EXTREME EFFICIENCY Part 1 by DustyBottums - written for DTM / Amy's Conquest *** The Below is an extended segment from this story, written for us by the Extremely talented author and CGI Animator, DustyBottums (creator of Mankillers). For the Full Story of "Extreme Efficiency (Part 1)", please visit our Member's Section at Amy's Conquest (www.amysconquest.com), OR purchase it on its own on our AC site. Thanks all, and as always, hope you Enjoy! *** ********** Her heart racing, her eyes wide and hyper-alert, she paused, and rested her right hand on her thin chest. Her heart hammered under her touch, its rhythm faster than at any time in her young life. She blew out a breath, shuddered, and forced her breathing to slow; she was aggravated at her high emotional state. Fear was one emotion she would not allow herself to feel, not any longer. Fear made you careless, fear made you weak...and she would never be weak again. She drew in a deep breath and sighed; she willed her heart to slow its thudding in her chest, her blood pressure dropped 15 points through nothing more than the sheer force of her will. Her steely resolve had always been her strongest trait, the iron center of her personality, the rock that others broke themselves against when they drew too near to her. That, and her ambition...her drive to achieve, to BE...it frightened those who came too close to her. A sound. The long, dim hallway echoed with the faint but unmistakable sound of footsteps. Her full, crimson lips drew up in a sideways smile as she checked her watch. Right on time. Very well. Come and get it, worm. Slowly, soundlessly, she drew the zipper down on the heavy, shapeless canvas coveralls she wore, revealing the glossy darkness underneath. - Then - >>From the start, Tatiana Kullindova was an assertive woman. She had announced her arrival to the world not with a mewling cry in the nursery, but with a quiet, blind study of the warm room. The brilliant green eyes that she would eventually use to devastate her suitors were not yet open, but she was still able to see her surroundings; the hiss of the furnace, the laughter of the doctor, the quiet, joyful weeping of her new mother. Tatiana bleated once, loudly, for milk, and taken to the nipple with a vengeance. "Look, she is very strong in spirit. She will test your patience as parents," the elderly Moscow doctor joked. "Never. She will have whatever she desires," Nikolas Kullindacek, the wealthy Prague businessman noted. "Anything she wants, she will have. Eh, Lucia?" The exhausted woman in the bed nodded her head of fiery red hair. "Yes, of course, my darling. Her happiness will be everything." And it was. For a while. The rolling hills of the family estate were her playground. First, a dog. Then, a pony. Then, for her eighth birthday, a beautiful Arabian with hair almost as dark as her own, a silky inky black tipped with just the hint of her mother's famous red shade. Nights were spent inside the home, a massive stone and plaster piece of art that was more castle than house, under the watchful eyes of her father, the fabulously wealthy Czech industrialist, and her mother, the famous former dancer of the Bolshoi, a creature of almost unnatural, unnerving grace. Anything Tatiana wanted, she received ...in abundance. She was always in charge, however. Even among the children her parents insisted on screening (oddly) first, then busing in to serve as her playmates...Tatiana always insisted on taking the assertive, even dominant role of game-chooser, rule-maker, and scorekeeper. Her family's wealth was so fantastic (and, truthfully, the young girl's obvious physical appearance - even while just a girl, it was obvious she was destined to become a beautiful woman, perhaps a model or actress), the other children practically had competitions to see who could curry more of her favor; she would routinely build up the spirits of a playmate with praise and smiles only to reverse course suddenly and direct her affection to a new friend, usually with a cutting remark to the previous confidante. The sprawling estate in the Czech hills was her playground, the staff, village children, and even her family members her playthings. Because of her wealth, she was even allowed to travel more than anyone in her town ever had. She spent summers in London, weekends in Paris, and once, for almost two years, she lived with a distant and trusted relative in New York, where she picked up standard American accents to her English, which she seemed able to turn off and on with ease, making her indistinguishable from the local citizens. But her heart was always looking for home, and her childhood friends. As perfect and idyllic as this childhood should have been, for Tatiana, it simply wasn't enough. As she aged into her early teen years, she was saddled with the confusion that often besets young girls of that age; previously, she and her other young female friends were as fast, strong, and agile as her male playmates - but no longer. The boys of the group had hit their first growth spurt, and were now taller, faster, and stronger than the girls, and they routinely won the physical games the group used to play together. As a result, the girls of the group focused less on physical play, like sports, and retreated more to the parlors of the house, to focus on clothing and gossip while the boys cavorted in the sunshine outside. This development was a source of confusion for all, but for Tatiana, it was a source of simmering