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Message-ID: <47402asstr$1081725005@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Imagineer <imagin8r47@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Cruel Summer 24 {Imagineer} (MF reluc viol exhib ScFi)
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Date: Sun, 11 Apr 2004 19:10:05 -0400
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Cruel Summer

copyright 2001-2004 by Imagineer.

comments to 
imagineer 47: yahoo green eggs com ham
but without the green eggs or ham

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Imagineer/www/


// 24: Grounded


  Noel Aquino entered the detective wing of the station. He was in a
good mood; his son had actually made breakfast for him. Sure, it was
only a microwave breakfast sandwich, and Ricky still wasn't exactly
speaking to him, but it was something. So it wasn't until he'd gotten
across the parking lot, in the station, and past the Uniformed's area
that it dawned on him that everyone he saw had given him a sad look.
"Hey, Mike. How come everybody's so quiet this morning? Who died?"

  The fellow detective looked up at Noel. Noel was grinning. He didn't
know. Damn.

  "You did," Mike answered. He gestured to Ramirez' office. "Cap wants
to see you first thing."

  Noel poked his head around the door. "Hey, what's up?"
  Ramirez had been talking to Miguel Rubio, who was seated. This was
twice that Ramirez had called Noel in after Rubio. Noel hoped this
wasn't the start of a pattern -- he didn't much like the flashy young
detective.

  "Come in. Sit down."
  Noel noted with concern that Rubio remained seated. Ramirez did not
move to dismiss him. Once seated, Noel looked over at Rubio; he was
grinning.

  Ramirez eyed Noel as he spoke to Rubio. "Rubio, why don't we review
your progress again so Aquino here can hear it." Noel soured. Ramirez
was obviously pissed at him for some reason. Reviewing another
detective's real cases in front of him -- again -- was cruel and
unusual punishment. What'd he do now? Why didn't Ramirez just put him
out of his misery and suspend him already? And did it have to be Rubio?

  "Okay, boss. As we all know," Rubio paused to glance at Noel for
dramatic effect, "late last night in Twisted Oaks, Officer Mahoney
interrupted a woman assaulting a local resident." Noel didn't know --
he didn't usually catch the news before coming to work. "She fled the
scene and he gave chase. Knowing from the recent activity in the area
that she was probably our Black Widow killer-"

  "Black Widow?" Noel interrupted. He looked at Ramirez, who made a
face.
  "That's what the hookers and pimps are calling her now," Rubio
explained, "You know, a female black widow kills her mate after they do
the deed. Since some of the Twisted Oaks murder victims were caught
with their pants down -- literally."

  "Thank God the press hasn't picked up on it yet," Ramirez rued.
"Nothing like a nickname to whip up a serial killer fear frenzy."

  "So anyway," Rubio continued, "Officer Mahoney figures she's the..."
he avoided saying 'Black Widow' in deference to Ramirez "...murder and
assault suspect we've been after, possibly armed and dangerous, he
ordered her to stop. She turned on him aggressively and he had no
choice but to open fire. He swears he hit her at least twice, but she
simply turned and ran. He followed her up an access ladder to the roof
of a three-story apartment building, where he saw her jump off into an
alley. The man she'd assaulted also saw her jump off the building, only
he described it as 'flying.' When he and Officer Mahoney checked the
alley, there was no sign of her. Both men said she was late teens or
early twenties, dark hair, and barely dressed in a short top, long open
sweater-coat or cape, bikini bottoms and high heels."

  "Sound like anyone you know, Aquino?" Ramirez asked.

  Oh, crap. Noel felt queasy. They must think it's the Avenging Angel.
  So why hadn't they called him last night?

  "But that's not the only excitement. A couple of kids went to their
favorite make-out spot last night over in the industrial park -- no
damn sense, kids, coulda been mugged or worse out there, it's more
dangerous than Twisted Oaks after dark. Anyway, desk gets this call
that a couple of kids saw bodies on the floor of this warehouse office,
I'm not too far from there, so dispatch asks me to go check it out.
Guess who it is?" Rubio paused just long enough for dramatic effect; he
wasn't looking for a response. "Devon Miles and Reginald Cornelius."

  Noel knew those names. The first Avenging Angel report, the incident
at that QuickMart -- Devon and RC had tried to rob it when Angel
dropped in and handed them their hats.

  "Those two are my case. Why didn't you call me?" He looked to
Ramirez. "Why didn't anyone call me?" If the Avenging Angel was his
only assignment and such a big deal in the media, the least they could
do was let him know when something actually happened.

  "I just found out an hour ago when I came in," Ramirez begged off.
  Rubio supported Ramirez' claim. "I told Sgt. Jackson to call you, I
knew you'd want to know. I guess he got busy."

  Noel got the feeling Rubio had arranged to keep them uninformed. Now
that it was something more interesting than a tabloid freak show Rubio
probably wanted it. He'd always been a press hog. Ramirez wasn't going
to give it to him, was he? 

  "So anyway, since I was there I checked things out for ya, Aquino.
Always happy to help out. Didn't find much. But the cause of death is
interesting. Coroner's not done with them, but so far it looks the same
as the airport kid, what's his name, James, Tim James, TJ."

  Airport kid? Noel thought. Oh, right. The man who was murdered at the
airport a little while back.

  Noel's stomach turned. Rubio *was* horning in on his case. Great.

  Ramirez nodded at Rubio. "Tell him about your other case."

  "You remember the airport murder? The punk who fell over dead and his
buddy who's still in a coma? Doctors can't figure out what happened to
the coma patient; it's like his brain just switched off, like he
decided to become a vegetable. And neither the coroner nor forensics
can figure out why his buddy fell over dead. It's like the guy just
decided to stop living, Snap! just like that. Well their best friend
shows up in the hospital all woozy and shit -- he's awake but fuzzy,
like he was drugged. Only the docs can't find anything wrong with him.
They think it's psychological, but whadda they know. The kid doesn't
remember what happened. One minute he's in his room spankin' his
monkey, next he's layin' in the hospital mumblin' and shit."

  Rubio paused, waiting for Noel to say something. His grin was from
ear to ear; he looked like a little kid just itching to reveal a secret
but wanting to play "guess what?" first. Noel wasn't in the mood to
play; he stared back sullenly. Just put me out of my misery already, he
thought.

