"Suzanne´s Story" by Travis W. Herring

February, 2046. 

 

Suzanne Bradford is another of thousands of hopeful waitresses, trying to get her big break in Hollywood without having to sleep with anyone.  She is learning quickly that this simply isn’t possible, and sleeping with them, she’s heard, is no promise either.  She left Chicago for this shit, eyes full of stars, after realizing that life in the quiet suburbs, a degree in Sociology, and a husband and two-point-five children isn’t what she wants.  She has always been the center of whatever group she’s been a part of, her winning personality and charm getting her through everything difficult so far.

 

Only that isn’t how it works in Los Angeles.  Short-term acting jobs in miniscule theatres for almost no pay have been her lot since arriving in the land of dreams.  Bit parts in various theatricals and local theatres are the way to the top, she’s been told.  “Earn your way, baby.  Unless you want to do it on your back in front of a camera.”  And she’s had plenty of those offers, as well.  Blue eyes and blonde hair, a nice chest on a 5’2” body, slender and gorgeous.  Just not gorgeous enough to capture the eyes of a Hollywood exec without first letting them see the top of her head from below.

 

It is late one night in the Hollywood Eatery in Westwood.  She’s been working here for six months in the evenings, hitting the streets, theatres and roll calls during the daylight, running up a tab for gas and electricity in her used car, burning candles at night because they shut off the power when she couldn’t afford her bill last month.  Dinners are when she can get them, and only when the delivery boy was late and had to take another to the pissed off client who turned it down.  She’s lucky to eat once a day right now.  All of her money is going into acting lessons down at the local theatrical studio.  The Mannheimer style is in right now.  Got to know your character’s sexual preferences, or you’ll NEVER come across as real, baby.

 

Suzanne has been delivering food and drinks to the tables around the eatery, keeping her eyes and ears open in case someone opens their mouth about a bit part or new movie in the works.  She had to pay to get this job and lives on tips alone.  Most don’t stick it out longer than a few weeks.  The clients don’t tip all that well if you don’t deliver their food post-haste, and they certainly don’t care if you’ve had a bad day when they’re only concern is whether their tee-time has been delayed by fifteen minutes and their multi-million dollar account is riding on getting it back on-course.

 

She delivers the food order she turned in ten minutes ago, rushing back to the booth on the end, by the brass pole that acts as a part-time coat rack for the clients who sit there.  Behind them is the fat lady with the order of a monster salad (she’s on a diet, she says), with her friends, the BGS.  The “Big-Girl Squad,” as the waiters here like to call them, are here nearly every day, always on some crazed diet, or porking out on the truly huge double-fudge cake when they can’t take it anymore.  Some of the cooks have a bet going as to which will die of a heart-attack first.

 

She rounds the corner, avoids Darla’s outstretched foot as she delivers a plate full of spaghetti to the Russian across the way from her clients, and smiles as she arrives.  Behind her, she hears Darla’s frustrated sigh.  That bitch has been trying to trip her up almost since Suzanne arrived.  Some of her best tippers have asked for Suzanne since her arrival.  Suzanne’s delivery times are almost a full minute faster than Darla’s, her charisma at work on the cooks again.

 

“That’s one meatloaf,” she says, grinning at the handsome man in the black suit and glitter-blue shirt.  She sets his plate down, raising her eyebrows teasingly before looking at his gray-clad companion and picking his plate off the platter, “and one chicken pate with honey mustard.”  She sets it down in front of the man, winking at him before picking her platter up off the auto-folding stand it comes with.  “If you need anything else,” she says, smiling, “just ask!”

 

“Actually,” the one in the glitter-blue says, smiling up at her (could this be it?  She heard them talking about a movie earlier!  Her heart starts pounding madly), “I’d like some mustard as well.”  Her heart sinks and her smile falters only a little.  Behind her, Darla snickers audibly as she moves past.

 

“I’ll be right back with that,” Suzanne says, smiling until she turns away and then grimacing.  Damn HER.  Damn Darla for making fun of her hopes and dreams!  Just because SHE didn’t get a job when she went down on the “director” (who turned out to be a car-park attendant over at Lawry’s) doesn’t mean she has the right to spit on Suzanne’s dreams!

 

She grabs the honey mustard sauce, right there by the salad mixer, just beneath the stainless steel sliding plate where the cooks set the food when its ready.  She heads back smoothly, ignoring the raised finger of the man who never tips and nodding at another fellow who makes several thousand a day in the stock market but only ever leaves a single dollar on the table for his server.  As she swings around the end of the row, she hears what she overheard before and slows, ears hurting as she tries to zero in on their conversation amidst the roar of the place.

 

“You don’t get it,” the one in gray is saying around a mouthful of chicken pate.  “It’s a science fiction piece!  Of COURSE there’s going to be special effects, but rather than going for the whole make up thing, I’m thinking of using that new tech they’ve got going in the bio fields.  You’ve heard of it, right?”

 

“Sculpts,” Glitter-Blue says, frowning.  “You want to waste half a million dollars on sculpts, just so the audience can’t see that it’s make-up?”

 

Pate Boy shakes his fork.  “Nah, nah, nah.  You see, these days, it’s either about computer technology, or it’s about makeup, right?  And the best ones out, the critics, that is, all they care about is whether they can TELL its make up, right?”

 

Glitter-Blue nods, curiosity piquing his interest.  “True…”

 

“Well, I was thinking…”  Suzanne does not catch the rest, Dollar-tipper is standing up and coming toward her, ready to grab her arm before she turns and smiles to hear what he has to say and answer it before the two men leave.

 

Two minutes later, she is back at her post, listening in, having completely forgotten that Glitter-Blue wants the mustard jar in her hand.

 

“Rabbits?” he is saying, a startled look in his eyes.  Suzanne freezes.  Rabbits?

 

“Yeah!” Pate Boy grins widely.  “Everyone loves rabbits, right?  They’re cute, they’re cuddly…  What if they were invaders!?”

 

“Invaders?”  Glitter-Blue is obviously not impressed.  Neither is Suzanne, but she’ll do just about anything for a job nowadays.

 

“Alien invaders.  Rabbit alien invaders.  Blue hair, pink hair, purple hair.  Doesn’t matter.  We make them look whatever color we want, use a bunch of good-looking girls, teach them a few lines, and have them run around with laser guns, trying to take over the world!  It’ll be great!”

 

“You’re serious about this.”

