Raw stood as tall as a four-level building taking up a city block. His wings were three times his body length. With a single stroke of them, he shot up into the sky at least three hundred feet, and then hung there as if the air were solid. There he roared, and thunder answered from the clear blue, with lightning flashing around him, as if happy he had come home. Then swirls and energy formed around him, compressing him down. He fell, landing , knees bent, hand out stretched to maintain balance, creating a two foot impact crater.
He rose, as a man, Raw. Red hair, thick beard, eyes of deep blue oceans.
In myths there is sometimes a term used — dragon fear. I understood that term now.
Whether it was my years as a reporter, or the essence I carried as Inanna, who had seen and done all of this before, I found myself walking slowly around him, examining him in his human shape.
“Where did it all go?” I asked. I looked up, but didn’t see any clouds of pixie dust or twinkling stars. “That’s a lot of mass, Raw. Where is it?”
“E = MC2,” he told me.
“What?”
“The amount of energy always equals the amount of compressed mass, squared. In other words, energy and matter are the same, but for activity and compression. Any energy, compressed becomes matter. Any matter, excited, becomes energy,” he explained — and that sort of made sense to me.
“Are you saying, that you’re always a dragon, and always that size, except that right now ninety percent of you is energy?” I asked.
“Not sure about the percentage, but yes, that’s the way of it, basically,” he agreed, picking up a small stack of roof tiles. “Look, you have a long life ahead of you, and plenty of time for questions, and Ore would be so much better at answering them. Can we get back to training?”
“Training? I told you, I don’t want to kill anyone, Raw.” I looked down at the gun in my hand.
“The only way that’s going to happen, is if you get better at shooting,” he told me. “Try, two shots, instead of three.” Then he threw two tiles in the same direction.
I missed both.
My military instructor taught me that the mind is more powerful and observant than we think, and does more than we know. This was the logic behind the three shots being the norm. The first is a line up. The second and third are adjustments. I was taught not to aim the gun, but to keep my eye where I wanted the bullet to go — on the target — and was told my hand would follow my brain, and adjust my aim. Apparently, my instructor believed I could see bullets flying out of my gun. Arguing with the results, however, was difficult.
I’ve never shot anyone. Never wanted to shoot anyone. I’ve never pointed my weapon at a person before. I’m hell on paper and clay roof tiles, though. I’ll fuck those up. No guilt at all. No mercy. Nothing left but shatters and tatters.
He threw two more, to my left this time, and both got away, shattering on the ground. This keyed the question of, why bother? Once they were in Raw’s hands, the roof tiles were dead. There was no escape at that point. And no sport, really.
I reloaded, and said, “I’m guessing then, that you believe peace is won through superior firepower.”
Raw paused and looked up to the sky. “War doesn’t make peace, or win peace, or have anything to do with peace. War brings conquest, death, disease, rebellion, prejudice, hate, and terrorism. That’s all it’s good for.”
OK, that went sideways on me. I was expecting something much different, to which I would reply something very close to what he just said. Hmm.
“Ya’know,” I said, stepping closer, and getting his attention, “For the dragon of war — and by the way, you’re very impressive in that state — you suck at marketing.”
“Do I?”
“Yes, you do.”
“You really think there’s a lack of love for war out there in the world? Everyone with a camo-handkerchief and an assault-like rifle out there spends every ounce of energy, and breath screaming about the need for war. They need it for freedom. They need it for defense. They need it for safety. For their children. For god. They need it!”
His voice softened. “I have never, not once, talked anyone into war. Not once. I don’t start wars.”
Feeling a bit taken-aback, I asked, “What do you do?”
“I end them,” he said, and threw five tiles whirling out, like he was dealing cards around a table.
I turned, raising my weapon…
“Fire,” he commanded, and I fired, and the tile shattered.
“Fire,” he ordered, and the next spinning tile turned to dust and shards from my bullet.
“Fire!” he demanded, and I fired three times now, and the other three exploded like the previous two.
