Beautiful Stranger

Beautiful stranger

Premises: a futuristic earth, nations fight over recourses. Governments have developed genetically enhanced solders for defence, but more often they are used to put down rebellion. Remorseless, obedient and utterly relentless these solders are feared by all. But In one war torn city a young dancer is about to get under the armour of one of these men, and discovers just what kind of man lies behind the killer.

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Part one


Iris had been told on more than one occasion that her stubbornness was going to be the death of her. Sheltering under a table as another explosion rocked the building it looked like that prophetic declaration was going to come true sooner rather then later. Why couldn’t she have just listened to warnings that rebel forces were still active in the area? Why did she have to say that she was not going to let fear rule her life and go to practise? It’s not like she even had a performance to practice for, the Ballet company disbanded, the theatre had not been open for weeks not when anyone with even half an iota of sense was staying well away from the city centre.

On the walk in Iris had tried not to notice the damaged shop fronts that marred the streets like a mouth with missing teeth or the burnt out cars. Instead she was buoyed by the sight of people on the street shopping, Iris supposed they were either as mad as she was, or just plain desperate.

Despite the sultry weather, the small dance studio in the theatre had been cool and dark. Alone Iris had danced, with nothing but the music in her own mind for acomplament, and only her refection in the faded mirrors for company. But she liked it like that, when she danced she was outside of herself, of all this mess. None of it mattered as she spun and spun and spun, not the people who had disappeared, not the gunfire at night, not the ever present soldiers, not the once elegant buildings that were now little more then rubble, the rising food prices, the power outs, or the constant fear; none of it mattered, as she leapt, turned, arabesqued, and skipped. All she wanted, had ever wanted was to dance on the stage under those bright, bright lights, but every day that dream seemed to be slipping away like sand through her hands. In that studio for a few hours at least she could pretend that she was still a ballerina, that as darkness fell the gallery would be filled with people ready to fall under the music’s spell, to fall in love with the illusion she would create, if even for just a few hours.


She had not practiced properly for over a month, and soon her leotard was soaked in sweat ignoring the ache in her ankle, her old injury, she just pushed herself harder until it suddenly gave and she missed her step stumbling over. Getting up she tentatively tested it out, worrying that she had overdone it, but flexing it there hadn’t seemed to be any lasting damage.

Iris relished the almost exquisite ache in her limbs as she had warmed down. But oh, it was good to be dancing, after her injury she was not even sure that she would be able to dance again. She had stretched in front of the mirrors, Iris had always carried more weight then most dancers, and with months of inactivity she was positively curvy. Ruefully she patted her rump, and cupped her cleavage. “I look more like a slutty burlesque dancer then a ballet dancer.” She pouted, and pulled a few poses laughing at herself before getting out of her sweaty leotard and hitting the showers.

As Iris towelled off her wild brown mop of hair she noticed that the streets outside were suspiciously quiet and she switched on the small TV to give the impression of not being alone. As she watched Iris began to realise her grave mistake. It was the lunch time news, and she was not surprised to see groups of people with guns, their faces shrouded with bandanas pulling down cameras, then the armoured trucks of the enforcers roiling in, heavily armoured troops jumping down and scattering the crowds. She watched impassively until recognition dawned upon her. She knew those shop fronts; they were only a block away from where she was sat.

And so, that was how her stubborn pride landed her in the middle of a fire fight between heavily armed descendant forces, and the government’s S2 super solders. Not a place any sane person wanted to be. The rebels had been growing more and more desperate with the government’s grip tightening, their acts of terrorism more violent and shocking, their fights spilling on to the streets. The government’s reaction was just as horrific, their generation S2 soldiers (more commonly known by the moniker Spartans) were utterly relentless, it didn’t matter to them if they had to massacre a whole shopping centre, or flatten a whole block to make sure that they had killed all the rebels. According to rumours they were breed to have no emotions, more like machines than man, and with their hevaly armoured suits and enclosed helmets there was little to suggest that they were human.

Rubble fell from the ceiling as the theatre’s roof sagged a missile having taken out it’s elegant pillars. Iris did not want to wait to see what the next missile might do and crept out of her hiding place, shaking the glass and plaster from her hair and clothes. The studio was a mess, the long mirror’s and frosted glass windows shattered, debris all over the floor.