 

“Yeah!  Come on!  Who doesn’t like rabbits?  And sex and rabbits go together, right?  We make them somewhat smart, but easily duped.  No one’s going to take them seriously anyway, right?  It’ll be a stitch!  All we need are four or five girls.  We change their fur and hair color with hair dyes and they’re an army!  Say they operate in groups of three or four, switch them out each scene…”

 

“I’m beginning to see this,” Glitter-Blue says, grinning.  He’s hooked.  This is a dumb idea, but it sounds like Glitter-Blue is the money to this operation, and he’s just fallen for it, hook, line and sinker.  “When do you want to get started?”

 

“It’ll take about nine months to get the girls and have them sculpted.  In the mean time, we can work on sets and putting together the rest of the crew, acting and otherwise.  Figure we’ll be shooting in about twelve, with screen time in maybe eighteen.”

 

“You’re crazy.  We can’t do a movie that fast.  Give it two years before it gets to the screen and you’re on.”

 

“Done.”

 

Glitter-Blue grins.  “Now, where are we going to find women who are willing to be sculpted just for a part?”

 

This is it.  Suzanne steps around, remembering the mustard jar in her hands.  She offers it, smiling.  “I couldn’t help but overhear you,” she says in her friendliest voice.  “I’d be interested.  I’ve been acting for about two years now.”  The lie comes naturally and matches up with what her resume says.

 

“Any television roles?” Pate Boy asks.

 

Suzanne sets the mustard down in front of Glitter-Blue.  “I have my resume on a data chip, if you’re interested?”  She reaches into her apron, pulls it out.  She keeps one on her at all times, just in case. 

 

Glitter-Blue nods at her, offers a chip in return.  “This is my card.  Come by my office tomorrow and we’ll give you a go at it.”

 

“Just one thing,” Suzanne says, getting a stern look.  “This is a real role, right?  I’m not talking about a bit part, and I’m NOT going down on my knees…”

 

Glitter Blue laughs and Pate Boy merely grins at her.  “No,” Blue says after a moment.  “I’m not like that.  I make movies because I like to make them.  Not because I like free blow-jobs.”  His grin threatens to break his composure.  “Besides, I’m gay.”

 

Suzanne feels like a heel for a moment before the realization that this might just be her chance kicks in.  It’s risky, and sculpting is a new technology, but they say it’s reversible, and if she works the right deal, she shouldn’t have a problem taking care of that when the movie is done and in the can.  She takes Glitter Blue’s card and shakes his hand, promising to meet him the next day.

 

Looks like her big chance is finally here!

 

---

 

May, 2046

 

Suzanne wakes up in her hospital bed, the itching sensation covering her body driving her out of her sleep once again.  If she doesn’t get a solid night’s sleep, she’ll never memorize this damn script!  She HAS to memorize the script!  Her role depends on it and she can’t fail them.  They’ve spent so much money on her so far… 

 

The surgeons and doctors have informed her that the itching will go away eventually, but for now, it’s driving her nuts.  First there was the awful experience with the facial surgery, losing her own personality in the mirror and staring into the modified features they’d given her so she’d look like a rabbit once the fur had grown in.  She’d stared at bandages for nearly a month before they’d taken them off, to reveal the puffy cheeks and altered skull of a human-turned-rabbit.  She’d nearly fainted, but they’d reassured her that her own face was still recorded in the computer system, ready to be returned to her as soon as the filming was finished. 

 

Foot-long extensions had been added to her head, taking the place of her ears, picking up sounds she didn’t WANT to hear, funneling sound into her head through their long extremities.  That is, when she could make them stand up on their own, a headache she’d never thought she’d get over.

 

Then, the spinal alterations and the addition of a tail had ruined her ability to sit straight for nearly a month, the damn thing constantly getting pinched when she sat down too fast or wrong.  She’d had to learn to sit forward on her chairs, so as not to crush it and pinch her spine.

 

And now this last part, FUR.  The facial part had been hard.  Losing her identity in this mass of bone and flesh they’d added to her, learning how to control the long extensions of her ears, the realization that, despite the difficulty of making them work and not sitting on her tail, touch had become a stimulus so amazingly new that it was erotic.  But the ITCHING!  It wouldn’t STOP!  Day and night, day after day after day!  She couldn’t sleep.  She couldn’t concentrate.  It was like spending a day in mud only to have the mud turn into flaky bits and pieces that constantly came off, only to be renewed.  Like the world’s worst sunburn.

 

Her skin was adapting, the surgeons told her.  Her hair had fallen out everywhere but on her head, they’d re-written her DNA to keep her normal hair, only turned it chromatic blue instead of its normal blonde.  She would keep her hair, they said.  It would grow blue until she had it reversed.  The rest of her body was growing FUR, and it HURT.

 

---

 

July, 2046

 

Suzanne stared at herself in the full-sized mirror, amazed at the transformation.  A picture of herself, pre-operations, was taped to the mirror, so she could see the difference graphically.  The face in the mirror was not her own.  It was a yellow-furred rabbit, with eight-inch ears standing up off either side of her head.  Large green eyes stared back from a muzzled face.  Below the altered head, yellow fur covered her from her neck down to her feet, a white ruff gathered at the base of her neck that ran down the center of her torso, to end halfway down the insides of her thighs.  When she turned, the tail was a puff of vanilla fur gathered just above the split in her buttocks.  She was still nicely figured, the doctors having kept her on a strict workout regimen while she was recovering.  They’d augmented her chest during the surgeries, giving her a much fuller bust, but she was otherwise as she’d been before, excepting her face and tail.  Stark naked, there was no sign of pubic hair, her entire body now covered in soft, downy fur.  The only points not covered were her nipples, which showed pink through the yellow fur, having been left uncovered ‘for child-bearing’ purposes, they said. 

 

She was still fertile…

 

“You’ll get used to it,” the nurse-assistant said, stepping up beside her.  “It’ll take some time, but eventually, you’ll see yourself in the mirror instead of a bipedal rabbit you don’t know.”

 

When Samuel (the man she’d called Glitter-Blue on the night she’d met him) saw her, he went nuts, smiling very happily and hugging her close, stepping back only when she complained that he was crushing her.

 

“You’re BEAUTIFUL,” he proclaimed, holding her at arm’s length by her shoulders.  His eyes wandered her freely.  She’d been kept out of clothing until now, the fur more than enough cover in the temperature-mitigated halls of the hospital.  “We’ll have to do something about clothing, though.  I don’t think naked bunny-women were quite the idea…”

 

Suzanne laughed a bit, only mildly embarrassed at standing in front of him.  He was GAY after all, and she didn’t really feel like she was herself any more.  Someone else was standing there.  She was just borrowing their body…

 

“I’ll have Darius look into something fitting.”

