Rumble At A Samurai Gig

Johnny was hollering something fierce, ranting and raving about how little he cared, how he didn't need her anyhow and what did she know about his life and how he went about living it? Alt ignored him, rubbed at a spot of smudged lipstick near the corner of her mouth. She stood in front of the mirror while he screamed the house down in the next room, she'd not bothered getting dressed after that last session of theirs, that last little bit of pleasure before the yelling had started; Alt had on a white bralette, all straps and white leather, and not a thing below the waist. An ass fuller than the moon, firm and tight, just the way Silverhand had always said he liked it. She'd shaved most of the front, save for a simple, utiliatarian strip of dark hair leading down toward her pussy. It worked for her, far as she was concerned, and Silverhand seemed to think the same...or at least he'd never had any objections.

Her panties were in her right hand, all balled up in her fist. Best to put these back on, delta the fuck outta here before— She looked up at the sound of cannon fire, low and booming, close and strong enough to shake the damn walls. Silverhand's rambling faded away, and Alt heard footsteps as he got up from the couch and made his way over to the dressing room door. She watched him go, a long dark streak in the dim light of the room beyond the doorway. "Johnny? You alright?" She tossed the panties onto the side beneath the mirror, jogging over to the doorway and peering round it. "Fuck was that?" She asked, brows furrowed, eyes wide. Silverhand held up his namesake, opened the door, then stuck his head out into the hallway. The sound of further cannon-booms and the ratta-tat-tat of distant gunfire streamed in from the open door. Silverhand didn't answer, Silverhand never answered till he was good and ready, and more often than not he never was. "Johnny!" Alt pressed.

"Shh." Was his only reply. "Tryna listen." Alt grumbled irritably, then decided to throw caution to the wind and stepped back into the dressing room proper, ambling over to him bottomless. She pressed against him, peeking over his shoulder in the dim, bare hallway. "See anything?"

"Fuck all. No fuckin' end to what I'm hearin' though."

"Gunfight."

"Lucky guess," Silverhand scoffed, allowing his flesh and blood limb to creep around and squeeze her ass. "Shouldn't you be gettin' dressed right around now? Wind's pickin' up, by the sound of it." Alt nodded, she couldn't exactly argue with that one. Here they were backstage at what had been a successful Samurai Concert, now they were in the middle of what sounded like some kind of full-scale ****, and here she was—Alt Cunningham, Ace Netrunner, bare-assed and still basking in that poist-coital glow. She squeezed Silverhand's shoulder and gently prised his hand away from her ass cheek. The metal was cold on the delicate skin, and he'd been squeezing it not unlike a stress ball. Turning and going back toward the adjoining room, Alt rubbed the naked cheek absent-mindedly; in the privacy of a nice, dingy room like this one, she had to admit, she kinda liked the feel of Chrome on bare skin. She was halfway to the doorway when she heard the signature Chk-Chk of iron being cocked, a low, raspy sigh from Silverhand, and then a voice calling out to her, "That's far enough, Miss Cunningham!"

Alt swore, a little tinge of pink manifesting on her cheeks as she went to cover her ass, quite literally.