The young woman threw herself backwards and tried to hide behind a dividing curtain as a man and a woman dived in through an open doorway, their lower faces covered by bandanas, their clothing worn but serviceable, sturdy boots on their feet, and rifles slung over their shoulders. The woman made an urgent hand gesture at her to be quiet and keep down. Iris shrunk back further in to the velvety material.

Iris would have sympathised with the dissenters cause (men and women pushed to far by the government’s totlateriusum) if they didn’t keep bringing this kind of crap down on normal people. Their gorilla campaign was causing more harm to the everyday people then it was the government, and all their presence caused was for the Spartan’s to come down upon innocent civilians.

She realised that the man was wounded, three of his fingers missing he had wrapped a hasty bandage around his hand with some dirty fabric trying to stem the bleeding. The woman was now looking around what was left of the studio. Prompted by some small measure of compassion and wanting them to get them out of there as fast as possible, Iris pointed to the door behind her. She cleared her throat. “There is a first aid box in that room, in the cupboard above the sink. There’s not much in it but….”

“Thank you.” The woman said, and went to retrieve it.

Once the man was hastily treated the rebels moved on, riffles at the ready. They looked up and down the narrow back street. “Clear.”

Iris followed them, peering out anxiously. The shortest way back home, through the shopping centre was blocked by a great pile of rubble across the street where a building had partially collapsed. Iris began to debate whether just to stay put rather then risk it. Gunshot volleys and the low thrum of helicopter blades echoed ominously through the air. A group of people outlined darkly ran past the entrance to the street, along the main street. The theatre no longer had a roof. Tears stung behind her eyes, there was no way that the dance company was going to recover from this. She dashed them away, and pulled herself together. Iris decided that she would be dammed before she stayed a moment longer in the grave of her dreams.

The woman looked back at Iris and said almost reluctantly. “You should come with us, they are sending in more troops. You know how it is shoot first ask questions later.”

Iris shook her head. “Thanks’ but no thanks. I will be fine on my own.”

The woman shrugged and left her to it. Iris turned, and began to clamber up the rubble. An urgent hiss made her look back. The woman waved at her from the end of the street. “Don’t go that way, a nerve agen…..”

Iris never found out what the woman was warning her about as a double tap of gunshot rang out, and the rebel woman crumpled to the floor. The man was dispatched a moment later, the force of a bullet sending him crashing back against the wall, sliding down, blood trailing behind him like a greasy stain.

Time seemed to slow, silhouetted at the end of the street was a tall figure in body armour, his broad shoulders blocking out the light. A Spartan she had never seen one up close, he was simply huge, faceless his body encased in armour like some emotionless cibertron, and he now had his gun trained on Iris.

Iris wanted to shout at him that she was a civilian but her tongue was paralysed by fear. It was no secret that if the Spartan’s were ordered to clear and area they would clear an area, civilian or rebel it didn’t matter. The government had excused itself by saying that civilian loss though regrettable, was acceptable when battling the threat of terrorism.

The young woman’s heart seemed to be trying to burst from her chest, probably trying to escape her inevitable death. This was how the rabbit must feel knowing the hawk was watching, and like the rabbit Iris was frozen to the spot. Keeping her eyes fixed firmly on him, he didn’t move towards her. So perhaps he wasn’t interested in her after all and she twitched to move.

The soldier didn’t hesitate to shoot. But at that instant the unstable bricks under her hand shifted and she fell backwards, tumbling down the other side of the rubble and rolling on to the street. Dazed and barely believing her luck she got up, rubbing her cheek sill feeling the bullets kiss where it had passed. Aching from her fall Iris began to run as fast as she could.

Iris had some vague hope that the Spartan thought that his bullet had hit it’s mark but looking back she saw the S2 volt over the ten foot pile of rubble without braking stride. If Iris had ever wondered why they were called super soldiers she now was left without doubt. She had heard that the Spartan’s had infrared sensors to find rebels who were trying to hide themselves, but knowing that she was not even in her wildest dreams going to out run the genetically enhanced super human, her best bet at surviving this was to find somewhere to hide and so she darted towards the large civic centre. There was bound to be some nook in which she could stash herself, and perhaps Mr trigger happy would be less likely to let rip with his semi automatic inside state property. Perhaps if she gave herself up in there he might actually listen.


