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11mm bit of gratitude, then sold his parts to a shady transplant service that paid cash up front. No questions were asked, and Cat was convinced that organs from the whistle blower had saved the lives of transplant candidates across the state. The details weren’t important.
    The second specialist, Fiona, was more technical then medical, and had nearly killed the hitman out of ignorance by overdosing him with anesthetic. She became apologetic and overly courageous, attempting to shadow Cat downtown during a sabotage job. The cyber-enhanced guard dogs were still fighting over Fiona’s limbs when her screaming subsided.
    Cat exhaled. Tonight’s work was stressful. He should be meditating and preparing escape plans and assessing just how big an army Midas was going to throw at him. He stared at the glass in his hand and smirked. He deserved a drink for putting Hitch in the dirt, or at least into a fiery ball of four-cylinder destruction. His victims would have wanted the necrophiliac cremated after all, wouldn’t they?
    Catwalk raised a silent toast to the memory of his first two prospective partners. He wasn’t proud of their departures from the realm of the living, but he knew better than to keep barking up a tree that had only brought him trouble. He put the call out for a partner through the usual channels, and this time, the response was different. The unidentified resource reached out to him, claiming to have researched his past work and holding a very deep interest in a potential partnership.
    Cat swished the liquor around in his mouth. He had met the other resources in isolated, silent surroundings. Tonight had to be different. Anyone who had the time and tools to dig into his background deserved careful consideration. If this new candidate was worth his time, he would prove so, and he would do so in a crowded club, complete with dancing patrons and deafening music. This time, Cat lounged in one of the private alcoves of the crowded club known as Liquid Chrome.
    The mix of synthetic instruments and human vocals pitched in together, creating a maelstrom of sound that rolled forth from the stage with velvet intoxication. Pulsating lights flashed over the bodies on the dance floor. The patrons below boasted every color and material on the popular market, and a few available only through the technology underground. Kevlar, neon, leather, and metal writhed together as the performers drove the debauchery to new heights.
    The vodka filling Cat’s glass was every bit as unnatural as his armor-plated legs. He’d had the real stuff on rare occasions, and not since he left DC, but at least the synthetic version was tolerable. He wouldn’t let some of the other artificial liquors near his lips after tasting the original, but vodka could pass. Bourbon or sake, no chance. A taste of the authentic was an eye-opening experience, entrance into a world that couldn’t be wished away or forgotten.
    A man stepped quickly into the alcove. Either he was here for the job, or he planned to drive something in the neighborhood of an explosive projectile through the hitman’s chest. Cat merely held his glass before his mouth, watching from behind black shades. He raised an eyebrow. “Can I help you?”
    “If you’re Catwalk, you can.”  
    The tall man had dark hair, graying slightly at his temples, and a neatly trimmed moustache and beard. He was thin but not unhealthy. He wore sensible clothes, the kind scholars wore, but not so upscale that he would draw unnecessary attention. He was, in a word, practical.  
    Cat could abide with practical. It beat the hell out of a partner with delusions of fortune and fame. He studied the man again. His eyes were obviously not natural. The way the light caught them at certain angles betrayed their artificial nature. His tone provided no hint of nervousness or fear. His body language was stable, especially for someone in a club vibrating at the mercy of the music. This man was focused and well