{Gait}

White. Green and orange. Gray. Red. Brown.

Pale. Tan. Blue. Pale. Brown. Pink.

The Aegis known as Razor saw the last of his Imminent guests out of the Emporium and locked its revolving door. A metaphor for the sinners of this galaxy. They just kept coming back for more.

Next, up the wrought-iron spiral stairs and into the vault. The sunken stairs carried him into the dark. A persistent buzzing greeted him and elicited a satisfied smile.

At last.

Oleen appeared and removed his white jacket. Miy took his gloves. All the Lyriks removed his clothes. All of them lovely.

Their souls tasted sour on his palette.

No, the Aegis known as Razor preferred sweeter fare.

Triss sat on her knees in the center of the bed, tattoo gun in hand. A sort of welcome for his newest prize. The Lyriks took their time with his new acquisition, breaking her in. Naked, mussed, lipstick smudged.

Sagan stared into nowhere. Red tears streaked her cheeks. A sign of the struggle to fight his volition. Brilliant girl, but she needed to keep still for the branding.

Triss swiped away the last of the blood and ink and turned to him with a wicked grin.

Razor across Sagan’s throat. A more permanent collar.

The Pain Curator climbed into the center of the bed. A fine tremor plagued the Seamswalker. The closer he drew to her, the more her naked body trembled. Fresh blood spilled from her eyes.

Always a fighter.

He liked her.

Brushing back her growing bangs from those violet eyes, he sighed. He wished he didn’t like her.

“She’s very pretty,” Triss proclaimed with no trace of jealousy or malice. More like an echo of the regret he already felt.

He raked his fingers through those bright red feathers. “It’s terribly tragic the women rarely survive the labor.”

“What about that Icarean woman?”

That’s right. One of few and unfortunately, he’d rather she perished. “Father chose well. Not that my brother benefited from it.” He gazed into Triss’ yellow eyes before capturing her lips with his. The bed shook from their third’s growing anxiety.

He broke away and glanced at Sagan. Softly, he confessed, “I wished you’d reconsider. Then we could keep her as a pet.”

Triss placed a hand on her black stomach. “You deserve a child, and you won’t let me keep this one. We don’t know if I’d die—”

Another kiss to stop that line of thinking. No fatalism allowed.

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Up for air, they both looked at Sagan. The only viable option remaining. A child produced with her meant a greater chance of the offspring traveling into the Seam. His home.

“I’m very sorry about this, Pain Kitten, but I promise to make it enjoyable for the three of us. And look!” The Pain Curator pointed at the various cameras in the space. “I’ll send the feed to your lover so he knows you’re safe and having a good time experiencing what remains of your young life.”

More shaking and fresh blood. Triss took Sagan’s face in her hands and kissed her. He allowed the blond woman’s autonomic functions of the lowest level to operate at their own will, and the Seamswalker kissed back. Blood smeared on their face from her tears, and the Lyrik purred into it. He kissed the Seamswalker’s shoulder up to her neck and pulled her into a kiss with him. She rose on her knees to meet him with a matched intensity.

Leave his taste on her.

Leave his mark on her.

Send Sagan back to her lover with the footage and compel her to end the relationship with the Contaminant. She won’t be needing him anymore. She’d have everything she wanted here. Pulling her hair, he separated them by inches.

“I’ll take from you what I like. You’ll give to me anything that which I ask. Until Eternity takes you, you’re mine.”

“Yes, Master.”

He jerked her roughly to him, her back to his front on their knees. He turned her head to look forward, facing the nearest camera. Against her ear, he commanded, “Say it again.”

Sagan locked her gaze with their audience. Blood spilled from her eyes until she lost the battle of wills and repeated, “Yes, Master.”

The Aegis known as Razor claimed her where Korac hadn’t. All the while, she cried out the Pain Curator’s name and begged for more—

Triss swallowed down with a delighted moan. Her throat convulsed around him most pleasantly. The Aegis known as Razor pet her red feathers approvingly. “Thank you, gorgeous. Tonight was stressful, and this was exactly what I needed.”

She set back on her heels under his desk and corrected on a purr, “It’s exactly what you deserve.”

Thinking of Sagan’s short blond hair, he brushed aside the Lyrik’s feathers. “Yes.” He smirked for her. “That’s precisely why you’re my favorite.”

“Razor, I know you’re disappointed the Seamswalker escaped—”

“Escaped? She fell into the Seam while weakened with a reduced nacre. Our last chance at a child—my last chance to see my home—dies in a few short days from dehydration and starvation in an empty world.” He shook his head with what little sorrow he could muster. “She deserved better.”

“A warrior’s death?” The Lyrik offered as she hopped back on the desktop.

He granted her a solemn smile and stood between her parted thighs. “Yes. A fighter to the very end.” Cupping Triss’ face, he kissed her softly. The device in his palm vibrated, and he broke the kiss with a snarl. “I have to report.”

Without him asking, she kissed his cheek and disappeared into the dark.

Perfection.

Engaging the screen built into his desk, the Pain Curator met with the Tritan. “You lost the asset,” the Primary accused.

“Nice to see you, too, Remorse. What of the Atheneum?”

“It suffers.”

The Aegis known as Razor shrugged and offered, “I’ve weakened the Progeny. The library pays for it. That was our agreement. There is nothing left between us.”

The Tritan slammed his fist on a column in his sanctum, shattering it. “We needed a Seamswalker. Now, Celindria owns the only one remaining. You know that puts us at a disadvantage.”

“Celindria was always your undertaking, old friend. We’ll see how well she performed in her attempt to acquire Conscience and the Mother, tomorrow. If that will be all? I was in the middle of celebrating my triumph.”

“…Does the girl suffer?” Soft, quiet, sad.

Yes. Sagan’s kindness infected them all on this mission. He wished they lived in any other Probability. The Matrix underestimated her attachment to the Contaminant in this one. “No,” Razor lied. “She fought like a warrior to the very end.”

“There’s fire in these girls. Excellent stock.”

“There’s danger in considering them as anything else. We’ll keep our distance from the next one. Minimal contact with her to prevent contamination of our motivations.”

“Agreed. Congratulations, 324.”

“Good night, Remorse.”

With the Atheneum returned to his ward, he could ensure its suffering. But as Sagan screamed and wept in the Seam, the Aegis known as Razor lamented the lost potential of the forgone Probabilities.

How long will it take her to die? How long must he sense her suffering? All the while knowing what the Pain Curator lost in his Seamswalker.

Better that than knowing Sagan’s wrath.