Some Light-Hearted Wren Fun

[Verdana]

Bree was nothing if not thorough. Her own mind could not match up to the simulation (she could not randomise, not without knowing what she was doing) but she was creative, and knew her own weaknesses with enough insight to match them up to as many situations as she could comprehend. She often failed in her own scenarios, and she was proud of that. It meant that she was able to see herself clearly. It was a remarkable quality, especially in such a young person. She treasured it. It was hers. Nobody had given it to her. No amount of favouritism could have placed it into her hands. She had very few gifts which she could claim so easily. Any assassin grumbled when she got a good job, but didn't hesitate to remark on her mistakes with unusual harshness.

Hah. As if her mother had ever shown her any special treatment.

She did not take the safety off of her gun. She was no fool. She treasured the out-of-the-way little gym, and had no desire to blow it to smithereens. That sort of stunt was for the muscled men in the main gym. Cost money, too. She got a salary, just like every other assassin. She paid for herself, and liked it that way, too. Independence was a wonderful thing. It wasn't easy, but it was liberating. She knew that her mother would not hesitate to charge her for any damage done to equipment. Bree had made a choice early on in her life: She could either have been Shay's daughter, or her employee. She'd made her choice. She didn't regret it.

Often.

She worked her way around the gym, swinging on and off bars, ducking behind obstacles with a complete lack of self-consciousness. If she'd been worried about what people thought, she would never have been able to use a gym at all. Assassins were the world's worst gossips, and judged everything. As it was, she was aware of somebody entering the gym, but they stuck to their spot and she paid them no real heed.
She changed the objective as she worked
Speed. Now intimidation. Now follow-through and thoroughness
and the reaction necessary from possible watchers.
Unseen. Now awe. Now recruitment. Now weed out the cowardly. Watch their faces. Feel them. Know them.

Always, in the back of the mind, she was aware of the other person, but she didn't watch them. She was busy. She leapt over obstacles and under them. She dived to save strength, flipped to impress. She began to work up a light sweat. The spicy smell of her deodorant (for, let's face it, anyone would get sweaty and stinky in her black outfit. It was impressive, but not exactly practical. She'd have to reconsider it) began to strengthen. Her breathing became quicker. Endorphins pumped. A fierce, predatory smile spread across her pinched face.

She was in mid-flight, a low leap to a vaulting horse, when the other person stepped into her path.

In the moments before collision, Bree's mind was working. She was already warmed up, and so simply fitted this intrusion into her simulation. She was certainly peeved. It was very rude to get in someone's way, and she'd gone to lengths to stake out her space. Either the intruder was very new, or looking for a fight. Which was fine by Bree, of course. If they were new, she'd teach them a valuable lesson in respect. If they were looking for a fight, a fight they would get.

As she leapt, she changed her position. She hugged her arms tightly to her collarbones, bracing her neck and turning her head into a battering ram. She would knock into him (it was a man; average height but not short and of moderate build), unfold her arms, flip onto her feet while corkscrewing to face him and bring on an attack. Her gun, still in her hand, was positioned beside her neck, so that she could shoot over the shoulder without any danger of shooting herself.

All that was left was to wait for collision.

[Derelict Draught]

Marcus's mind follows the girl's approach, his eyes tracking the movement of the black garb while scolding himself for the observations. The garment betrays the muscle movements beneath giving slight warning of the girl's changing approach. Even knowing the coming strike, there was still little he could do to prevent it.

His body lags in response to his demanding brain, his body shifting backwards, one leg extending as the other knee rises. His arms draw forward in anticipation of the coming impact, positioned to grapple the gun she so carefully angled and better distribute the force of their meeting. Then he exhales.

His extended leg thrusts against the ground in a desperate bid to lessen the damage just an instant before the girl slams into him. Then she hit. Had there been anything in his stomach, the room would be coated in bile, instead a short puff of air slips out. The girl had hit him square in the stomach sending a sea of pain and nausea through him. His gambles had worked however.