 

“Make it lightweight,” the nurse assistant said, escorting them to seats and sitting with them.  “She’s going to have heat problems for a while, until we figure out how to recode the DNA sequencing.  It’s something that has been a problem since bio’sculpting was invented.  Any fast motion will build up heat that she won’t be able to properly vent, so until we get that problem fixed, I don’t suggest you have any running scenes, unless she’s only barely covered. 

 

“The more fur that is exposed, the better the venting will be.  The ears can only do so much, after all…”

 

“That’s right,” Samuel said, glancing up at her ears, which were now covered in soft, downy fur.  “They’re full of blood vessels, right?  So as to help with the heat?”

 

“That’s correct.”  The nurse assistant turned to Suzanne. “Make sure you keep those out of harm’s way.  I know we’ve talked to you about that before, but there’s a tremendous amount of blood in them at all times (you’ve got about an additional pint of blood in your system to keep them inflated, you know) and you’ll bleed out as if you were shot in the jugular if either of them gets cut.  So TAKE CARE, alright?”

 

“Okay, okay,” Suzanne answered.  They’d only been telling her this since the day she GOT them.  She turned to Samuel.  “I don’t know what kind of costuming you’ve got for me, but I’m sure Darius will have something sleazy figured out by now, won’t he?”

 

Sam grinned and nodded.  “Yeah.  You know Darius…  This is going to be GREAT!”

 

---

 

September, 2046

 

“What do you MEAN I’m stuck like this!?”

 

Suzanne was seated in Samuel’s office, clad in little more than a pair of shorts and a cut-off shirt, the Los Angeles summer kicking in late like it always did.  It was in the upper eighties outside.  Suzanne had almost passed out from heat just getting from the car to the office door.

 

“He’s gone,” Samuel said softly.  His head was in his hands, his eyes on the blotter on his desk.  “He took everything.  I’m bankrupt, Suzanne.  There’s no money to get you back to the way you were.”

 

“But we haven’t even STARTED yet!” Suzanne yelled.  She was shaking.  This was a disaster!  She was STUCK like this!?

 

“And we won’t be,” Samuel whispered.  “I’ve cancelled all the contracts, sent everyone packing.  Darius took every last dime I had.  He’s gone.  There’s not even a register of him buying a ticket.”  The producer stared at her, eyes rimmed in red.  “I don’t even know when he left, to be truthful.  Some time after Saturday.”

 

“Three DAYS AGO?” Suzanne yelled, standing up.  She put her fists on the edge of his desk, glaring daggers at him.  “You knew about this THREE DAYS AGO!?”

 

“I know, I know.  I’m sorry, Suzanne.  I really am.  I’ve been trying to find him!  Honest!  I’ve called the police, FBI, everyone!  I… I can’t find him…”

 

“You knew it was a bad idea to get into bed with a partner,” Suzanne said harshly, not hearing his apologies, too locked up in her own misery.  She was STUCK like this!?  “Yet you did it anyway!  I TOLD you, Samuel!”

 

“I know.  I know…”  Samuel stared hard at the blotter, unable to look into her eyes anymore.  “I…  I loved him, Suzanne…”

 

“IDIOT!!”

 

 

That was the last time Suzanne ever saw Samuel Patterson.  Within three hours, he was dead, shot through the temple with a handgun she’d never known he owned.  His company was parted out in two weeks, and four women were left in the bodies of bipedal rabbits for the rest of their lives, or at least until they could scrape up the money to get the surgeries reversed.

 

It was only the beginning of a slide toward oblivion for Suzanne…

 

---

 

November, 2046

 

The tan-furred rabbit-sculpt sat in her friend’s living room, elbows on her knees, head cradled in her hands as she cried.  The house around her was a typical, middle-class apartment, half-way up the side of a condominium tower in West Los Angeles.  Its owner, an attractive young woman who spent much of her days serving indignant customers on-board a transcontinental ballistic shuttle, was pacing back and forth in front of her.  Suzanne had been like this since she’d arrived.

 

She’d gone to yet another interview and been turned down for yet another dead-end job.  Her wits were at an end.  This was the twentieth job she’d applied for.

 

“We don’t need your services,” the interviewer had said after only a few minutes of questioning.  He’d waited as long as he had, she knew, because to do otherwise would make it seem like they were prejudiced against sculpts.  The law still had a FEW things that were illegal.  Sculpts, while not being legally recognized as having to deal with prejudice, still saw more than their fair share.

 

“I didn’t ASK to be left like this!” the voluptuous rabbit cried, lifting her face once again.  Her puffy cheeks were lined with the tracks of her tears through the fur.  They left dark brown traces through the soft yellow.

 

“I know,” her friend replied, moving to kneel in front of her distraught friend.  “You’ll find something, Suzanne.  I KNOW you will.”

 

“I can’t!” the bunny-sculpt replied, tears starting anew.  She reached up and wiped at them with a tissue, blotting them from her fur as best she could.  Frustrated, she threw the item to the floor, wadded with her tensions.  “I HATE this, Lisa!  I HATE being a bunny-rabbit!  I only did it because I thought I could make my way into the movies, and now I can’t get a part that doesn’t require me taking off my pants, and I can’t go back to doing what I did because they don’t want FUR in the food!”  Worn out with the explosion of emotion, she began crying again.

 

Lisa reached over and took her hands into her own.  “I have an idea,” she said softly.  Putting one of Suzanne’s hands into the other of hers, she reached up and caressed the side of her friend’s face gently.  The fur there was incredibly soft.  It was almost like touching a living stuffed animal.

 

Suzanne looked up at the touch, large green eyes swiveling to the connection point before looking back at her friend.  “What?” she whispered.  Hope eternal.

 

“Let’s go out tonight,” her friend said softly.  She reached up and straightened her friend’s neon blue locks from where they’d fallen around her ears and gotten lodged.  “I know of a club that has a bunch of sculpts in it all the time.  Maybe you can find others who’ve had to deal with this problem and maybe they can help you find something?”

 

Suzanne eyed her friend for a moment, the idea running through her head before she nodded slowly.  Sculpt club.  Yeah.  That might work.  She nodded again, this time more firmly.

 

---

 

“The Turnpike” was a monstrous club, popular with the dance scene and therefore open to anyone who wanted to dance.  As this included a lot of sculpts, the club was a great place to meet them.  Lisa paid their way in and saw her moping friend to a table.  Suzanne watched as she went to get them both drinks, shaking her head.  Lisa had been paying everything for Suzanne since her movie deal had fallen through, letting her move in rent-free when she lost the place she’d moved into while the money was good, paying her bills, covering her leftover medical expenses (mostly just helping out with the cost of the temperature mitigators, which weren’t cheap).  Food, utilities, transportation; all these things Lisa had provided without complaint.  Suzanne did not know what she’d done to deserve such a great friend.

