mazingwe.

“Hey Crescent. Sorry to come to you unannounced. I’m Dr. Daniels with the Center for Magical Studies.”

An American? She resisted the urge to frown. What the fuck was he doing here?

“Look, I’ll be direct. We’re very much interested in transformation powers. Would you be interested in knowing more?”

“Absolutely the fuck not,” Nestra replied.

She jumped on her ride, slotted her blade, then drove away.