At 200 miles per hour, I come screaming through the bright cordon barricades that block the road and hammer straight into the forbidden zone, too fast to even hear the frightened and confused yelps of the guards keeping watch. My vehicle is low-slung and black as night, a thermodynamic wonder of matte plate and fusion reaction that lets me swerve snake-like between obstacles at impossible speeds, too fast to even comprehend with the cognizant part of my mind. It's pure impulse, raw intuition, but my fingers manipulating the controls don't care; they merely steer me through, shifting up another twenty miles per hour to get clear of the sporadic gunfire that's already too far behind to find me. I'm little more than a speck of heat and glossy latex bodysuit atop the bike, but I'm not going to take any chances. Get clear, get deep into the Zone and then lay low. Blend into the shadows. Become nothing at all.

They'll unleash their hunters soon enough, of course. I can already imagine the whirring of drone-engines, the rattling clack of auto-loaders slotting high impact shells into yawning gun mounts, and in my mind's eye I picture their spot lights chasing after me already, infra-red beams of scattered light that hunt for every moving, breathing irregularity to the landscape. They are imprecise, error-prone, but when you have six thousand rounds of ammunition and just a single target, you can afford to be careless. Better to hose an area down with tracer-streaks of heavy caliber mayhem than leave someone like me alive. Highest priority: Eliminating the intruder. Secondary concerns: Irrelevant. Drones are good for that kind of work. Whatever mind they have implanted into each unit, gray matter yanked from some poor, death-row bound sod, is only concerned with the task at hand. Single-mindedness to a fault. Can't blame them. None of us can afford to get distracted these days, right?

I can see in the dark as I hammer through the landscape, my eyesight overlaid with the green-tinged static of night-vision and another layer, extant aerial maps of the area interposed across my field of vision to recreate the real world in a flurry of geometric 3D shapes. I'm closing in on a residential area, long since abandoned, and despite the litter of burnt-out cars I manage to only drop my speed back down to 180, swerving and yawing with pitch perfect accuracy as the G-forces rattle through my bones. Any other time, I would have slowed down, maybe slinked into the basement of one of these hollowed-out house husks, but I can feel you in me and on me, and I can taste you on my lips, and I know that I can't, can't, can't stop or slow down. Not yet. Not now. Not here. Not--

with you, your hands caressing down the supple curves of my brown skin, the swell of breasts and hip and thighs molding to your inquisitive fingers, lips sliding smoothly around the words as I whisper your name, your name, your name on my lips until you kiss me and silence me, a wet tongue pushing against mine, teasing me, the taste of you exploding into my mind like a rocket-powered grenade, so much you and us that I

--gasp and swerve, my equilibrium lost for a second, and the bike reacting by bucking like a wild bronco beneath me, eager as anything to hurl me from my seat and send me into a horizontal free-fall. A smear of red on the road, bits of latex fluttering in the wind, maybe a single high heel impaling the side of a building fifty yards away. With effort, I flex my fingers and drive them deeper into the reactive cushions that hold the controls, letting the soft pads mold around my digits and lending me full control over the vehicle again. The houses are gone now, fifteen blocks of cookie-cutter homes swallowed up by the night in the blink of an eye, and only the faint echo of my engine's sighing purr to tell that I was ever there. Onward, faster now. A satellite link in the back of my mind tells me that there's movement behind me, the drones taking to their bulky, unwieldy wings to chase me, and I twist myself into a rapid turn, slinging the vehicle into a cavernous parking facility that spans the underground of an entire city block. My speed barely drops as I clear the downward sloping ramp, and the impact of the suspension absorbing the blow sends a shock through my body, coinciding exactly with the sensation of--

your body sliding into mine, firm hands gripping my ankles and forcing them up towards my head, a long-legged doll for your immediate pleasure. My body thrumming with need as you push slowly, unhurriedly, and my toes flexing in the odd, chitin-like heels, straining against the sensation of connector-pins slotting into the ports at the soles of my feet, a link-- a link between bodies, sensation shared and transmitted through an impossible noosphere, into me, sensing you as you spread my legs and lean down for a kiss, holding your groin firmly against my slit with your size throbbing potently inside me. No, not me. Not me. She. Her. The proxy. Dark skin, deep eyes, long, luscious locks of chestnut hair. Barely nineteen, too young to know any better, too young to be in the game, and yet... and yet she spreads around you, fingers finding your body and pulling you into a kiss, her nails tracing slow, white lines down your back as you heft her body against your own and push

--deeper into the bowels of the facility, letting the monuments of concrete and lost industry shield my heat signature from the prying eyes of the hunter drones. I'm whimpering, the electric buzz of pleasure flowing like a river through my body, but it is necessary; the pleasure makes me tighter, more wired, my reflexes reaching close to six times their normal limit when you are deep, deep inside me. Inside her. Inside us. Sense-link. To let me be there with you, my love, even when time and space and the job demands we be separated. To be with you, even when it is her you are kissing.

Something moves out of the corner of my eye, and I twist the bike to the side just as a clattering of gunfire punches through the silence. A sentry, one of an untold myriad of mindless automated guns mounted in hard-to-patrol areas to blindly fire at anything that moves. I should have seen the bullet holes, the litter of dead animals strewn across the floor, but my mind was on you, on the sensation of being spread open by your cock, and only my heightened senses save me from immediate perforation. Instead, I feel one bullet graze the matte dome of my reinforced helmet, and the concussive shock almost costs me my balance. Another two rounds kiss my bike, sending sparks and chips of plasteel into the air. And then, just as I have almost maneuvered myself out of the cone of fire, a red-hot bullet finds my lower back, and the world curls into a tight spiral of speed and pain and the screaming, squealing wail of metal skidding across untreated concrete.

You pull out. Something's wrong. Her face is contorted in pain, her breathing shallow and staggered. There's a trickle of blood from her nose.

"Help," she whispers. She has my voice. "Help. Please."

You get up. The heels are still on her feet, the design so sleek and alien that they become anonymous through their sheer strangeness. No one would suspect what they are. Mere shoes, at a glance. An exotic fashion statement in the jungle of night clubs and neon signs and the constant thrum of engines keeping the subterranean levels of the cities habitable. As you get dressed, you glance over to see her toes squirming, the naked girl jerking in the echoes of a pain that is not her own. You could remove her shoes, give her a release. But as long as she is suffering, you know I'm still alive. Information is valuable, now more than ever. To people like us, it is essential.

You pick up your musette bag. The girl's eyes are open now, and tears are trickling down her face. You bend down, squeeze her shoulder gently. "I'm coming," you say. "Hold tight. I'm on my way."

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On the back of advice given to me by one of the wisest people on this subreddit, allow me this brief disclaimer: I am only looking for one partner for this, and as such, if I do not respond to you, it is likely because I am already in talks with another person. It is nothing personal, I assure you. ♥