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The soldier followed the woman through the streets. It still amazed him that the dissenters thought that they could still outrun a S2 generation like himself. His kind had been selectively bred for eight generations, then genetically enhanced, before being put through the rigorous physical, mental, and tactical training of the Laconian system before being declared fit for action, graduating a Spartan II, the most elite military force in the world. No one could escape them.

As he barged through the rotating door of the building that she ducked in to, he realised that they were back in the civic centre that he had just come from before setting about clearing the streets. Gas masked bodies of rebels he had despatched still littered the floor, as did the bodies of civil servants killed by the nerve agent that the rebels had released.

Changing back from thermal imaging to his regular sight he suddenly realised that the woman he was chasing was perhaps not a rebel after all. Why would someone knowingly run in to a building still full of nerve gas? He studied her, she was attired in one of the unpractical dresses that female civilians sometimes wore, with flat pumps on her feet; the rebels generally were more practical. And besides that she was clean. In the florescent lights he could see the highlights shining in her long sable hair. Living rough the rebels were almost always grubby.

“Civillian, this area has been cordoned off.” He warned. “Dissident forces have released a nerve agent.”

The woman had stopped running she was stood stock still looking at the ridged bodies of the dead civilians, their bodies still horribly contoured by their painful death throws. With a trembling hand she wiped her already running nose. She looked back at him over her shoulder, the knowledge on her young face was terrible to behold as she realised that she was going to die horrifically. Even from where he was standing he could see her pupils contracting as the nerve agent began to take effect, and this one was particularly swift and violent it would be seconds before she began to have trouble breathing, minuets until she died. He was the consummate soldier, everything he did was towards filling his mission brief and saving this civilian woman had no tactical advantages what so ever, he still had the rest of the quarter to clear.

She turned fully now to face him, her lips parted. She really was very young, and her large eyes were pleading with him, for help or a clean death he did not know. She had vivid blue almost violet eyes a startling contrast to her dark curls; it was odd, because he could never remember noticing any one’s eye colour before. For one of the few times in his life he felt a twinge of regret.

With a bitten off curse, and without thinking about the consequences he swooped forwards and swung the woman up in to his arms, ignoring her protests. She was no weight at all, he had guns that weighed heavier then the young woman he thought as he carted her off unceremoniously from the building.

Movement caught his eye, her fingers brushed down his visor. He looked down, she would not have been able to see his face through the one way glass but he could see her, she had the kind of face that made him want to look. The soldier had no way to work out what the woman was thinking and it surprised him that he even cared. Her slim didgets fell away she was already losing consciousness, tremors shaking her small body, the beginning of convulsions.

In the shelter of a building across the plaza he found a place to put her down on a convenient bench. He looked down at the antidote autoinjector pen in his hand and shook his head. Why was he doing this? He was wasting time. All the same he pushed the needle directly in to her jugular, letting it depress with a click.

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A pain like an insect sting woke Iris, she must have passed out. She tried to bat at her neck but a cold metallic grip just short of painful stopped her. A deep voice with the faint echo of synthesiser made her open her eyes. “Your heart was beating too slowly, I have given you adrenalin to counteract this.”

She looked up to see the Spartan. Her heart began to race, and Iris knew it had little to do with the adrenalin he had just given her. But even through her wild fear, she was genuinely astonished that she was still alive. “But the nerve gas….I thought that I was going to die?”

“I administered an antidote.”

“You saved me? You’re not going to kill me?” Iris was genuinely surprised.

“Your still alive so what does that tell you?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.” The soldier did not answer her. Iris found it disconcerting looking up at the helmet, emotionless, and reflecting her own face back at her. It made her wonder what lay behind one way glass that hid the solder’s expression. Was it the face of a monster as everyone said, or under that armour was there a man?

Despite her nerves Iris fixed her best stage smile upon her face. “I suppose I should thank you.”

“I do not want thanks.”

