The young man wasn't an ordinarily fabulous swell, but a rebel Kapareghora armed with a scipio exclusive to the Hauteorian Guard. "You can not be here!" I locked the door, then closed the blinds. I turned- he wore a kilt. "Minerva-Sarasvati! You can't wear that outside an ethnic wedding or funeral." I clutched my chest, "It's not even tartan!"
"It's Egyptian," he said.
"Na, na, na!" I shouted. "Unless you're about to show me diplomatic Code-exemption, get out!"
"Or what?" he smiled. "The very reason you're concerned to have me here is why you will not telly anyone." The kilted young man walked around the end of the counter; his highly illegal garment hung with such a perfect drape some part of me wanted it on my press.
I pursued. "Take what you want and leave. If you understand...please, grant me that mercy."
He stopped, and held aloft a gloved finger, almost touching my lips. "It's not my intention to cause you harm, presser, but...if you cannot show me the same compliance you show the Code, I will have to find alternate means of motivation."
There seemed no way I could help him - there was more than my own life or reputation at risk - but I thought, if I could learn his plan....
"What do you need?"
The dandy reached into a fob pocket in his waistcoat and drew out a vial of green liquid. "Put this in your reservoir when you press General Perwani's uniform."
"That's it?" I held out my right hand.
He tilted his head with a scrutinizing gaze, then handed over the vial, which I immediately threw to the sloped, concrete floor.
His hands were on me, and I felt my shoulder clack against the laundrodeon controls. My right thigh was pressed against the conveyor's belt, which really bunched my jodhpurs. He shouted something, probably an Arabic curse. "You don't now what you've done!"
Porting kapare all day builds upper body strength; I shoved him off me. Free, I leaned back, letting the conveyor take me into the works. I knew the cycle; knew all the automata in the dhobitorium. A backward roll, and I hopped to the small gap alongside the converyor, just as the belt ended at the first vat. I pulled my kurta over my head as warm water fell. I wrapped the wet shirt over my face, then felt my way along the interior chamber, and past the chemical sprayers and automated arms. I tore the cloth from my face as I felt the air jets.
I saw him out there, rifling through the racks of hanging garments. He pulled at the red military coat, the regulation wire hanger clattered to the floor. I tried to sneak past, but he spun around, kilt swishing about his knees. He held the scipio like a soldier, with the blade along his forearm. "You're dripping," he said, and gave a rakish once-over to my figure. "And stronger than I gave you credit for, iron man."
"My name's Julien," I said, "I think you know that."
He smirked. "You can call me...Murphy."
"You're Navy." I raised my hands. "My sister's Guard. She used her Honorarium to help our family out of the Americas. There's already one mark against our house."
Murphy spun the scipio to point at the fallen kurta; it had a rose at the collar, small and single-color. "I think you know your way around a needle, Julien. Help me engineer a malfunction, and I'll stage the place to look like we took you against your will."
Die now, or become a Kapareghora?
"Ha," I sighed, "I have red thread upstairs."