Darkness; tasting salt, like the imaginary, fabled seas. Silence; like a thousand people dreaming, their breath suspended in need. A single, nervous laugh from high in the gods, quickly stifled, hushed by a shaking hand.

Always, every night, he pulled the wire of tension so tight that the other performers were convinced it would snap, leaving nothing; not even illusion. It never did. He held it cradled in the palm of his hand, balanced on the curve of his smile, his power. A darker shadow amongst the darkness he waited, breathing in the passion and need thrown blindly at the stage. This was everything; this single moment. Now. He took a slow breath;

"My name is Zax..."

And the night would never be the same again.

---

"Do you pimp for him often?"

The bitterly scathing look the statuesque woman threw over her shoulder was eloquent in the extreme. But a Number was a Number and a mere Name couldn't possibly answer back; at least not without risking more than was wise. So, biting back the words that ate at her tongue, all she did was smile and answer demurely. "I'm not his pimp. Zax does what he wants, not what other people want him to do."

"So, he's a whore by choice?"

"By inclination..." Mora muttered under her breath, her envy at the success of the entertainer the Number had come to visit acid under her skin. She glanced back again, her eyes flicking briefly, almost conspiratorially, to the two guards at his side, though her smile remained fixed, engraved over the lines of frustration that time had left on her once beautiful face. Without missing a beat she answered him with professional flirtatiousness, "Only when the punter's as good-looking as you."

"Good looking?"

She ignored his curious expression, not believing for a moment the patent lack of comprehension. Unlike most of his kind, this Number was dark-haired, but the smooth, pale, utterly pampered skin made her want to run her nails hard down its flawlessness. The short-cut hair moulded the shape of his skull, showed off the perfection of his features, the hair and the silver-grey suit both serving to emphasise the intense blue of his eyes. She considered him, winced at the comparison between his Centre-bred perfection and the two brutish guards who flanked him and knew he had to know. "Yeah, as in handsome."

"Oh."

Fucking Numbers, she thought, fear and scorn mixed in equal measure in her mind.

Not that Numbers were frequent visitors. And as far as she could remember they'd only ever been here before to watch the stage show, never before for something as intimate as sex. Hell, most of the time they avoided the slightest physical contact, as if the Names inhabiting the Town were diseased or verminous, which of course a lot of them were. Besides, unauthorised sexual contact between the two groups was illegal, and that was something she'd argued with Zax about until she was blue in the face. Her assertion had been that they needed him alive; his answer had simply been that they needed the money to stay in business and, hence, keep all of them from starving to death. Fine. But that didn't change the fact that he'd be dead meat if they were caught at it. Dead or worse. Nothing would happen to the Number, naturally, even though he had instigated the contact. The Centre-bred Numbers were the elite, deferred to even by the Enforcers and the Ministry. They were the future; the Names the past. The few laws that did exist underlined that. By fucking with a Number, Zax was risking more than himself; her fear as much for herself as for him.

So why let him get away with it? The idea of a better way to make money had come to her with a rush as hard as amyl, half-way through that conversation, when she had been so earnestly trying to persuade Zax out of the deal. If he'd thought her distracted he'd said nothing, and she'd left him as soon as possible, her turnaround on the matter complete.

Money. Enough to get away from the Town, away from the Tunnels, maybe even get Up-land; a dream for any but the very rich. To get away from the poverty and the ceaseless grind that wore a girl down before she was old. The men always survived better. Bastards.

That it was also betrayal meant nothing at all. Not most of the time, anyway.

Their footsteps were very loud on the bare boards, bringing up dust from the corners, the booted feet in heavy counterpoint to the click of her own heels. She stopped and turned slowly, trying to read the Number's intention in his body-language. It was too hard to meet his eyes, her thoughts on what he might really want, on what he might let his guards do. "The deal was you only." If he just wanted to watch the guards with the magician, then all of the plotting was wasted. There were no laws against that, and certainly no reward.

"Yes."

"So what about them?" Mora indicated the escort.

"They're here to protect me, not to enjoy themselves." He realised her doubt. "Don't concern yourself. I don't want to hurt him."

She gave a mental shrug, uncaring about whatever was planned for the night. "Here we are then." A long, red-taloned hand touched lightly against a battered door. "When you're finished, walk to the end of this corridor and the exit at the end will take you outside." She waited for his nod, her skin like darkest violets in the dim shadows. He made no move, so with a pout she turned on her heel to go.

Half-way down the hall his voice caught up with her. "Thank you."

Her laugh was almost real, the flattery inherent in those two words enough to make her turn back, make her wonder at this Number and his inconsistencies; make her wonder if he'd like some sweeter meat next time. "You're welcome." And she was gone, walking away with invitation in every sway of her hips.

As his guards moved to flank the door, the Number reached a cautious hand towards the handle, only to start as it swung smoothly open at the first brush of his finger-tips; almost as if before his hand had made contact. A tingle of anticipation made him shiver. There was a magician on the other side of the door.