One hand was firmly wrapped around the barrel of the pistol, pressing back the slide and preventing any hope of the weapon firing. His other pinned the girl tightly against him keeping her arms trapped to stop her from drawing any hidden blades. Despite the torn stitches and scabs screaming pain at him for his stupidity, Marcus actually was feeling quite good about how things had turned out. She hadn't gutted him like a fish...yet.

Tightening his grip on Bree to confirm for himself that his numb limb as in fact still functioning, he cracks a smile. "Somehow I figured we'd end up like this."The pressure of his arm gives out as both muscle and intent give way. A small stain begins to form on the inside of his upper arm as the blood soaks through the bandage beneath. Keeping his hand on the barrel of the gun, he allows the bulk of his body to relax for a moment.

The fight wasn't over yet, at least such is what he hoped. Being prostrate on the ground underneath your opponent generally meant the loser was about to die. Even with his arm in a useless state there was still plenty of fight left in his remaining three limbs. Angling his legs he pushes off her allowing some space between them before rising to a one-kneed crouch.

"We are spending the weekend together." Slowly he tries to raise his arm, the effort works but at immense pain to him. Great, just what he needed a bloody bleeding overextended tendon. If he didn't want another bout of surgery then he'd have to keep his arm down and to the side. Quickly tucking the lifeless limb into his belt, he watches Bree across from him. Awaiting retort and retaliation.

[Verdana]

Bree's excellence in aim did not end on the shooting range. As she hurtled towards her attacker, she knew without looking that her head would make neat contact with his stomach. Although she did not weigh very much (flesh seemed disinclined to stay on her bones, no matter how much she ate or what she did to keep it there), she was going at an impressive momentum, so when she hit, she hit hard. She felt the breath whoosh out of him, and received the knowledge with satisfaction. He deserved everything he had coming to him. He'd asked for it. The sooner she could get the assailant to realise his mistake in trying to subdue her, the more quickly she could get back to training on her own.

Her nose caught a quick tang of blood, but quickly dismissed it. It was not hers, therefore it was not her problem.

It began by going as she had expected. She had expected to knock into him. She had expected to throw him off-balance. What she had not expected was for him to grab onto her. His hand closed around her gun (her new gun, her brand new gun), catching the slide and keeping it useless. This was the second way that the man deliberately kindled Bree's fury. In the midst of her anger, her brain remarked at his stupidity. If she decided to try to shoot her gun (this seemed a favourable idea; the longer Bree interacted with him, the more he labelled himself as 'enemy'), his skin would be caught in the slide. She tried it, but she was wrong. His grip was clever. He did not release. Bree scowled. She was not used to being thwarted.

They fell to the ground. The man pinned her down, and as she got a good look at his face, he simultaneously identified himself with his voice. Malberry. Of course. Who else would work so hard to make her so angry? She glared up at him, snarling, a flush rising to her cheeks. He could push her buttons like none of the other assassins. He had not endeared himself to her by playing the martyr and putting his absence on her head. The only good martyr was a dead one. He was lucky he'd made it back alive, or she'd have tracked him down to kill him herself. And he was working hard to make her angry, wasn't he? He wasn't recovered from his capture. His arm was limp. He bled, and the predator in her longed to spill more of it. The smirk on his face just made things worse.

He relaxed slightly, and she pushed away. She aimed a kick at his underbelly (a sensitive spot; she'd noticed that) but he was getting up, and she swung wide. She nimbly rose as far as she could. He was still holding onto her precious gun, and there was no way she was releasing it to his custody. She assessed his wounds. She was in far better physical shape than he was. She was already the victor, but she could not become complacent. She fumed at his assumption, so casually voiced.

She gave a forceful tug on the gun, assessing his grip more than attempting to get it free. She was livid. She spoke in a dark, low undertone.
Firstly, I would never, under any circumstances, spend a weekend with you. She thought about this, and then her need for accuracy won out, and she grudgingly amended her statement.
Unless you had an extraordinary job.

Secondly, she continued, with more fire in her voice, I have a prior engagement this weekend.

This was not, strictly speaking, true. Bree had been eyeing a nice little solo (challenging but not impossible; a nice way to relax after the madness of the ambush) but had not signed herself up for it. However, it would have been a simple matter of placing her name on the dotted line to make it so. And she would much rather be doing anything, including kitchen duty, than spending two awful days in Malberry's company.