  Rubio saw that Noel was determined not to interject. "Okay, so it
turns out that these three guys are the muggers from the alley behind
the club that night." He said 'that night' like it was meaningful; when
he saw no recognition on Noel's face he explained. "You know, the
Avenging Angel incident. From this week's World News Weekly? It's your
case, you should know about it." Noel didn't appreciate the slight; he
knew his 'case' very well, he just didn't see how he was supposed to
know who the muggers were since the victims hadn't been able to
identify them. How had Rubio figured it out?

  Rubio answered the silent question. "When I got Officer Mahoney's
report from early this morning, I saw the connection between my Black
Widow case and your Avenging Angel case. It's obviously the same girl."
That point was debatable; Noel was pretty sure there was more than one
young woman on the streets of the city. "I looked through your desk but
I couldn't find your file, so I found out what I could from the papers.
I saw in that photo and read the couple's story that it was three guys
that attacked them and then got their butts kicked by the Angel chick.
So I'm thinkin' three guys there, three buddies turn up later
mysteriously fucked up or dead, if Angel is Black Widow, and we know
Black Widow likes to take out men of questionable moral fiber," Rubio
practically strutted at his clever choice of words, "I figure it could
be the same three guys. So first thing this morning I zip over to where
the mugging victims live and ask them to look at photos of the
Unfortunate Three, and it's a positive ID. Now I know the cases are
connected."

  "What cases? The airport and Avenging Angel, maybe. Maybe. But not
this 'Black Widow,' if that's what you're calling her now," Noel
huffed. He didn't like Rubio horning in on his only case, even if it
was a bullshit case. Especially if it *wasn't* a bullshit case after
all. Why was Ramirez letting Rubio get away with this crap? Detectives
might help each other out with a little serendipitous information, but
they weren't supposed to steal cases. "All you've got to connect Angel
to Black Widow is that maybe they both have something against criminals
-- robbers and muggers in one case, pimps in the other -- and even
that's a tenuous link. Heck, every prostitute in Twisted Oaks hates
robbers, muggers, and pimps."

  Ramirez verbally separated the two. "Calm down, Aquino. Hear Rubio
out, he's got more."

  "Thank you, Captain Ramirez," Rubio said with overdramatic formality.
"So I go back to a couple of the witnesses from the airport-"
  "All this before 10am," Noel barbed.
  "I'm efficient," Rubio countered.
  "Don't you ever sleep?" Noel snarled.
  "Hey, duty calls," Rubio shrugged. "So anyway, I go back to them and
I show them the Black Widow sketch, and they say she was there."

  Noel fought the urge to roll his eyes. Rubio probably poisoned the
well. Witnesses are highly suggestible and eager to please; they'd say
they saw the Pope if they were told he was there. Noel was surprised
Ramirez bought it.

  "I think Rubio's got a good case for the Angel and the pimp-killer
being the same person," Ramirez said. "I'm surprised the press hasn't
made the connection yet, given the similarities. Frankly I'm surprised
you didn't make the connection, Aquino."

  Noel just seethed.

  "Well, since Rubio here has made more progress on your case in one
night than you've made since you started, and since he's already
working related cases, I'm giving him the Avenging Angel."

  Noel felt ill; he looked at Rubio, whose wolfish smile now threatened
to engulf his ears. If he didn't relax he was going to need a
grinectomy.

  "But I can't take you off of it without losing face with the press.
So you're going to work on it together."

  Rubio got an emergency grinectomy. His expression soured; he looked a
Noel with distaste. A partner? Not likely. This was his case now; the
old man better stay out of his way.

  Noel gave the younger detective an icy stare. He was not about to let
this sloppy sophomore with questionable methods drag him down. Noel
might be a little off his game lately because of his personal life, but
at least he was a good cop who did things the right way.

  "Now go find this girl and get her the fuck off my streets." They
were dismissed.


  The two detectives left the captain's office in silence. Rubio
immediately headed for the exit; Noel followed. They said not a word to
each other as Rubio crossed the parking lot to his police-issue sedan.
Rubio got behind the wheel. Noel went around to the passenger side; the
door was locked. The engine squealed and whooshed to life. Noel tapped
on the glass; the passenger window whirred down as Rubio leaned over to
address the elder detective.

  "Look, Aquino, I already know who the Black Widow is, and I know how
to catch her. I know you haven't done shit with the case, so just stay
out of my way and everybody's happy. Go take your kid to a baseball
game or something, I'll be happy to cover for you." The window whirred
back up as the car backed out of the parking space. Rubio gave Noel a
mock salute before driving off.
   


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  Noel paused, hand on the ignition, suspended in mid-thought, watching
care-free teens come and go from the QuickMart.

  I wonder what Ricky's doing.

  Thoughts of the Black Widow nee Avenging Angel case evaporated at the
realization that he was losing his son. Over a girl.

  He needed to reconnect soon before it was too late. Talk -- not about
Angela; the less he was forced to think about her, the better -- just
about life. Tonight, maybe. 

  But first he had to get back on his game. If he didn't start paying
attention to his work, Rubio would manipulate him right out of a job.

  I wonder if Angela shops at this QuickMart. She probably does; it's
not far from her house...

  "Stop!" The sudden violence of his own shout pierced the hot silence
of the car's interior. A couple of the teens hanging out in front of
his car looked at him. What?

  Detective Aquino hopped out of the car, motivated to cover his
jarring outburst as a legitimate request. "Can I ask you a couple of
questions?"

  "What'd we do?" One looked nervous, the other defiant.

  "Nothing. I just want to know if either of you were here around the
time of the robbery."
  "Which one?" "Dude, the Angel..." "Ohyeahh... Nah, I wasn't here that
night."
  "So you know about it."
  "Yeah." "Who doesn't?"
  "How about before? Either of you see anything or anyone unusual in
the couple days before?"
  They looked at each other and shrugged. "Nah, not really." "Huh-uh."
  "You hear of anybody who *was* around that night?"
  "I dunno, maybe Dirk. He's always dealin- I mean, he's always hangin'
around here."
  "Dirk...?"
  "Um, Hurley."
  "The quarterback?"
  "Yeah, that's him." The nervous one looked at Noel plaintively. "You
won't tell him we mentioned his name, will you?"
  Noel recognized the request. A bully. "Of course not. You wouldn't
happen to know where he is, would you?"
  They shook their heads.
  "All right. Thanks. If you guys see anything... weird, you give me a
call." He handed the nervous one his card.


  Dirk waited until the car was around the corner before he returned to
the register. "Okay, ring me up."
  "One pack of gum. Nothing else?"
  "Naw, I'm tryin' to cut back."

