Dee Moyza

He squeezed her shoulder as he said goodnight, and her nerves lit up with the electric thought of how those hands might feel elsewhere—skimming her waist, sliding over her hips, gently parting her thighs, with his mouth never far behind, hot and tender, his words long since lost to hungry groans—and all she could do was lean back against the door as her knees melted, look into his eyes, and stupidly whisper, “You, too.”

The opening of Goldwalk Channel was supposed to be a celebration.  Inside the gallery, artists, most of whom had never had a say in the city's development and politics, stood, beaming, beside their creations and awaited the first visitors.

Outside, however, a different scene unfolded.  A vociferous group had gathered at the entrance to the Channel, pushing their way past visitors waiting to get in, and repeatedly reading a list of seventeen grievances through a megaphone.

Niola tried to ignore them at first, then tried to calmly address their grievances, but the group was less interested in understanding than they were in strong-arming the hours-old gallery out of existence.

Stepping into Bailey Gilande's office was like stepping into another world.  A large wooden desk stood in the corner of the room, in front of floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books and binders and haphazardly stacked folders stuffed to bursting, remanants of a pre-digital age that Niola couldn't even fathom existing.

Bailey herself was small figure sitting behind a keyboard, dwarfed by both the desk and shelves, another stack of folders at her elbow.  A tiny owl perched on the green shade of a desk lamp and watched Niola's approach through enormous eyes.  Bailey looked up from her computer with the trace of a smile.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Chein," she said, motioning to the chair in front of the desk, "please, have a seat."

Niola blinked.  Bailey's stature belied her voice, which was rich, assured and velvety, a voice that both invited and inspired confidence.  Pity that she spoke so little.

She knew he liked the rain.  She also knew he had no say in when it would fall.  Niola met Auden while collecting data on the disenfranchised in Cloudbank and quickly took a liking to him.  Hulking but affable, his observations on the city and life in general betrayed an inquisitiveness and intelligence that would have landed him a decent career had he had the opportunity to develop them.  Instead, he was part of a legion of Cloudbank inhabitants that, while doing much of the minute, often dirty, tasks to keep the city running smoothly, were not afforded the benefits of citizenship.

Niola was horrified to discover there were so many.