 

Lisa spent most of each week spending the night out of town on the east coast.  She had a condominium there, too.  The ballistic shuttles paid very well for their attendants, unlike those who worked the sub-sonic flights.  Working in zero-gee is difficult, and serving people who do not understand that is quite stressful at times.  The companies that worked the orbital flight lanes understood the expense it necessitated to train and keep an attendant.  Lisa was better off than many mid-level managers.

 

When the young woman returned, she sat down beside her rabbit-sculpted friend, sliding a glowing blue ice drink in front of her. “Iced Curacao,” she said, grinning.  “I learned about them from a Brazilian on my last flight.  They’re GOOD!”

 

Suzanne summoned a smile from somewhere and sipped it.  Lisa was trying to help her.  No reason to remain in the dumps when there was a friend there working hard to make sure that she didn’t.  She looked around.

 

The club was large.  There was no mistaking it.  Seemingly cavernous, it was made of two levels, the second of which was split into two huge balconies that overhung the main floor.  On each balcony, a different type of music played, while on the main floor, a third choice rattled the floors and walls.  People were on each level, laughing, drinking, dancing… 

 

The Turnpike was known for its party atmosphere, sometimes throwing three different parties at the same time.  Suzanne could see people of all colors and sizes dancing throughout the place.  Sculpts were somewhat evenly mixed throughout, but much more rare than any single nationality.  Perhaps one in fifty was a sculpt, but in a club that could easily hold a thousand, this meant quite a few gathered in one place.  Not all were full-sculpts, she noticed.  More prevalent were the half-sculpts: people who’d had fur grown, perhaps, or the top portion of their head altered to look like a cat (cats seemed to be prevalent among people who considered getting any kind of sculpt, according to all the media reports, something about the sensuality they possessed).

 

Still, Suzanne counted at least one feather-bearing angelic type, a full-body feline sculpt, complete with four-foot long tail, a skin-tinted devil-sculpt, a male and female wolf-sculpt couple, and a blue dragon-sculpt, covered in scales from head to toe and bearing a thick, ridged tail.  A blue-furred rabbit-sculpt wandered past after a short time, grinning at her and waving slightly as she was pulled to the dance floor by an overzealous norm.  The full-sculpts were wearing skimpy clothing, much like Suzanne was, she noticed.  She watched as the wolf couple shared a drink while they took their heat inhibitors.

 

In fact, it wasn’t too long before she was approached by someone.  Looking into the distance toward the bar, she could see Lisa smiling at her, waving for her to go with the flow.  She nodded at the fellow, accepting his hand and following him out onto the dance floor…

 

She danced for a time, smiling at the fellow and answering his interested questions with rather neutral answers of her own.  She danced, but did not really care who it was she danced with.  Her eyes were on the sculpts, searching them out in the crowd, catching their attention to see whether they would be interested in talking to her.  She went through three dances with three different dancers this way.

 

Finally, Lisa had had enough.  When the rabbit-sculpt returned to their table, yet another frustrated male companion dropping her off before going on the prowl again, she faced her down.  “What the hell do you think you’re doing!?” the angry flight attendant said.  “I thought you were here to have fun!?”

 

“I AM,” Suzanne replied, eyes still gliding over the crowd.  “But I haven’t met the right person yet.”

 

“What are you looking for, Suze?”

 

“A sculpt,” the neon-blue haired rabbit replied, turning and eyeing her friend evenly.  “You said I could find a sculpt here who could share their ideas with me.  I’m looking for someone who can do that for me.”

 

Lisa shook her head.  “But in the meantime, you’re ignoring people who might be willing to talk, or help you out, or maybe take that load off your back, Suzanne.  I don’t get you, sometimes.”

 

Suzanne’s expression went dark.  “You don’t understand, Lise.  I don’t want to sponge off someone ELSE!  I want to find some way to make my OWN way in the world.  I know you don’t mind supporting me, but that’s got to end SOME day, right?  I want to find something NOW, so you don’t end up just throwing me out on the street!”

 

“I’m not going to do that,” Lisa said softly.

 

“And you shouldn’t have to,” a new voice said from the edge of their table.  In the midst of their discussion, neither had noticed the blue-scaled dragon-sculpt standing there.  Both women jumped.  “My apologies if my appearance is startling,” he said in short, clipped words.  An Asian accent could barely be noticed.  “I noticed you were watching the sculpts earlier,” he said to Suzanne.  “I was wondering if I might have the pleasure of a dance?”

 

Lisa’s grin was instantly predatorial.  Suzanne frowned at her and stood, letting him take her hand once more.  “I’m afraid I don’t have many more inhibitors left,” she said by way of warning.

 

“Not a problem,” the dragon replied, grinning and exposing a long snout full of teeth.  “What I have in mind will not require a lot of motion.”  He caught her suddenly worried look and grinned once more.  “Not THAT kind of motion.”

 

“Oh.”  Still, Suzanne was mildly concerned.  Rabbit.  Dragon.  Was he some kind of freak who liked to EAT sculpts?

 

The dragon-sculpt seemed to read her thoughts in her eyes and laughed.  “I have a business offer to make you,” he said, taking her by the hand and leading her to the far side of the dance floor.  Once there, he stopped, never actually entering the dancing area.  His eyes met and held hers, a serious look coming to his features.  “I can tell by the way you were looking around that you are in need,” he said softly.  “I think I can help you.”

 

“You mentioned business offer,” Suzanne replied.  All around them, people were making their way past, either to the several bars around the circumference of the place, onto the dance floor, or in their search for the perfect partner.

 

“That I did,” the dragon replied.  He looked about surreptitiously.  “I believe I have heard of you before.”

 

“What!?”  Suzanne’s jaw dropped and she stared at him.

 

“Not that way,” he said again, grinning toothily.  “There is word on the street of a woman who was sculpted for a movie that fell through and who hasn’t been able to do much since.  It’s not something everyone knows, but a few of us in the sculpt community keep track of this sort of thing.

 

Suzanne was flabbergasted.  She’d never told anyone, so how could he know?

 

“I have ways of learning many things,” the dragon replied, seeing her reaction.  “There are those in our community who make it their business to know what is going on with other sculpts.  People have taken notice of your predicament, and I am here to off you one way out of it.”

 

“But, how?  Why?”

