Hailee Rowland. 20 years old, 5'10"; maybe 150 pounds. She's slim and athletic, with the build of a dancer -- small, softly sloped breasts and dirty-blonde hair styled to look like she's auditioning for a boy-band. Her family is rooted in Appalachia -- she comes from a long line of coal-miners and rumrunners. She's the tallest of the three, wearing a grey hoodie and smiling from the back of the picture. Her eyebrow piercing catches the gleam of the camera's flash. Hailee's major is math, but her friends say she secretly dreams of becoming a professional gymnast.
Zoey Hollis. 19 -- 5'8", around 170 pounds. A curvy girl with straight raven-black hair and high, heavy breasts. Born in New Jersey, but her mother immigrated from South Korea -- it's from her that she gets her soft, rounded walnut-brown eyes. She's smiling bashfully at the front, hand lifted to tuck a few stray hairs behind one ear. Zoey's studying to be a history teacher.
Candace Blake. Also 19 -- 5'1", 190 pounds. The thickest of the bunch; her weight has gone to her thighs and hips, giving her a distinct pear-shaped curve. Born in Pennsylvania. She's got that pretty girl-next-door look with short black curls and a freckled smile. Candace doesn't know what she wants to be. For now, she's majoring in psychology.
Nightshade has committed the picture to memory. It was taken right outside their college dorms a few days ago -- the last time the three were seen.
The slim little thief drops atop a corrugated shipping trailer with nary more than a whisper-soft
thump
. She lands toes first, hips rocking back to let the impact flow up her long, toned legs -- and across her form-fitting black suit.
Her outfit is a sleeve of pure shadow. The material is synthex -- a programmable synthetic fiber with 'unique' morphogenic properties. This particular strain can absorb and redirect kinetic force across the hexagon plates woven throughout it. The result is a skin-tight catsuit that feels as smooth as silk. It's so effective at dampening its presence that it feels like it isn't even there; it took Nightshade weeks to get past the constant nagging feeling that she was running around butt-naked.
Whether or not she
is
might be up for debate: the synthex clings like oil, conforming to the high curve of her chest and the toned knot of her derriere. It does nothing to hide her lean, powerful physique -- like that of a dancer.
Nightshade stays low as she runs across the row of shipping containers stacked three high. A few guards patrol the docks below, oblivious to her presence. Even if they did look up, all they'd see is a patch of black gliding across the dark night sky.
The Syndicate doesn't typically go after random college girls -- too much of that and people start asking questions. But they're always willing to make an exception for the right situation.
Hailee, Zoey, and Candace had the misfortune to fall under that umbrella. They saw something they weren't supposed to see. Your run-of-the-mill criminal organization would have disposed of them via some 'tragic accident' -- but the Syndicate is anything but run-of-the-mill. They greased some pockets, abducted the girls, and are now in the process of doing what they do best -- making women disappear.
Nightshade's uniform encloses most her head, with only her mouth and chin exposed. The top includes two conical 'ears' that slope up from her skull. It looks like some sort of bad Catwoman cosplay -- but they have a purpose.
She swoops her head across the docks below -- the cones scan the area and project information across the thin transparent lenses that fit across her mask's eyes. One shipping container all by its lonesome gives off a soft blue glow.
Bingo.
That one has an AC unit. She springs over to the next stack, making her way down -- narrowly avoiding several more patrols.
Nightshade lands atop the container with a quiet thud. She compresses her supple body against the roof and creeps forward, peeking down over the edge. A guard is stationed at the door, his face turned to the river. No one else is in sight.
She retrieves a long looped ribbon from around her waist and drops it down. As it flutters around his throat, she rises into a crouch and braces herself.
The loop tightens around his throat.
Her thighs and buttocks tense with exertion; her lithe back arches, muscle clenching. The guard zips up into the air, eyes bulging as he claws at the ribbon snared around his neck.
Nightshade's synthex suit also augments her strength. That's how she's able to rise to her feet as she pulls him up, curling an arm around his throat. His legs kick as she bends back, silently counting down.
His struggles weaken, then stop. She lowers him down to the roof and checks his pulse. Still alive. Good. She has little sympathy for Syndicate goons, but she's not here to start up a body-count.
She zip-ties his wrists and ankles, then injects him with a mild sedative to keep him out. After watching for several moments to make sure he doesn't have any adverse reactions, she moves on -- leaping off the container.
Nightshade lands on asphalt. Her back is to the river -- a large cargo vessel is docked behind her. Nightshade extends her synthex coated fingertips into hardened talons and cleaves through the container's padlock. Then, she opens it and steps inside.
Lights flick on. The interior is a tightly-packed mobile workspace -- complete with CO2 detectors, an air-scrubber, a breaker-box -- even its own fire-suppression system. To the right, there's a medical work-station with an examination table that folds out and latches to the wall. Several stainless steel gas capsules are arranged beside it, marked for medical use. To the left, there are four tall steel booths with paneled fiberglass.
Nightshade approaches the booths. Three of the four are occupied.
Each girl is wrapped from head to toe in a thin black membrane of synthex stretched so thin that it's turned translucent; the honeyed undertones of bare skin seeps through it. Their arms are pinned in sleeves behind them, drawn so tight that they look armless. They're undulating in a slow, sensual, synchronized dance. Every identifying feature has been stripped -- Hailee's brow-piercing, Zoey's earrings, Candace's bracelets. Even their faces are mere insinuations against the fabric -- only hinting at the outline of a silent, gasping moan.
The booths are insulated and sound-proofed, with internal nozzles periodically spraying a pink vapor into the chamber. Nightshade glances to the steel capsules on the nearby work-table. She'd wager her tight synthex-coated ass that they contain tetrahypnosene -- hypnus for short. A potent psychoactive agent capable of temporarily suppressing the conscious mind. It's likely what they're flooding the chambers with, to keep them in a subdued and malleable state.
Mounted on each booth is a plastic sheath of paperwork. Inside, Nightshade finds shipping forms -- they're bound for the island nation of Iska. This is an incredibly sophisticated human-laundering operation. They're being stripped of their identities; she has no doubt that every scar, blemish, and imperfection is being chemically scoured away beneath the synthex. Once complete, they'll be effectively untraceable -- no one else will ever find them again.
Nightshade peers at the three girls. It's hard to see their faces through the poreous substance coating them, but they look...
overwhelmed
. It might be too late; they might have already passed the point of no return. She suppresses a tiny shiver.
But if she can get them out now, there's still a chance. Maybe they can recover. She just has to --
CLNK.
The door behind her opens.
Henry's worked for the Syndicate long enough to know when something's up. A guard being absent from their post? Nothing new; guards have to take piss-breaks. A door missing a padlock? Technicians forget to lock something every day.
But both of those things at once?
That's