She lunged forwards, pushing her hands, and her gun, towards Malberry's chest. Then, just as quickly, she pulled back, leaping into the air. Malberry had two choices. He could let go of the gun, in which case she would turn her leap into an elegant backflip, and land with the weapon pointed solidly at his head. Alternatively, he could cling onto it, in which case Bree's booted heels would make very firm contact with his head, no matter which way he moved. Either option would suit her just fine.

Personally, she was hoping for the latter.

[Derelict Draught]

Marcus's grip on the weapon never loosens, even as the girl brandishing the gun squirms and shifts about before some unseen audience. A number of movements dance before his eyes, a lunge. The girl's focus being the weapon sliding into place. No. She'd tried the trigger, she knew that as long as his hand was in place the gun was useless.

Her body holds back, seemingly undedicated to the charge even as the weapon slips into place before his chest. For a moment he contemplates releasing the grip there. Catching her off guard and giving him a final exeunt. The muscles of the girl's arm shift, pulling the weapon back. A bluff then but to cover what?

Her torso drops back from him as the girl begins the opening roll of a flip. There were to many muscle movements for him to follow. Too many possible scenarios. Too many openings for attack. His entire body was a weak point at the moment and he doubted she lacked that knowledge. There!

Even as her body weight pulled at the gun, her feet hurled towards him. He couldn't risk leaving the gun free...He couldn't move away if he held on though. Well...No choice. He wasn't going to let her have the free hit though. His hand shifts on the weapon, staying steady and tight as his arm tugs the weapon downwards and towards him to throw off whatever recovery she had in mind either by twisting her wrist dangerously or sending her crashing in an attempt to save her bone and keep the weapon from him.

As he does this, his body's angle shifts, drawing his wounded arm towards the girl in a weak bid to block the strike with his shoulder. Even as he braces for the blow, taking measures to keep himself up rather than lying in a puddle of himself, he continues. "Would be wonderful if I had a choice." Her boots bite into his shoulder and neck with a vicious force, threatening to send him over sideways but only receiving the barest of results.

His teeth clamp and his eyes blurr as a new sea of sensation threatens to intercede and send him toppling into a pile of bile as the kick itself had failed. With a dry swallow, the nausea passes leaving his vision slowly filtering in, his hand still wrapped about the firearm. "If you are done giving me hickies, the Commander has decided she needs to play matchmaker for a while, believes I need to train you on some things. Exactly what, she did not say. I'll be in the medical wing when you are done trying to get out of this."

Releasing the weapon into the girl's sole custody once more, he takes a step back. "You need to work on your form by the way. Too much flourish not enough mystery. A half-blind moron could have predicted every move. Even if he was distracted. After all, a cripple not only survived but had multiple openings." Leaving Bree to her thoughts, he turns his back to the girl. His mind making notes on his actions and the correct method to avoid what injuries he suffered.

Turning his back was a mistake. A vulnerability to mock all others. Leaving an armed and angry opponent in such an advantageous position begged death to claim you. In a way, Marcus welcomed death but he still listened. Ever attentive to the girl's movements. Her breathing and most importantly the sound of the gun's metal. Either way, he would be in Jessica's workspace soon. He'd even have her heart if rage won out.

[Verdana]

He was confused for a moment. Bree felt it. He didn't know what she was doing. By the time he had worked it out, it was too late for him to do anything about it. She couldn't help but enjoy a moment of great satisfaction. She wished that she could see his face. She loved the look in her prey's eyes when it realised that there was no escaping her. She always felt like a tiger in that moment. Unconquerable. Indomitable. Perfect. Even if she couldn't see it, Bree could feel the moment happening. The closer her feet got to his head, the less time he had to move, until it became impossible. He wouldn't let go in time. She would have to connect with his wounded, tired body.

She would not hold back.