Unless this was another trick, like the ones used on stage. A frown creased the smooth line of his brow. Or were they tricks? He was certain the magic was real, was sure enough to risk being here. The other Numbers who had seen the show all dismissed it as charlatanry. Their own experiments having failed, they couldn't conceive of any natural talent that could do what they could not. Part of him very much needed to prove them wrong. The rest of him just wanted to touch the electric ghost that stalked across the stage; to touch and feel and know him. It was quite simple, really.

He frowned at the innocent threshold, at the plain door that stood half-open in unmistakeable invitation. Trick or not, there was only one way to find out. Besides, did it even matter? There were other reasons; reasons far more basic for being here. With a nod to his guards and a deep breath, mouth suddenly quite dry, he stepped into the shadows.

The room was almost in darkness, the only glimmer of light coming from a single candle-flame that flickered madly in the draught that gusted in from the hallway, painting wild shapes in chiaroscuro across the cracked and paint-peeled walls. He shivered, the temperature chill against the exposed skin of hands and face. It was different from what he was used to; not much so, but enough for his Centre-acclimatised body to react with disapproval. He sniffed at the air: there was sweat and paint, spice, incense; other, stranger smells he couldn't identify, certainly had never encountered before. Breathing in deeply he absorbed it all, wanted it all.

Everything that was here.

Narrowing his eyes he tried to peer across the room, but the flame cast hardly any light at all and it was impossible to make anything out apart from darkly shadowed, improbable shapes. The lack of light was harder for him to adjust to than the chill. Used to light illuminating every corner, every moment waking or sleeping of every being, man or machine, this was as alien a place as he had ever stood in. It made him awkward, as if he'd suddenly grown clumsily aware of every extremity of his body, almost afraid to move.

He stood still and wondered at the impulse that had brought this evening about. He could have sent for the magician. Or had him taken to one of the Ministry run brothels; had him branded, stripped of his name, enslaved. It had been done before with others, why not this man? The answer was because he had wanted more, wanted the decadence, the freedom that stalked the stage in a flurry of gold dust. And the simplicity of the truth; the enlightenment that had appeared like gossamer, spun from a pair of thin hands. He wanted the answers that the magician, in spot-lit shadows, had seemed to hold in the palm of his hand like so many grains of golden salt; wanted to touch the imperiousness that swept across the shabby stage with all the inescapable assurety of a young god.

That had been his reaction to the first visit to the Theatre, and he'd been sure it wouldn't last. Two weeks later, after night after night of watching every move, every trick, every twist and turn of that lithe body, the fascination hadn't changed. Fourteen days of watching enchantment conjured from the shoddiest of props, and each night he'd gasped in wonder.

He'd even abjured his visits to the brothels so as not to miss a performance, just in case that one night he paid for pleasure of a different kind was the one night the secret, whatever it might be, was given away. It had taken him all of those fourteen days to realise that the two interests could quite easily be turned into one. All it had taken was a word or two to his guards, a payment, and here he was, standing in a murky room waiting for the magician.

Waiting for a Name.

He frowned, doubt creeping into his thoughts. Perhaps, after all, this was an error. Perhaps there would be no answers here, no ease for the curious unrest that dogged his every waking, and most of his sleeping, moments. Something akin to panic nibbled at the edges of his thoughts and he wondered for the thousandth time about his unnerving lack of equilibrium. He knew a Number shouldn't be this easily disturbed -- none of the others would be. And all because he'd put himself in the hands of a Name. Where was his arrogance, his authority? There was nothing to be afraid of here. Nothing. But if only there was some real light, any real light; neon, halogen, sodium, quartz, mercury.

Anything, but that one flickering candle.

He turned, ready to walk away. Then in the stillness he caught the simple line of a profile, and the flashing brilliance of candle-light on a gold chain that moved with its owner's breath.

Startled by the realisation that he wasn't alone, M-6251 exclaimed softly. But there was no reaction, the other man remaining quiet, seated apparently at floor level, lounging against the wall.

He swallowed as impatient words of command, of irritation, ran rapidly through his mind, though none made it past his throat. Licking dry lips he took a pace forward then stopped, unsure for perhaps the first time in his life. What did you say in this sort of situation? Was this a whore or was he something else? Was there a formula for this that his researches had failed to tell of?

"Are you coming in or not?" A smoke-roughened voice took the problem away.

"I'm here."

"So I see. Try moving away from the door."

He took a couple of unsure steps, then twisted quickly as the door slammed closed behind him. He turned back and eyed the aloof profile, a question forming somehow amongst the confusion.

He was answered without having spoken. "Keeps the draught out."

"But how...?"

"Trick of the eye. Don't worry about it."

M-6251 tried not to look as if he was; to hide the flare of excitement that licked at his groin. Though, despite his best efforts, he wasn't sure if he succeeded.

What there was of conversation lapsed.

In silence the Number watched the seated man turn with a whisper of cloth against cloth, catching a blurring of movement as thin fingers reached, bringing from the darkness a cigarette -- already lit -- its tendril of smoke coiling thick as silk into the candle's flame.