 

“Because you are one of us now.”  He reached up and touched her shoulder with a scaled and thick-nailed hand.  “Because you don’t qualify as one of THEM,” he said, looking around at the norms scattered about them.  “Because we take care of our own when we have to.”  He shrugged.  “Does there need to be a reason?”

 

“In this world,” Suzanne replied, “yes.”

 

“You have heard my reasons, then,” he replied.  “What do you say?  Would you like to hear more, or would you like to go back to moping in your friend’s apartment and getting turned down for jobs every day?”

 

“How do you…?”

 

“I know.   Ask other questions later, when I have agreed to answer them.  In the mean time, would you like to hear my offer?”  His voice grew harsh, but not so much that she could sense anger from him.  Do or die time.

 

She thought all of half a second.  She nodded.

 

“Good.  I have a client outside who is waiting to exchange something with me,” the dragon said quietly.  “You have acting skills, yes?”

 

Suzanne nodded again, eyes widening.  She’d heard of deals like this.  Had seen the details they regularly put out on the police action shows and played out on the adventure movies in the theatres.  He was going to make an underworld transfer of some sort.  And he wanted HER to be there!

 

“You will not be in any danger, I assure you,” he said, grinning, sensing her sudden concern.  “It is nothing more than an exchange of goods for cash.  But I need to have someone I can call a bodyguard.  My client is strong in the belief that a good merchant never goes unescorted, and while you might not actually have any skills in that arena, your acting ability should cover it quite nicely.”

 

Suzanne shook her head, setting her ears to flopping from side to side.  “But I don’t have any experience in that…”

 

“You don’t NEED experience,” the dragon said, touching her once more on the arm.  “You need merely to stand behind me and try not to look scared.  If you can think of a way, look competent, unafraid of anything.  Act like nothing you see is a threat to you, and you will do quite well.  Do you know karate?”

 

The sudden change of subject caught her off-guard.  “What?”

 

“Martial arts.  Have you ever studied them?”

 

“No…”

 

“Damn.”  He shook his head.  “It would be easier if you had any training.  Oh well, I will have to make certain not to mention you know such skills.  A true practitioner would know immediately.  I’ll have to rely on your skill at weapons.”

 

“But I…”

 

“Do not sweat the details,” he said, cutting her off once more.  He grinned.  “You will do fine.  I will provide you with a weapon.  Strap it on and ignore it from that point forward.  Only an amateur has to continually remind him or herself where her weapon is.  A professional can grab for it and have it in his hand before he is aware he is doing so.  You will merely be a carrying device.”  He looked her up and down, grinning.  “And a very attractive one at that.  Yes, you will do nicely.”

 

Suzanne did not look convinced, but she was not about to turn down an opportunity to earn a few bucks.  “What does this pay, anyway?” she asked suddenly.  “You want this now, right?”

 

“I do,” the dragon nodded.  “And because it is rather last minute, I will pay you what I would normally pay a professional.  If I DO this, however, you will HAVE to play the role to your best capability.  Can you do that?”

 

“I can,” Suzanne said, steeling herself mentally for the part.  She’d seen the hitters and street warriors on occasion.  Dark expressions, firm-set lips, quick, easy movements.  Like they were ready to kill at a moment’s notice.  She put on her game-face, doing her best to glare ominously at him.

 

It was comical.  He immediately snickered.

 

Her expression came apart.  “I can’t do this…”

 

“Nonsense,” he said, clapping her shoulder and starting to lead the way to the exit.  “You’re a BUNNY!  You’re not SUPPOSED to be threatening.  That’s why I want you!”

 

“I don’t understand.”  Suzanne was having a hard time keeping up through the crowds that packed the place.  She had to push her way through as he moved along.  “I don’t even know your NAME.  What am I supposed to call you!”

 

“Kajima,” he said, grinning at her.  “That is all you need know for now.”  He stopped, and she nearly ran into him.  She backed a few feet away as one of his hands came up to stroke his long muzzle.  “You will be the GunBunny,” he said, grinning at her after a moment.  “Excellent.  A crack shot with a pistol, you are fast, nimble, and lethal. 

 

“What you lack in hand to hand skills, you more than make up for with your speed and accuracy with a pistol.  By the time someone tries to grab me, you will have shot them!  I love it!”

 

“But that’s not true.”

 

“Not yet, it isn’t,” the dragon replied, resuming his course toward the exit.

 

Suzanne wondered what she would do about Lisa if she found out she was leaving.  And what happened if something DID go wrong and this Kajima fellow had told them she was a crack shot, when she didn’t even know how to hold a gun!  “What does it pay again?” she asked.

 

“One thousand, cash,” he replied, stepping out the front door.  The air outside was ten degrees cooler than it was inside.  Suzanne’s heat mitigators were still in use, and it was chilly.  It wouldn’t have been, had she not been wearing a combination of lingerie and mid-thigh boots.  As it was, she was barely covered.  With the heat mitigators in action, she was downright chilled.

 

Kajima noticed the immediate physical reaction, staring at her breasts as her nipples responded to the chill.  “Excitement reaction,” he said, looking up and into her pretty features.  “Put on that face again,” he said.  Moving to a weapons check, he turned over a plastic chit and received a large-bore pistol in a leather holster.  Several belts could be tied across the body to make certain it did not move. 

 

He offered it to her.

 

She made no move to take it, almost afraid it would go off in her hands.  Instead, she wrapped her arms around herself.  She was COLD.

 

“That,” Kajima said softly, “will not do.  A killer is cold naturally.  He does not feel the chill of the air if it is cold, nor does he feel the heat of a warm day.”  He reached out and pulled her arms away from her waist, keeping his eyes on hers the entire time.  After a moment to arrange the belts, he began arranging them around her body, ignoring the strange looks they got from passersby who were headed inside.  Suzanne became, temporarily, a manikin.

 

When he was finished, she moved her arms about, finding that the holster rubbed the inside of her left arm uncomfortably.  He had seen she was right-handed and lined it up for properly for her.  She was still afraid to touch the dark black object cradled within and secretly prayed it would not go off and shoot her by accident.

 

“We have much to teach you,” he said, grinning once she was prepared.  She looked uncomfortable.  “Now, straighten your pose and act as if the weapon is not there.  Give me your most dangerous scowl.”

 

She did as she was told, glowering at him.

 

“Good.  Now, don’t do that anymore.”

 

“What?!  I thought you wanted me to look capable!”

 

“Capable, yes, laughable, no.”  Outside the bar, the realities of the situation were beginning to set in and he no longer found it funny that she could not find a way to look threatening.  “Merely keep a flat expression on your face.  Do not listen to what I am saying when I speak with the client.  Stand a few feet behind and to my right, but be ready to throw yourself between me and anyone who comes my way.  No one will, but you have to LOOK like you’re ready to do that, or a professional will know you are a fake.  Do you understand me?”

