[center][h3]Zohra[/h3][/center]
[hr]
"You are a strange Drac."

"I'm not a Drac."

"Ah, but you served the coordinator, did you not, Zohra?"

"I did, but that doesn't make me a Drac," Zohra puffed, rolling over onto her back as she studied the nondescript building within which she found herself. Sandberg Imports was real she suspected. The legality of whatever was inside of the countless crates neatly arranged on the floor below seems far less certain. Her grandfather had always told her to avoid the Yakuza. However, the man had never left Algedi, much less met a Yakuza wakagashira willing to buy him a drink, Zohra reasoned. For all his wisdom, the ancient Abdullah had missed out on a great many things, not that she had any intention of telling him.

"Then what does it make you?"

"Azami."

"A-z-a-m-i," she said, spelling out the words in the singsong tones Zohra had come to expect from the native Rhasalgians. "What does that mean?"

"It's a people. My people. A system of planets and a faith."

"Controlled by the Combine?"

"Ha, it is complicated. We rule our own planets. We follow our own faith. However, for these privileges House Kurita demands a hefty fee. We pay this price in minerals and by the services of our precious Arkab Legions."

"We call that indentured servitude here and we fought long to escape it."

"We differ in our views, I suppose," Zohra said with a sigh, a frown tugging at the edge of her lips.

"I am sorry, have I annoyed you? Her companion purred, a hand running playfully across Zohra's chest.

"You? Never, Mathilda, never, I am merely distracted by other thoughts. My pleasant time here with you must unfortunately come to a most unwelcome end. And soon...far too soon. Duty calls and I must answer."

"No," Mathilda replied and Zohra could see the hint of anger in her pale eyes, eyes that seemed to be carved from the very ice that covered Skandia. "Whatever business you have, it can wait. No need to rush off. Stay a while longer. Come back to bed."

"I would happily and with all my heart, my dear lady, were it not for the shuttle expecting my imminent arrival at the spaceport."

"Liar!"

"Never, I would never lie to you my sweet," Zohra said, gently grabbing hold of Mathilda's head and pulling her into a long, lingering kiss.

Rising up from the bed as the two finally separated, Zohra dressed meticulously, ignoring the annoyed noises that eminated from the bed. Her clothes were where she had left them. Folded in a neat pile on the night stand. And no worse for wear. A high achievement in her opinion, considering the quality of the tavern where they had spent most of the night.

"You have no BattleMech. You have few paltry sum of C-bills remaining. And you owe me a sizable debt, Zohra," Mathilda scolded, sitting up and pulling the fur blanket up against her chest as she fumes with annoyance. The scene would have made a good painting Zohra mused.

Mathilda did not call her dispossessed, Zohra thought, reflecting on the subtle kindness. True or not, by choice or cruel circumstance, no title..or insult for that matter, had stung Zohra as much to hear.

"Indeed, I did not have a BattleMech, not until this morning, but I have secured fresh employment with a new mercenary company backed by your very republic. More importantly, they are offering me a BattleMech to pilot."

"Ack! I have heard of this. It is a bad idea. Fritiof called it a fool's errand when they told him about it. Mercs are not liked here. This is an easy way to get rid of them."

"You and your brother are right, no doubt, but I had little choice. I [b]needed[/b] a BattleMech."

"And what of your debt to me?"

"Do not worry, my fair mistress, Zohra Amina Imalayen does not leave her debts unpaid. I will repay you in full, Mathilda, I swear upon all that I hold dear, but first I must see to the requirements of my new duty."

"Ah, duty, an accursed word, well brave MechWarrior, you have had your fun, and so now you can heedlessly choose to abandon a helpless woman."

You hardly seem like the helpless sort, Mathilda. Those gentleman that you command seem like they could give the Fox Teeth's a run for their money. Ex-military, I would wager, by the look of their weapons and not the lazy kind given their movements. You know, I was half convinced that they were going to throw me through the window of your office when I came calling."

"You looked like a Drac," Mathilda said with a shrug and impish grin. She patted the empty spot on the bed next to her, "Come back to bed, Zohra. Ignore this silly contract and whatever lies the FRR sold you. Come here and I will help you forget all about your metal monstrosity."

"A tempting offer, I promise you, but I have C-bills to earn and a galaxy to save."

"Save! You mech jockeys are all the same! More like destroy! You and these Ronin will grow no plants and build no buildings."

"En dålig hantverkare skyller på sina verktyg. Isn't that what your people say," Zohra said with laughter in her eyes.

"A weapon is not a tool."

"Every tool is a weapon and every weapon is a tool, at least according to the instructors back on Algedi."

"You are hopeless, Zohra."

"Usually they call me an optimist."

"Hopeless suits you better," Mathilda said, sneaking up on Zohra, wrapping her arms around the MechWarrior's waist as her voice faded with resignation. Standing by the bed, Zohra could feel Mathilda's warm breathe against her neck and her soft lips as they traveled downwards. It was really a shame she had to go.

The conversations never changed, not really. Sometimes she imagined it had been the same, thousands of years ago on Terra. The interaction was music played to the same rhythm, over and over again across long years the same faint pull on the strings of heart. Different faces. Different places. And yet, little ever changed. Goodbyes were sad, no matter for how long. But she couldn't stay. She couldn't falter. She had a BattleMech to pilot.

Stepping out into the cold, Zohra shivered beneath her thick wool lined leather jacket. Skandia was a pretty planet, but it was too cold for her tastes. She longed for the pulsing heat of a BattleMech cockpit. She had stayed too long. She could feel heavy threads of affection tugging at her heart. Two weeks had almost been too long. She was unsure her liver could survive much longer in the many taverns of Olaus. 

Shouldering the battered duffle bag that contained her worldly possessions Zohra began to hum an ancient tune as she marched towards the spaceport.

Destiny and her BattleMech were waiting.