anger, even rage. Why could she no longer keep up in the physical games? Why were the boys so effortlessly faster than her now, when even just a few months ago she was clearly their physical equal, and in many cases, their superior? Why must she be relegated to the boring, expected role society had chosen for her? Why? Why? How dare they? She refused to give up playing with the boys. She earned the reputation of being "sporty," a kind term for what was largely seen as less than feminine, despite the slowly blooming, elegant features she sported...at 15, she was ordinarily would have been blossoming into the woman she would someday become...but she was so obsessed with winning, with being the alpha...the village girls tired of her drive to always compete, to always win, and the boys sometimes mocked her efforts, even though she grew into a skilled athlete. Her mother did not understand her obsession. "But why?" she asked Tatiana, her hands held before her beseechingly. "Why must you always compete in sports and games you cannot win? Tell me, Anna!" "That is exactly the reason, mother!" Anna cried. "Can you not see? What is the point of playing, if I cannot win? If I cannot enjoy a victory over others?" Her father watched the debate from the shadows. "But this? Why this?" her mother wondered aloud. "Games, yes. Sports, if we must...but...but...now this? Now...actual combat?" "It's...a sport, mother," Anna corrected. "Perhaps...but a dangerous one!" her mother exclaimed. "Kicking, and punching. And the wrestling! And you want to do it with boys!" "Against boys," Anna corrected again, her eyes flashing. "Absolutely not. It is boorish. And brutal." "Mother!" "Why not a more delicate pursuit? Perhaps dance - " Anna made a vocal noise of spitting. "Ugh!" "Then it is settled! I forbid it." It was late that night, as Tatiana stewed in her anger inside her elaborate, expansive bedroom suite, that her future was truly set into motion. The door behind her opened, and her father, his dark features gleaming with secrecy, his black hair now streaked with white, entered her room, letting the door shut with a click behind him. Anna turned on the bed to see him there, her face still contorted in anger. "Does it mean so much to you?" he asked. "Yes." "But why, my sweet?" "I...I...I don't know, father. But it does. Once I was the master of them all...and now I'm allowed only to play tiresome games of frivolous mirth and gossip with a few pathetic girls? It isn't right! I am the best among them. I'm definitely the smartest! I'm the most gifted. I should win at all the games. I...I must win at them all!" "But this new pursuit, these...gym courses you're pursuing. These...martial arts? They are new, darling. You may be injured. Are you not afraid of that?" Anna's eyes gleamed in the dim light. "I am afraid only for those who may have to face me, father." These words, which would have troubled any reasonable parent, only brought a smile to Nikolai's face. "How interesting it is," he said. "On the outside, how like your mother - you have her grace, her beauty. But inside...inside you are like me. In time, you will find out more, about me, the family business...but for now, you will have your classes." "Oh, Papa!" Anna cried, and threw her arms around his neck. "One condition, though, my child: You must make some kind of concession to your mother. She wants what she thinks is best for you, and you must appease her wishes." "Oh, no! Dance?" "Ballet lessons." "But father-" "No 'buts,' dear. That is the price of your victory tonight. Without some sacrifice, there is rarely a victory worth having." Anna nodded. "Yes, Papa." And so her training began. At first, her mother's fears were borne out: Anna routinely came home battered and bruised, her ego more than her body, usually. But slowly, over the next two years, she grew in skill. Her trainers were struck by her dogged determination to succeed, her seeming inability to give up, even when obviously overmatched. It was this same obstinate tendency, though, that allowed her to succeed where few would. She quickly rose through the ranks of all the local students. Her punches were underpowered, due to her relatively slight female frame, but they were delivered with an ear-splitting shriek of aggression as she peppered the heavy bag with blows. Her kicks weren't as powerful as the male students, but they were much faster, and higher, and more graceful than they could achieve - perhaps from the dance classes she was forced to undertake. And still she wished for more, for the sheer knock-down power her male classmates possessed so effortlessly - and, she thought, so undeservedly. But still she excelled. She replayed every encounter in her mind, relishing every win and dissecting every loss for weakness. Then, the night before her 18th birthday, came the night for the district championships. It was said that the winner might even earn a spot on the Olympic team. Tatiana cut through her female competition like a knife through butter. Her vision was set upon challenging the male champion, George Smovdovic, the biggest, strongest, and perhaps most brash of her childhood playmates. Amazingly, it came to pass. There was always a match between the gender winners - it was a concession to political correctness, some supposed. In all the years of the competition, the female combatant had never scored a point against the male, let alone win. Smovdovic grinned at her from across the mat. "So, you