 

“Won’t a professional know anyway?”

 

“He might,” Kajima conceded.  “But appearances are more important than fact to this client.  Remember that, and you will do fine.”  He looked her over again, catching her eyes and reaching out to set a hand on her arm.  “You will do fine.  Do what I have told you, and you will walk away tonight with a friend and a thousand dollars which even the government will not know about.”

 

“Why are you doing this?” she asked softly.

 

“Because,” he replied, staring into her eyes, “I’ve been where you are.  Now, come with me.”

 

---

 

The alleyway Kajima stepped into was dark and glittered with standing water that had been left from the last rain.  Giant metal trashcans topped with plastic lids lined the walls to either side, eight or ten per wall needed simply to keep up with the detritus The Turnpike generated.  At the end of the alley was a single light bulb, dark with the burn of plastic against its interior.  As a result, the alleyway was dark, just enough light to see by in its deepest recesses.  The glow of an old-fashioned roll-up cigarette was the only sign of life in there.

 

“Do what I told you,” Kajima whispered.  He began leading the way down the path between the trash canisters.  And into a hell Suzanne had never known existed.

 

She’d lived a sheltered life.  Only in the vids had she ever seen alleys like this, seen the figures that waited at the end of it.  She used to dream about action sequences in which she was the cop, chasing the figure down the path, splashing through puddles sheened with oil.  Now, here she was, and she did not even know how to use the weapon plastered beneath and pushing into her left breast.  She’d never been more terrified.

 

“Put on a neutral expression,” she told herself mentally.  Her facial features froze into a neutral look.  She’d learned that while acting.  Put on that face and no one could tell what she was thinking.  She’d had to relearn it while recovering from the facial surgery, but it was as good as anything.  She followed Kajima to the end of the alley.

 

Two figures waited there.  A small man, dressed in a business suit beneath a black overcoat, and a larger man dressed similarly, but looking entirely more dangerous.  Suzanne had the impression, for just a moment as he and Kajima began speaking Japanese to one another, that the smaller man was actually the more dangerous of the two.  She would have been right.

 

She examined the bigger of the two as Kajima spoke to the smaller in their native language.  The big fellow as Japanese as well, and could evidently follow what was being said.  He looked from her to Kajima and his boss from time to time.  The rest of it, he was staring at her, trying to determine how dangerous she was, lost in the confusion of a seductive and innocent-looking bunny-femme with a large-bore pistol beneath her armpit.

 

Apparently, the conversation turned to her, for she found herself the center of attention by all three men for a time.  Kajima’s expression remained carefully neutral, as she kept her own while he did.  The businessman looked her over, admired her figure (and her breasts for quite some time, she thought, rude bastard) and then asked a question.  The thug paid attention to the answer, which was somewhat lengthy.  When he turned back to her, a different emotion read in his face: admiration.

 

She nodded to him, receiving one in response moments later.  During this, Kajima made his trade.  The next time she looked his way, he was nodding at her, turning to leave.  They spoke a few words to one another – some kind of goodbye, it seemed, and they turned to leave.

 

Suzanne could feel the Japanese men’s eyes on her tail for much longer than they were actually there.

 

When they reached the front of the club once more, Kajima turned and drew her aside, to a point where the building’s exterior curved away from the street, creating a small alcove of darkness.  He let go of her arm almost immediately, but then began unbuckling the holster from her side.  His expression was firm and serious.  She raised her arms to let him untie the thing, glad to be free of it.

 

“We will need to get you a smaller weapon if you are to continue to do this,” he said, the back of his hand pressing continually into her left breast as he worked the latch on the belt.  As it came free, she was more concerned with the sudden draft of cold air that hit her skin where the belt had been.  It had been so tight, it had given a small amount of heat to the areas it covered.

 

“If I continue to do this?” she asked.  “I thought you said you only needed me for this job?”

 

“I never said such a thing,” the dragon said, looking at her in the darkness.  He reached into a jacket pocket and produced a money clip.  Counting off ten bills, he handed her one thousand dollars off a clip that Suzanne decided had to hold at least ten.  She wondered what the exchange had included.

 

“Do not ask, and never tell what you saw tonight,” he said, reading her mind again.  “You were a bodyguard, and you did your job well.  That is why I am paying you at the moment.  Had you not done so, we would no doubt be dead, our throats slit for having the gall to try to work with the Yakuza without following their orders.”

 

“YAKUZA?!” Suzanne all but yelled.

 

Kajima was instantly on her, a clawed hand covering her mouth as he looked about.  A couple walking past grinned at them, assuming they were a pair of freaks making out with one another. 

 

Suzanne watched them until they passed out of sight and then turned to glare at the dragon-sculpt.  “You never said they were Yakuza!” she whispered harshly.  “We could have been killed!”

 

“But we were not,” he hissed back.  “We were not because you did your job, exactly as I told you to do.  Had it been ANYONE else, the outcome would have been the same!  You did your job, Ms. GunBunny.  Now, you have been paid, and your reputation begun.  I have done everything I could for you, this night!”

 

Suzanne’s forehead furrowed.  “Ms. GunBunny?  I never said that was my name.”

 

“No,” Kajima replied, grinning devilishly.  “I did.  That is what the Yakuza now know you as.  If you wish to work in the bodyguard profession, as I sincerely hope you do, this is the name you will go by.  The Yakuza will already have a great respect for you, but if you wish to keep it, I suggest you take my idea and run with it.  I can train you in every skill you need to become the GunBunny, should you so choose.”  He offered a business card.

 

“Kajima Furukawa,” the card said.  “Hacker, Fixer, Sculpt.  Your need is mine.”  Beneath this was a series of numbers.  Phone, cell, net node.

 

“You’re serious,” said Suzanne, staring at him for a moment.  “You honestly think I’m going to become a bodyguard!?  I could have been killed back there!”

 

“But you weren’t!” he replied equally vehemently.  “This in itself means you have the skills necessary to do an INCREDIBLE job as a bodyguard.  Half of that business is the art of the fake-out!  You make them think it will cost them more than they are willing to pay for messing with either of us, we get out alive and with a paycheck that will more than DOUBLE whatever it was you would have ended up doing in the regular world.”

