Archon's Queen by Matthew S. Cox

being wagered to do this. She wanted to believe she was not all of the things they had called her. Anna folded her arms in a sad attempt at modesty and stared down at the falling water tracing icy lines over her nakedness.
    The hope was as empty as her life.



umber Three, Dalrymple Road was a bit more of a walk than she remembered. Last time, she had the lingering haze of a prior dose in her system as well as clothes. Naked in two ways, the trip felt much longer. Derisive looks and hurtful words continued, though all she cared about was finding one special door. For blocks, she had walked through disapproving stares and the unintentional baths provided by passing cars meeting puddles.
    Her skin alternated from total numbness to such tender sensitivity the texture of the sidewalk felt as though she trod over an army of small pins. The weather and a small crowd followed her to her destination, but only the rain continued through the yard gate.
    Ian Mitchell, better known as Plonk by those with whom he conducted business, sat on the stoop under the protection of an old awning. The Buildup, as it had been called, converted most of the residences in London to multi-level apartments to accommodate the growing population. The ground level looked much like it had ages ago.
    Above it, a modern pea-green metal structure reached up into the hazy grey of a rainy afternoon. Anna walked the steps, cold and dry compared to the pedestrian path.
    “Well now, aren’t you a sight.” Plonk laughed. “You taken up the Bard then?”
    “I think I got the sack.” She muttered, blinking, her eyes unable to focus on anything for much more than an instant.
    “Well there you go then. Why ya runnin’ about starkers?”
    She pointed in a random direction; it might have been at the club. “Woke up in an alley. Had a bad comedown. Imma die if I don’t get a zoomer, can you help me out?”
    A smidge of emotion peeked through the dull deadpan of her voice, riding the last few words. She stumbled up to him and collapsed on her knees a few feet from where he sat. Plonk cringed at the sound of her bones hitting the porch.
    “Where you keepin’ your cred stick? Or do I not want to know?”
    “I’m out.” She sighed. “Please, Plonk… I get my giro in a day or two, you know I’m good for it, I swear.”
    Sensing her anticipatory mood, the wings fluttered to life and spread apart.
    “Well now, ya don’t get owt for nowt. I don’t do the credit bit; collection’s a messy bit of business, and your little legs are too pretty to break.”
    She wobbled back, sitting on her heels with a desperate stare. “Zoom for a shag then?”
    Plonk massaged his lips into a Cheshire grin with one finger. “Well, I’m too much a gentleman to ask, but since you’ve offered. I think we can come to an arrangement.”
    Taking her by the hand, he helped her up and led her inside. In the elevator, she sank to her knees again and went for his pants.
    “Oi, luv. Not in the lift. I got a place, be proper about it and all. I’ll even fix ya somethin’ ta eat after.”
    She clung to him, trembling from the need. He had been around enough to know how bad the want could get. Were he the sort to be inclined to do such a thing, he could have rented her out to his mates for half the day.
    As close to The Ruin as it was, this building played host to the sort of people who did not pay attention to things normal people would pay attention to. They did not much react to the naked woman with glowing filament wings faltering past their doors with half-closed eyes, or that Plonk had half the gangs in the East End coming to him for chems. It was healthier not to pay attention to such things.
    Grey carpeting spanned the floor of Plonk’s flat. To the right of the door, a dingy kitchenette seemed aged by the unearthly buttery glow of a single lamp. A few feet past it, the room expanded off to the right where a large holo-vid player faced a leather couch. A stylistic