“That said…” he turned to face me, his voice calm again, “superior firepower has its uses.”
I shook from a rush of adrenaline, and excitement. I never admitted this to anyone, but firing a gun turned me on. I didn’t know why. It always embarrassed me — being a green loving, tree hugging, pacifist. I never wanted to look too closely at it, as powerful as it was, it disturbed me. I heard from other girls in the Navy, enough of them to know I wasn’t alone in this fetish area. There’s a word every girl has to sneak up on, when applied to herself’; fetish — from the Latin, facticius "made by art." Art, including sorcery and witchcraft.
Raw looked me over, and opened his hand, palm up. I took the clip from the gun, ejected the round in the chamber, pulled back the slide and set the safety. Then put the weapon in his hand. He looked at it, and tossed it aside, putting his hand back out.
“Your hands,” he said.
I looked at him, a bit uneasy, but put my hand on his palm.
“Both,” he said.
So I put my left there too.
He closed his hand around my wrists and lifted, nearly pulling me off the ground. Then walked me back, against a large stack of lumber.
“Raw?” I asked, looking wide eyed. There was nothing I could do and he moved too fast for me to object. Back against the wall of cut lumber, his eyes only a few inches from mine, his other hand went between my legs and began rubbing — in all the right ways.
“Oh, shit, no… please, please, Raw. Wait, you don’t know…” I whimpered.
“Oh, I know,” he assured me.
And sweet mother of the gods, he did know… he knew everything. He understood my pussy better than I did. Part of me started taking notes. That same part of me does the same thing when I get the flu, or I’m in massive pain. She takes notes. And she was thrilled to be taking these.
I begged, No, but pleaded, Yes, my beseeching cries so filled with need, only the tone deaf could have missed the meaning.
Except, I really did mean no. Down to the marrow of my bones, I didn’t want him like this. It had nothing to with the sexual advance or that I was about to climax. This was my problem — this sexual connection to firing guns. I didn’t want him helping with it, or fixing it.
I twisted hard in his grip, and shouted, “No! It’s mine! Don’t take it from me!”
He stopped. He looked confused for a moment, but set me gently on my feet.
“You’re distracted. You have thirty minutes to deal with it,” he told me, and started walking for his trike.
Distracted? Is that what he called this?
It didn’t take an immortal dragon to notice a grown woman panting, and pressing thighs together. Either she’s horny or she has to pee.
Using the word ‘distracted’, however, made me wonder how many times a week he saw women in that condition. I was sure he didn’t ever lack for female attention. Hell, he was tall, stronger than anyone I’ve ever seen, attentive, and perceptive. Oh, and a demi-god. Prince of the World. Dragon. What woman wouldn’t throw herself in his way, hoping he would take her home, and keep her? And because he stopped, I could no longer tell if was the gunfire or the man who turned me on right now.
I shook myself into a more playful mood, and skipped up to him — after snatching up my pistol. “Hey, um, what’s happening in thirty minutes?”
“Training,” he said.
“I thought that’s what we were doing.”
Opening the weapon, I checked for sand or anything else. After putting in a fresh clip, it found a home slid behind my belt.
Raw continued walking. “I figured you were going to want to come along when I did my thing for Kane, so I made you a present last night,” he said, and then asked, “Aren’t you going to deal with your situation?”
“Um, yes, and no,” I said. “Yes I want to be with you, and no, I’m not going to jump behind the lumber, and masturbate like a monkey. What kind of present?”
He sat down on his trike, and put a booted foot up on the handle bars. “It’s a… new outfit, complete with accessories.”
I glanced dubiously at my ring. “A new outfit? You went shopping, and bought me an outfit?”
“No, no I didn’t buy you one, I made it myself,” he said, a slight glow of pride spreading out on the horizon of his words; a hint of dawn, and glory.
Now I squinted at the diamond pressed into my cold iron ring. “You made it all for me? Can’t wait honey. I’ll just be over here painting my toenails in anticipation.”