  He stopped outside the store, giving the two younger boys a mean
stare. "What'd he want?"
  "He was asking about the Angel."
  "No shit." So the police really were taking it seriously. He had
mixed feelings about that; a part of him still wanted to get another
shot at her. "Did you say anything?"
  "N-no, of course not." "Fuck no, man."
  Dirk was satisfied with the respect in their response. "Good. I've
got enough shit going on." He started to turn to leave, but a surprise
pain shot up his side. Damn painkillers wearing off already. Dirk
hesitated, regaining his composure; the stories people told were bad
enough, he didn't need to make it worse by showing everybody just how
bad that bitch had hurt him.

  "Hey, Dirk, how come no beer?" the bold one asked.
  "Fucking Dad cut me off after he heard what happened." And caught him
drinking. "Says I'm on probation until I'm back on the field. And
thanks to all the cops coming around, business is way off, all my cash
is tied up."
  "Dude, you should sell your story to the papers." "Yeah, they pay
good money. I heard."
  "Yeah, right," Dirk dismissed as he turned to go for real this time.

  But the suggestion was turning itself over in his mind. The last
thing he wanted was his humiliation in print. But on the other hand, he
could use the scratch, and if he told his own story instead of letting
the rumors fly at least the truth would come out. Or a reasonable
facsimile. About how this girl had been stalking him -- he was
world-famous in Oak Valley, after all. And how she jumped him in the
parking lot. And wailed on him with a baseball bat. From behind. And
he'd just managed to get the bat away from her when she took off.

  Maybe selling his story wasn't such a bad idea after all.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  Ricky sat alone at the farthest table from the convention center
snack bar. An $8 ham and cheese sandwich sat still in its cellophane
wrap to his left. To his right lay a rolled-up tube. He half-reached
for the sandwich, then half-reached for the tube, then back for the
sandwich...

  "One more look."
  He grasped the tube and gingerly unrolled it, holding down two
curling corners with his forearm. There it was. A Daredevil movie
poster, signed by one of the biggest names ever associated with the
franchise. Who wasn't even supposed to be at this convention, but
stopped by on his way to the airport and slipped into the Marvel booth
for a few minutes. "Ricky: Keep drawing without fear! -K___ S__th"

  Cool.

  He pulled out the image that had prompted the comment. He generally
didn't admire his work as much as scan it for flaws, but he had to
admit this was one of his best. Something about the (ahem) modeling
session Angela had given him had really gotten his creative juices
flowing. It had given rise to a fluid urgency in his new style. His
drawings seemed to want to leap off the page, as if the paper could
barely contain them.

  But this particular drawing was inspiration on a whole new level.

  Sapphire, the beaming-bright little bundle of gracefully coiled
curves, at once leaping back and charging forward, her impossible hover
so vividly recalling the weightless power poses he'd witnessed that
night; her face -- Angela's face, for try as he might he couldn't seem
to draw Sapphire any other way -- frozen between measured fury and
unguarded surprise.

  And Sapphire's new nemesis, the embodiment of all the terrible rumors
running rampant on the streets and the local chat boards, rumors
ricocheting around the walls of the very convention center in which
Ricky now sat. Grounded, but ready to spring, every inch of her lithe
form suggesting arachnidian predation, from her long limbs and
windblown black hair to her slender digits and stiletto heels. It was
only Sapphire's winged elevation that kept this felonious female from
towering over her. This new character on the scene was responsible for
the mysterious attacks on Sapphire's old collars, secretly spreading
malice toward the stalwart superheroine, while at the same time
extracting her own terrible vengeance against the petty predators who
took their percentages from the unfortunate souls stuck on the wrong
side of the tracks. The Black Widow was a twisted woman, as sinister as
she was seductive, a poison whose effects were quickly being felt
throughout the city. And only Sapphire could stop her.

  He felt a swell of pride just gazing at his creation.

  Of course it was just a drawing. A fantasy given to pen and paper. An
impressionable boy's interpretation of a cumulation of whispers and
glimpses. But it wasn't drawn by him so much as drawn out of him. The
more his thoughts lingered on it, the more solid it felt.

  "Woah, dude, that's cool! Where'd you get it?"

  Ricky was startled into reality. He quickly drew his backpack down
into his lap. Someone sat down next to him; a tall young man about his
age. Another boy stood to Ricky's right, leaning forward on an empty
chair. "She's hot. They're both hot. What booth? Do they have any more?"

  "I- I drew it," Ricky stuttered. "Last night."
  "Well damn, dude, you're good." The one who was sitting leaned in to
take a closer look. "Really good." He wolf-whistled. "So who's it
supposed to be?"

  Ricky wasn't comfortable being bracketed by strangers, even though
they seemed harmless. Nonetheless, his grip flexed defensively around
his signed poster as his vision tunneled around his drawing. "That's
Sapphire," he said, finger hovering over Angela's face, "and the other
one's Black Widow, her nemesis."

  "Sapphire, huh? She looks kind of like the Avenging Angel in that
rotten paper my mom reads every week."
  "She is. But her name is Sapphire."
  "Sapphire, that's kind of a cool name, I guess," said the one leaning
on the chair back. "For the jewelry, right?"
  "Yeah," Ricky answered.

  A knot of convention-goers walking by had stopped suddenly when one
of them pointed to Ricky's drawing. They now piped in.
  "So how come you call her Sapphire?"
  "He just said it's the jewelry, stupid."
  "Yeah, but I mean, why not just call her Avenging Angel? That's what
the press calls her. I mean, if you're gonna draw a real person-"
  "She's not real."
  "You coulda fooled me; she sure looked real."
  "So does that Rat-Boy, but he's fake."
  "Yeah, it's called Photoshop, moron, look into it."

  Ricky interrupted the discussion. "I call her Sapphire because that's
her name."
  "Says who?"
  "Says her," he answered seriously.
  "Woah, dude, gimme some of whatever you're on."
  "Come on, the Angel isn't real. If she is she's just some prostitute
on too much meth."
  "She's real, and she's not like that," Ricky defended. "I know her.
I've talked to her. Well, sort of." Why did he say that?

