Cuba

"Deus ex machina, am I right? Treize was a very tragic, miserable man to embed God into a freaking machine, and those doctors implemented the same madness. We all teased him for being theatrical, yet we'd been on target the whole time, correct?"
Miliardo and his paramour passively invited the bitter tide for a bath up their limbs inside a craggy hideaway under the cerulean perishing sky.
Lucrezia's neural vigor has so many times visited these same pitfalls, and chose to humor them for charitable reasons. She studied the celestial lion's mane scatter through atmospheric particles an hour hand's notch above the rippled and aqueous seascape.
"You're on the ball, Lover. The rest of us heroically failed at achieving a military cool-down with all the off-the-shelf parts we had handy, so he built a Lucifer, if you will, cast as antagonist of Zero."
"Roses are rouge, toasters are actually pointless appliances, taxes hamper profit. Are my lazy observations really merited to fit under such simple common nomenclature?" He kept his touch velvety while locking a dorsal full nelson. Both hands clasped around her wiry neck, contoured up the nape, and ruffled Noin's downy amethyst tresses. His stroking touch read her giddy beam through tactile feedback from the tense muscles he kneaded deeply.
"Mars is as a bleached rose up close, ocean depths deplete energy weapons inconveniently, and blockades restrict my diet," she purred, vocal output shaken, "my classical education surpasses yours. It flushes through my Latin blood and background." She shudders a laugh.
"You Saxons never really capture the feeling of Greco-Roman culture the way we do."
"I'll give you that," he resigned, "you guys are the oldfangled ones." He played with the fastened tangle, teasing in word and deed simultaneously.
"Try remembering we're on a public beach, amigo," she chided sleepily, thoroughly complacent.
"I'll keep things PG, but I need these straps clear if I'm to operate an indulgent massage."
She settled prostrate on her stomach, and Zechs proceeded with removing the laced fasten. Noin kept the top pinned to her chest while receiving the rubdown. The Count examined the narrow lines untouched by the ocher tinge making up most of her skin. Time on the equator subtly shaded the fair tone of his lady, and he took time to contrast the pallor and ocher flavors.
He proceeded unknotting any tension on every portion of her malleable form until the evening tide ceased licking at the pair.
"Thanksgiving dinner's served up the cliff," he whispered, rousing Lucrezia from her afternoon reverie, "in a private veranda, shrouded in fabric."
He gallantly knelt to one side, and lifted her to his chest.
"I'll direct the hotel staff to our beach articles, and we'll take some time to dine," he spoke evenly, above her volatile kicking protests.
"Zechs, put me down! I'm losing my top!" To assist, the knight craned his neck toward the article in question, and clamped a bite between his teeth.
"Got it," he mumbled, before leaning back to shake his head like a soaked dog, until he had all of it draped to her shoulder.
"Just tie that to my neck, and we'll resolve the issue topside," he punned, vacating the party from the beach, "and I'll partition out some turkey servings."