He yanks the gun down, forcing her out of sync with it. Her equilibrium was thrown. She experienced a moment of panic. If she kept the kick, kept ahold of the gun, she would have no choice but to land badly. She caught his muttered comment, but didn't have any time to think about. She had to make a quick choice. Surrender the gun to him? Never. She had to change her point of impact. Either she'd have to twist all the way back around (which was going to kill her shoulders and leave her vulnerable) or she'd have to wind herself by slamming her shoulders into the hard floor to protect her spine and neck. Not a fun choice. She had to make it, though. Malberry had moved off-course, showing her his injured arm. Her feet were hurtling towards it.

She felt better knowing that the next few seconds would hurt him far more than her.

Her feet smacked into his shoulder. Hard. He did not cry out, but it had to hurt him. However, Bree was much more concerned with her own landing. If she'd followed through as she'd wished to, she could have brought herself sideways. She no longer had that sort of space. Her shoulders met the ground, shortly followed by her head. She saw stars, but brought her falling legs under her so that she would be upright and ready for combat. She struggled to focus her eyes for a moment, and her breath came in uncomfortable gasps. However, in her mind, she was fine. She could still fight, she could still win. Pain be damned, she would not let him beat her!

The gun still connected them. Bree began to get her breath back, and glared at Malberry mutinously. As he spoke, though, suspicion dawned in her eyes, even though her face remained blank. Although Malberry could have been lying, she didn't believe that he was. It was just like her mother to do that sort of thing. Deliberately throwing her into a situation she didn't like was Shay's forte. Bree even had an idea of why she was in her current situation. However, there was nothing that she could do about it. She'd made a conscious, well-informed choice to make Shaygrin her commander and not her mother. Now, she could not dispute a direct order. She could not admit that she had only herself to blame. It was Malberry's fault. Malberry was the torment. He was the one to punish for this indignity.

He released the gun to a silently explosive girl. He then made it worse, by insulting her form. Bree seethed. She'd been trained under some of the best assassins in the world. Her form, she was sure, was far better than his. She didn't need him. She knew what her mother was doing, and suspected that she knew why. It wasn't fair. She didn't deserve this! She had far better things to do than comply to her mother's ever-changing and merciless whim. When people said that Shaygrin was cruel to the point of madness, they did not know the half of it.

He should never have turned his back.

Even though she was trembling with rage, Bree's hands were remarkably steady. She raised her gun to his back, and took careful aim. Slowly, reluctantly, her hand dropped. She could not murder assassins. That was an offence worthy of firing. And one fired assassins permanently. She was no fool.
His foot, then, she thought, dropping her gun. Right in the heel. He'd be limping for weeks. The nozzle of the gun tracked up. Even better, graze his right ear. Burst his eardrum. He was human. He was fallible. It would not heal well. He'd probably always be partially deaf. Feeling much better, she flicked off the safety, took careful aim, and fired.

The gun responded perfectly. There was a soft sigh. It was not accompanied by a bullet. Belatedly, Bree remembered the talk Ty had given her, which she had not listened to. The new gun only had ten bullets, not the twelve she was used to. She always kept two shells in her gun. Usually. But, she hadn't listened. She'd forgotten. He would get away unscathed.

With a roar of fury, typical of teenage girls all over the world, Bree slammed her gun into its holster, and stormed past Malberry towards her mother's office.

She'd try to get out of this, try to find some sort of mistake, some loophole.

Perhaps it was all a misunderstanding. Perhaps Malberry was lying.

She knew better. He wasn't.

But she would try her very best to free herself anyway.

[Derelict Draught]

The soft sound of the inner workings of a weapon reach Marcus's ears. There was no bullet though. No woosh. No bang. Only footsteps. The young man resists the smile that welled up within him. Perfectly predictable. Every single moment. Turning down another set of halls, Marcus arrives at Jessica Nareced's work space with scrutinizing glowers from the other assassins who crowded the area despite their lack of injury. Slipping past through a hole hesitantly created by the men, Marcus steps through the door.

