INTERLUDE

  She watches him until she is sure he is asleep. Poor fool.
  She knew it would be easy, but not this easy. She doubts if she even needed the pheromone spray at all. She has played the part perfectly, every step of the mission executed flawlessly. Was he the easiest mark she's ever had to target? Possibly, she'd have a think about that on her drive to the coast. She leans over and feels for his breath against her cheek, it's slow, docile. She clicks her fingers in front of his face. Nothing, he is out cold.
  She stands, admiring the shape and musculature of his body, she is in a hurry, but a moment admiring him won't hurt. She's never been a fan, has no interest in who he is or what he's done, but she can't deny he is a beautiful specimen. Good in bed too. 
  She turns and admires herself in the full length mirror on one wall, as always, she likes what she sees. She offers herself a very small round of applause. The target is neutralised, the location has been breached and she's done it all without breaking a sweat...figuratively of course. She laughs and blows the target a kiss. 
  She dresses quickly, yet precisely; skirt, blouse, jerkin, belt - never forget the belt - she buckles up her boots. The whole outfit was chosen with precision, hidden under her earlier ensemble. 
  She steps over the target and picks up her purse. Now the final work begins. She scans the ceiling and walls, nothing she needs here. She heads through to the kitchenette area, it's too cluttered with fittings and amenities. The bathroom, that's where it'll be. She makes her way towards it, pausing to take a quick snapshot on her datapad of the target's naked, exposed body. She chuckles. She'll save that for later. 
  The bathroom is of medium size. It's the messiest, dirtiest room in the lodge. It smells of various colognes - too many in fact - it's overpowering. She quickly uses the lavatory, spotting what she needs as she does so. A core access panel in the centre of the ceiling. She removes the allure-lenses from her eyes and drops them in the bowl before she flushes. 
  She takes a chair from the kitchenette and places it under the panel, then searches in her purse, removing her makeup brush. Unscrewing it with ease she reveals the motorised multi-tool within then uses it to unscrew the two panel bolts. She catches the panel as it falls. It takes her seconds. 
  She looks up at the exposed pipes and circuitry, an open rectangular map of machinery she instantly understands. Working deftly, her fingers and movements precise, she removes one of the primary power modules from its track. The lights immediately go out in the lodge, but she is ready, multi-tool already in mouth, torch lit.  
  Inside the false lipstick she carries is a modified power module. Custom made. Completely indistinguishable from a standard one. This one is special though. Its internal construction is adjusted with micro-circuitry. Its discharge rate is directly controlled by a long distance signal emitter built into her belt buckle. She inserts the modified module, and is instantly bathed in light once more as the lodges power flow is restored. The removed module is placed into the hollow lipstick. 
  She doesn't bother replacing the panel cover or chair but she does pause to do one last sweep of the living area. Nice place, shame it won't last. 
  A small obsidian and crystal ornament rests on the mantle - a pyramid. The streaks of black and reflective clear panels are ugly but it looks expensive. It won't fit in her purse, but that's not an issue. She may get something for it from a buyer - an extra, unexpected bonus on top of her fee for this evening. She picks up the pyramid and notices a trio of gold medals hanging directly opposite the front door. Definitely worth something, tempting but too traceable. Besides, they are encased in a block of lucite or similar. Too impenetrable, too cumbersome, too obvious. 
  She takes one last look at the target, leans down and runs her tongue up the length of his torso - navel to neck, tasting the salty residue of his sweat. 
  'Idiot,' she says to herself. She heads to the door and stops just after opening it. She turns back. The target lay there helpless. A nude embodiment of the Capitals decadence and hypocrisy.     
  She considers carefully, she's in no rush, but knows she must be swift. 
  She wants him to know what he's done, leaving him here to die would be a mercy. Living with the guilt and the shame of his own arrogance and self importance would be kind of funny. It has a poetry to it. Ashe Marvel - the naked treasonous fool. The word has just occurred to her. Treason. She supposes this could warrant the label. He has, after all, led an un-vetted, unknown civilian into a high security military complex. Treason. She likes that. Treason leads to execution more often than not. Collateral damage. A public scandal. That she could certainly watch with relish. If he survives what happens next, of course. 