Columbia

He remembered no dream, and knew no dream world flickered under his eyelids, except something primitive, like the dream of a cat. Heero Yuy doesn't have a subconscious drive, because he knows everything he wants, and doesn't flinch to change the entire world to get it. Zero told him this.
Heero elevated his back, and rolled his feet out of bed, swiveled, and tucked in the covers. No one else occupied the bed, or the room, because Heero Yuy didn't wish to share his sanctuary with anyone else, and he didn't need Zero to tell him that.
He rubbed sleep from both eyes, and removed his shorts, slinging them where the maid can find them, at the foot of the made bed, and stuttered to the shower. It turned on at ninety-three degrees Fahrenheit, a good temperature for sensory deprivation. He'd gone through many injuries in his short life, and bothered to find many ways to compensate for the aches.
The boy lathered and rinsed industriously, not fooling or lingering, using a locally produced bar of lye soap, but cared to use a generic bottled shampoo on his immense head of hair. He also used a special product on his face, knowing that's another area that must appear normal to the public, or else he'll stand out.
Barely after stepping in, he vacated the stall, and retrieved the folded clothes the maid set out for him.
On that day, Heero bothered to smell the clothing, and noted the positive fact that the maid used a fabric softener.
He dried and dressed and sot after breakfast. Sniff.
"Tanya?" He distinctly smelled something toasted and something with cinnamon.
"I have breakfast set out, Boss," she merrily replied. He passed through the living space, seeing the flashing glow of the terminal screen showcasing an opinion panel of for women discussing the highlights of the Thanksgiving holiday.
"Bishop Douglas was just wonderful in Mogadishu, and I'm making him my pick as the person of the holiday. Wasn't it just wonderful what he said for all those desperate people in that poor city?"
Heero brushed past while the applause track roared through his ear, and plopped in his barstool.
The meal looked English or Anglo-American, if there's a difference, with a toasted blueberry bran muffin on one plate side, under pears in cinnamon syrup, and a bowl of old fashioned oatmeal in the plate's middle. A glass of mixed juice squired out the feast.
It beats electrolyte water and a granola bar every morning. He tried the muffin and sloshed a steaming chunk in his mouth when Tanya joined him from the hall, using the remote to change the video feed.
"They're funny sometimes, but bad news from Africa always dampens their moods," she explained, shifting to the Pop Culture Satire Channel. Heero couldn't distinguish a difference in programming.
"But things worked out in Africa. The Preventers drenched a major fire," Heero rebutted, slothfully.
"Think so?" The pilot segued to a more immediate problem.
"Do you remember your pledge to see your counselor?" He sensed an inaudible gasp.
"I said that yesterday, right?" Heero gulped his oatmeal and bobbed his head, "yes."
"M'kay, I'll dial the office, and see about an appointment." She shut the program down and accessed her phonebook, then dialed up, all under the witness of Heero Yuy.
Tanya's wearing her pull-on pajamas, a sign she didn't plan on going out today. The Gundam pilot couldn't eavesdrop on the other side of the conversation, but it looked like his maid hammered out an appointment.
"Alright, Buenos Diaz. Boss, I meet the Doctor for his lunch break at one, so in the meantime, I'll make you that cake."
"You remembered. Thanks." The maid whisked an imitation maple syrup bottle and a bag of flour from the pantry, set them aside, and returned for sugar and halved nuts and coconut.
She declared it would be German chocolate, which was fine with Heero, and collected the remaining ingredients.
The boss had to remind the maid to wash her hands, and then batter making began, and Heero complemented his approval as he finished up his breakfast.
"No, you can substitute canola oil for the butter. No, margarine is hydrogenated, so it's not really healthy." Well, he had a few critiques and pointers to add.
"I think you've got it. Well, I'm off to brush my teeth, then I'm going out."

The maid kept the medicine cabinet stocked to the hilt with dental items, and Heero put them to full use. He vigorously stroked away yucky film with the tongue scrape, and pasted his brush. He foamed up every surface, rinsed, spit, and put away the brush. He then gurgled the plaque remover and the mint mouthwash, and finally removed the white strips from their tray and inserted them.
Dental maintenance finished, he stepped in place, slowly increasing his pace until he felt satisfied his muscles had warmed up, then the walked to an open space in the living room, and introduced himself to a battery of stretches.
He registered that Tanya had the cake in the oven, and that she was busy assembling all the frosting ingredients together. He said his goodbye, and removed himself from the home, and made his way to the home's aluminum storage shelter. He took out his blue bike, and tied a black pack on with Velcro, before locking up the shelter.
Columbian riders don't wear safety gear for whatever reason, and because standing out poses more danger than the odds of a head injury, Heero opted not to carry a helmet. No matter the cost, he couldn't appear foreign.
Medellín sidewalks are well maintained by the philanthropist Dons, and most riders prefer them to the roads, where sporty cars drive at imprudent speeds. Heero swam with the school in these safe currents. Venders ranging from benign to illicit all opened shops in every section of Medellín, and most also had a salesman loitering to the sidewalk edges, but Heero didn't care to view any as more than potential obstacles.
Many other bikers did frequent the shops, however, and he had to watch out for them, for they were ignorant of bike safety procedures.
Down one steep hill, Heero broke with his own safety protocol, and merged into traffic, so he could pedal to a full sprint without posing any danger to bikers and pedestrians.
He breezed behind a red Corvette, gaining until seated in its slipstream, then signaled left for a supermarket parking lot. He ceased pedaling, just cruising through aisles of autos, and braked at the bike rack.
Heero Yuy doesn't take frivolous risks. He snaked a high gauge chain around both wheels and the bike frame, and stapled it with a fourteen-point thumb print biometric lock, and removed the bag and water bottle.
The bottle he emptied into his dry mouth, and the bag he stuffed in the white Chevrolet he parked earlier. That he drove around to the store's truck service ramp, where he expected the privacy to change into a drab jumpsuit.
With his rump on the hood, Heero Yuy surpassed human expectations by pulling the pants up both legs simultaneously and did likewise with his arm sleeves, and before suspicious grocers could arrive at the scene, he extracted his Chevy from the scene.
He left through the truck exit that merges with the general traffic, out of view from store employees. Thus, Heero Yuy changed persona from a commuting biker to a skilled city servant in an unmarked automobile, on his way to tune up plumbing at a public park.
Heavy traffic slowed his drive to the central park, but he considered the crowd a benefit. Most cars moving on this jam-packed artery shared similar characteristics with the white Caviler; boring, plain, economical, and kind of cars adolescents accuse their parents of driving for the soul purpose of embarrassing them in front of their peers. Those evil parents and their cruel conspiracies. Many of those torturous mothers and fathers escorted their little tikes to the public park for some quantity time before parting with them at costly schools, then off to work.
Heero avoided them as he parked a good measure from everyone else and shouldered his bag for his fictitious job below the manhole amid the freshly dewed grass.
The city had the foresight to lock out vulnerable children from hurting themselves in the sewers, but the lock gave in under interrogation from the morphing teeth of Heero's skeleton key.
He shined his head-mounted lantern down the manhole, found the footholds, and immersed into the underground cavern, making sure to (a) keep hold of his bag, and (b) reseal the manhole cover in place.
Once he set his feet on the concrete foundation of the sewer, Heero unzipped his bag, and made use of a paper mask inside. The rancid ammonia fumes diminished.
"This place is past its sell-by date." Ammonia also irritated his eyes, so he unzipped the bag a second time, and strapped a pair of blue-tinted goggles on. Better.
He progressed on, knowing the layout of his subterranean route by rote. He checked the time, and estimated he had a lead on the op schedule. The target is fairly inner city, a boarded up hardware store a block or two from the derelict courthouse, and almost next-door to the loft Heero used as a perch for his preliminary recon of the town.
Heero gathered that the old tool shop runs a twelve-hour shift as a factory operation packed with designer cookers.
Sewage water runs up to the ankles of his insolated rubber boots as he enters a different pipeline, a concrete conduit that is truly a round pipe two meters in diameter, easily larger enough for a large man to fit through, but it offers no shelter from the runoff. The only light source is the flashlight bonded to Heero's head, but on the bright side, rats aren't so common on this path, because they'd drown.
His imagination sought a refuge from the muck of his currant condition. The past seemed as good as anywhere else, and a look at the past relevant to his intelligence gathering could help him better analyze the data before going through with the hit:

His personal taste would have preferred the car to be red, but he decided a green Toyota Tercel would calm the inquisitive natives more than the belligerent red. He turned down the engine to a low hum, and tinted all the windows enough to obscure all inward looking eyes. In this guarded yet non-threatening posture, he drove his first fact-finding tour a shade over one month ago.
Heero arrived in country from Venezuela, where he willingly paid Bartista's border guard thugs their illicit tariff for entry, and drove along Columbia's floral countryside. He saw little day-to-day activity he couldn't surmise from overheads from MO-2 and the Manned Orbiting Laboratory, and his interaction with people along the road at least added all due completing tidbits. He tested his dialect against the Spanish actually uttered by the countrymen, and better refined the imperfect vernacular taught in his crash course, until he could repeat the colloquial speech spoken on the plantations. He sang along with the radio songs, and talked back at the talk broadcasts. Normally, he preferred the solitude of a long mute drive, but in Columbia, he'd have to glean his own intelligence. This is different.
He pitched in helping a smalltime honest farmer pull his sunken tractor from its muddy abyss. He accepted his offer of dinner, swapped stories and songs with the man's family, and he joined join on a village baseball game, and even indulged the adoration of one player's prima, all to better learn how to assimilate within a Columbian community.
Everywhere everyone unwittingly volunteered vital insights into Bartista's closed principality, and by the time he entered Medellín, Heero Yuy had become an uncertified authority on transgressing against Bartista's will.
The tour continued in the city, loitering all day and night on an extended prowl until he felt out opportunity.
On the third night, he staked out the luxury cars of the of the trust fund youth, and discovered the criminal center of gravity rooted within a tight grid. He set the car at rest in the parking lot of one small drugstore and flipped open the laptop. The hotkey for local businesses opened a menu to choose from. Heero selected the one listing apartment rooms, defined his search to his immediate area, and toured the places on a 3D street map. Occupancy looked low enough to hint he had a chance at the type of room he required. He noticed a multi-story apartment building. Yep, some rooms are available on the cheap, and maybe a few of them overlook the vicinity he needed to peep at.

"Que gusto! I need a room for the next two months, but I've only got enough to pay two-fifty a month. Would you have anything available?"
The landlord visibly retched at hearing that sort of greeting, but he, a thick man of advanced age and flushed face, sat behind the safety of his volcano glass and wire barrier, and flipped through a worn Rolodex, until he found the card he wanted.
"One month, I'll give you the loft for two-fifty, but next month you'd better put up three hundred, our I'll vacate you with a bat."
Heero Yuy got exactly what he wanted without even asking for it, but he flushed out a sigh and some muttering to stay in character.
"Sure thing, pal. Thanks." He unfolded some bills, and passed them over. The hotelkeeper slapped them down, moved his thick crusty lips at he counted.
"Top floor, by the room entrance. The elevator doesn't reach the place." He pinned the door key to the counter, and dismissively grunted. He turned his faded flannel back and schlepped away into an abyss illuminated only by the asinine flicker of an idiot box.