“Then what do you want?” Iris twisted her finger’s together. Laid on the bench, and aware that the simply huge man could snap her like a twig she felt keenly in his power. She would be more likely to fight off a tiger then the Spartan looming over her.

“I want information.” He replied without inflection. “Any names or locations of dissenters that you might have.”

“But I don’t have any information like that.” Iris replied after a moment of astonished silence. “I don’t have anything to do with the dissenters.”

“Then what were you doing on the street. Your behaviour is highly suspicious.”

“I’m a dancer.” She said as if it was obvious. “You know ballet."

"No."

"No? Ok well I am part of a dance troupe, we put on performances to entertain people. I went to the theatre to practice in the studio.”

“Due to the curfew all the communal entertainment centres were closed three weeks ago.”

“I know.”

“Then what were you doing practicing if there are no performances?” There was a sardonic edge to his question, but it was the first sign of any emotion that the Spartan had displayed even if it was sarcastic humour. Perhaps he was not a robot after all?

“Like I said practicing. As a dancer you have to practise every day.”

“So you risked your life to practice a dance that you will never perform?” Iris couldn’t help flashing him a glare, she always had trouble keeping up with her temper, the fault of an artistic temperament. She hoped that he did not notice. Oh god’s he was going to kill her if he did. But he gave a brief male chuckle. The jerk was actually laughing at her. “I can’t decide if you are lying or just stupid.”

“I’m not lying.”

“No. I don’t think you are.” He replied soberly after a moment. “But I still want to know why you were in a redzone.”

“I already told you.”

“You haven’t told me anything. Your story makes no sense.” He said.

“You wouldn’t understand.” Iris sighed as she glanced away. “I want to go home now.”

He didn’t say anything so she took this as assent. She sat up and he did not move, so keeping an eye on him she stood up. Her legs were rubbery and she staggered. Strong arms like bands of steal caught her, pressing her breasts against his metal breast plate. Iris was suddenly aware of his strength, he could have crushed her easily, but he did not. She looked up at the Spartan, his visor was tilted down at her as he held her for a long moment. She suspected she was not the only one holding their breath. Carefully he put her away from him, his grip biting in to the soft bare flesh of her upper arms. She winced and he eased off the pressure before resolutely sitting her back down again.

“You should not move yet.”

An explosion in the distance rumbled the floor, the wind from its blast roaring across the plaza sending a wave of dust towards them. Iris threw herself to the floor, her arms shielding her head as she shook in fear at the Spartan’s feet. The Spartan did not even flinch. Iris looked up at him, how he could be so calm. When she uncurled herself she was shivering. “I’m cold.”

“That is just the adrenalin.”

Iris felt unusually emotional, and fought back embarrassing tears. “I just want to go home.”

“Perhaps you are in shock.” The Spartan studied her, then looked behind at the street. He didn’t sigh, but even without been able to see his face the Spartan had an air of resigned annoyance. “How far is it to your home?”

She pointed. “It’s only a five minuet walk that way.”

“I will take you.”

“What? No I will be fine.”

“It’s still not safe.” He replied, and scooped her up again.

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As he had carried the woman his eyes were drawn down to her legs, bared by the material of her skirt as it rode up right up to the tops of her thigh. Compared with the deep purple of the material her bare flesh was an inviting tawny shade and from the way that the material silked over her skin he knew it would be utterly smooth. He had never been given the chance to study a female civilian for any length of time, and he found himself unwittingly fascinated by her appearance. He didn’t know if she had caught him out or not, but the woman squirmed slightly as if aware of his scrutiny and tugged her skirt down as far as its short length would allow, prompting him to turn his attention back to where he was going, and scouting for any dangers.

The woman’s apartment was small, the top rooms of an old building. He almost had to go sideways up the narrow staircase to get his shoulders through. The soldier stood filling the doorway looking around for traps, and the exit points. When he put her down the woman stepped away from him, evidently embarrassed by something. The woman held the door, swinging it back and forth slightly in a nervous gesture, her dark eyelashes lowered and veiling her emotions. “Well thank you again, for everything. I think I should be alright now.”

Obviously she expected him to leave, but he stepped forwards in to the room. “I haven’t finished interrogating you.”

“Fine.” She sighed wearily. “I need a hot drink first. Would you like a drink? I have tea, coffee or water.”