He looked away from the cigarette's hypnotic glow as it slowly arced from the sensual mouth to rest on a dark-clad knee. The darkness was becoming less opaque. He could make out furnishings memory registered as Baroque, bohemian, sensual. Soft velvets and satins covered the cushions scattered across the bed, costumes as exotic as imaginary birds hung to decorate the peeling walls.

Everything an illusion as in daylight it would surely be tawdry, unkempt. He sneered at his own reaction, then suppressing that emotion made himself look properly.

Either the candle was burning brighter or he was adjusting to the dimness, for he could suddenly see more than just shadows. Mirrors reflected the haphazard scattering of possessions, their images distorted by age and disintegrating silvering. Strange objects that could have performed any function or none were lain around books that stood in stacks on the floor, on the tables, their covers curled and torn, spines cracked open. A wig on its stand, curiously forlorn. More clothing draped from every hook and edge, tossed haphazardly on the floor. And swirling through it all the dull brightness of old gold; in each garment, in the cases of cosmetics strewn before the mirror, and in the fire-fly catch of light on a chain as the magician breathed in deep the fragrant smoke.

He was very beautiful.

The Number watched with an emotion he couldn't recognise as yearning. Without the stage disguise the magician appeared different, perhaps younger than he'd expected. His hair was uncombed, weaving in disorder around high cheekbones, surprisingly short, dark though drawn through with red and bronze. Most of the vivid make-up had been removed, but smudges of kohl still rimmed the slanted eyes, touching them with the elusiveness of mystery.

A moment of doubt shivered through bone and nerve. But recriminations were useless, the choice had been made the instant the magician had appeared on stage; alluring, elusive, a chimera that had haunted his supposedly dreamless sleep, walked with him through the long hours of each and every day.

The silence stretched, the slim, sprawling body seemingly in no haste and certainly no awe. It was too much, and regardless of whatever strange protocol these people required he couldn't be silent any longer. "Did you receive the payment?"

The man laughed; the sound as deep and warm as a moment of comfort. "Oh yeah, I got the payment." He filled his lungs then flicked the butt away into a dark corner, expelling the smoke through his nose. "Though exactly what you expect for it I'm not quite sure. Apart from sex that is." A ripple disturbed his even expression, though the idea was clearly not a new one. "Unless, like Mora thinks, you want to kill me?"

"Why would I want to do that?"

"For pleasure. Numbers come to the Town to experience all sorts of things." Zax watched the incomprehension and gave an eloquent shrug. "Some consider snuff-sex the ultimate sexual high. Do you?"

"Snuff sex?"

"You get off, your partner gets dead. Both at the same time I believe, but as I've never fancied the idea, I can't say for sure."

The Number swallowed. "No, I don't want that." He was silent for a moment, thinking of the vids he'd seen, but never believed. "Do people really... No you must be making a joke." Yes, that must be it. He knew about jokes, even understood some of them.

"No joke."

"Oh."

"Don't look so upset, worse things happen. I might get shopped to the Ministry for having unlicensed sex with a Number."

"I covered my tracks, and my guards are well paid."

"Let's hope that's enough." Zax had taken a risk, agreeing to this night. A calculated gamble with his own life as the ultimate stake. "So, you don't want to kill me?" He sounded unutterably matter of fact about so outlandish a subject.

"No!"

"Good." The word was expelled on a gust of relief at the blatant truth held in the single word. "So what do you want?"

"You. Your time, your body..." The Number suddenly, inexplicably, lost certainty, coloured hotly as if the words he wanted to speak -- words about (whisper it) magic -- were the foulest obscenities. "What else, I don't know."

The magician sighed. "If you don't, then how am I supposed to?"

"I do want you."

"Do you?" A stubborn chin tilted and it was possible to see that the lazily-hooded eyes were a clouded green.

"Yes."

"What if I say no."

"You won't."

Zax shook his head abruptly and flame caught lights of gold and amber in the clumsily cut waves. Though the Number was right: he wouldn't say no. Not now. Not when the credits had paid for nearly three months' rent on the theatre. The people of the Town paid for their tickets with what they could, but there was no use bartering with the Ministry with dead chickens -- they only understood money. No; he wouldn't be turning this particular punter away, regardless of any personal feeling on the matter -- and he had plenty of those, despite his outward demeanour. He gave a small sound of futility. "You Numbers are so damned sure of yourselves."

The Number could not resist the reply, "And you are not?"

A smile eased the tension. "Yeah, I suppose I am." Zax stretched luxuriously on the cushions, arching his ribs off the velvet before settling again with a small sigh, the movement a careful disguise for his own insecurity, a less carefully disguised come-on.

He smiled as lust slid unexpectedly into the blue eyes. Perhaps it was going to be all right, after all. Zax sat forward. "What shall I call you?" None of the messages had given a number, not that Zax would have been able to tell anything from a numerical sequence.

"I'm called M-6251."

"Isn't there something your friends use as a familiarity?"

Wide shoulders almost shrugged, the irony lost. "No one calls me anything else."

"Not even your lovers?"

"I have no partner at this moment."

"Your whores?"

"The whores, when they say anything, call me Sir."