  "Really?"
  "Dude, keep your spank sessions to yourself!"
  "Shut up, Chip. Shut up!" The clot of people was momentarily quiet.
"What do you mean you know her? Do tell."
  "Yeah, this should be good."
  Ricky was a little miffed, forgetting how fantastical his experience
would sound; after all, after dwelling on it so much for so long it
seemed almost reasonable to him. "She's a friend of a friend. She saved
my best friend once. I saw her in action. She beat up like five guys
and chased 'em off."
  "Yeah, sure."
  "Right." Someone made a 'crazy' spinning-finger motion next to their
head.
  "Hey, how do you chumps know? With all the wild shit going on lately,
who knows anything about anything?" The reasonable one sat down across
from Ricky. "So who's the other chick?" He looked seriously interested.
  "She's an evil vigilante-slash-thief," Ricky explained. "You guys
heard about the stuff in Twisted Oaks the last couple of days? This is
her. She targets small-time criminals, kills them and takes their
money. I call her Black Widow."

  Ricky was overwhelmed as the group launched into heated discussion.
  "Black Widow? You can't use that. Marvel already has a Black Widow."
  "Oh come on. This woman has sex with a guy and then kills him and
takes his money. I think the name fits."
  "Who said she had sex with them?"
  "The first guy was found with his johnson hanging out, and the
autopsy said he died of a heart attack from sex."
  "You're making that up."
  "Am not. Found it on the Net."
  "Well, it doesn't matter. The name Black Widow is already taken."
  "By an obscure bit player."
  "Bit player? Come on, she was an Avenger."
  "She was also in S.H.I.E.L.D. and The Lady Liberators. So what? She's
basically window-dressing. A hero's girlfriend. First Iron Man, then
Hawkeye, then Daredevil."
  "That's hardly a bit player."
  "Come on, she doesn't even have powers. She's just a hot chick in
spandex. One of dozens they pull off the shelf to fill a quota."
  "She had her own book."
  "She *shared* a book with The Inhumans, who pushed her out after a
few issues."
  "No, just a couple years ago."
  "Well fuck, dude, that doesn't count. Everybody in the catalog gets
their own book now, just to protect a copyright."
  "Exactly."
  "No, that's bullshit. I mean, come on, *I* could get my own book."
  "I'd like to see that."
  "Well, anyway, can you come up with a better name than Black Widow?"
  "Yeah, um, Kevlar for instance."
  "Oh, please! That's so lame. It doesn't even have anything to do with
her identity!"
  "Sure it does, that cop shot her a bunch of times and the bullets
bounced right off."
  "Half the classic superheroes are bulletproof, that's hardly an
identity. Besides, most cops can't hit shit they're shootin' at."
  "Fuck you, my dad's a cop!"
  Ricky spoke up. "So's my dad, and I've been to the gun range with him
and seen the officer in question shoot. He wouldn't miss, not all six
shots."
  The crowd paused, remembering the point of the discussion was the art
on the table and the fantastic based-on-actual-events story it told.
  "Anyway, I call her Black Widow, and if Stan Lee wants to sue me for
using the name of an actual spider to describe a character based on an
actual person who behaves like that spider, then I guess he can. Or
maybe he'll just hire me to do the book for him and make lots of money."
  "Yeah, well, it's not like you're here with a book to sell anyway."
  "And the press'll probably call that serial killer the Black Widow on
their own."
  "Well, if she looks anything like that, I wouldn't mind takin' a spin
in her web!"

  A man conspicuously dressed in a button-down denim shirt and pressed
pants approached. "Hey, kid, you wanna sell that drawing there?"
  Ricky turned away from the clump of comic bookers, locked in lore.
"What, this?" His fingers brushed over his ink of Sapphire and Black
Widow poised for combat. "I'd rather not."
  "Um, well how about sketching me a fresh one? Just a quick sketch, of
just the one girl. For $20?"

  This was the first time anyone had seriously offered money for one of
Ricky's sketches. He contained his excitement.

  "Now?"
  "Yeah. I'm only here for the day, I'm on a flight back to Boston
tonight. Just a little something for the office, you know."
  Ricky countered on a hunch -- $20 was nothing to this guy. "Forty
bucks, but just a pencil. If you want ink, it'll cost you a hundred.
I'll have to go buy me some stuff so it'll take me an hour."
  The man seemed to be doing complex calculations of time and money in
his head. "Well, for an unpublished kid you certainly know your own
value." He checked his watch, looked up at the ceiling for a second.
"Okay." He pulled out a money clip and peeled off a hundred dollar
bill. "Here's the hundred. You get started and I'll go get your ink.
What do you need?"

  Ricky tried not to be stunned. "A fine-point Sharpie and an
ultra-fine-point Sharpie. The bookstore across the street probably
sells them."
  "Be right back."
  "Hey, which one?"
  "Huh?"
  "You said just one character. Which one?"
  "The Black Widow," he grinned.

  Ricky nodded his head until the man turned, then looked down at the
ink he'd done last night. He was disappointed; he liked drawing
Ange-... Sapphire better.

  I knew I drew Black Widow too sexy...


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  Angela didn't know how long she'd been watching the TV -- well,
sitting in front of it, hoping the radiation would somehow nuke her
depression -- when her mom came home from work. Usually a shift at the
diner wiped Gladys Barrett out and she'd head straight to bed, but
tonight she came into the living room and took a seat on the ottoman,
just within Angela's field of vision. Angela glanced over at her mom,
doing her teenage best not to show actual interest.

  Oh, great. A talk.

  "I know I've been working a lot of extra shifts lately, but I can
still tell when you stop going out with your friends."

  Angela's eyes left the TV set long enough to roll them at her mom.
"My friends all moved away, mom. It's called graduation."

  "I know you've got your sewing, and it's good to have a hobby to help
keep you going through rough times -- you might remember I used to
macrame -- but it seems to me you're a little obsessed with it,
spending all of your time at the fabric store, even when you're not
scheduled to work. I used to think that was just an excuse for some
secret life you've been leading-"
  Angela's heart skipped a beat.
  "-but Jan tells me you're practically living there."

  Oh, right. Jan, an assistant manager at the fabric store, was a
regular at mom's diner.

  "And yet I never see you wearing anything you've made."
  Trust me mom, that's a good thing.

  "I used to be worried that you were just spending too much time
online, but lately you haven't even touched your computer. You can't
just withdraw from the whole world, honey, it's not healthy."

  Angela let out a sigh, suppressing what she wanted to say. That's
where you're wrong, mom. At this point going online isn't healthy. At
least if the computer's off they can't trace me. Angela wondered how
many emails from Josh and Scott were waiting to be picked up, and how
many times someone had checked to see if she was online for instant
messaging.

  "Just because you hit a little rough spot with a boy doesn't mean you
should stop living. Your whole life doesn't just revolve around one
thing."