  He's sprawled on the rug, she grips the edges tightly and pulls him towards the front door. He bumps over the threshold and barely stirs. There are few lamps in the courtyard, but just to be safe she keeps to the shadows, eventually leaving him in the centre of the cobblestoned yard, under a tree. The moon is now obscured by cloud cover and his shape disappears into the shadows of the foliage.  
   She's done here. She closes the lodge door to prevent the glow of light alerting anyone to anything out of the ordinary and makes her way back to the Southern watch gate. She's memorised the route before her deployment - and during her walk here with the target - just in case anything has changed since her acquired blueprints were copied.    
  As she approaches the gate she acts drunk, but not too drunk as to cause concern - she is, after all, a young lone woman - but just drunk enough to seem merry, personable even. 
  The guard lets her pass without concern. She hands back her visitor's key card.  
  "Will you get home safe, madam?"
  "Yes, I've called a cart, it should be here soon though. Thank you!" She gives him her best smile, with a dainty finger wave and a little stumble for good measure. She exits the gate and turns back to him. 
  "Have a good night," she waves again. He returns it. 
   She rounds the corner and immediately shakes off her drunk performance. There is no cart waiting, but she will find one. Sooner or later somebody will drive past. For now, she walks west, towards the coast. Her datapad reads four hours past midnight. Perfectly on schedule. 
  She walks briskly, the heels of her boots clip-clopping in a soothing rhythm on the causeway. The air is cool, but not too cold. It feels good against her still slightly clammy skin. The night will be turning to dawn soon and she doesn't see many people on her journey aside from the very occasional cluster of revellers or lone walker. She isn't worried, she can defend herself if necessary. Although she is aware of how conspicuous she is, how exposed. After all, her hair and outfit were deliberately assembled to attract attention.  
  It's been around twenty minutes before she hears the first distant hum of a cart's engine, she turns to see the lights approaching in the distance. There is no one else nearby, how fortuitous. It really has been too easy. 
  She ruffles her hair, tears the sleeve of her shirt and scratches herself on the face using her fingernails, she ignores the sting. She starts to cry. It comes as naturally to her as breathing.
  She takes a deep breath, lets out a scream and runs into the path of the cart. She waves her arms, wailing and crying in what she hopes is abject terror. The cart comes to an abrupt halt, she runs to it, hammering on the nose of the vehicle. Inside is a suddenly terrified looking woman. 
  "Please! Please, help me!" she screams to the driver. "Help me!"
  The woman does not respond, she is understandably shocked. That doesn't matter, she'll come around.  
   "Please! I don't know where he is!" she screams, putting as much desperation and anguish into her voice as she can. "Help! Help!"
  The driver opens the door and steps out. 
  "Are you hurt?" the driver asks, calming down enough to help a young, vulnerable stranger. 
  "Someone attacked me," she says, playing on the vulnerability. "I managed to get away, but I'm scared. I need to get home. Can you help me please!"
   "Of course, or course," the diver says, she puts a comforting arm around her. "Take a seat. Oh my poor dear, you poor thing."
   "Thank you. Thank you!" She climbs into the other seat. The woman clambers into next to her, shuts the door and activates the locks.
   "What happened? Who was he?" the driver asks.
   She merely sobs, playing the hysterical young girl.
   "Where are you going -"
   The driver's words are cut off as four knuckles connect with her throat, applied at exactly the right point, and at the right speed they crush her windpipe. The driver gasps for air, struggling to breathe, already suffocating.   
   Through the tears and the feigned hysteria, she lashes out again, slamming her fist into the driver's neck once more for good measure.
   She keys in an override code on the carts terminal and transfers the steering control to her side.  She has shut off the tears and hysteria as easily as she would a tap. She is focused again, clam. Jovial even. She turns on the radio to see what she can find. Something upbeat, something that goes well with victory.
   She sets off, driving fast, but never breaking the speed limit. The driver's corpse stares at the console through glassy half closed eyes.
   Once she reaches the coast, and boards the boat waiting for her, she'll torch the cart. Destroying the body and all evidence of her presence in it.
   She's a good ten miles out of the Capitals borders when she presses the button concealed on her belt buckle. She has the window open, and although she's too far away to see the ball of flame that rises into the sky, she can just about hear the boom as the modified power module overloads, setting off a chain reaction that destroys the hopper barracks complex. 
  She smiles, savouring the wind and the music as she drives towards freedom.