"Sir..." Zax raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you want from me?"

There was a brief silence in which the thought processes of the Number could almost be heard, but in the end all he said was, with a brief shake of his head, "No."

"Good." Zax ran a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face. "Sir wouldn't be very romantic." If that was what was wanted. He certainly seemed quite happy to talk, a novelty from a Number in itself. It would be interesting to see what happened when it came to touching.

"Wouldn't it?"

"No."

The Number nodded slowly, as if he knew what romantic really meant, all the while trying to still the unease that the magician had unknowingly caused. For how do you choose a name when a number is what defines your being? What were names, anyway, how were they given, chosen? What did they mean?

The magician was speaking, leaning forward, suddenly quite intent. "Pale skin and dark hair. And I thought all you Numbers were blonde?"

"Some of us are dark. Not many." In fact there were no dark-haired children growing up in the Centre; not any more. Another experiment that hadn't worked.

Zax watched the doubt and scratched idly at his chest, where the vee of hair narrowed, distracting his guest, making him swallow hard. "I'll call you by your number if you want, M-6251."

The answer was an ambiguous shake of the head.

"Or anything in particular?"

Silence.

Zax sighed and tried a different tack. "Why would only I do?"

That was an easy one. "I saw you on stage."

The laugh was deep-throated and surprisingly warm. "So do hundreds of others -- I don't get close to a Minister's ransom from all of them. So why didn't you just take me? Your tame bodyguards would have held me down. I'm sure they've had enough practise." Zax spoke with a gentle mockery that was only faintly under-pinned with bitterness. "You could've given them a turn when you were finished. I'm sure that would've been good for a few favours."

"That wasn't what I...needed."

The magician almost whistled -- a Number admitting need. "And so you do this with every Name you take a fancy to?"

"I've never done this before. I've never...haven't..."

"...wanted a Name. God, you Numbers are so screwed up. Didn't it occur to you to try a brothel that specialises in Names? I know they exist." Staffed by slaves, all licensed, of course. People disappeared into them regularly. "It would have been a damn sight cheaper."

"I did, but it didn't work." He considered, then went on scrupulously correct, "Well, it worked, but it wasn't the same."

"Did you try out of the Centre?"

His answer was a shake of the head. "It has to be you."

"I'm duly flattered." Dry and not at all in keeping with the words, Zax's voice was low and quite steady. Without warning, and without perceptible effort, he was standing up, his body uncoiling like flex. "You know my name, you can use it you know."

"Zax." Spoken aloud by his lips for the first time, the word tasted strange, like some exotic drug that effervesced on his tongue.

"Yes..."

The magician was very suddenly very close; close enough for the smells of soap and smoke, of clean sweat and amber scent to catch in his throat. He was intent, lazily predatory, absolutely in control. "What did you come here for?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Sex, I know that. But not what you can get anywhere; that can't have been the reason. So, what? Not to kill me, then...to tie me up? A bit of light bondage? Heavy SM? No." He bit the fullness of his bottom lip and frowned. "No, you can do what you want in the brothels. So, what...tell me?"

M-6251 backed away a step, then held his ground. He wanted the man very much. A desire that seemed strangely to him to be more piquant because it was against the rules of his society. Thoughts skittered at random through his mind, and part of him fought the attraction of the supple body, of the sensuality that licked at his soul. But wicked eyes were offering, daring, and a finger reached up to touch the tag-release on his suit. Desire was suddenly stronger than any other reality.

He had never kissed before. Not ever. He'd seen the act on an ancient tape, had once watched two Name whores in an embrace where they opened their mouths and twisted tongue with tongue. He'd thought the interest academic; never really considered what the act might be like, for it was something that Numbers didn't do. He'd never imagined its allure. Until now.

He found himself swaying forward, his eyes fixed to the sensual mouth, watched it quirk in a smile that held little humour -- a smile that in another world might have been touched with sorrow -- then it was happening.

And it was liquid light running through his blood.

He sighed into the kiss, learning, his hands skimming up the bare arms to hold the warmth of muscle and skin that gave a firm axis to a world in danger of spinning out of control. Willing, almost in surprise, he opened his mouth as with subtle insistence a warm tongue begged entry.

It was the most sensual experience of his life. Giddy, swaying in time with the coursing of his blood, he explored the wet warmth that was offered, and felt for the first time another's flesh in his own body. Hands were stripping his suit away from his shoulders, baring his torso, allowing fingers to brush against his chest. At first he wanted to push the irritation away, then a finger found its target and he shuddered as the flat nub of his nipple tightened, sending pleasure to sweeten the intoxication of his brain. He felt the mouth that covered his own smile.

"Touch me."

The whisper was a demand, and he shivered. How did you give pleasure? How did you want to?

"Go on, it'll be good..." The whisper was a siren-song, leading him into deep, deep water. This wasn't how it happened. This was how Names made love.

If he allowed this to happen, what would he be? Name or Number?

The thought was terror, and what had been light running fast through his veins was suddenly fire. He pulled away. What had been pleasure, dry ashes in his mouth.

