I pulled on the tactical vest (with integrated body armor) I preferred over top of the long sleeved hooded t-shirt that went with the pants, before finishing by lacing up the short boots that worked best for me. There's a time and place for full on tactical or combat boots, but not for most of my patrols. I did enough running and jumping that the extra shoe height wasn't helpful. Instead of preventing twisted ankles it just slowed me down.
The last part of my outfit was in a electronic safe in the closet, my favored twin 9mm Glock, which went into holsters against my ribs. Pausing, I double-checked that the safety was on before I slid the first magazines in, but knew I wasn't going to chamber a round until I was in The Playground. No need to be stupidly risky.
Coming out into the television room, I found Sophie and Tabby both seated on the large bean bags that made up the furniture of the room, two cups of herbal tea ready for them. "What, no desserts?"
"With those suits I have to wear to work?" Tabby said with a smirk. "You're crazy if you think I can do that. Even working out four times a week with you two isn't going to overcome nightly ice cream and cheesecake."
"I hear that,” I said, kneeling down and giving Sophie a kiss. "By the way, we're still on for tomorrow evening, right?"
"Yeah, yeah, six o'clock, with Sophie here playing both training partner and taskmaster for us. Now go, have your fun playing around with the criminals of the city, and I'll make sure Sophie's not too tired to reward you when you get home."
I rolled my eyes and kissed Sophie again. "Stay safe," she whispered, looking me in the eyes. Despite all the playfulness of our banter about my job, we both knew that what I did multiple times a week was deadly serious, and her eyes were filled with that knowledge now.
"I will," I whispered back, laying my hand on her stomach.
Riding my midnight black Energica Ego sportbike (it was more than just a case of being ecologically friendly. The electric motorcycle was lighter and went zero to sixty in three seconds if I wanted it to), I focused on the patrol at hand. Tonight wasn't so much about actual confrontation as intimidation, although there was one bit of nasty work that I wasn't looking forward to. With my mirrored visor on my helmet and silent motorcycle, I created quite the figure cruising the neon splattered, grungy streets. Once it became known that I was in the neighborhood, the streets cleared quickly, and within twenty minutes there was hardly a person in sight. That task completed, I found a dark alley where I could stash my bike then set off on foot. Despite the similarities to television superheroes, I kept my hood up and wore a Kato style mask over my eyes, held on with spirit gum. There were times to be fashion conscious, and times to cover my ass.
Stalking down the alley, I made my way two blocks over to a door that was my other main target of the night. There was no sign, no advertisements, but if you were into very hardcore BDSM, Mistress Blood's was the place to go. While BDSM is nowhere near the sort of thing I was into, I have no personal vendetta with it. I understand that there are lots of different things that people do to have fun. Sophie and I have our own little quirks that fall outside the 'norm' that people talk about, and we don't feel guilty about them at all.
What I do have problems with is when some of the 'subs' available for the clients to enjoy were not there of their own volition. Considering what some of the clients did to them, I doubt few people in the world would ever volunteer. I knew of at least a dozen people who had been maimed permanently inside the walls of Mistress Blood's, and believed the rumors that at least two real snuff films had been made within the walls. I'd worked with one man who said he'd disposed of the bodies from Blood's, and that some of them were disfigured in ways that looked like something from a horror movie. I said my mission that night was intimidation, but that didn't mean Mistress Blood's didn't need to be shut down.
I waited until the door opened from inside (there's no way I was taking down an inch thick steel core door, not without a lot of plastic explosives) to make my move. A client stepped out, a man whose face would make the evening news if I had a camera. Before the security could close the door, my Glock was in his face, backing both of them inside.
"You, Mr. Bank Vice President, bounce," I hissed to the frightened man. It wasn't just for effect, either. As Marcus Smiley, I'd done a lot of news interviews, and needed to disguise my voice, although I never did get as ridiculous as Christian Bale did in the Nolan Batman films. "And if you value your career, never come back here again. Not unless you want Bill Franklin to know what you do late nights."
The scared executive nodded, his jowly cheeks fluttering as a piss stain started spreading over his crotch before fleeing into the night. The guard, a beefy guy wearing leather pants and a good amount of baby oil, was more composed, and started backing towards a spot on the wall. "Uh-uh, Gimp Boy," I said, pointing the Glock in my left hand at him. "You got two options. I can knock you the fuck out, or I can shoot you. Personally I don't care which."