Legitimate Concerns

The apartment door calmly clicks to a close... and your heart remains frozen in worry. You're done for, aren't you? There's no way they'll... that they'll miss...

"{if Devi_shaved = true}Master{else@}Derek{endif}." You blink as Devi's hand rises to your face; a comforting warmth. "She is old, and it is late... there is a good chance, I think, that she won't have noticed the bag's dimensions."

"Really?"

"Well..." She flinches at how quickly your hopes are dashed. "G-good is relative! There exists at least a possibility."

"You're not helping..."Whatever the result, however, you wouldn't have known what to do with the body without her, at least not as fast as she did... and a bitter part of you likes to believe you'd have come up with a better idea, or a better timed one... and then you realize you hadn't even considered gloves until she brought them out. In this great rush of looking for someone to blame for the bumbling of the corpse disposal, you can only throw you hands up in defeat. "... no, you helped plenty... I'm-"

{if Devi_shaved = true}"Master?"{else@}Derek?"{endif} She looks around, confused... and you think you know why. You heard it too... and a few breaths later, you hear it again. Something like a muffled grunt, and the sound of rope rapping on a steel bed frame. "I think... I think the prostitute is awake."

You take a moment to remember... and your expression clearly worries Devi. You don't say anything, responding instead by marching silently into your bedroom, with Devi keeping pace. There on the bed, no more free than when she was ****, is "Chantel", the woman who tried to run a scam on you, possibly even kill you, apparently just to rob your house and self for whatever she could find. You may have sought to (temporarily) pay for sex, technically a crime, but that's by moral lawmaking you don't even really respect; she would gladly, indeed, tried to mug you for a handful of Benjamins, not even a month's rent in New York. She's the villain here. She's the one who put this **** on you.

This is your train of thought, and you allow it no stops that **** you to address your role in all this. "She needs to pay." It slips out loud, and Chantel, now fully conscious and whining into Devi's dirty panties (shoved into her mouth with packing tape), stares at you with wide eyes before screaming uselessly. Her pleas for a savior are a dull roar, and no one who ignored the earlier fight would come to figure out what loose pipe or bad dream was causing it.

"{if Devi_shaved = true}Master,{else@}Derek,{endif} I know you must hate her... I do, too," Devi whispers, "but if you brought her here..."

That's right. You open your sixth sense, initially flared to see every womb in the building - pregnant, birth control, birth control, barren, pregnant - and then focused onto the writhing Pacific Island girl, possibly not even actually a foreigner. Ovulating... she couldn't lie to you about that. The ovum was already nearing the end of its journey; you'd have to impregnate her tonight to not miss it. "Of course." You put a knee onto the bed, between her splayed legs, and rub a hand on the swarthy, shaved flesh of her inner-thigh. Her whole body jolts in a useless effort to escape. "I have to put a baby in this bitch, first."