"Was this what you wanted?" Zax was still alight with an arousal so unexpected he was light-headed.

"I can't..."

Wrenched away by strong hands, Zax blinked in confusion.

"No."

Zax took a long breath. "Why?"

There, a simple question. But how did you answer it? M-6251 bit his lip.

"You want me."

"Yes." The word was a whisper.

"Right." Well, that was step one taken care of. Zax scratched his nose, ignoring the hands that still held tight to his shoulders. "Do you want to use me like a Ministry whore?" Zax shivered at the thought, too many memories held in those few words. Still, if it was a choice between rape and death, he knew which one he'd chose. There was no honour in idiocy.

"No!"

The smile that brightened the magician's sombre expression was quite eloquent of his relief. "Then why are you frightened?"

"I'm not!" Blue eyes sharply met green, and the Number had the grace to colour. "I'm sorry, it's just that I've never done this before."

"Did this hurt?" Zax reached forward and ran the ball of his thumb across a small, dark nipple. A sigh, shivering through parted lips was his answer. He drew the Number close, holding their bodies together, smoothing sculpting hands around the sleekly muscled torso, finding himself hardening again at the sensuality of such fine, sweet skin, such concentrated masculinity. He held back, knowing he'd be going nowhere if he pushed too hard, contenting himself with a soothing touch. "Or this?"

"No..."

"What are you used to, quick fucks that involve only the most basic of contact?" Zax asked, but he knew the answer. "Do the brothels turn you on, knowing that any sort of flesh you want is there, held down if that's what you fancy, willing or drugged for whatever sort of submission you want? Or do you prefer to watch?"

"I used to like it." The answer was slow and halting, as if the reality was only just being realised. "I've spent countless nights at the various Houses; watched, taken. Done all the things a Number can do with a whore. Then suddenly it wasn't right anymore. Can you understand? And soon after that I came to the theatre and saw you."

In the pause, Zax blinked. "I'm very glad you didn't want me taken to a brothel."

The Number pressed his hand down the long line of strong back, feeling the skeleton beneath the skin, imagining all this grace being destroyed. "So am I." The fear was gone, leaving only an immense sense of calm. Suddenly it didn't matter that they were Number and Name. It didn't even matter which of the two races was which. He shivered, desire a thread winding through his veins, pulling tight. "Kiss me again?"

"No." The full, utterly desirable mouth was smiling. "This time, you kiss me..."

The Number watched the smile, felt himself drawn to it like a comet to the sun until skin brushed against skin, breath tangled with breath. A tongue lazily moistened dry lips, leaving them wet, the faint glimmer of teeth just out of sight. The mouth was waiting and then, almost before he was prepared for it, unaware that all the movement had been his own, they were kissing.

At first he echoed the magician's movements, then as he learned he grew bold, deepened the contact, pressed closer, drawing the lithe body to his own. Taking control of the kiss he relished every twist of tongue against tongue, every quickening of pulse, of breath as the touch ignited something he had never quite felt before. After a while he ceased to think, the sensation enough, so that he was floating, taken out of time and place by the mystery, until he was shivering, all control ceded to a master who played upon his senses with consummate skill and ease.

And still they were half clothed.

Blinking as he pulled away, Zax ran his palm down the smooth chest, up again to cup the perfect face, the short-cropped dark hair, down again to skim where the body-suit still clung to a flat stomach and further, slower, cupping the weight of arousal that tented the fabric away from his groin.

"I knew you'd like it if you gave it time." Zax gave a quick grin, but there were other things on his mind than victory. "Let me?" He asked, but it was mere courtesy, for he was already completing the unfastening of his Number's clothing, letting the fabric fall with a whisper to the bare boards to pool around the booted feet.

Naked, the Number took his breath away. The smooth, almost hairless body was unscarred, unblemished, the muscles that coiled so perfectly beneath the taut skin so exactly right, formed from the heredity of selective breeding, of genetic manipulation, not from work of any kind. Wide shoulders, neat loins, long cock. No disease, no mutilations, no disfigurements. For the first time Zax felt an overwhelming desire to perform an act he had only ever been forced, or paid, or coerced to do.

That there was payment involved here was suddenly irrelevant.

For a moment he stood, swaying slightly, then he bent his head to lick at each nipple before gracefully kneeling, both knees on the floor as he opened his mouth.

The Number convulsed as if electrified. Buried hilt-deep in a long, expert throat he reached out a steadying hand for support as eyes closed, head thrown back he groaned his pleasure out loud. Held still, trapped by muscles that swallowed his flesh, he could hardly breath, then as abruptly the pressure was gone and the mouth was moving on, tantalising with licks and nips before abandoning his cock altogether, sliding down, concentrating on the fullness of his balls. Struggling for breath, the Number shivered, bending forward, cupping both hands around the bobbing head. Sweat trickled down his chest, crept from his hairline to sting his eyes, blurring the image of the kneeling man, the curling hair almost dark against his thighs, his own cock, long and fat and needy, dancing up and down as the tongue played outrageously with him.

Then it was gone, the absence of the mouth leaving his flesh bereft, as close to orgasm as was possible and not actually to have come.