decided you were a boy after all, Anna?" he spat. Tatiana glanced at the crowd, and saw her father sitting in the front row. He made no move, and did not smile. She turned her gaze back to her opponent and grinned, her eyes shining. "Tonight you will beg me, George Smovdovic. You will beg me for mercy." George laughed, and the referee shouted "Fight!" An epic match ensued that is still spoken of in some circles. For every move Anna attempted, she was thwarted by George's power, for every thudding hammer blow he landed, she got back up, bruised and bloodied, and landed twice as many lighter ones. Finally, it came - her opportunity. George sensed an advantage he didn't have, and tried to use his greater mass and power. He surged forward and tried to seize Anna in a great wrestling maneuver. But, again, the dance class proved useful. Nimble, graceful, and as slinky as a cat, Anna slid around him like oil and before he could recover, she had landed his right arm in an awkward, painful joint lock. The crowd erupted in a deafening cheer as she levered her hold behind him. "Point! Winner!" the referee cried. "So, George. Now is the time," Anna said as she leaned in close to his ear. "Never, you bitch," he muttered. She smiled, and jerked her hold on him. A small, muted crackling sound came from his trapped arm, and he whined loudly. "Point, I said! Winner! Release!" the referee insisted. "Beg, boy," Anna hissed. "Beg me." "Oh, God!" George cried, his eyes wide. "Please, Anna, don't! Don't, it hurts!" "Winner! Release!" She leaned in close to him again. "I told you, George. You are pathetic. Worm," she added, and muscled her hold with the biggest, most savage jerk she could muster. The sound of George Smovdovic's arm breaking filled the auditorium; it sounded like a loud, crisp, clear rifle shot as the bone snapped under her hold, followed a millisecond later by the high, mewling scream than came from George's lips. She finally released him, and he collapsed, his arm bent at a sickening new angle. She turned to face the sound that had covered up his sharp crying - the raucous, bellowing "boos" that filled the air. The auditorium was thrumming with its disapproval of her display. Her eyes met those of her father. He was smiling. "Disqualification!" the referee shouted, and raised George's uninjured arm in victory. The crowd cheered. Anna stepped to the edge of the mat, and bowed, her smile as broad as her father's. The crowd roared against her once more. - Now - The zipper slid down soundlessly, and Tatiana stepped out of the overalls with the odd, almost feline grace her mother once showed. She balanced on one leg and brought the other up and out of the work clothes, and she admired how the dim lighting of the hallway was reflected in the shiny material covering her thigh. The latex bodysuit she wore beneath the work clothing was her standard attire when on one of her "jobs," and she had grown to love it. The tight, constrictive feel of the gleaming rubber bound her into a tightly coiled mass, like a spring with all its energy contained. The reflected light gleamed and danced across the surface of her body; the material was wafer-thin, and revealed every sculpted muscle and curve of her thin, lithe frame. The suit helped hide her in darkness and the material protected her from body heat detection, to an extent...but truth be told, Anna just liked the way it felt, the way it looked on her. And, in a perfect example of a Pavlovian response, she had grown to love it for what wearing it promised: an excuse to exercise her cruelty. The footsteps were drawing nearer...two of them. Very well. Tatiana drew on the forearm length matching gloves, and bent at the waist to secure the boots, all gleaming black, all the way down to the mid-height heel that should have impaired her more athletic moves but never did. The footsteps rounded the corner. Only a few feet away now. Tatiana drew a long, quiet breath. This would be the most difficult task she had undertaken in her 26 years. There was no turning back now. Two men in matching coveralls walked past the alcove in which she stood. Anna's crimson lips peeled back in a savage grin. And then she sprang into a blur of motion. - Then - The lights of the passing cars danced across her face as they passed, a smile of happiness, pleasure, and contentment played across her lips. Her father watched her from the seat beside her, his expression at once intrigued and bemused. "Anna...did you have to hurt the boy so?" "Of course not, Papa." "He was beaten." "Yes. I had beaten him." "Then...why?" Her eyes flashed in the dim light of the big car's back seat. "Because he deserved it. They all deserve it." "Deserve what?" She grinned. "They deserve to have whatever I want to give them. And tonight, I wanted George Smovdovic to have pain." Nikolai considered this. To hear her talk like this, and to see her, so much like her mother, so achingly beautiful. The high, arching brow, the cat-like eyes, the delicate nose and the high, aqualine cheekbones of royalty, the strong yet feminine jawline and chin, the full, bee-stung crimson lips...so much like her mother...and yet, so much like him. He nodded ruefully. "I suppose then that it is time." "Time for what, Papa?" "Tomorrow, I have a meeting at the house with some important, powerful men. Russian men. After that meeting, I will show you the everyday operations of the family business. You are young, younger than I when I began, but you are ready. Ready