  Easy for you to say; you weren't given super-powers.

  Angela really wasn't in the mood for this. (That was probably her
mom's point.) Angela half-watched the television news on in the
background. TV news was entertaining to watch even if you didn't listen
to what they were saying. Especially if you didn't listen to what they
were saying. Perky anchor, stern field reporter, a new bold icon for
each story, explanatory titling, absurdly-natural transitions...

  Her mom droned on, the sound of her pep talk melding with the female
anchor delivering a story with a smile next to a graphic of a lottery
ticket with '$WINNER$' superimposed in red at a jaunty angle. "I know
maybe you don't believe it right now, but you're a special person. Each
one of us has a unique gift, something they alone can contribute to the
world. You're never going to find out what that is if you don't get out
of this rut you're in."
  No, mom, I found it already. And it's not all that.

  "You need to get out there and do something."

  Handoff to the distinguished-but-still-perky male anchor. After a
measured half-second delay, a new graphic appears: the ever-popular
chalk outline of a body. As her mom paused in her speech, the visual
transition cued Angela into listening to the anchor. "...is dead
tonight." Police sketch. Switch to live remote; captioned "Twisted
Oaks." (She'd never actually gone to Twisted Oaks before; that was
where the hookers and drug pushers hung out. Even as Sapphire it'd
never occurred to her to go down there.) Full-screen map of the city,
then zoom in 3D flyover style to Twisted Oaks, then little knife icons,
some with chalk outlines, popping up bang! bang! bang! bang! bang! on
the map. None of those were Sapphire's doing, that was for sure. The
map zooms back out the the whole valley. Back to co-anchor droning,
again with the police sketch. Police sketch goes full-screen; it could
be any young woman with dark hair. Sketch flips like a tile on "Wheel
of Fortune" to show stock footage of a police shooting range, then a
closeup of body armor, more shooting, closeup of deformed bullets
peeled off the body armor. (So the attacker is bullet-proof. She must
have the missing sapphires.) Back to co-anchor, now the corner graphic
is a dramatic drawing of a woman with "Black Widow" above. (Looks a lot
like one of Ricky's sketches.) Now a question mark lands on top of the
drawing. Co-anchor turns to her male companion, flashing her pearly
whites.

  A sudden sense of purpose swelled in Angela; she gazed out the window.

  The police don't know what they're up against.
  But neither does the Black Widow.

  Angela's mom, realizing she'd lost her daughter's attention, reached
for the remote and zapped the TV off. She wore an expectant look on her
face as Angela's eyes shifted to meet hers.

  "You're right, mom. I need to get out there and do something." Angela
got up. She put her hand on her mom's shoulder. "Thanks, mom."

  Gladys Barrett's jaw dropped as she watched her daughter head for her
room with a sense of sudden purpose she'd never shown before.

  Well, that went better than expected!


  Enough dilly-dallying. You're a superheroine, not a fashion model. 
  If your sapphires weren't constantly eating everything you wore you
could have a real uniform instead of spending fifteen minutes picking
through your wardrobe before every outing.
  If my sapphires didn't need me to be wearing less than an XFL
cheerleader to work worth a damn then I wouldn't have to be so picky
about my outfit.

  Even with the more risque fashion choices she'd been making over the
course of summer, her wardrobe was becoming slim pickings for
Sapphire-compatible dress. In frustration, she grabbed an old cotton
tank top and a pair of pink cotton sweatpants. There, happy? she
taunted her suddenly-overactive conscience. It's the frumpiest thing I
could find on such short notice.

  At least your mom won't have a heart attack if she sees you go out
dressed in it. She slid the sweatpants up over her hips before stepping
into her Sapphire shoes.

  When the expected tingling rush failed to race up her body, Angela
looked down and pouted.

  It had been a long time since she'd tested the limits, but she
immediately knew why the gems on her feet were lifeless. Unfortunately,
the sweatpants broke the sapphires' bare-skin rule. For some reason the
stones needed exposed skin to channel their energy in any useful way.
She kicked off the stiletto mules and jammed the sweats down to her
ankles and off her feet. Sweats in hand, she plopped down on her chair
and reached into a drawer for a pair of scissors. Angela wasn't about
to spend another ten minutes of indecision in front of the closet;
she'd just make these work. As the dull old scissors chewed through one
leg and then the other, Angela dismissed a thought about destroying her
last pair of sweats. She hadn't worn them in a couple of years anyway
-- not since the high school Fashion Clique had teased her about the
high waistline and baggy fit. The unpleasant memory triggered a
spiteful response: before she realized what she was doing the scissors
had chewed halfway across the top of the garment. She shrugged her
shoulders and finished the job, tossing the waistband and the top
couple inches of the sweats into the trashcan along with the legs.
Eyeing the top with suspicion, she set the scissors to work again,
chopping the old hip-length garment down to a half-shirt. Not much
chance of her outfit limiting her powers now, she smiled.

  A knock on her door startled the girl. "Angela honey, do you need to
borrow the car?"
  Angela froze, eyes locked on the doorknob; she didn't need her mom
barging in on her while she was 'destroying' her clothes. Or while she
was standing in her room dressed in nothing but a lace thong.

  "N-No thanks, mom," Angela answered through her closed bedroom door.
"I'm just going a few blocks over to Wendy Clymer's house; she's
throwing a pattern party for the sewing club." Angela marveled at how
effortlessly the lie had been constructed; Wendy Clymer's name had just
popped into her head as the first name listed under the Sewing Club
photo in her yearbook. Angela hadn't been a member  -- it was better to
live anonymously than adopt the social stigma of one of the uncool
clubs -- but her former best friend Amy had chosen that page in the
yearbook to write her goodbye letter. The closing "KIT" -- Keep In
Touch -- ended right next to Wendy Clymer's name. "Her brother
volunteered to be our fitting dummy," Angela added with a calculated
giggle. If she was going to lie she might as well make it a lie that
would make her mom stop worrying about her social life.

  Angela could feel the mock suspicion through the door. "Can I trust
you to be a good girl?"
  Mock frustration coated the sigh of an answer. "Yes, mom." As she
said this, her hands, still clutching the abbreviated remains of her
T-shirt and sweatpants, shot behind her back. Just in case moms *could*
see through bedroom doors.

  "Okay, honey. Is it an all-nighter?"
  "Yeah, probably."
  "Well leave her phone number on the fridge in case I need to get a
hold of you, and I'll see you tomorrow."
  "You going to bed?"
  "Right after the weather report."

