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Description
She allowed the executive to lead her waltz-like through the throng. She cast a gaze over the crowd; assembled here beneath the crystal chandeliers were, by her estimate, about three hundred of Mizurial’s fashion elite — and she was a part of it, in the official registers, a guest. But there was another duty she had come to perform.

The executive — Gretham, was that his name? — led her up the balustraded stairs.

“And how may I address you, Miss — ?” he asked. He swayed a little as they moved up; he was slightly drunk.

“Kayla.”

“Miss Kayla,” he repeated. She detected whisky in his breath. “Nice name.”

He led Kayla down a carpeted hallway. There were guests here, too, talking mostly in subdued voices, but no one paid any heed to them. They made a left turn, and Gretham led her to the second door on the right. It was a great wooden affair, with delicate golden filigree along its surface that reminded Kayla of lotus petals.

“In here, my dear,” he said, “and we can discuss matters in private.”

“There’s much I would love to know,” she replied, and meant every word.

They went in, and Gretham shut the door quietly behind them. The room was huge — she’d expected no less from the House of Mermaids. The floor was marble, and furniture was old, ornate and seemed to date back to the Third Surface era. There was a headless bust beside the dressing mirror, and it was clad in a blue bustier and matching panties.

“That’s nice, isn’t it?” he asked, from behind her. He placed his hands around her waist.

“Miss Emmeryn designed it. The curved lines are supposed to evoke aquatic imagery…and also emphasise the female form.”

“Miss Emmeryn? She’s one of the head designers at the Mermaids, isn’t she?”

Gretham guided her towards the dressing table, his hands already working the buttons of her shirt. Kayla didn’t resist, yet, but she had to suppress an urge to elbow him in the gut. The alcohol in his breath was beginning to smell a little sickly.

“Yes — Flaurel Emmeryn. I know her personally.”

That was what she wanted to hear: it meant to her that Gretham probably had access to the Mermaid’s Sanctum. She had her prey, now.

Gretham made her sit on the ancient, Third Surface chair. “You’re from the Lingerie Corp, aren’t you?” he whispered. “Now let’s see what’s underneath…”

He pulled Kayla’s half-unbuttoned blouse just enough apart to expose her chest. For a moment she feared that he would uncover the rest of her costume that she wore beneath her clothes, which risked giving away her position — but he paused.

“Beautiful,” he said. “That’s not a bra, is it?”

“It is, in a sense,” she replied. “Only without the underwire. Sheer, supportive fabric cut in such a way that it contours around the breast.”

He smiled — like an idiot, Kayla thought. He caressed her breast gently, fingers moving around the soft fabric, and she had to stifle a gasp. Her nipples stiffened.

“This Flaurel…is she at the party?” Kayla asked, trying to turn her attention away from the undesired pleasure. “I would like to — ah! — have a word with her.”

“She’s working, I’m afraid — further along the hallway we have the Sanctum, which is a kind of design lab…but I don’t think that’s what we want to talk about — ”

That was her cue. She sent an elbow into his groin at full force, then turned on the chair and cupped his mouth with her gloved hand before his scream became too loud. He didn’t scream, though — at least, he didn’t appear to. He simply fell, silently and heavily. The drug she’d slipped into his drink earlier seemed to have taken effect.

Kayla stood up over his limb body, and reached for the communicator in her ear.

“Christie?” she whispered. “I’ve got our man. The Sanctum exists — which means that we can rely on our map.”

“Good,” came the response. “You haven’t been exposed, have you?”

“No,” she said, cheekily, unbuttoning the rest of her shirt. “But I will be in a moment.”

Christabelle’s laughter rang in her ear. “You’re going to strip down into your mission suit? Make sure you dispose of the evidence.”

“No fingerprints, because of the gloves. And I’ll burn the rest of my clothes.” She unzipped her skirt and let it fall in a crumpled circle around her feet. She gave a soft sigh of relief. “Now I feel liberated.”

“Don’t we all, each time we do that? Be careful, though — try not to get into a scuffle with any guard. Your Exilica isn’t a weapon.”

“I can handle myself, Christie.”

“Good. Report back in a while.”