to run the business." "The spice import/export business?" she wondered aloud. He nodded in a strange way. "That is indeed some of it. But we also export...other items. Items worth far, far more money than garlic or coriander seed. Enough money that men would kill for it." In her heart, she had known since she was old enough to consider it. The palatial home, the servants, the deferential manner she and her entire family received from the townspeople. That wasn't respect...it was fear. "Drugs?" she asked. He nodded. "And weapons," she added. It was not a question. "Yes." Silence. Then: "Have you ordered men killed?" A long quiet. "Have you?" "Yes." She nodded as her gaze returned to the passing cars. "I see." "I was only trying to provide-" "Papa," she interrupted him for the first time in her life. "...yes?" "The next time you order a man killed?" "Yes, Anna?" She turned her head back to him, her eyes gleaming in the darkness. "Let me be the one to do it." - Now - The workman never knew what hit him. Tatiana's booted leg swung out in a perfectly placed snap kick; the armored curve of her booted foot lashed out and connected with the man's skull at the precise place it joined his spine. He muttered a soft "wugh" sound and fell in a boneless heap. She stepped nimbly forward and her right arm lanced out in an underhanded jabbing strike, her fingers curled in at the first knuckle. Her blurring strike stove in the second workman's throat; he gagged silently, his breath stolen, the ability for him to cry for help robbed from him. Eyes wide, he gurgled and staggered away backward a few steps. Like a cat, Tatiana knelt beside the downed man and her latex-clad fingers plucked his security card from his belt. "Thanks for the-" she began. The heavy workboot connected with her shoulder in an awkward, but still painful, manner, and her small, lithe form was propelled backward by simple physics. Even as she slammed into the steel corridor wall, she cursed her hubris. Not bad for a wrench-turner, she thought. Got to give him credit. Indeed, the second man, still gurgling softly but with anger burning in his eyes alongside the pain, came for her again, his arms outstretched, his fingers clutching awkwardly. She noticed for the first time he sported a ridiculous, walrus-style mustache. Ah, no, she thought randomly as she executed the same maneuver she had used all those years ago on poor George Smovdovic. Like oil, like the liquid light that danced on the surface of the slippery suit she wore, she ducked under the man's grasp and slid around him in a lightning-fast way. In a flash his right arm was locked painfully behind him. Unlike poor George, however, she didn't hesitate; no, now, expediency was key. She powered her hold with a jerk, and the man's arm snapped with a sharp, loud report. He threw back his head in a soundless scream, and she wrapped her sleek left arm around the front of his throat, securing his neck and back in an awkward, painful hammerlock. She took a breath, waited, then blew it out as she threw all her weight down and to the left. As slight as her frame was, her training had made her strong for her size, and the man's spine simply couldn't cope with the awkward angle as she bent him in half backwards. His lower back broke with a fibrous ripping sound, and a second later his neck went with a thick, muted crackle. His struggles abruptly ceased, and his eyes widened even further as his frantic gurgling ended as well. Then his eyes became fixed, and glassy, and then it was over. She released him and his body fell with no grace; his dead weight dropped like a rock and his head bounced on the steel floor with a hollow BONK sound. Without pausing to relish her kill, Anna danced lightly over to the first man, all the time angrily reminding herself to watch for her tendency to celebrate...her shoulder hurt like hell where the second man had kicked her, but it could have been a whole lot worse. Again she wished for the sheer, effortless knock-down power of a big man. If she had had it, she could've killed the second man before the first had even finished falling in a heap. As a master thief and hired assassin, she had to make several concessions for her 5'4" slender frame. Landing ten times the number of blows a big man would just have to be one of them. A fingertip to the neck told her the story. The workman was still alive, but probably wouldn't be for long; his pulse was weak and thready. Still. Better to be sure. She rolled him over onto his front, and in a flash she wrapped her long, supple, latex-covered legs around his midsection and her arms around his head, and then rolled over. His body rolled easily around, so she was now on her back. Anna torqued the poor man's head to the right, and flexed the smooth muscles of her legs against him as leverage. She pulled on his head harder...harder... His neck broke with a pop, a pause, a louder POP, another pause, and then a gruesome muted CRACKLE of tortured bone and gristle. He immediately began shaking all over, the full-body shake caused by a firestorm of panicked, dying neurons firing, and she held him close until it was over, enjoying the steadily weakening shuddering of his body, revelling in the knowledge that it was she who had done this offense to him. She pushed him off of her, rose with effortless grace, and looked down the hall. There, not fifty yards down the steel corridor, was a heavy blast door and a blinking keypad and card swipe interface. Her