"So, you promise you can deliver?"
"Na'am, sayyidi. My sources are, how would you say... very dependable."
"They had better be, because I do not tolerate failure."
From the corner of the room, the tall woman observed the two men in heated discussion. The first was an American, obvious so much more from his accent than the khaki pants he wore from the Banana Republic. His deep blue shirt fit snugly to show that while he was a lean man, he still held the build of a soldier.
The other was a member of the Arab alliance that she and the American, who called himself Wells, had recruited in their efforts. The Arab was a bit shorter than Wells, a headwrap loosely covering his head. A mercenary, she figured. But not the head of the alliance, that much was known. He was only an assistant. His stance, the tiny twinge of nervousness just bled off him.
She herself stood against the wall in her plain black flightsuit, the double barrelled blaster rifle slung over her shoulder as to be in easy reach when necessary. Long black boots came up to the tops of her calves, the vibroblade hidden within undetectable. Nor were the throwing stars in the arm sheathes under the long black sleeves.
The one thing she hated about her outfit was the black scarf that she wore to cover her hair. The one problem of being female to the eyes of an Arab. It was still against the law for a woman to show off any of her self to another man besides her husband without penalty. And though it wasn't like she wanted a man to see her, she also didn't need to raise suspicion. Better to honor one man's traditions then show disrespect and pay for it later.
After a few more minutes of discussion, the two men bowed to each other. Then the Arab left, leaving Wells alone in the room with her.
"So, my dear. What did you think?" Wells turned to the woman in the corner.
"I think you're a fool for involving this group into getting your work done for you," she replied, ripping the scarf off her head. Her long black hair fell straight down to her mid-back, still bunched together in a tight braid that made it not only easy for her to pull it up under the scarf quickly, but also to not worry about flyaways getting in her way if she needed to fight.
Wells chuckled. "You are so used to getting everything done yourself, aren't you, Crawler?"
The woman, who was known only as NightCrawler, or Crawler, shrugged. "It's easier to do it yourself. That way you can't become a victim of double crossing."
"I don't plan on being the victim," Wells stated. He walked to the window and looked out. He waved Crawler over to him. "Look out there, Crawler. Paris, a land full of song, drink and physical pleasures beyond belief. It is a young America, so ripe for the taking."
"You seem to think this country is lower than your own," Crawler stated, looking at the Eiffel Tower as the sun set behind the steel girders.
"No country is as strong as mine," Wells stated, a tone of assertion in his voice, one that showed no opinion would sway his own.
"Blindness in one's land can be a weakness," Crawler stated, running her finger along Wells' shoulder, a place where a soldier would wear his unit patch... one where she remembers a face long ago wearing one... her touch almost tender to those who noticed it. Wells, however, did not, but instead turned and grabbed her arm tightly.
"Never tell me my country will be my weakness," he growled.
Crawler looked down at where he gripped her arm, then back at him. Wells locked eyes with her. His hazel versus her bright blue. Finally he released her, and she rubbed life back into the tingling skin.
"Why don't you go out and enjoy yourself for once," Wells stated, turning away from her and walking towards the door. "Play with a human instead of your weapons."
"I don't 'play' with my weapons," Crawler pointed out.
"Fine. But go out and relax. You need to learn to lighten up." Grabbing his jacket, Wells opened the door to the studio apartment and walked out.
Crawler pursed her lips and watched Wells exit the apartment complex. He hailed a cab and soon was whisked away to wherever or whoever he planned to spend the night with. Letting out a breath of frustration, she went to lock the door, then finally put her rifle down. She then went off to the kitchen to get something to eat.
After all, it was dinnertime. And for whatever the night was going to bring, better to have energy than be weak and hungry.