Kayla stepped out of her skirt. It was a sensual habit of hers that she always undressed her lower body first. She felt the cold air of the room caress her bare buttocks. Now I am exposed.

She examined herself in the dressing mirror. She let her unbuttoned shirt slide off her shoulders and onto the marbled floor, so that she was clad only in her mission suit. It was a leotard — and a rather modest one at that, Christabelle had said, when she handed Kayla the folded garment for the first time. Look, it covers your arms and fingers, and it’s got a mask that hides the lower part of your face.

And yet, she really was half-naked. The leg openings were incredibly high cut, almost to the height of her waist, and it had a thong back. Her suit was mostly blue, but the front had a panel of dark, fine mesh that only perfunctorily covered her chest. Sheer, supportive fabric cut in such a way that it contours around the breast, she thought, the hallmark of Christie’s design. Her nipples were erect from Gretham’s touch, and a soft wet patch had begun to blossom at the crotch of her leotard. An instinct of sudden shyness made her sit down and cross her legs. But her suit had a mask — she pulled it up hurriedly and hid her blush.

She stood up again, turned a little and watched her breasts sway — there was a hint of exhibitionism in her, she realised, that she found necessary for the job. Christabelle had uncovered it in her, just as she had done for Izumi. A year ago she had been a fresh grad, lounging in a rented apartment at Mizurial’s Lower Fifth, thumbing through job ads in a tank top and a pair of shorts. And now she found herself in Christabelle’s Lingerie Corp, where she traded her shorts for lace panties, and her top for high-legged bodysuits. It was an entirely different sort of life, and she was beginning to enjoy the sensuality and femininity of it. But there was a thing she couldn’t get used to, and it was the network of seething darkness beneath Mizurial that Christabelle sought to pierce.

And presently she was at the heart of it.

The Pattern of the Exilica had begun to glow along her exposed thigh. It was like a tracery of moonlight, silvery and pulsating. She ran a gloved finger along the delicate lines, and whispered, “Shield."

The pulsing of the Exilica increased in intensity, and a warm blue glow spread from her thighs and her buttocks to envelop her entire body in a field of resistive air.

Her mission, at last, had properly begun.

Description
She allowed the executive to lead her waltz-like through the throng. She cast a gaze over the crowd; assembled here beneath the crystal chandeliers were, by her estimate, about three hundred of Mizurial’s fashion elite — and she was a part of it, in the official registers, a guest. But there was another duty she had come to perform.

The executive — Gretham, was that his name? — led her up the balustraded stairs.

“And how may I address you, Miss — ?” he asked. He swayed a little as they moved up; he was slightly drunk.

“Kayla.”

“Miss Kayla,” he repeated. She detected whisky in his breath. “Nice name.”

He led Kayla down a carpeted hallway. There were guests here, too, talking mostly in subdued voices, but no one paid any heed to them. They made a left turn, and Gretham led her to the second door on the right. It was a great wooden affair, with delicate golden filigree along its surface that reminded Kayla of lotus petals.

“In here, my dear,” he said, “and we can discuss matters in private.”

“There’s much I would love to know,” she replied, and meant every word.

They went in, and Gretham shut the door quietly behind them. The room was huge — she’d expected no less from the House of Mermaids. The floor was marble, and furniture was old, ornate and seemed to date back to the Third Surface era. There was a headless bust beside the dressing mirror, and it was clad in a blue bustier and matching panties.

“That’s nice, isn’t it?” he asked, from behind her. He placed his hands around her waist.

“Miss Emmeryn designed it. The curved lines are supposed to evoke aquatic imagery…and also emphasise the female form.”

“Miss Emmeryn? She’s one of the head designers at the Mermaids, isn’t she?”

Gretham guided her towards the dressing table, his hands already working the buttons of her shirt. Kayla didn’t resist, yet, but she had to suppress an urge to elbow him in the gut. The alcohol in his breath was beginning to smell a little sickly.

“Yes — Flaurel Emmeryn. I know her personally.”

That was what she wanted to hear: it meant to her that Gretham probably had access to the Mermaid’s Sanctum. She had her prey, now.