luminous green eyes narrowed as her crimson lips drew up in a smile. Her target lay just on the other side of that door, unguarded, and remained relatively unknown, save that she would be able to carry it alone and without regard for a cumbersome shape. She was in it for the sport, really. Already fabulously wealthy, she didn't need the object for monetary gain. Her reach was long, as when the word came back to her through her network of observers and informants that this very location, a clandestine government lab in the New Mexico desert, housed a device that could revolutionize the world, well, that simply meant it was ripe for the picking. So she threw a white-collar party in Santa Fe, and made sure the government pencil-pusher and his wife were on the list of the invited. Simple. Then, a matter of convincing them to join her in the mansion's private study for a drink and a business question. Easy. Rendering the wife unconscious with a nerve strike and blaming it on the champagne. Tricky, but done. Seducing the pencil-pusher. Effortless. Likewise rendering him unconscious. Ridiculously easy. Having her operatives dispose of the pair to a 5-star area hotel, in a room under their own names, to awake confused, and not a little embarrassed. No problem. But not before taking a sample of his fingerprints, and his ID. Which allowed her to gain employment with the health services and sanitation contracting business the lab used as a cost-cutting measure. Leading to here, now, as she left the two dead men behind her and sprinted down the hallway, her raven-colored, auburn-tipped hair flying behind her as she flashed down the corridor in a sleek, oiled flash of reflected light. She reached the door, grinned, and swiped slot on the keypad. Victory was so close she could taste it. The door hissed open. - Then - Her father, riddled with huge, ragged, bloody holes, staggering after the car. Her mother, a crumpled form on the mansion doorstep. The other family SUV erupting in a sudden ball of flame, blossoming out like some kind of angry red flower. The huge Russian thug with the assault rifle, stepping in behind her father, and obliterating him with an invisible storm of supersonic lead. The last thing she saw was her father's left arm separate from his body and spin up into the air, flipping end over end... "Don't look, my young Anna," Viktor, the loyal manservant gasped from the driver's seat. "Don't look. There is nothing there to see." And he stepped down harder on the gas pedal as the Cadillac SUV tore out of the compound, the house and garage a smoldering ruin. Viktor, faithful to the last, even as the bullet that would kill him only four hours later burned in his chest...Viktor, who died in Tatiana's arms, in that Prague back alley...but not before giving her a last gift from her father: a tiny box sealed with a black ribbon. Tears streamed down her face as she opened it, and read the short letter inside. "My dearest Tatiana, If Viktor has given you this, then something monstrous has happened and you are now truly on your own. Do not be afraid, because I am not afraid for you - there is no young woman on Earth so ready to chart her own path as you, my sweet. But a little help is always good, yes? In the rear of this vehicle, where the spare tire would normally be, is a duffle bag with $2 million American dollars in cash. Alongside this note you will find a key for a safe deposit box inside the Bank de Prague. It is known only to me...and now you, eh? Krasna! Inside the box you will find another $2 million in cash, along with small packets of $25,000 in various currencies, in case you must move quickly. In addition, there is a Swiss account in your name - its worth is not known to me currently, but a man I trust oversees its investment and I'm sure it is several times over what you now have in cash reserve. It is not much compared to my love, little one, but it is surely a place to start, eh? Use the funds as you will; there will be no more aid based on your name, so use them wisely. But, as I am without fear for your well-being, I am without fear for your financial life as well. There is far too much of myself in you for you to fail in any endeavor you set your sights upon. My daughter, I worked so hard to secure the kind of life you and your mother deserved; now, if you are reading this, I'm afraid those efforts have led to ruin. Just know that above all else, I cherished each and every moment I spent with you, and even though I cannot clasp your hand in mine any longer, I will still be with you. Always, your loving father Tatiana eyes brimmed over with easy tears, making the world swim before her. She allowed herself to weep. Just this once. Just this one time. And only for a moment. A few minutes later, a beautiful, if not soot-smudged young woman stepped from the battered SUV, opened the rear hatch, and peeled back the floor mat to reveal a medium-sized black bag. She smiled sadly, slung the bag over a shoulder, and went back to the driver's door. She leaned into the vehicle and regarded the dead driver with a twinge of sadness. She kissed his cooling brow tenderly, and then pulled his body so it tumbled unceremoniously onto the concrete surface of the grimy alleyway. She got behind the wheel, backed out into traffic, and disappeared. For a while. ***** Continued in our Amy's Conquest (www.amysconquest.com) Exclusive, Member's Only Section OR purchase it individually in our site's Updated Format! *****