The magician was on his feet, mouth glistening in the glimmering light, eyes wicked, alight. He stood very close, touching everywhere, licking neck and throat and ears, whispering between each taste, "You taste of almonds, bitter and sweet. Delicious, delicious." He stilled, breathing quite fast, eyes meeting blue. "Taste it..."

And they were kissing again, this time as equals, the depth and need turning their blood to fire, to water, to electricity. On and on, with breath forcing itself around their open flesh, taken when it could be gasped, life a secondary craving to the obsession that swept both of them past sanity far into the sweetest madness.

As one they fell to the floor, the Number clumsily pulling at the fastening to Zax's trousers, impatiently kicking the remains of his own clothing away. In the end he ripped the thin fabric and finally bared the sorcerer to his touch.

There were scars, silver under the skin, but he hardly noticed them, rolling himself on top of the slighter body, rejoining the kiss, hungry for that most intimate of touches. Weight on his elbows, in the end M-6251 finally took a breath and looked down at the tousled, flushed face beneath him.

And suddenly he didn't know how to ask.

Zax asked for him, though he didn't phrase it as a question. "Fuck me... Go on, do it!"

"Here?"

"Yeah, now, before I come and it's too late." Zax pressed his groin up, pushing his erection against the flat belly, feeling the iron hardness of the other cock grind into his own. He groaned in frustration, biting at his lip, tasting sweat and sex, wanting this as he hadn't since before time began. "Do it."

"Yes." The word was a mere hiss.

"Shift a bit."

And somehow, as if without effort, Zax was curled back, knees pressed towards his shoulders, arse an open invitation. "Fuck me."

The dark skin buried between the curling thighs was slick with lubricant. The Number ran his cock over it, oiling his own skin, making the Name twist and groan underneath him as the friction teased his nerves.

Long legs found their way around his hips and pulled. "Come on, come on..." the whisper deep, edged with something that sounded close to pain. Cock in his hand, the Number found the tight entrance and pushed, holding tight until with a groan the muscle released itself and he was there, inside, pushing into heat and mouth-watering constriction.

"Yes, yes..." Almost demented, Zax pushed up, crying outloud as finally the teasing stopped. As the cock slid inside him and the brief remembered flare of pain faded, he uttered a lascivious groan, arching away from the floor in abandoned pleasure.

But instead of moving, the Number stilled. Zax reached with his hands, words slipping almost malformed from his mouth he begged the motionless man, "Fuck me, go on. It's all right, do it, I won't break." The last word was lost as his hands made contact and at the same moment the cock pressed deep into his body. Curling tighter on himself he opened his body to the assault, meeting each long surge as it slammed into him with a groan; the wet slap of skin on skin, of breath fought for and won, lost in his vociferousness. His hands found the hard nub of nipples and he squeezed, rewarded by a groan, a deeper thrust into his gut, making him twist and curse and claw at the smooth-skinned back. Sweat dripped to his body, slicked their skin where it touched. There was no existence but this; there was no name; no number. Nothing but need and sensation.

And then there was not even that, for the pressure that triggered one to climax was echoed in the other and shuddering, tendons standing taut in neck and throat, mouths set as if in alarm, they came.

---

Somehow, Zax had uncurled himself so that when he woke it was with his cheek pressed hard to dust and old carpeting, his body echoed by the heat and warmth of another. He flexed the fingers that lay in front of his face, only realising they weren't his own when the command produced no movement. He looked harder and saw the difference, saw the heavier bones, the whiter skin; less elegance, more strength. Clean nails, clean skin; the arch and span of flesh across bone and tendon quite perfect. No callouses. No pain, not even a memory of it there in the living canvas.

He twisted, propping himself on one elbow, looking down, seeing the same innocent skin, the pale colour, the strangely unsettling dark hair. His body smelt of clean sweat, sex; difference. Arousing even now. Zax flexed his body, almost annoyed at its reaction. He could feel his arse as if the Number's cock was still embedded there; he couldn't want it again. But he hadn't enjoyed a fuck like that since...ever, and his cock pulsed again at the thought, enough to make him smile wryly at it and lay a hand on the flat-muscled belly at his side.

Immediately, blue eyes were focused on him. Zax tilted his head to one side, for once unsure, "Hello."

"Hello."

A lazy hand reached up and traced a line across bony shoulders, leaving a legion of goose-bumps in its wake. Zax tried for easy, punter/whore conversation, but lost the thread before the words had even been formed in his thoughts. Instead he bent and laid a single kiss on the white skin, despite the part of himself that despised the gesture. A hand found the back of his neck and drew them close, wide eyes searching, searching still as they kissed open mouthed, soft and gentle, slow; close to sublime.

Shaken, Zax pulled away, swallowing hard. "You don't need any more lessons."

"I had an expert teacher." He paused and a frown drew the crooked line of his brows together. "How can I want you again so soon?"

Zax glanced down and the heavy sex that nestled in dark hair was indeed stirring, filling with slow pulses that echoed their heart-beats to uncurl against his thigh. He shook his head, alarm ringing like crazy in his mind; this was madness, insanity. Don't get involved; back away now before you find you can't do it.