Jessica stands bent over a table, her back towards the door as she busily works away on some poor sole who's luck ran out. His eyes trace over the woman's curves instinctively. She was beautiful. In fact, the other women Marcus Malberry had known through his life all failed to hold a light against her. Still, the normal chauvinist held some reverence for the woman as she had proven a key role in his survival and had unwittingly let him know more of her than she ever intended. Placing his hand gently on the nymph's shoulder, he gives her a gentle squeeze to announce his presence.

The woman's eyes shoot an irritated look into the young man's, a wordless discussion passing between the two before her gaze truly drunk in his appearance. Without warning nor word, the woman's blade begins to tear through cloth and flesh, a needle spinning through the man's flesh pulling skin and tissue into their proper place before sealing the wound off with sheer pressure. A quick binding wrap and another studious gaze mark the completion of Jessica's work.

Marcus releases his held breath with a twinge. He really wished the girl used some form of pain killer though, given her professional hobby, he doubted she understood any need for something of the sort. Doing his best to ignore the pain stacked on the pain of his wounds, he flashes a thumbs up to the girl, his jaw locked in the battle against screaming agony. A heavy hand strikes his shoulder as the girl continues their game of silence sending a new stream of misery through the man and causing his left eye to twitch. Nodding in gratitude, he slips away to his new abode where he passes out in the middle of the bare floor.

--

The moans echo all about him. His body sits strapped to the chair, the wound cut along his arm festering in a manner he'd never witnessed. The cuts, scrapes, burns and bruises all seem to react to the new cut, screaming into his mind as though the world were drawing to an end.

The figure before him simply watches, the accursed dagger responsible for the new misery fitting gently in his hand. The man's helmet was hooked to his hip, the young face with glazed eyes staring intently at him. The hair looked like something out of a history book. The face bears no expression, the muscles having atrophied and seemingly lacking ability. Still those glassy eyes watch him. Waiting...But for what?

--

Marcus stands outside of the hotel. He was glad he'd come early. Things hadn't gone well during the planning face. Convention attendees had swamped the hotels in the area and occupied almost every room. Almost. He had adamantly promised himself to get the necessary arrangements himself, give Ty a break or at least not add to his friend's work load. Securing the room had not been as...clean as he liked. Booking anything of the sort at the last minute was impossible though his connections had managed to find a health violation that he could abuse.

The room would remain listed as under service for the next few days and no one, not even hotel staff would be permitted to enter the room. He took precautions to ensure the room had a single path in which an individual could enter and leave without being detected by other tenants or security equipment. Already, he had placed his gear and a few surprises for Bree in the room. He was already dreading the conversation that was bound to follow her arrival, but that paled in comparison to the conversation that would follow the box he left on the bed.

Hopefully the brief note he left with the box would save him some face when her anger flared up. His wording had been rather loose though...

My Sweet and Sour Duck,

Bad news. In this box there is the uniform of T'Pol a Vulcan who serves as a science officer on the Starship Enterprise from the latest of the series(2001-2005). Everything should fit perfectly just make sure the ears are nice and pointy. Per regulation, check the left collar for the Mark. Once you've changed, meet me at the Marriott's Exhibition Room.

Your special guy,
Goose

If nothing else, perhaps he would be fortunate and she would cool off during the long hike to the other hotel. Probably not. Her long trek through the dense crowds and the perverse fan-boys would more than likely only feed her rage. Well, if nothing else she would at least have time to forget about the accommodations. A soft moan escapes his lips as he checks his watch, in truth the girl had plenty of time remaining in her window of arrival he simply found that giving voice to the pain screaming through him seemed to help some and the impatient fan made a perfect disguise for his alleviation. A flick of his wrist brandishes the room key exposing the laminated surface to the sunlight bathing him.

"Only one room. Tough bookings."

[Verdana]

Deep breaths, Bree. Deep breaths.

Bree did not want to be outside. It was hot. It was compromising. There was a crowd. She was supposed to find Malberry.

Bree didn't like open streets and glaring sunlight. She especially didn't like crowds.She liked a quiet rooftop on which to stake out her victim. She liked a dark alleyway, a deserted street. She did not like being seen. She was a female, and there was an odd favouring of males in the street ratio. She was a thin, scrawny, stringy female, but the males around her weren't picky. She was attracting attention. She didn't like attention. She was glad that she had hidden her hair under a blonde wig, and that she had put brown contacts into her eyes. Having amber eyes in a crowd like this would have been dangerous. With blonde hair, she could pass for just another anorexic young adult with an inferiority complex.