  Angela checked the clock next to her bed. It was almost 11:30. She
needed to get moving. If she didn't sneak out in the next five minutes
while her mom was busy watching the tube, she'd be stuck in the house
for another half-hour until her mom was asleep -- assuming she didn't
get suspicious about Angela's stalling and wait up longer. Angela
wasn't about to do the changing-behind-the-bushes thing again -- a
chill went up her spine at the memory of what had happened the last
time she'd tried that -- and she couldn't exactly let her mom see what
she'd just done to her clothes or she'd get the extended version of the
"I work too hard for what little money I get to have you wasting it
like that" speech. And with everything going on in her life right now,
Angela didn't need things with her mom getting tense.

  So she quickly stepped into her makeshift shorts and threw the
half-tank over her head. She needed to cover up -- her new long black
buttonless loose-knit sweater/coat was just the ticket, an
out-of-season half-off sale rack find her mom had brought home from a
trip to the mall. By now they were cliche to the point that thrift
shops were donating them to homeless shelters, but Angela appreciated
her mom's gesture. And now she was especially thankful, since it was
likely to get her in and out of the house without risk of moral outrage
but it was light and unstructured enough to hang free and not disrupt
the sapphires when opened. She closed it now, the two halves just
meeting at the navel, and tied off the narrow waist cincher. Shoes
tucked under her arm, Angela gently opened her door. Silent tiptoe down
the hall let her slip past the opening to the living room and kitchen.
Peeking around the corner, she saw the back of her mom's head as the
elder Barrett took in the TV weather report. "Clear skies and warm
temperatures continue to deliver a flawless and carefree summer for the
greater Oak Valley area..."

  Angela tiptoed across the entryway to the front door, the cold tiles
chilling her bare feet. Turning the locks and then the doorknob in slow
motion, her eyes and ears remained pointed toward the living room,
alert for any sign that her mom might have heard her or otherwise
decided to get up. One arm wrapped tightly around her body to hold onto
her shoes and keep her long sweater closed, she had no idea just how
little her improvised top and shorts really covered. Or how the
rough-hewn edges were already beginning to unravel.

  The front door closed as quietly as she could manage. Angela used the
hide-a-key to snick the deadbolt into place. Not wanting to be caught
half-naked in the front yard, she dropped and slipped into the shoes
and lurched into the air as fast as she could.

  Sapphire hadn't risen twenty feet before her shorts began to slip.

  "Oh!" Her hand shot down to rescue the garment from sliding down her
thighs; her flight faltered. The top edge fluttered well down the curve
of her ass; Sapphire felt humiliated at the realization that most of
her tender buttocks were exposed, highlighted by the narrow white lace
thong. But she was determined to press on. Setting down momentarily
atop a nearby house, Sapphire pulled the sides of her thong down over
the sagging waist of the sweat-shorts. It was a little awkward, but it
should work, as long as she didn't try any aerial acrobatics. She only
had to catch the errant article of clothing and refasten it two or
three times on her way to the Twisted Oaks district.

  But on landing, which was admittedly a little harder than it should
have been, the shorts popped right out from under the thong's side
elastic waistband and pooled around her ankles. They tripped her up and
sent her spilling onto a sleeping homeless man. Sapphire swore he was
being just a little bit too helpful as she struggled to get off him and
back on her feet; she felt his gritty hands and arms slide and squeeze
all over her body, nearly pulling her back down on top of him more than
once. Finally she extricated herself from his eager assistance and
managed to stand up. He handed her the shorts after only a few moments
of hesitation and a few visual tours up and down the length of her
curves. The man was all smiles as he watched her teeter off down the
potholed alley toward the boulevard.

  Sapphire had decided that the best way to find this Black Widow was
to simply walk the streets looking for the same men her adversary
targeted, then latch onto one of them and follow him around until the
mysterious assailant made her move. Surely there weren't that many of
them, and with the indiscretion and frequency of attacks the news had
talked about, Sapphire ought to find her prey before sunup. And even if
Black Widow did have the missing sapphires, she didn't have the
experience. Sapphire was more than a match for whatever the Black Widow
could muster.

  But before she reached the busy street her rebellious shorts were
once again making trouble. She would have abandoned them altogether if
it hadn't been for the lace nothing of a thong she wore, not to mention
the way the halves of her sweater would creep outward under the waist
cinch. "I must have stretched out the shorts when I tripped over them,"
she reasoned. Fed up, she yanked the cinch off her long sweater and
snaked it underneath around her hips, holding the low-hanging shorts up
like a makeshift belt. The shorts seemed lower-waisted and higher-cut
than she remembered; the top and waist of her thong was plainly visible
above the low-rise sweat-shorts, and the legs were practically
nonexistent, extending only slightly below the junction of her thighs.
Sapphire didn't realize it but the gnawed edges of the loose cotton
material had frayed considerably on the short flight over, and threads
were continuing to unravel with every step she took.

  Her shorts fixed at least for the moment, she pressed on. A breeze
blowing down the alley kicked the sweater out behind her, exposing her
entire front to the night, from cutoff tank top and bare midriff to
shorts to long and slender legs. Sapphire felt the hem tickle the tops
of her calves as it alternately settled and wafted.

  At least her top was well-behaved. Or so she thought. If only the
poor girl realized just how short she'd cut it to begin with, and just
how far it had unraveled since then. The lower curve of her firm
breasts were beginning to peek out from under the taut top. 

  Sapphire stepped out of the alley onto the street. It was time to go
to work.

  It wasn't her plan to pose as a prostitute, but as she made her way
through the streets that seemed to be the general assumption, and even
with the supposed drop-off in traffic there were just too many people
going by to stop and correct them all. Besides, maybe such assumptions
would make things easier.

  Still, she bristled at the suggestion. Her constant struggle to
control the sapphires made her more than a little defensive. With each
knowing wink, each leering look, she was reminded of uncomfortable
situations and embarassing behavior that the sapphires had seemed to
draw out.

  Even now, as she was beginning to regret her impulsive wardrobe
choices and mulling over how she'd been wandering about for a half-hour
and still had no real idea of what she was doing exactly, the
incomplete sapphires began their subtle betrayal.

  Increasingly careless about her sapphires since she'd entered her
depressed funk, they hadn't been fully charged in days, and they repaid
her now. Already she felt a warm buzz, the initial stirrings of her
sapphires' feedback mistaken for the thrill of the hunt. Her steps grew
longer, her pace slower, her hips swayed more dramatically, her
derriere clenched rhythmically, subconsciously working her lace thong
against her tender flesh. The abbreviated waist of her shorts worked
out from under her improvised belt a little more each step, hanging
lower and lower, exposing more and more of her perfect ass...