But how? How, when all he wanted was to feel that skin, lie in those arms and kiss, be kissed, be wanted? He laughed softly in the back of his throat, despising himself, knowing the Number would only want the sex, not anything else. No one he wanted ever wanted him in return. Not like that. Not deeper than the basic need of either cock or cunt.

"Zax?" The single word was a soft voiced enquiry, a hand ran its way through his hair.

Moving away from the caress, Zax answered the original question. "It was a good fuck. I should think your cock is just being hopeful."

Carefully, the Number sat up, his back creased with imprints from the rucked-up carpet. "No."

"No? Sorry if it wasn't up to scratch, but I did my best."

"No! Be quiet. That wasn't what I meant." He took a deep breath, struggling to make sense of the feelings that warred within. "You know it was good, the best." He shivered slightly at the remembering. "I wanted you more than I've ever wanted anything. I thought that it would go away when it was over -- when the sex was over." He turned slightly and met disturbed green eyes. "But it hasn't."

"What do you want to do, buy me?"

"If I could. If I thought you would come to me, want me as I want you."

"You're a Number -- you can take what you want." Zax's voice was pitched low, lazy; set through with stubbornness.

"Can't you see, I don't want to take you!"

"Fuck it!" Zax sat up and all of a sudden the room was flooded with light.

"What?" The Number blinked at the brightness, bemusement clear on his face.

"There, look at me. I'm a Name. I survive by whatever means I can, which luckily for me is by sleight-of-hand and illusion, not selling my body. That is now -- you don't want to know about the past." He ran a hand across his face as if wiping something away. He began to say something, then gave up gesturing emptily with his hands. "How can you want me?"

"Like this," and the Number cupped a hand to the distraught face, willing understanding of something he barely comprehended himself.

"It's ridiculous!"

"Yes." The Number nodded sombrely. "Turn down the lights."

Zax held very still.

"Go on."

The moment stretched to infinity, then very suddenly the room returned to almost shadows.

The Number held still, thinking, sensing. "The room's warmer too. What else can you do?"

The magician shook his head, fear chaining his tongue.

"Please, tell me."

"I don't know. And why are you so interested?"

"Because I was sure, the others think I'm wrong."

"Please, don't tell them the truth."

Even without the bright light he could see that the magician's skin had drained completely of colour. "If you don't want me to, but why?"

"Because I have no wish to end up vivisected on one of the laboratory tables at the Ministry." Zax let out a long shaky breath. "Is that a good enough reason?"

"Yes... But the show, you use magic in the show!"

"I don't. It's all illusion. Do you think I would be that mad, to expose what I am?"

"I don't know, I never thought."

"It must be great being a Number. It seems to me you never have to think at all."

"We don't -- and I never let them know that I do. Or that I dream."

"You dream?" Everyone knew that Numbers didn't dream, there were even rumours that those who did somehow disappeared. "What of?"

"You."

"Oh."

"Us, but not us. As if I've known you before." The Number swallowed, expecting ridicule. "In another life."

"Yes." In slow understanding, Zax nodded. "Yes, I thought I was dreaming of you because you came to the show so often, but in the dreams you were different."

"So you dreamed of me, too."

"Constantly. And wanted you. I'd have said yes even without the money."

"Because you've never had a Number hooked before?"

"Because I wanted to know if it would be the same as in the dreams."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"For me, too." The Number paused. "Magician?"

"Yes?"

"Is love like this?"

"I don't know. But I suppose, yes, it must be."

Tentatively they drew close, touching in affirmation, in need edged with wonder. They kissed lightly, without urgency, without heat. After a while they moved to the cushions, sitting curled around each other in silence, a blanket pulled around them like a shield against the world.

"Will you come back?"

The Number could have cried. "Whenever I can." He twisted his lips in sorrow. "I wish I could live here with you."

"You'd hate it. It's too cold for a start, and I'm not sure I'd remember to keep it warm all of the time. And you'd have to work. And they wouldn't let you."

"No, they'd take you away."

"No thanks." Zax ran a finger down a strong arm. "Better this than nothing."

"Yes." The Number smiled, taking the magician's breath away.

"Beautiful," he murmured.

"Not as beautiful as you."

Which made them both smile.

They kissed again, long and slow, stretching out on the cushions, the light a nimbus around their bodies, touching the sheen of sweat where it broke through skin; the flash of moving fingers, tongues, delight. Without pressure or demand they built slowly towards pleasure, the sweetness of it all singing through them, making their blood one.

Like love; like lovers.

Zax was moving, pressing his weight hard against the Number when the door crashed open. With a stunned glance at the black-uniformed group of Enforcers who piled through the door he was on his feet, careless of his nakedness, of his erection that shrank too slowly back on itself, and tried to hurl himself through the melee to the door.

He didn't make it.

Beaten to the floor by the long batons the Enforcers loved to use so much he curled on himself with a sob of despair, knowing they would stop, willing them to stop before he broke like a doll in their hands. In the end they did. He lay and tried to breath softly, panic and fear eating at his thoughts, need making him uncurl and look up.

