Oneida

Violent Thrills

She awoke to the feel of wind on her face and the quiet ruffling of her lacy curtains.

Someone was in her bedroom.

Feinting sleep, Oneida carefully moved her leg against her sheets. She nearly frowned when she couldn't feel the subtle catch of her cyberblade against the silk. Before she could make any subtle or unsubtle moves toward the rotary pistol hidden beneath her bedside table, a quiet voice announced her visitor.

"I know you're awake, Oneida."

The voice was gritty, feminine, and carried a hint of a French accent. Oneida could place it immediately.

"Francisca," Oneida replied. The word whispered from Oneida's lips seemed to hover in the air, gaining weight and power the longer the two remained silent.

Oneida shivered beneath her suddenly heavy blankets. Something felt wrong in her brain. Her eyelids were too heavy. Her tongue felt like lead. As she struggled to keep conscious, she forced out a question, "What have you...what have you...why, Francisca?"

A cold, quiet laugh filled the already chilly air. As darkness overtook Oneida once again, Francisca said, "I have come for your impot du sang, Representative. Your blood belongs to me."

.

.

.

When Oneida awoke again, it was to less favorable conditions. She was tightly bound at wrist and ankle, the metal filament shocking her at the slightest movement. Her body was laying in an uncomfortable heap on the floor, likely thrown there by the Union Corse android squad. Oneida tried to take account of her person, but her brain was too foggy to be of much use.

It took too long for Oneida to regain her bearings. A jumble of sounds met her ears. A rushed string of words. The sound of a distant crowd cheering. Someone next to her was singing. Suddenly, a scream.

Wake up, she told herself angrily. Finally, the emergency protocol chip in her brain activated. Adrenaline began to flow through her veins. The muscles throughout her body lurched. She gritted her teeth to help ride out the pain.

As the darkness began to clear from her vision, she had the perfect view of a chrome foot in a red-soled pump swing forward to kick her in the chest. Oneida choked on air as it rushed out of her lungs.

Oneida was unsurprised to follow the line of the chrome leg to the satin, mocha skin and vibrant green curls of Francisca Marcellus. She had a white rag tied around her head, with two holes cut for eyes, most likely to protect her identity from the packed underground stadium. It was largely ineffective, only enough to give her plausible deniability to the World Congress. The rag was a universally recognized symbol of the Representative of Union Corse, but no one would dare question a Representative without overwhelming evidence.

The people of Corse enjoyed the Jeux de Souterraine almost as much as they enjoyed the thriving drug trade Francisca had fostered. She wouldn't even receive punishment from her people for what she had done.

Incredible, Oneida thought to herself enviously. Such loyalty is incredible.

"I hate you," Oneida laughed harshly, gasping and trying to catch her breath.

Francisca smirked down at her cruelly. She said, "It's nothing personal to me, Oneida. I just need you dead."

With a quick tap on the back of her wrist, Francisca released the filawire. It snapped off with one last, mind-numbing shock. Francisca turned to leave Oneida writhing on the arena floor, a soft "Good luck" trailing in her wake.