Heero disapprovingly glared one last time at the apartment's hazardous darkness, then busied himself with rectifying it with childish luminescent stickers from a curio hawker. He defined the walls, the rail, and the steps, and traversed the stairway in a trial run.
"Mission complete."

The window couldn't be opened, it had a crack, a warped and torn wire screen, and wrought iron bars and- Heero defined them as "pokers," barricaded it. All these factors contributed to poor visibility, and all obstacles needed clearing.
Heero's face furrowed when he applied his sinewy will against the worn shallow notches of one veteran screw after another. Moister puddles didn't deter him. He eventually had the glass removed from the oppressing frame. The actual security device, the barricade, gave under the inquisition of Heero's Preventer key.
"Well, about time I have my perch set." He sat a water bottle and a Ziploc of salad beside him and resumed his career of voyeurism. The legal system of Bartista's Columbia doesn't generally crack down on business of the same nature as his own enterprises. He isn't one to shutdown the competition. Rather, as Heero has come to understand, as long as he receives his share in tariffs and his "insurance" commission, free enterprise is welcome. Nevertheless, illicit traders continue to operate a portion of their trade walking the streets. Heero witnessed someone's girls shuffle on the curb under a sign advertising their business, leaving no mystery or doubt about the meaning of their presence. Drivers episodically slowed by the redlined curb for a quick chat with the two showcase girls on the sidewalk, sometimes getting a look at a photo album kept on a street podium, and sometimes the drivers abandoned their cars for valets to set them aside. These drivers entered the front door. Still others had girls brought to the cars, to be taken home or somewhere. Kind of like fast food, some decided to enjoy the ambiance inside, others took their orders to go.
One salesgirl held Heero's eyes captive. He should have anticipated this, he knew, this type of industry always "manufactures" virtual clones of gorgeous celebrities. These industries always exploit the wild demand to satisfy crazy fantasies, but somehow, this had slipped his mind.
"I've got to meet her up close," declared he, rapt completely. The trance pulled him down the illuminated stairway to the curb. Braids coiled and entwined her cornflake flaxen cranium carpet. A few strategic locks and curls draped along her nape and earlobes, and but for the most part, the strands bridled together as one debonair mane. The reining in of the wisps casts dignity on the more fully realized face. He motioned faster, catching her familiar eye. She pivoted on a stilted heel, and cast a regal gaze at him.
"You here to party?" She didn't audibly match, but Heero gave her credit for working on it. The voice held some of that reassuring calm optimism, some of that schooled confidence of educated womanhood, some of that proper Old World nobility, but the more humble undertones and tainted Pan American inflection gave baggage to the familiar voice. The open side of her black rubber toga gown exposed the prevalence of perpetually taut muscle, far more than the dainty genuine article contained, and yet the fresh countenance is the very portrait of Releana Peacecraft.
"I'm a selective individual, and right now, you're the only thing that can satisfy my appetite."
She rested one hand on her bony hip, smirking.
"Sugar, I'm not just some piece of meat. Even the most brief trick will cost you." Not on his expense account.
"Five thousand for the whole night. I have a loft a short walk from here." An eyebrow arched incredulously.
"Pitch it over, and I'm yours." He produced the payroll, gravely turned it over.
"Lady, be a dear and take this over to Tito, will you?" Her comrade saleswoman did so.
"And calculate how good the hooking goes without me pulling Johns in," she address the Une clone, "walk me to it, big man."

Somehow, Heero neglected to anticipate the calls and whistles, but he bore through the lusty gauntlet, and led her to the loft.
"Sure, two-fifty, then you afford a classy chick like that?" Heero helplessly beamed at the innkeeper, and locked the loft door.
"You know," she teased, "most Johns taking me for a trick are flabby and completely out of my league, but you, I bet you could throw a feather through steel." Heero blushed, grinned coyly.
"Madam, I'm a reporter, a widely syndicated correspondent for a consortium of papers, and I brought you here for an interview," he made his sale, some of the best cover an intelligence gatherer can ever create. This is often the method and locale where the first and second oldest professions converge and cooperate.
It's all the same for one party, a man pays for a service he needs worked over, and the second gets the prime inside scope into a world otherwise very nearly inaccessible.
"I see. The exclusive interview with Columbia's most sought after woman of the night. I'm game. Like I advertise myself: I'll humor the client's most outrageous fantasies."