Gretham made her sit on the ancient, Third Surface chair. “You’re from the Lingerie Corp, aren’t you?” he whispered. “Now let’s see what’s underneath…”

He pulled Kayla’s half-unbuttoned blouse just enough apart to expose her chest. For a moment she feared that he would uncover the rest of her costume that she wore beneath her clothes, which risked giving away her position — but he paused.

“Beautiful,” he said. “That’s not a bra, is it?”

“It is, in a sense,” she replied. “Only without the underwire. Sheer, supportive fabric cut in such a way that it contours around the breast.”

He smiled — like an idiot, Kayla thought. He caressed her breast gently, fingers moving around the soft fabric, and she had to stifle a gasp. Her nipples stiffened.

“This Flaurel…is she at the party?” Kayla asked, trying to turn her attention away from the undesired pleasure. “I would like to — ah! — have a word with her.”

“She’s working, I’m afraid — further along the hallway we have the Sanctum, which is a kind of design lab…but I don’t think that’s what we want to talk about — ”

That was her cue. She sent an elbow into his groin at full force, then turned on the chair and cupped his mouth with her gloved hand before his scream became too loud. He didn’t scream, though — at least, he didn’t appear to. He simply fell, silently and heavily. The drug she’d slipped into his drink earlier seemed to have taken effect.

Kayla stood up over his limb body, and reached for the communicator in her ear.

“Christie?” she whispered. “I’ve got our man. The Sanctum exists — which means that we can rely on our map.”

“Good,” came the response. “You haven’t been exposed, have you?”

“No,” she said, cheekily, unbuttoning the rest of her shirt. “But I will be in a moment.”

Christabelle’s laughter rang in her ear. “You’re going to strip down into your mission suit? Make sure you dispose of the evidence.”

“No fingerprints, because of the gloves. And I’ll burn the rest of my clothes.” She unzipped her skirt and let it fall in a crumpled circle around her feet. She gave a soft sigh of relief. “Now I feel liberated.”

“Don’t we all, each time we do that? Be careful, though — try not to get into a scuffle with any guard. Your Exilica isn’t a weapon.”

“I can handle myself, Christie.”

“Good. Report back in a while.”

Kayla stepped out of her skirt. It was a sensual habit of hers that she always undressed her lower body first. She felt the cold air of the room caress her bare buttocks. Now I am exposed.

She examined herself in the dressing mirror. She let her unbuttoned shirt slide off her shoulders and onto the marbled floor, so that she was clad only in her mission suit. It was a leotard — and a rather modest one at that, Christabelle had said, when she handed Kayla the folded garment for the first time. Look, it covers your arms and fingers, and it’s got a mask that hides the lower part of your face.

And yet, she really was half-naked. The leg openings were incredibly high cut, almost to the height of her waist, and it had a thong back. Her suit was mostly blue, but the front had a panel of dark, fine mesh that only perfunctorily covered her chest. Sheer, supportive fabric cut in such a way that it contours around the breast, she thought, the hallmark of Christie’s design. Her nipples were erect from Gretham’s touch, and a soft wet patch had begun to blossom at the crotch of her leotard. An instinct of sudden shyness made her sit down and cross her legs. But her suit had a mask — she pulled it up hurriedly and hid her blush.

She stood up again, turned a little and watched her breasts sway — there was a hint of exhibitionism in her, she realised, that she found necessary for the job. Christabelle had uncovered it in her, just as she had done for Izumi. A year ago she had been a fresh grad, lounging in a rented apartment at Mizurial’s Lower Fifth, thumbing through job ads in a tank top and a pair of shorts. And now she found herself in Christabelle’s Lingerie Corp, where she traded her shorts for lace panties, and her top for high-legged bodysuits. It was an entirely different sort of life, and she was beginning to enjoy the sensuality and femininity of it. But there was a thing she couldn’t get used to, and it was the network of seething darkness beneath Mizurial that Christabelle sought to pierce.

And presently she was at the heart of it.

The Pattern of the Exilica had begun to glow along her exposed thigh. It was like a tracery of moonlight, silvery and pulsating. She ran a gloved finger along the delicate lines, and whispered, “Shield."

The pulsing of the Exilica increased in intensity, and a warm blue glow spread from her thighs and her buttocks to envelop her entire body in a field of resistive air.

Her mission, at last, had properly begun.