Hair, straightened with perspiration, stuck slick to the back of her neck. The bag swung mercilessly though the air from her assult. Knuckles on ivory hands rubbed raw, and to the point of bleeding. She didn't care. The lights were off. In the dark shadows couldn't creep up on you, and a woman like her could even become one of them in the harsh new york winter. If she played her cards right.

Stepping back into the fighting stance that came natural to her she kicked her legs back one hand touched the ground for a moment before she was back on her feet. Throwing her left leg out she spun on her heel, rotating round but slim hips, extending the kick, knocking the bag to the side once more. Nottingham was showing off. *He* was watching. And she all ways worked so hard for his approval.

"Your bleeding." Very cultured. A trace of something in his voice, like a man whom had spent too much time in far off land and aquired the accent.

"....."

"You should probably cease bludgoning the bag and ice your hands."

"....."

"Stop." A comand. Sotto voci, but it carried through the spartan room.

He took a few steps nearer, closing in on her. Unnaturally tender, he reached out, pushing the errant curls from her face and she leaned into the touch. Very rarley did Kennith show affection, no matter how eager she was for his love and approval. Bekka blamed the years in Germany with that horrid little man. A scared hand rested on her neck, thumb stroking her cheek. "You're upset with me."

"Never. I'm worried about him Kennith." A soft sigh as she stepped into the embrase. "I want him to have no part with the digitablium. It'll end badly."

A pause. And then. "He is the protector. He plays an important role in all this and I want him under my control."

"It will end badly for him." Dark curls hung over her face. Even now, in private, speaking candidly, she submitted. In a mind warped by powers reality she hoped to someday earn his love. It have been nearly sixty years, linked though a common bond and she still didn't have it. "Its happened before."

"This time *I* will shape who he becomes."

"I can't let you. He is *my* child and I will not have you warp him as you did me." Something crisp about her voice. An accent, british, maybe? It had been a long time since she had been anything but servant to a tyrant.

"Thats why you ran?" Not a question, all though it was ment that way. Fingers entwined in dark locks pulled viciously. "It was foolish of you. You thought I wouldn't find you in your little english hide away just like I wouldn't find the girl?"

Hands and knees hit the floor and skid, ripping the layers of skin. Two sets of footsteps, one leaving the room and one entering. Cheap after shave and... flash powder?... hung off the new entry to the room. She didn't look up. She knew who it was, and what he was here for. The blows came fast, a kick to the midsection, punches to the face. No fighting back, there wasn;t any point. Kennith had all ready won.

Now all she could do was wait for the enevitable.

--------------------------------------------------

The boy stopped dead a few steps behind his unlikley gaurdian. Three, nearly four, and he knew what that sound was. Small eyes looked up the the towering form of his father, questioning, frightened. "Father. Guns."

"Its nothing." The words were crisp... clipped. Could that have been a tear? Of course not, father never cried. He was the epitomy of strength. A strong hand reached down grasping the tiny arm, tugging him along with more strength than intended. "Come along Ian. Its time for bed."

"But Bekka does that.." This was confusing. Out of the routine he was so used to. "Where is she..?"

"She went away." A wave of the hand and a maid appeared out of nowhere, like magic. Ian all ways liked magic.