  Finally they let slip. In one step they grazed her upper thigh, in
the next her other knee; she stopped to avoid tripping only to see them
once again pool at her toes.

  Her reverie broken, the determined-if-distracted heroine quickly
collected the wayward wisps of fabric and returned them to her hips,
lowering and retying her cinch down on her hips.

  Her clothes were doing their best to keep her sidelined. But she
couldn't just turn tail and run home now. She needed to prove that she
could make a difference. She needed to prove it to herself more than
anyone. So what if her uniform wasn't working out? It was nothing she
couldn't handle. So what if she was a little exposed? She had a nice
body. No, she had a great body. Maybe not runway-model perfect, but she
could turn -- and was turning -- lots of heads, and what was so wrong
about that? Couldn't a superheroine use physical attraction as a tool?
As a weapon? Besides, bikini models wore less than the tank top and
shorts she'd picked for this evening.

  Of course, Sapphire wasn't wearing the same tank top and shorts she'd
picked for this evening. The gnawed and frayed edges of both top and
shorts continued to unravel at an alarming rate. The legs had retreated
past the crotch, exposing the bottoms of her half-moons behind and the
soft crease between thigh and groin in front, only a thin dangling
strip keeping the shorts from becoming a skirt. Or more accurately a
wide belt, as the waist too disintegrated around the cinch that was the
only thing holding them to the girl's hips. Her top's lower hem was
also fading fast, exposing more and more of the lower swell of her
breasts. And stress tears began to form in between the firm mounds as
the corrupting sapphire energy ate away at her modesty. 

  The overheated heroine strutted down the street, head held high. She
was Sapphire. She would show people that she wasn't something to be
feared; she would stop this Black Widow's reign of terror, and then
everyone would know that Sapphire stood for what was right. If only she
could figure out where the shadowy figure was hiding out; there sure
was a lot more to Twisted Oaks than she'd realized. All the more reason
not to wear herself out with aerial wandering. Down here she was *in
it*. And so far as she could tell, she seemed to be fitting in with the
locals, even with her Sapphire-mandated attire. Maybe because of it,
actually. People looked at her -- some of them even stopped and stared
-- but not like people stare at a teenage girl. They were looking at a
*woman*. A strong woman who was proud of her body and what she could do
with it. It was like they shared a mutual respect with her. Angela
soaked it up like a sponge. It was a different culture down here, and
she was beginning to like it.

  Thirst was beginning to register on the heroine's lips. She hadn't
seen a water fountain anywhere, not even in the local park. It seemed
such civic niceties never made it to Twisted Oaks. She supposed she
would have to beg a glass of water from a bar or something.

  Left: McCool's. Right: Happy Donuts. 
  Sapphire chose left. She imagined that the kind of man the Black
Widow was after would more likely be in a bar than in a donut shop.

  "Can I have a glass of water?"
  "Do you have any ID?"
  Oops. Silly Sapphire, this *was* a bar. And dressed as she was she
could be fifteen as easily as twenty-five.
  "Um, I left it at home." That was lame.
  "Then you gotta go. I been hassled twice in the last week for
underage patrons."

  So Sapphire chose right.

  "What can I getcha hon?" The fortyish man behind the counter must
have weighed close to three hundred pounds and sported a thick mat of
chest and arm hair, but wore a frilly pink apron and a nametag that
read "Flo" in industrial cursive. An old television hung in the corner,
blaring out the corny jingle of a local used car dealership.
  "Water?"
  "Bottle of water, buck twenty-five."

  This was something that hadn't been covered in the Heroines Primer.
Of course Sapphire wasn't carrying any money. Or an ATM card. (Well,
that wouldn't do much for the old secret identity.) She suddenly felt
very foolish and out-of-place.

  "I-I'm sorry, I forgot to bring my money. Never mind." She turned to
go, her whole body flush with embarassment (and uncontrolled sapphire
energy), when a familiar image caught her eye on the TV. The Black
Widow sketch, next to the talking head of a late-night newscast.

  "...the cause of death has yet to be determined for either man of the
so-called QuickMart duo, who were both found dead earlier today in the
offices of a business associate. However, sources at the Coroner's
office say that preliminary findings are similar to those for Timothy
James, a 21-year-old man who mysteriously collapsed at Nixon
International Airport two days ago  and was pronounced dead at the
scene; and to the two deaths in Twisted Oaks. Security has tightened
around the other three Twisted Oaks attack victims, as well as another
man who was with James at the airport. All four men remain in guarded
condition at Valley Medical Center this morning, and it is suspected
that they may hold the key to the nature and cause of these violent
attacks. Little is known at this time, but medical experts have ruled
out contagions and urge everyone that this is *not* the beginning of an
epidemic. Criminal experts believe this is the work of a focused
vigilante, and are confident they will apprehend them before they can
strike again. Police say they are withholding further details until
that happens."

  The bejeweled girl felt dizzy; she leaned on the doorframe for
support. The QuickMart. Timothy James -- two of the young men from the
club that first night had called the other one "TJ." She'd used her
Sapphire force on all of them. And her renegade counterpart Black Widow
had no doubt used sapphires on her victims. Oh God. The stones did more
than just push things around. Exposure was lethal.

  But she didn't feel any ill effects... well, if you didn't count
those, um, feelings. She'd been exposed to a lot more than any of her
adversaries, and if anything she felt better than ever, at least
physically. Perhaps the gemstones' forcefield did more than protected
the wearer against others; perhaps it protected her from the stones
themselves.

  "Hey, in or out, you're lettin' in the smoke from next door!"

  The stunned heroine looked up; Donut Man shooed her out. She
staggered out onto the street, weighed down by the enormity of what the
sapphires had done. What she'd done.

  That was it. Sapphire was finished. She had to stop using them before
anyone else got hurt.
  But that wouldn't stop the Black Widow. Nothing could stop the Black
Widow. Except for Sapphire.

  She couldn't quit. But she couldn't unleash her power on anyone else,
either.

  A swirling breeze blew up from a drainage grate, surrounding and
embracing and caressing Sapphire's skin like an invisible lover. The
effect on the sapphire-addled girl interrupted her thoughts with a call
to pleasure. She shook her head clear.