Her eyes scanned the outside of the hotel restlessly. He said he'd be there. What if he wasn't? That would be wonderful. She'd slip away, and it would have been his fault for being late. Maybe she could get out of the torment entirely. She doubted it. Her mother was behind this, and punishment would be swift and deadly (just like her mother's personality) if she was caught dishonoring the arrangement. She'd tried everything to escape it. She'd even faked appendicitis, with painstaking detail and accuracy. It had almost worked, too, until Shay had remembered that Bree didn't have an appendix.

She could have remembered it before the surgery. Bree suspected that Shay had let the surgeons continue just to spite her. Or to teach her a lesson. Hadn't taught Bree anything, except maybe to feign diseases which didn't hurt as much to fix.

There he was, in the mass of people, waving something in his hand. Bree resented his joviality, and especially resented having to play along. She brightened her eyes, opened her body language, smiled and strode forward with more confidence.

She was seething inside. Her fury was a pot ready to push off its lid and overflow.

Malberry's introduction did nothing to improve her mood.

Keep breathing, Bree. Not here. Can't lose it here, in public. You're a ditzy young woman. You love the idea of spending the night in the same room as Malberry. You can do this. Keep pretending.

Oh, that's no trouble at all, she gushed, her voice slightly higher, her intonations less precise. Her voice would register on most technology as not belonging to Bree. Sometimes, she thought that changing voices was the most difficult part of her job. Then she thought about it, and disagreed with herself.

She reached up to pluck the card from the young man, smiling. Quick as a snake, she stood as firmly as possible on his toe, just to express her intense displeasure. Her foot was back in place before anyone noticed.

So, stud. What's the game plan?

She was asking about a lot more than their itinerary. What was her name, what was her cover? What exactly were they doing in this suspect mob?

[Derelict Draught]

Pain.

Sharp and abrupt.

The girl was flustered and furious. Definitely Bree. If he didn't know better he might make the mistake of thinking she wanted to be there. Shifting his weight to better cut a dagger filled glare at the group of boy's ogling Bree from behind, drifting his body closer to her in a possessive and protective stance to discourage any other onlookers from the same stares. Taking a step back and opening his body to her in a gesture of welcoming, he flashes a sincere smile to the girl.

"Well my dear Jessica. I've mapped out our schedule of events perfectly. We'll start out with the parade and then make our way through the shops. Theres a panel with Stan Lee at Noon that I'm just dying to see."

Taking a step back to be out of range for her feet of vengeance, his smiles cracks into a diabolical grin. He had many things in store for the girl, many tests and challenges to establish just where her abilities and her determination would falter.

"Yes, I made sure we'd have plenty of time to attend the Furry Panel you wanted to check out."

Turning on his heel, he starts to drift away from her both from the need to evade her rage and to match his cover. More so the thought of escaping her rage, if she understood what he'd just announced to the crowd of perverts around them then she might well just break her cover to kill him.

"Go on up and change, I'll get our tickets."

------------------------------------------------

Malberry strolls from the buildings of the convention passing silently through a crowd of crazed fan boys and desperate nerds as though they were no more than water before him. The crowd's movements where chaotic but in the chaos there was an order. Groups created their own pull, causing the rest of the horde to flow about them even as they themselves swayed in place. Crowded lines formed walls that blocked oncomers from passing through and forced them to beg for passage.

To someone who couldn't see the patterns and the movements of the groups, the crowd would seem nearly impassable. Especially if one were to be dressed in some costume that drew the attention of the crowd. He looked forward to seeing how well Bree managed to pass through. How quickly she could manage the horde. The task had only taken him a matter of minutes, only slightly longer than if the entire area where empty.