“No, thank you.” He realised that she was trying to be hospitable, but his training warned him against taking food or drinks from civilians in case of poisoning. Civilians had no hope of overpowering a S2 using brute force, but they were just as susceptible as normal human’s to poisoning.

She looked at the door for a moment, and he got the hint moving a step further in to the room. She had to bump in to him slightly to close it before she went through to the next room to make her drink.

He looked about with interest – it was a very different world from the functional comunal one where he lived. A slanted ceiling following the gradient of the roof made the flat look smaller then it was, but it was light enough the walls painted in a warm earthy yellow which contrasted with the dark wood floor and worn leather sofa. There were a large number of personal effects decorating the flat. A faded Persian rug lay on the floor, and there were plants on a low window sill, various pictures decorated the wall. The room was clean, but some what untidy there were books and papers left out on tables, and a discarded coat not hung up, all the signs of a civilian residence well lived in.

The woman was taking her time but five stories up she was unlikely to escape, not with him standing in the doorway, and he could see the cast iron fire escape out the window from where he stood. The soldier had noticed that the woman was walking with a slight limp, it made him wonder if she had injured her ankle during her escape. The Spartan cleared his mind, he was thinking far too much about the young woman’s body, and the length of her bare legs emerging from the short skirt of her deep purple dress. When she came back she had a mug in hand, her hair was tied back, and she had wrapped a long cream cardigan about herself keeping the room between them. She shifted her weight and leant her hip against the doorway to the kitchen, it threw her curves in to relief and he tracked down her silhouette, noting the way her narrow waist flared out in to a rounded set of hips. “So what do you want to know?”

“I want to know the real reason I found you in the red zone?”

“I already told you I went to the theatre, I am a dancer in the corps.” She gestured at some newspaper clippings pined up on a cork board near him.

He inspected them closer. The young woman was shown at various ages upon a stage in artful poses. There was one photo of her illuminated by a spot light in only a skin tight leotard being lifted high above a man’s head, her arms out and head back as if she was flying. She was smiling, the Spartan did not think that he had ever seen someone look so happy. Euphoric. He turned from it, and the odd way his gut seemed to clench when he looked at it.

“So you said. But why go in to an area known to have dissident forces operating within it.”

One lose curl fell down across her forehead and she shoved at it in annoyance. With her hair up, he could see the elegant line of her neck, and the play of shadow over her clavicle and down the low V of her neckline, revealing and hiding soft curves as she shifted. “I already told you I was practicing, there is a…was a studio in the theatre. I didn’t think about the danger.”

He was incredulous. “You would risk you life to dance?”

“So shoot me.” The woman shrugged, her expression defiant. “I told you before, you would not understand.”

“At this distance I don’t need my rifle to kill you.”

The woman’s lashes lifted suddenly, revealing her blue, violet gaze that hit him like a laser sight. But he did not read fear in it, there was something searching. She pushed her wild fall of glossy dark brown hair back from her face, a gesture that drew his attention to the line of her neck, and that lifted her breasts. She spoke softly, but clearly. “Why did you save my life?”

He didn’t have an answer himself for that question. “Why does it matter?”

“Because I once saw a Spartan shoot a mother and the baby she was carrying to get at a dissenter running behind them. I heard that the Spartan soldiers don’t let anything get in the way of their missions.” The woman stipulated. “So why go out of your way to spare me? I bet that antidote was expensive.”

“I thought that you might have some useful information.”

“You knew I didn’t have any useful information. Don’t you guys shoot first ask questions later if you thought that I knew anything I would be dead.” Silence fell, tense like a sail when the wind blew. He didn’t know how it had happened but some how the power balance had slipped in the woman’s favour. She crossed her arms, tilting her head to the side, her voice was soft “Take your helmet off.”

There was a subtext that he felt he was missing, but something in him responded to her tone, and though every bit of his training was warning him against it, his hands went to the catches, releasing the air lock with a hiss and then lifting it off his shoulders.


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Iris couldn’t believe it, he was actually taking off his helmet for her.

