GothiKittieKat

“You look different somehow.” I looked up from my breakfast of toast and eggs with coffee and saw Sasha standing by my table, hands on her hips, and one eyebrow raised.  I shrugged and set down my fork, leaning my chin on my hand.  “Oh? How so?”  Sasha shook her head lightly, her red-streaked tresses shimmering in the light of the officer’s mess.  “I can’t quite put my finger on it, but you seem more…oh what’s the word? Confident?” I raised my own eyebrow in response. “Indeed? Did I not seem confident when I fought you and your mates?” Sasha blushed slightly across the

“There’s got to be a catch. There has to be!” Cog stated, one hand on his ratty old bowler derby as the wind picked up again across the deck of the airship we stood on. I shot him an annoyed look. “Cog, you’ve been saying that for the past three hours. For my sanity’s sake, knock it off.” I stood next to him, clad in, of all things, a dress. I both loved dresses and also found them annoying. I loved how feminine they made me feel, and how comfortable they could be. On the other hand, they weren’t good to wear when mobility was crucial, and the fancier the dress, the heavier it could be. However,

I pressed my gloved thumb on the call button at the gates to Van Horn’s manor for the fourth time, feeling my ire rise. Here I was, bleeding to death in the early morning fog,  the chill of fall beginning to penetrate my leathers as I shifted my wait from foot to foot, waiting for anyone to let me in. At this rate, Van Horn would keep his money by letting me bleed out while I waited for his damned butler to get out of bed. Finally, the gate swung open without anyone answering me on the speaker box.  I moved up to the door at speed and had to wait a few more moments until I heard it unlock and watched the left hand side swing inward. I b

I sat with my back against the chimney of the handsome townhome across the street from the Ivy Barrel public house. My rifle was cradled across my lap, my knees drawn up and bent. My hood was up and I’d put a black silk mask over my nose and mouth. It was fitted to contour to my facial features, made quite some years ago by one of my street friends as a thank you for saving from a policeman’s baton when she’d been caught pickpocketing. My goggles were down to help hide the pale skin around my eyes, the smoked lenses lifted to allow for clear vision. I’d been sitting here for nigh on four hours, watching people come and

I stood across the street from the wrought iron gates of Manor Van Horn, double-checking the address written on the napkin to make sure I had the right place. 22889 Bayview Avenue. Yes. This was it. I shook my head as I tore up the napkin, inspecting the property before my eyes. It was ostentacious, to be sure. It rose four stories above the street level, and I could see short windows on the foundation, indicating that there was at least a basement as well. Tossing the scraps of paper into a nearby refuse bin, I crossed the street in the dim evening light. The rain had stopped and a light fog had moved in. The streetlamps were beginning to se

I woke up that night in a spare room in the Hideout. It was one of the old staterooms of the ship. Quite possibly the captain’s cabin. It was comfortably furnished, and was quite possibly Cog’s room before he finished his personal quarters.  I was sitting up in bed, the covers pulled up to my waist, my legs drawn up close to me and my arms resting atop my knees.  I wore nothing but a long, loose, sheer camisole as my nightclothes. I hadn’t slept at all and I’d said goodnight to Cog hours earlier. How many hours, I didn’t know. My mind wouldn’t stop racing.  Earlier in the day, I’d had to collect mysel

I have few friends. It’s true. On one hand, I can count the number of people I trust or, even more seldom, enjoy their company. I suppose that makes my job easier, but it by no means makes it less lonely. Yeah, I got lonely. It’s an interesting dichotomy; an aversion to relationships, yet a desire to be with those close to you. I suppose I have my upbringing to blame, in part. As was told to me, I was born to a saloon whore, then sold to pay for my own medical expenses. When the surgeon didn’t want me, he gave me to a convent in return for a tax voucher. The Sisters of the Heavenly Turbine. Don’t get me wrong, those