 

Kajima reached out and took her hand, the one that was not holding the card.  “Listen to me.  You needed help.  The sculpt community asked me to help a sculpt, and this was the best thing I can offer.  The regular world does not WANT you anymore.  I DO.”  He turned and waved a hand at her, readying to leave.  “You decide and call me if you want to learn more.  I’ve got more business to attend to tonight and I no longer have need of you.  If you’re interested in working with me when I DO, call me.”

 

He turned and offered a short bow to her.  “Good night,” he said.  He straightened and began to turn away.

 

“Wait,” Suzanne said quietly.  She held the card up where she could see it again.  There was a tracery of electronics in the background.  “You don’t even know my name.”

 

He smiled.  “What makes you think Kajima is MY real name?”  He turned again and started to leave.

 

“Interesting,” she said, watching him go.  She eyed the card again, considering her options.  It was something, at least, and it paid well…  She fingered the impression the folded cash was making on the outside of her boot, and then remembered how cold she was.

 

Lisa was inside.  She’d consider this later…

 

---

 

January, 2047

 

“NO, that’s not right!”  Kajima stepped into the firing booth Suzanne was standing in, smacking one of her elbows with a taught palm.  It immediately snapped her arm into a proper firing position, bringing the 12.7mm auto pistol back in line with the target, 50 yards away.  “Keep your arm tight,” he said, eyeing the rabbit-sculpt.  “You’re losing your accuracy when you let your elbow get soft.”

 

“This thing is too heavy,” Suzanne replied, a slight whine in her voice.  He’d had her standing there for nearly an hour.  Her first shots hadn’t even nicked the target.  She was finally placing them in the small circle at the center, though.  It was rather amazing, given she’d never fired one before.

 

It had taken her nearly another full month before she’d called the number on Kajima’s card.  She’d continued trying her hopeless quest to reintegrate herself into the regular world of papers and paychecks.  Two more interviews at corporations she’d hoped might let her work (one made specialized clothing for sculpts.  She rationalized that they had to have a few on their roles!), and two more denials.  She didn’t have the right skills, they said.  Upon her entrance, the interviews had been shortened by fifteen minutes, down to a glance at her resume, the exchange of a few pleasantries, and the explanation that it was a tight field and people without a degree need not truly apply…

 

Two more restaurants turned her away as well, both explaining that, while they SERVED sculpts in the establishment, they could not afford to have fur showing up in their food.  OSHA requirement, they declared.  That is, unless she wanted to wear a hypoallergenic bodysuit to keep her dander down…

 

An extra part in an action movie where she’d been one of a large crowd running away from a gun battle had given her some hope for a few days, but the very next week, she was asked if she would be interested in a part in an “R-rated” erotic film.  All she had to do was…  Well, she’d rather not remember that, even if it wasn’t going to be on the camera, she would not go that far.  Hollywood would not have this particular bunny-sculpt down on her knees for anything.  A few days later, she nearly laughed herself hoarse when an offer came in from the magazine with the bunny head on the cover, asking her to strip for the chance to win ten thousand.  That was just before it went into the circular bin, never to be seen again.

 

When Kajima had met her the afternoon she’d called, he’d been dressed nattily in a white business suit with a blue shirt and black tie.  It complimented his scales quite well and she told him so.

 

“You could be this well dressed if you wanted to be,” he said, eyeing the fading pink lingerie outfit she was wearing.  “Those could be silk undergarments if you would work with me.” 

 

He raised an eyebrow.  “How has the job shopping been for you?”

 

 “Why don’t you tell me?” Suzanne snapped back.  “You already know, don’t you?”

 

Kajima nodded.

 

“What will it take to get started?” she asked.  Fear tickled at the back of her brain, like it had since the first time he’d said what she’d be doing for him almost a month ago.  She was going to carry a gun, stare into the eyes of accomplished killers, and act like she could defend Kajima without the actual ability to do so.  Was she mad?

 

“Some training,” the dragon-sculpt had replied quietly.  His dark eyes bored into her own.  “Training that you will HAVE to complete under my tutelage if you are to live up to the reputation you already have.”

 

“Already have…?”

 

“That is correct.  The night I showed up with you, your appearance made quite the scene.  Your name has already begun to circulate throughout the city.  The GunBunny is already a wanted item.”

 

“She…  I… am?”  Suzanne was shocked.

 

“She is,” Kajima said, grinning that tooth-filled grin of his.  “I have informed the world that I am the sole distributor of the GunBunny’s services, for now,” he added.  “When you have trained sufficiently and paid me back for the time I will need to spend with you, I will let you go off on your own, to earn your own keep.  This is not indentured servitude, after all.”

 

“But they think I’m something I’m not!”

 

“No.  They think you are not YET,” the dragon-sculpt replied.  “In six months, I could have you prepared and ready for your first mission.  It will have to be a simple one, but I think I could teach you enough about self-defense and gun skills that you will be able to at least ACT the part you seem to already have waiting for you.”

 

“Six months?  But how do I get paid in the mean time?”

 

“Have you been getting paid all this time?”  Kajima raised an eyebrow, perfectly aware that her wallet was empty, or she would not have called him.  “You continue to stay with your friend.  You tell her what you are doing; that you are training.  You spend your days with me, or with whomever I deign to have train you for the day.  All of my friends are trustworthy and skillful.  You will be getting the best there is to offer, and the only thing you will owe me is your time and services as a bodyguard, once you have become one.”  He raised a bony eye ridge.  “What do you think?  Is it a deal?”

 

Suzanne stared at him for a long time, not seeing him.  She’d come a long way since Chicago and the pampered lifestyle she’d lived there as the daughter of a stock market analyst.  Gone were the days when everything came easy, when she was the focus of attention, no matter where she went.  She was the focus now, but it was usually because the norms around her (they called all non-sculpts norms, she’d learned) because of the fact that much of her backside was out in the open where they could see it.  It was legal for sculpts to wear minimalist clothing in public, the media said.  Everyone knew they had heat problems.  What that made it legal for the norms to do, she found, was stare at that which was not normally shown.  G-strings and bustiers did wonders for her heat problems, but wearing such in public inevitably brought the stares no matter where she went.  And most corporations did not want such a sensually clad, obviously sex-starved (for why else would she have chosen a rabbit?) worker taking up the attentions of their office workers.

 

“Alright,” she finally answered.  “You have a deal.  But promise me one thing.”

 

“What is that?”

 

“Don’t get me killed,” she whispered.

 

“I will never be responsible for getting YOU killed,” Kajima replied evenly.  He leaned toward her, steepling his arms and joining his fingers together.  “YOU must learn everything that I have to teach you,” he said ominously.  “Or the STREET will be responsible for getting you killed.”

 

That was two months ago.