Her lips parted in surprise. The man was ruggedly hansom. He was what a man should look like she thought. All hard stern lines, with a strong jaw and dark frowning brows, beneath which were a pair of intelligent amber eyes set well in to his tanned lionish face. The only thing that softened his features was the cleft in his stubborn chin and his inviting coral lips.

She had been staring quite rudely, and the Spartan cleared his throat looking away bashfully.

“Ah, sorry.” She apologised. “You’re younger then I thought that you would be. You know with your voice.”

Iris wasn’t exactly sure why she had asked him to take off his helmet, but now she saw him the urge suddenly made sense. Iris, despite herself had been curious about the Spartan. As a dancer Iris was used to strong men lifting her. But she had never just lain helpless in a man’s arms, and actually for the first time in months she felt safe. She was taller then the average dancer, and inclined to be curvy rather then boyish or willowy so she had often felt self conscious of being heavy during lifts, but it seemed to be no problem for the super soldier. He probably could have carried her all day and not broken a sweat. The Spartan had even carried her bridal style across the threshold, and for a moment she had thought of her favourite romantic films before she dismissed the silly girlish thought. Now she considered the possibilities.

She cleared her throat. “So there’s a man under that armour after all.”

He remained silent, simply looking back at her with those odd amber eyes, like some great cats.

“Not much for conversation are you?” Iris smiled.

A small grin twisted his mouth in a way that made her feel all girly and silly. “No.” His voice was just as rich and deep, better without the interference of the helmet. “I have not had much practice speaking to civilians like this.”

“Really, I wouldn’t have known?” She smiled archly, getting another answering grin off the Spartan. “I suppose we ought to do this properly,” She said. “Iris Courtenay.” She walked over to him and held out a hand for him to shake. He took it reluctantly as if unsure what he should be doing. Once again she felt the strength of his grip, though he was carful not to hurt her.

“Hastings.”

“Just Hastings.”

“Generation S2 Delta 1066 SN1, Hastings.” He saluted vigorously. Startled Iris tripped back over herself, yelping in the process as it twisted her already sore ankle.

Hastings caught her as she fell back, catching the top of her arms with lightning fast reactions. “No no, I’m fine really.” Alarmed Iris put her hands up to ward him off, and he loosed go immediately as she hopped back, making little pained/ annoyed noises under her breath. Plopping down on the couch she gingerly pulled her injured ankle to cross over her other thigh it was slightly puffy and she cursed her earlier stupidity for dancing so long on it.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I have just twisted it, but there is an old injury.” Iris admitted. Wincing as she tentatively rotated and flexed the joint.

“Let me take a look.” He offered. “All S2’s are given combat medic training,”

“That’s reassuring.” Iris replied dubiously. But truth was she was so worried about causing irreparable damage to her valuable legs that she saw the good sense of letting someone who knew vaguely what they were doing look at it. After all she doubted that she would be able to go see a doctor any time soon, and certainly not for something as minor as a bit of a sprain while large chucks of the city lay in ruins and people were still being dragged up from the rubble. “Ok then, have a look.” She proffered her leg, and he knelt down before her. Iris watched as the Spartan bent his head to study the limb, and then compared it with the other. She was sorely tempted to run her hands over his short bronze coloured hair.

He rocked back. “My I have permission to take off my gloves, to feel the extent of the swelling.”

Iris nodded. “Sure.”

He tugged them off and took the injured limb in his hands, cradling her heal after he slid off her pump. His palm was calloused, his touch light as he smoothed his hands up her tendons. It made her want to curl her toes in a good way, the sensations going right up through her body. She needed to distract herself “Hastings. Hastings.” Iris repeated, testing the word. “That’s an unusual name.”

“I was named after a battle.”

“A battle?”

“We are all named after great battles, or famous warriors. Like Crecy, Dunkirk, Alamo, Troy, Alexander, Comanche, Gengis, or Ajax.” He carried on working, his touch sure and precise.

“We, as in the other Spartans?”

“Yes. The other S2’s.” He let go of her leg, letting it drop down her foot resting on his heavily muscled thigh. “I want to compare it against the other to determine the level of swelling.”

“Do what you have to.” Iris shrugged. She bit her lip as he explored the other limb. Hastings then took the injured one again to recheck, his grip firmer this time, pinching up and down her achilles. She found herself almost moaning in protest when he stopped.

