[NSFW] $Insert_Title: Manifest in Paris

Foreword: This was just something I wrote using the NPC Manifest from the Insert_Title shadowrun campaign. It has nothing to do with their story or game. This was just for me. This is several years old and I haven't really given it a read since I wrote it.

The smell of the bakery across the street wafted in through the open window. The morning's sunlight filtered through sheer lavender curtains, swaying gentle in the wind. And in the bed, Riley, pretending to be asleep under the synthetic hand resting on her hip. The hand itself was a mixture of carbon fiber, medical-grade stainless steel, and a complex substructure that attempted to simulate the sensory input the arm it replaced a little below the elbow. Marianne had left to fetch breakfast, Riley assumed, but that left her alone with Marianne's live-in, Snow.

Snow. Somewhere between thirty and thirty-six. Black. Human. Feminine pronouns and presentation. Parisian native. Primary income for the household. Has worked for a Saeder-Krupp owned private security outfit since twenty-four. Hand lost at age twenty-nine while stationed at the Saar-Lorraine-Luxembourg Special Administrative Zone. Wary of Riley, which is reasonable.

Snow scooched closer and moved her right hand, the synthetic one, over Riley's side and pushed between her legs.

"Stop," Riley asserted, unmoving.

Snow apologized, rudely, in Parisian French. Riley did not speak French, but had been exposed to enough of it to know that this was the Parisian equivalent of saying "I'm sorry, my hand slipped," after punching someone. Though, this was an association Riley made after hearing Snow say it after punching someone on the metro the day prior.

"Your act is very, ah, convincing," Snow continued, in English. "You leave today, oui?" This sounded less of a question, and more of an assertion.

Riley began to roll away but was caught by the hip and pulled onto her back. Snow straddled her, and pushed her hands above her head, gripping them with her synthetic hand. Riley struggled lightly, not intending on actually escaping. "Yes, I leave today."

"Where to?" Snow growled. "To another woman?"

Riley paused, tilted her head up at the woman pinning her here. This wasn't jealousy. Protective of Marianne, perhaps? "I suppose so," Riley concluded, "One very dear to me. Unfortunately it is for business."

"What business?" Snow paused, waiting a response that didn't come. After an all-too-long silence, "You are spy, oui?"

Riley shook her head in response, "Non, slut." She grinded her hips against Snow, receiving a growl in return. Riley's lips curled into a grin looking up at Snow, flustered and frustrated.

A creak echoed in the other room. Marianne was home. She called out, announcing the gifts of fresh bread and espresso. Her voice was softer than Snow's, almost melodic in cadence. Her accent was also less pronounced in her English, likely due to her experience with customers.

Marianne. Thirty-three. Caucasian. White. Human. Feminine pronouns and presentation. Lived in southern France before moving to Paris. Worked at an small coffee shop about a block away. Charming and willful. Loves what she does, both serving and chatting with customers as well as coffee. Not soycafe, but the real deal. Note to self: Collect real coffee on travels for use as gifts.

Breakfast was croissants, carefully prepared real-bean espresso, and some kind of other pastry that she had been assured by both Marianne and Snow was not an "American" pastry, though their sarcastic emphasis was on the word pastry. Riley had gotten dressed, seemingly to Marianne's disappointment.

"You look better without," Marianne wrinkled her freckled nose and waved a spoon vaguely at Riley, "this. You look like a, ah, hungover university student." She turned to Snow for confirmation, seemingly approved.

A plain black unfitted tee shirt, washed the night prior in the sink, much to Marianne's disapproval and Snow's recognition, and an old worn-in pair of jeans. They were Riley's traveling clothes, admittedly chosen for comfort over sex appeal as, as far as Riley was concerned, nobody was sexy during or after a ten hour non-stop flight. Riley had waffled over whether a bra was necessary; she had decided it was not.

With breakfast finished, Riley checked her bag one last time before they set out to the airport. The backpack was spartan; a neatly shaped black rectangle, unmarred by corporate branding, vaguely military with a mere three rows of nylon molle. Her personal effects were in order, however few they were.

As Riley stood Marianne grabbed her lightly by the wrists, smiling. Eye contact. Marianne was as captivating as she was the first time Riley had laid eyes on her in that coffee shop of hers. Riley felt Snow push up against her from behind.

"Careful now," Snow whispered.

Something caught the sun, drawing Riley's gaze. A large, six and a half inch ka-bar style knife in Snow's synthetic. The blade itself was blacked out, but the monofiliment lined blade was unmistakable. Riley's entire body froze, breathing slowed. Snow's left hand explored under Riley's shirt, eventually settling on her left breast, fondling rather roughly. Marianne just grinned at Riley, pushing her thumbnails into Riley's wrists and holding them aside. Trapped. A slight tug on her belt, looking down Riley saw that the knife steadily pushing through her black nylon belt. The belt hung limp around her waist now. The flat of the knife brushed against the crotch of her jeans. Riley let out a soft whimper as she pushed back into Snow's relatively imposing form.

She hear the button from her jeans hit the floor. Snow handled the knife with care as the tip snagged the zipper tape, pulling about halfway down the length of the zipper. Snow let out what could be described as a giggle.

"Snow calls you," and then a French name that went by too quickly for Riley to catch. Riley raised her eyebrow quizzically at Marianne. "They are, ah, like, James Bond! Mysterious, travels often, has sex with many women around the world."

Snow's synthetic hand gripped Riley's side under her jacket, tightly. Riley supposed that Marianne mixed up "mysterious" with "spy". The rest was, however, fairly accurate. When all went well, Riley's adventures were far less exciting than a vintage action film. As Snow leaned into her, Riley felt the nylon interior of her flight jacket scrape across her nipples. Snow's hand, previously on her hip, pushed below the belt-line with ease, bringing forward a new fear that her damaged jeans may be prone to slipping off now. The lightweight jacket obscured Snow's incursion from the view of other metro passengers, a small consolation.

"Oh?" Riley's voice was playful, though she could feel her cheeks warming. She leaned harder into Snow and put her head on Snow's shoulder, "Does that make you my Bond girl, then?" She sneered at Snow, who flared her nostrils in return. Marriane laughed and leaned in like the first domino in a set that had forgotten to fall and only now caught up.