To keep the evaluation fair and unbiased, he'd donned a well made garb himself. One which, for just about any other event, he would refuse to wear profusely. The female Klingon drew a great number of onlookers to stop in awe, each seeking a photo with what they assumed was a very tall and nerdy woman. A number of the men who stopped him slipped him their numbers and asked for him to call them later others...well others found that this woman had the strength of a Klingon as their friends attempted to rush them to the ER.

Leaning against the glass elevator on the top floor of the Mariott, the Klingon woman exchanged slews of alien dialect with the various other costumed creatures which inhabited one of the most active areas. From his vantage point, Malberry monitored the entirety of the hotel's occupants, watching for his rival and apprentice to arrive and counting the seconds in the back of his mind...He really wanted to punt Greedo over the railing now...

[Verdana]

Jessica. He'd named her Jessica. He could not have put less effort into her cover. And Bree knew what was on his mind when he'd chosen her name. That awful blonde woman who took care of their dead and near-dead.

She shouldn't have stopped at his foot. She should have aimed higher up.

Smiling with apparent delight, she nodded, skillfully feigning fascination.

Oh, that sounds great! I can't wait!

Then he mentioned her apparently-desired panel. It took her a moment to identify the word 'panel', and slightly longer to identify 'furry' as a noun. When she did, her body went very warm, and then very cold. Her neck reddened. She wondered how many people had heard. Her smile didn't falter. In fact, it grew. Her eyes were cold brown pits of hatred.
I was just about to ask! she gushed.
I'll go up and... the slightest fraction of hesitation, Get changed. Why would she need to get changed?
She planted a swift kiss on his cheek, giving herself enough time to whisper,
I hope you rot in a torture chamber somewhere. Permanently this time.

She took the key from Malberry and pranced off.

As soon as she was out of the crowds, her posture remained the same, but her face dropped. A blank mask replaced her air-headed expression as she checked in at reception and took the elevator to her room.

She stuck the card into its slot and the lights flickered on. She didn't notice the box on the bed for a moment. When she did, she pretended that she hadn't. Eventually, curiosity got the better of her. She approached the box. She snuck the lid open. She sucked in her breath.

She knew the colour. She knew the material. Ty was her brother. She would have to be blind and deaf not to.

It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair.

..............................................

Ten minutes later, Bree left the hotel. She was dressed in red. She liked black. She did not like red. She did not like low, v-necked shirts. She did not like having every muscle on her thin legs up for display. Her hair was hidden under a short wig. Her ears had points attached to them. Her eyebrows formed fierce arches.

She looked like T'Pol. She felt like an idiot.

She didn't let anyone know that, though. She stood outside the hotel, looking like she had every right to be there, and was enjoying her outfit. Thin was attractive in the current fashions, and her appearance attracted attention. A wolf-whistle rang out. Bree turned towards the source of the noise, and raised an already-arched eyebrow.

'I may actually be able to enjoy this,' she thought.

[Derelict Draught]

The crowd swayed back and forth below him, their voices a cacophony of high and low murmurs. Each voice held a story, each story possessed a secret and those secrets are what drove the crowds actions and, more importantly, their thoughts. Arching his back to better show his faux femme fatale form to the men gathering about him in droves, he turns his eyes on the crowd once more. A light reflection betrays the 'Vulcan's arrival.

Even from his perch high above, Malberry could make out each curve of the girl's form. She really did pull the outfit off quite well, had she been any other profession she would have had trouble driving off the droves of men each day. As things were, she still looked to be drawing more heads by the moment. With an impatience known to her species, the Klingon woman presses through the men gathered about her.

Now the game began in earnest.

Plowing through the crowd with a blistering and hearty laugh, the Klingon woman made her way to the small bar on the floor. Joining a group of other girls posing for pictures while donning various weapons to the squealing glee of perverts and nerds alike. The groups struck a number of poses ranging from the war zone, in which the Klingon was the sole assailant, to a more sensually pleasing arrangement.

Each pose drew more and more men seeking to fulfill this desire or that fantasy and all through the process the Klingon's eyes never ceased to track her quarry. The Vulcan had until 11:30 to locate and identify her contact, after that Malberry would be forced to reveal himself. He suspected that a paint ball to the back of her head would be enough to catch her attention.