Iris opened her eyes unaware that she had closed them, he was looking up at her with such longing that she was drawn towards him without thinking.

“It looks like a mild sprain.” He said softly, his eyes falling away uncomfortably.

“What?”

“Your ankle, it’s mildly sprained.”

“Oh.” Iris sat back. What was she thinking? You were thinking of kissing him, a traitorous voice in her mind pointed out. He’s a killer. And what do you even know about him, he could have a girlfriend, or married. “Well that’s good news right.”

“It will need a cool pack to take the swelling down.”

“I don’t have one. But I do have some frozen pees in my refrigerator.” She moved to get them, but he laid a restraining hand on her shoulder.

“I will get them.” She watched him go through to the kitchen, noting his walk not a swagger, it was more purposeful then that, but there was a certain male arrogance to it – a man who was at totally at ease in his body, a man in his prime. And what a body, even with that armour on over the top of his black combat gear she could see the broadness of his shoulders, his trim torso, and though his trousers were practically lose to allow movement, she saw the outline of what looked to be a very fine rear. “Where are they?” He called over his shoulder looking faintly bemused.

“Inside the cupboard door on the left of the sink, top shelf.” She replied leaning over to see what he was doing. He bent down, peering inside the fridge looking for the refrigerator compartment. She was right, he did have a very fine rear. When he stood back up again, Iris straightened up not wanting to be caught gawping.

Something beeped on him, and there was a static voice.

Hastings replied in clipped efficient tones. “1066 SN1, Hastings reporting. On point in the tenth quadrant. Affirmative I am already in the area. Keep me updated on their movements this way. Affirmative, out.”

He came back through. She couldn’t help sounding disappointed. “Are you going?”

“In a minuet, I am on sniper duty, to watch the road for any rebels escaping.” He knelt down again, applying the peas to the back of her ankle and holding them in place. She gasped at the cold, and he gave a brief chuckle at her expression.

“Thank you.” Iris said. “For everything.” His eyes flickered up to hers again, but he stayed quiet, and moved the ice pack around, his free hand resting over the top of her foot. “How come you know about all this stuff? I mean I can’t imagine many Spartan’s get sprained ankles.”

He grinned ruefully. “Not many, that’s true. But as well as our combat medic course, we all are trained in sport therapy normally in the prevention of injury then the treatment. Something like a sprain in the field could mean the difference of life or death.”

“When you put it that way my worry about whether I will dance again or not seems pretty silly.”

He lifted the ice and looked down at her ankle. “This is nothing, you should be fine by tomorrow. I ice is just precautionary. Why would you think that you could not dance on it?”

“I tore a ligament a few months ago, I was told that it could be a carer ending injury. Luckily I’m young and it healed ok, but it’s a weakness. Even if it gets a bit sore I worry about it.”

“I see.” He ran his palm along her leg soothingly, his eyes following the caress. Then stopped, drawing his fingers away and pulling back. “You should be fine. I should go.”

Against all reason and good sense Iris found that she didn’t want him to leave just yet. And there it was, she was attracted to him, plain and simple. And perhaps the Spartan was not as unaffected by her as his cool expression belied. There was something in the way his eyes ran restlessly over the room, trying to avoid looking at her. The way he stood up as if slightly uncomfortable. Perhaps he was more man then even she had given him credit for.

He was turning to go, about to pick his rifle and helmet up from on the table. “Wait.” Iris said softly as she stood.

There was a pregnant pause, and he turned half to face her, his body almost brushing hers as he looked down at Iris in confusion. Hastings opened his mouth to say something, but in one movement Iris crowded him standing up on her toes, and sliding a hand about his shoulder, the other on his strong bicep for support, leaning up to kiss the corner of his lips.

He stiffened and she heard his swift intake of breath. Timidly she stroked her hand up his arm, up his neck to rest on his stubble roughened cheek, with gentle pressure she encouraged him to turn his face towards hers. He watched her with unfathomable golden eyes that seemed to burn away all her artifice. Slowly she pressed her lips fully to his.


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Lemon next chapter ;)

Ratings and Reviews would be appriciated.

This will be a two part story unless there is intrest in continuing.