The Number -- his Number -- was held lightly between two of the guards, a stun-gun held to the side of his face. His own guards. Zax shook his head, frowning, trying uselessly to make sense of it all whilst his head rang where they had hit him. Something crashed to the floor, books were trampled underfoot, costumes ripped to shreds; the noise was the room being destroyed around them. A boot slammed into his back and he gasped out loud, the pain dimming the room, making him dizzy as they pulled him upright.

Despair rippled through him and he frantically sought out the Number, locking their gaze together, trying to say in silence things that would be hard to say with all the words in the world. This was the end. It should have been different.

A hand slapped his face, the open-palmed blow meant only to catch his attention. He blinked and looked at the Enforcer, pulling himself upright, trying to straighten his shoulders in paltry defiance.

A hand took hold of his face and squeezed. "Fuckin' Name!" The Enforcer spat the words, white spittle flying from his mouth. "Fuckin' whore!"

Zax made a soft sound as the hand released his jaw. He knew they'd want to rape him, this anger merely a prelude. More than anything he wanted the Number gone, for him not to have to watch.

The Enforcer turned and gave a casual salute. "You can go, sir. There won't be any problem."

"There already is." The voice of command, of Centre-born rights. "Let the Name go. I brought this about, he's guilty of nothing."

"'Fraid he is, sir. Saw it with my own eyes. You and 'im, and you weren't discussing the weather."

"But I paid him, how can he be the guilty one!"

"It's the law." The Enforcer captain took a couple of swaggering steps across to the naked Number. "Don't you remember the law?"

"The law's wrong."

"That's not my problem, is it?" He went on before the Number could say anything else. "Get back to the Centre, sir. Don't fret yourself about the whore here, we'll look after him."

"But he's not a whore!" There was despair in the Number's voice.

"Paid 'im, didn't you? Well then, that makes 'im a whore to me."

"I could pay you..."

The words fell into silence.

"I don't think I 'eard that, sir. Besides, you wouldn't pay me with what I want." He turned back and took hold of a handful of the magician's hair in one gauntleted hand. "Could he, sweetheart?"

Zax gathered himself and spat in the Enforcer's face. Narrow-eyed with pain he watched the trickle of saliva slide down the pock-marked skin. Then the hand released his hair, to wipe the offence away.

"Make the whore kneel."

Hard hands pushed him down. Though he fought, it was without real hope. Zax knelt and swallowed bile.

The Enforcer came to stand very close, the rancid leather of his uniform pressed to the prisoner's face. "I'm Captain Rosan, but you can call me Sir."

A hand caught the side of Zax's head, hard.

"What do you call me?"

"Sir..."

"Better. Now open wide." Rosan smiled as the order was obeyed. He ground his crotch against the whore's face, feeling himself harden. Then with a smile, he stood back and spat wetly into the open mouth. He was grinning, "Now swallow it."

Helped by a slap across his face, Zax obeyed.

"Now, don't do it again, or I'll think of something far more copious for you to swallow. Clear?"

Zax nodded as well as he was able.

The Number found his voice. "Leave him alone!"

"Can't do that, sir. He's property now. It's up to the Ministry what happens next."

"So you won't kill him?"

Rosan turned to the Number. "Not yet." His smile explained quite clearly that the Name might well prefer the more final choice anyway. "Off you go, sir. They'll be wondering where you are."

"But..."

"It would be easier."

The Number looked at Zax, looked into his eyes and recognised a plea when he saw it. He nodded. There would be other ways to get the magician away. There had to be. He moved away from the gun and the hands, reaching for his clothing, slipping with an economy of movement into its folds, pulling on his boots. Half-way to the door, he paused in the centre of the destruction, seeing the ruin he had unknowingly created, seeing the man he had wanted to love held immobile, abased; seeing the cost of his dreams.

"Go on."

The guards were all watching him; only Zax stared steadily at the floor. It was hard to see he was shaking. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them to the same picture. "Where will you take him?"

"To the Ministry."

The Number nodded, and dragging his feet walked out of the room. In the dusty corridor he held still, his thoughts in turmoil. The sound of a blow, followed by a single cry pierced the door he had closed behind him, making the fine hairs on his neck stand on end.

Bodie.

He shook his head, confused by the name he recognised from the dreams. The name Zax had called. Bodie.

When a scream shuddered through the air he beat his head against the wall and sobbed, dry tears burning his eyes. Again. He couldn't stand it. Almost running, stumbling on limbs that no longer obeyed him, he headed for the door, pushing out into the street oblivious of the stares from the gathering crowd at the theatre door, or of the guards who were once again flanking his sides.

He gasped at the cold air, drawing in great gulps through his open mouth. One of the guards touched his arm and he shrugged it away with something close to hatred. There was nothing he could do. Nothing. Wiping his sleeve over the sweat on his face, the Number turned on his heel. He couldn't look at the theatre. Instead he ran; running as if pursued by demons, the sound of his own name following him every metre of the way.

-- THE END --