Night Moves

You shiver. Although you know it’s late on a balmy spring evening, your senses are adamant it’s winter and your breath is streaming on the night air. Scramble does that. You’re aware enough to know the symptoms, but not so far gone you no longer care. When you’re high all the good times you’ve ever had come flooding back, but better, more intense. You don’t want to think about the downer and the accompanying bad memories.

            Typical fucking CIA, developing something like that.

            You wipe your nose, and as a car crawls toward you, adjust your tiny skirt and paste on the biggest smile you can manage. The car slows and a window winds down. You lean forward so that the john can see your tits. They’re your best feature. “Hey handsome. Want some company?”

            You can’t see the guy’s face, but he motions toward the passenger side, and you hear a clunk. Central opening, you think, nudging your price up. You can’t charge as much as the legit whores, but they don’t allow Scrambleheads in the Companions Guild, so you charge what the johns will bear. From the smell of his cologne, it’ll be a lot.

            You jump in, and the car pulls away.

            “It’ll be–” his gesture cuts you off. A hand passes you a wad of notes, enough to keep you in Scramble for weeks. You count it, and there are mega-calories there in yuan and new rupees and yen, some worthless dollars – even a prepaid debit card. You should be happy, but you’re starting to get a bad feeling. Good thing the guy didn’t have the sense to take off the huge ring on the little finger of his right hand. You’ll remember that antique coin at its center.

            It tells you that maybe you won’t survive tonight.

            You force a laugh, “You want me to stroke you while you drive? Let that power steering take care of the road?” You reach for him, but he slaps your hand away.

            He’s driving you deeper into the industrial estate running parallel to I-128, and you can see the occasional car headlight speeding north around Boston toward Canada. He parks up and reaches behind you. “Put this on.” He passes you a harness with leads running from it. A neuro-probe. He wants to burn your memory of him fucking you. A lot of Johns like to know how it feels from both sides.

            “When do you want me to set it from?”

            “A half-hour ago.”

            He’s fitting another probe, and while he’s finishing up you scoot into the back through the gap in the front seats, and lifting your skirt pull your tights off. By the time he clambers through you’re already spreading your legs to take him in, condom in your hand. He’s a little soft, but the rest of him is as stiff as a board with tension. You stroke his shoulder as he slides into you, his cock hardening with each thrust, his bulk weighing on you.

            It’s all entirely usual, and you switch your mind into neutral, wondering how long it’ll be before you can score some Scramble.

            Until his hands lock around your windpipe.

            You dig your nails into them, but aside from a hiss he doesn’t react, so you go for his eyes, but he jerks his head away. Each breath is a fiery battle, your throat hurts and too fast, too fast the world is fading away. Unlike cliché, life doesn’t flash before your eyes, there’s just the feel of his hands–

            He hisses, “If I time this right and rip it before–”

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