 

Since then, she had learned the rudiments of self-defense, learned how to throw a person over her shoulder when he grabbed for her, and been taught the basic pressure points of any living being and how best to impact them to bring about the best result, be this dropping a weapon, ceasing to breathe, whatever.  She had spent endless hours in dojos across the city, learning to bow and to scrape, to do whatever the Master she was with for the day told her to do, just so she could learn how to throw a proper punch or land a kick on an opponent without falling down and hurting herself.

 

Now, she was in the shooting range.  Kajima had seen her training, watched her in practice, and decided that he’d been right about her not being the best choice when it came to hand to hand combat.  She was good at it, but not a natural, like others he’d seen.  Her talents, evidently, lay elsewhere.  Grabbing a packet of weapons in a large plastic suitcase, he dragged her to a shooting range, where he opened the case to reveal as large an array of firearms as Suzanne had ever heard of.  Handing her one, he taught her how to slide the ammunition into place, how to aim, and thence, how to fire without smacking herself in the head with the butt as it flew back at her.

 

Many tears ensued.  The guns were bulky, heavy, hard to aim, she said.  Kajima replied with the facts: they were as light as technology could make them and still have them do their job.  They were easy to aim, if only she would learn how to aim them.  The reason she was hitting the walls to either side of the target was because she was not aiming properly.

 

Gradually, she began to get better.  Today, she’d graduated from the smaller hand guns she’d been using, to the 12.7 Kajima had handed her that first night outside of The Turnpike.  She remembered it only when he tied the holster around her chest and it began pressing uncomfortably into her breast.

 

“I can’t cross draw this,” she said, shrugging.  It wasn’t her fault the directors responsible for her sculpt job had chosen to give her D-cups.  She’d been a respectable C before…

 

“You will have to learn,” Kajima said, not impressed.  “Are you so afraid of grabbing your own breast in public that you would not think to grab for it in an emergency?”

 

“No… I…”

 

“Then you will have to learn to fight with one.  The GunBunny will have to be an expert in nearly all types of weaponry,” Kajima pressed.  “If you are not willing to learn all this, are you truly ready and willing to become the GunBunny?”

 

Training went like this for DAYS…

 

---

 

August, 2047

 

Eight months.  It had taken eight months.  Suzanne Bradford had learned everything she could from Kajima, mastered the use of his weapons in daily training sessions at the shooting range until she could shoot the center out of a one-foot-wide target at one hundred yards on full-auto.  She could easily place a single 12.7mm bullet through the middle of the forehead of a moving, humanoid target at the same range.  Her expertise, he told her, was stunning.   She had far surpassed what he had ever considered her capable of.

 

“Perhaps,” he said early one morning after a ten hour session of competitive shoot-outs, “GunBunny was a prophetic name.”  She had just outscored him nearly two-to-one in his favorite and best competition.

 

In the next stall over, listening through mufflers that contained a comm. system and boom mike combination, the GunBunny withdrew her arm from the firing position and cocked the pistol near her ear, grinning savagely as the targets rolled toward them both.  The heart was missing from her target, entirely shot out, it’s red ink nothing more than a memory to the black it had been surrounded by.  The brain pan was nearly shot out as well, the papery remains plastered to the rear wall of the range by a series of deadly-accurate shots that had placed them there.

 

“You’re ready,” Kajima said softly.  She had been acting as his personal bodyguard for nearly three months now, always in controlled environments where he had the upper hand and she had a backup, in case something went wrong.  But now, finally, he conceded that she was as ready as she would ever be to take a job on her own.  Time to start earning something in return for the time and effort he and his trainers had put into her.

 

In the next alcove, Suzanne’s eyes widened and she stepped back, all thoughts of victory gone from her brain upon hearing those words.  Words she had come to listen for with ever increasing expectance.  She had already received three belts in Tae Kwon Do and was partway to the fourth.  Her masters said she was a quick learner, but she did not have the physical strength required to do serious damage.  Some who knew her said three belts in eight months was too fast, that she’d hardly mastered the basics.  What were they doing promoting her so fast, anyway?

 

Those people had never seen her in action, would not recognize the person going through the katas like steps in a dance.  She was good.  Better than good.  She was a natural.

 

“Do you mean that?” she asked, turning and lowering her weapon.  Her eyes were excited, but she had learned self-control from her masters.  She did not let it show anywhere else.  A weapon was a dangerous thing.  She had to remain in control at all times.

 

Still, when he nodded, she could not help but leap to his side and give him a hug that set him to coughing in embarrassment.  He’d never admitted his attraction to her, but she knew it well enough.  Her being so close was evil of her, but he deserved it anyway, she thought.  To top it off, she kissed him on the top of his snout, drawing a ragged sigh as he backed away.

 

“Don’t DO that!” he said angrily, brushing at his shirt like she might be carrying germs.  “Professional relationship!” he reminded her.  “That is all!  To do otherwise would be to invite criticism!”

 

“I know,” she said, smiling still and ignoring his mock anger.  She tapped him lightly on the muzzle, drawing a dirty look.  “But you know I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”

 

“Not long enough,” he said, still mildly angry.  She KNEW how much he wanted her!  How DARE she!

 

“What job will I go on?” she asked, still excited.  Knowing his anger was partially based in truth, she backed away and turned, starting to disassemble her weapon for cleaning before she stored it in its case.  It had been a gift from him for her birthday, her very own pistol.  A 12.7mm, the very one she’d started with now rode in her own holster, which had been custom designed for it and her physique.  She could draw it now without nearly tearing her top off, an event that had nearly caused Kajima’s jaw to drop to the floor the first time it had happened.

 

“I will have to get back to you on that,” he said, pulling the slide off his pistol and looking for any wear that might have occurred.  “Have to check the street, ask around,” he said nonchalantly.  As if people weren’t champing at the bit for a chance to work with this firearms prodigy who apparently, if you believed the rumors, wore lingerie on her jobs and stayed close to her clients.  And, the rumor-monger would say, you have no idea what close means when the person doing it is a sensual rabbit-sculpt with tits out to…  Well, you get the idea.

 

It was two weeks before she was on the street, working her first real job, running the streets with the big time, a client of her own and a thousand bucks in her pocket for the effort.  It was a weefle run.  Escort client A to location B and back again.  Make sure the people he interacts with do not try anything stupid, and if they do, make them stop, quickly.

 

Nothing happened.  One thousand dollars were handed to her, of which she got to keep exactly half upon reporting in to Kajima.

 

“Expenses,” he said, handing her the funds.

 

Still, it was her first honest work since the day she’d left The Grill.  Nothing could have brought her down.