Just as I was finishing my snide bravado, what looked like three sub-sonic, high speed drones flew in tight formation toward us from the west. Between them, suspended in a cargo-net, was a cargo box. They dropped altitude, without changing speed, and came in fast and hot. I jacked the M9 and turned, aiming at the incoming buzz.
“Do that and you’ll ruin the surprise,” Raw said, watching the three coming in with a calm expression.
Lowering the weapon, I set the safety but didn’t clear the chamber.
The box fell, landing feet away from me, impacting the sand and exploding a wave of it across me. Then they continued East out of sight.
I turned to Raw. “Exactly how was that any different than blowing them out of the air?”
“Distance,” he said off-handedly.
“What?”
“A surprise is never as good when you have to walk to it. All the fire burns out of them before you get a chance to open the box,” he reasoned, opening the box, causing the wail of long nails to scream as he pulled them from the thick frame to strip away the front panel.
He looked it over, and I peered around him, not being able to make sense of it at first. Then Raw grunted, grabbed the sides and turned the box — tall and wide as a casket — over, and set it back down.
Stretching the definition, to an extreme, which I was prepared for, the contents were — in fact — an outfit. I didn’t think I would be wearing it for el Presidente’s next party, but it was clearly something to wear, and made for the female body.
I guessed its fashion to be High-Tech Ninjameets Destroyer of Worlds. Its title would be something like, Black, Blacker and Red.
He looked down at me, peering around him, and I looked up to him. “You shouldn’t have.”
“De nada,” he said with a grin.
“No, I mean, really, you shouldn’t have. What is that?” I asked.
“It’s an exoskeleton for you. A combat Mech suit,” he said, and his voice had the resonance of pride. “The design of this exoskeleton will improve your speed, allow you to lift two hundred percent more than normal, and shift ninety percent of the weight you carry to the ground through the metal structure.”
“Metal?” I asked, looking at it, but not moving any closer. “Sounds kind of mundane, doesn’t it?”
“It’s a high compression carbon-polymer, but I like the sound of metal better.”
“Old fashion guy, huh?” I asked, stepping from behind him, and peering at the thing. “Made it just for me?”
He paused for a moment, and then said, “Yes, but I’ve also been working on the design for several years. More than a decade, really.”
Getting closer I poked at the suit which would cover my body between the struts of the exoskeleton. It felt like the material was filled with some sort of liquid, “What’s that?”
“Liquid Metal,” he said, and now there was obvious pride in his voice.
“Liquid… metal…?”
“It is a liquid polymer, saturated with iron filings suspended by the liquid. This allows you to move comfortably and naturally. But if you are shot, the suit emits an electric charge into the iron, which then aligns to form an inch thick wall of solid iron.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh yes. You can also command areas to become shields, like your chest or the front of your legs, before you go through a door or around a corner into a hostile area. Then command the skin to relax again.”
Despite my first impression, I had to admit my curiosity was growing by the second. The colorings were deep gray, black, and dark red. Spotting it at night would be a bitch. The back had a flat plated spinal column of thick vertebrae, which looked like the card suit of Spades, only upside down, each pointing to the next, to point down to my ass.
“Does the skin block body heat signatures?” I asked, bending over to look at it closer.
“Yes,” he said. “UV, infra-red, body heat, and just about any other enhancements for spotting you are neutralized by the skin. It’s also self-cooling.”
“How?” I asked, now looking at the helmet, which was a space-age looking full face job.
“When the liquid metal becomes solid, it also chills, like those ice bags that medical people use — Squeeze, Pop, And Shake ice. Not frozen, but cold.”
“Sounds like it could get pretty chilly in a fire fight,” I suggested, looking back over my shoulder at him. “Could help with pulled muscles, and stamina though.”
“Are you going to try it on?” he asked.
“I was always taught to dress for the venue,” I told him. “And if the venue requires this, it’s going to be a hot date.”