Redsnake

"Hmmm..." Shina pondered.

The burglar knelt at the end of a dimly-lit stone hallway, ear pressed against a stout wooden door, absorbed in process of probing its lock. Once she was through, there was nothing standing between her and the job of a lifetime. There was of course one detail that had made the venture the job of a lot of other people's lifetimes, and not long ones at that, but she had an ace up her sleeve for that eventuality. Probably.

Fleur hugged her knees, eyes languishing on the various needles and gauges set in the gray metal walls, and gave another long, heartfelt sigh. Fully twelve atmospheres remaining, by what she could tell. Or, by a more relevant metric, a half-dozen more hours steeping in ennui inside the tiny decompression chamber. She should be grateful, she knew. Relish a bit of boredom after the mishap earlier that day, from which only quick reactions and some impressive new technology had saved her. But that was the sort of thing that happened five hundred feet beneath the surface.

There was a flash of fire at the foot of Mallory’s bed, and when it abated, the demon stood silently there. She wore the standard outfit, which is to say, not much; stiletto boots buckled around her ankles; a spiked choker around her neck; a pair of long fingerless gloves running up her forearms; and what might charitably be called a bikini - all in standard velvet black to accent pale, shimmering skin and long, flame-red hair. In one hand she carried a compressed air tank, which she placed softly at the bedside before sliding gently onto the covers to straddle the napping girl.