Old Habits

Journal of Rowana, daughter of Rowetha
17 / 04 / 2120 of the Fourth Age

We had strung up a washing line—the better to save on power—and Azzie hung the assassin's clothes out to dry. Búrzi kept close to her, often in her very shadow. One of the shotguns hung from an impromptu sling across her body; and against my better judgment I told her that if anyone came while I was gone, she was to don the ring and run, not try to hide or fight it out.

Not that I thought we'd have more visitors, not yet.

Before I entered the Pathfinder, I did a full circuit of the vehicle. Laid down in the grass to look underneath for any hint of a tracker or explosive. Popped the hood and checked the battery connections. Even when I finally sat my ass down in the seat, the first thing I did was plug into the computer and do a full system check before I turned the engine over.

Old habits. Too many carbombs, IEDs. Checking the vehicle first was one of those things that became second nature. Something I thought I'd left behind in Harad.

Búrzi had climbed up onto Azzie's shoulder. I could see her as a black shadow by the Uruk's head, half-merged with her long dark hair. My girl gave me her standard goodbye—a lifted shirt, the flash of great green gazongas in the sunlight—and then the track dipped, and her home and love were out of sight.

Love. Did I love her? I don't know if I'd said the word. I definitely felt something for her. Something that went behind sex. Responsibility? Sure. I'd helped save her from slavers. Twice. She'd been my partner in setting up the house, clearing the ground for the farm. And...we shared a secret. The vault, that ring.

Was that what love was? It felt like something different from any dirty weekend or girlfriend I'd ever had. Even with Aedre, it hadn't felt so...right.

Bardur was in his usual spot behind the counter. The birds' heads bobbed. I was expected for another supply run. Yet when I came up to the counter with a smile, he seemed to sense I had something else to discuss.

"Question," I asked. "Hypothetically, what is law enforcement like around here?"

The Dwarf's visage went stony. I'd played cards with Dwarfs, and I could tell when they got serious.

"Not much call for it," he ventured. "Any trouble on the road, I call the highway patrol. They'll be here in an hour or two. Someone dies on my property, they'll send someone from the Vale to dispose of the body."

I raised an eyebrow. "What about car thieves, shoplifters, roving Orc gangs?"

Bardur grinned. The metal teeth looked new, or at least newly cleaned.

"As I said. They'll send someone to pick up the body." Then his grin faltered. "What happened?"

"Unexpected visitors. Armed. Tried to break into my place," I stared at the nearest bird in the eyes. "Found their vehicle a couple miles away, on a dirt track. No plates."

"Smugglers, like," Bardur said. "Or bandits. They usually avoid the road. Technically, we could call it in, but off the highway they have to call in the marshalls, or corporate security if it's megacorp property. Don't really need that kind of trouble. Why are you telling me this?"

He glowered at that. Not wanting to be an accomplice.

I held up a garbage bag, stuffed with shoes that wouldn't fit Azzie or I, and every electronic device the intruders had, minus their batteries.

"Need this recycled. And if you have any quicklime or acid..."

The gear disappeared into compactor and incinerator. Along with the petrol, dried food, fresh fruit, and booze, Bardur also sold me three fifty-kilo bags of quicklime, and some sort of acidic compost product that also required rubber gloves, eye protection, and a rebreather mask with disposable filters. Almost as an afterthought, I added a pet collar with a tracking chip, flea treatment, and automated catbox. I grimaced as the credits shifted out of my account; that was pretty much the whole of my latest pension payment. Not saving anything for a rainy day.

The drive back gave me too much time to think, and not enough sleep to think properly. They'd sent killers to take Azzie. If they knew where, they knew who I was. We should both run. Sure, I didn't have any money but if I sold out—got a fraction of the return on what I'd spent—maybe I could set up an apartment for Azzie. Do some mercenary runs, buy her a SIN. Or go out East or South. Run far enough away that nobody could find us.

Rangers were all about movement. It wasn't about holding a position, it was about preserving lives, living to fight another day. What was I fighting for, anyone? The fucking Hobbit hole? No, I killed the fuckers because they were going to take Azzie away from me.

My mood was grim as I pulled up to the house. I had to talk to Azzie about all this. I had to...

The cat lay on the doorstep, still and unmoving. The door was open. The air deathly still. Nothing moved, not even the tall grasses. For a moment, I thought—my heart went cold in my chest. Like when I'd seen Aedre impaled all over again. I tumbled out of the Pathfinder, hand on the Elf-blade. If any of them were still in there, I'd need one alive to talk.

I nearly stepped on Búrzi before the damned cat jumped up. Her claws dug into my pants and the thighs beneath. I stumbled as she climbed me, and tumbled through the half-open door.

Azzie stood there, naked except for a kind of harness she'd made out of the assassin's belts. The silicone Orc cock jutted out from just above her hairless cleft, the base pressed against her clit. I'd fallen onto my knees, and the tip of it was almost level with the tip of my nose.

My eyes went wide, even as the kitten crawled up on my neck, little claws finding purchase. Stuck between the cold heart-stopping rage and the sudden terrible shock of arousal. Brain and mouth went out of sync. I blurted out the only thing I could think.

"I love you."

The Uruk grinned, a mouthful of ivory fangs. She rubbed a gob of spit onto the green cocktip. Her eyes half-lowered as she stared down at me, and her cheeks darkened as her huge, pointed ears spread wide.

"Show me," she said. "Suck my Orc cock."