  This was getting complicated. But she was up to the challenge. She
was Sapphire.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  "Criminal experts believe this is the work of a focused vigilante,
and are confident they will apprehend them before they can strike
again. Police say-"

  Andrew's eyelids grew heavy. He had to get some rest. The
data-hound-turned-field-agent had seen enough of the local news anyway;
he snapped off the set. "Vigilantes are getting out of control," he
remarked with disgust. "But at least the police will be too busy to
look very closely at what we're doing."


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  Sapphire had to be careful. The sapphire force was powerful. It was a
big responsibility. She couldn't just unleash it whenever it was
convenient. She had to think about the effects of her actions. After
all, she was a superheroine.

  Still, Sapphire couldn't help but feel a little anxious about holding
back. She would have to be careful not to get into any unnecessary
trouble.


  She didn't know how long she'd been walking the streets since hearing
that news report. Ostensibly she was still searching for the Black
Widow. But really she just didn't want to go home yet. She knew what
would happen once she got there, and as good as it felt she harbored a
little guilt about going home without accomplishing anything.

  But it was difficult to concentrate on the nebulous task at hand.
Knowing and yet resisting what she'd be doing later, excited and
ashamed at once, she walked down random streets in a growing fog.
Sapphire energy sparked with every step, more and more energy coursing
through her to devastating effect. Her torn top barely covered her
hardening nipples, the tight and fast-thinning fabric at once
threatening to rip open and snap upward. Her walk began to put the
professionals to shame, tight calves and thighs and glutes flexing,
chest thrusting, ass and hips and tits jiggling, ponytail dancing and
whispering to her neck and shoulders. She was a sight to behold.

  "Hey, baby"
  "I'm not working tonight."
  "Izzat so?"

  "I'm looking for something."
  "I got what you're lookin' for right here," Dirty Tee said as he
grabbed his crotch overdramatically. The retort was so cliche several
other members of Flynn's posse rolled their eyes and snickered.

  But Flynn suddenly had an idea of what this girl dressed like a
network television version of a hooker -- too clean, too pretty, too
well-groomed, and too confident -- might be looking for. A mark.

  Prey.

  It was Her. The Black Widow.
  It had to be. Who else had the nerve to be out here alone? The
regulars were all bunched up way up by 40th tonight; neither ho nor
pimp wanted to stray far from the center of the district.

  And her outfit matched the description on the news -- long black cape
thing, T-shirt and shorts, and high heels. It had to be the Black Widow.

  Flynn licked his lips. He wanted to see what all the excitement was
about. And his rep certainly wouldn't be hurt by being the man who
nailed the Black Widow cold. She'd taken out those other guys when they
were alone, but here Flynn had his posse in full effect. Bulletproof or
not, she wasn't getting out of this one.

  And he had a lesson or two to teach her about fucking someone silly. 


  Sapphire's eyes darted from one man to the next. Six of them,
including the one doing the talking, and they all looked like trouble.
If she weren't Sapphire, she would be afraid.

  "I'm not what you think I am."
  "Sez who?"
  "I'm *not* a... prostitute." She found it difficult to say the
distasteful word.
  "Who said anything about paying you?" The gang laughed.

  For a moment she considered taking to the air -- it would be the
quickest way to take leave of these street punks. She wasn't after
their type tonight. But her mind flashed back to the news brief -- the
two men from the QuickMart, the young men from later that night, all
victims of a mysterious ailment known as Sapphire's First Night Out. If
she flexed her muscle here, even just to fly off, there was no telling
what she might be doing to these men.

  No, she would have to talk her way out. That shouldn't be too hard,
considering the way they were looking at her. (Actually, it would be
*quite* hard, she mused.) Her sapphires gave her a confidence she'd
seldom known before. She was a sexual creature. She was *hot*. Flash a
little cleavage, bat her eyelashes, lick her lips, and she'd have them
eating out of her hand. They'd be fighting over which one would be the
first to buy her a drink. She was pretty sure there was a nightclub
around here somewhere, and it wouldn't be hard to lose them once
inside. A five minute tease was a small price to pay to keep from
hurting anyone. Besides, the one in front looked kinda cute...

  But for all the bravado the sapphires imbued, they did nothing to
temper naivete; indeed, the sexual heat the stones cooked seemed to
suppress any common sense the young woman may have had. This sextet
wasn't the type to be satisfied with a little flirtation. They didn't
call it a night after a wink and a peck on the cheek. 

  They were all gonna fuck *somebody* before the sun came up. This girl
looked ready to give them all a head start.


  "Look, I don't want to hurt anyone," Sapphire stammered. Her heart
beat faster as they stepped closer. It was getting hard to think. She
took another step back; guilt over the possible damage her powers
seemed to cause made her anxious to avoid any kind of confrontation.

  "Hear that? She promises she'll be gentle," the leader smirked.
  He took another step forward, she another step back. Sapphire found
herself up against a wall. The unexpected cool touch sent a shiver up
her spine.


  Flynn saw the look in her eye, that mix of vulnerability and desire.
It was a look he craved. In a flash he was upon her, pinning his body
up against hers. His hands grabbed either side of her face, his mouth
affixed to hers. His pelvis ground her into the wall, lifting her
slightly. Her eyes went wide for a moment as she realized what he
intended to do, but then the heat of his hard body pressing into hers
and his hot lips on her face helped Sapphire-amplified lust win out
over Angelic restraint. Her jaw slackened, and his tongue was inside
her.

  "Man, don't Flynn know you're supposed to fuck a whore, not kiss her!"
  "Shhh!" "Shut the fuck up, Donnie, maybe you'll learn something."


  This was exactly the kind of trouble she should be avoiding. But...
he seemed so strong, so dominating. Sapphire felt her defenses
crumbling as the kiss was broken and lips traced a scintillating trail
down her cheek to that spot behind her ear...


  Flynn's hand cupped the exposed underside of the girl's firm tit. He
felt her gasp, but never let up on her neck, nibbling and licking and
biting softly.
  "I don't know if you should be doing that..." the words were
hesitation, but the breathy voice and body language said it was just a
game; she wanted more.

  Strange; he expected a little more resistance given the odds. Either
this Black Widow chick thought she was a badass of mythical
proportions, or she was hornier than a nuclear sub crew after six
months at sea.

  Flynn's hands roamed her body, mouth nibbled down her neck to her
chest, gently biting nipples through the translucent babytee. She cooed
and whimpered in that "feels so good but daddy wouldn't approve" way
that only nice girls could. Suddenly his hands found her flimsy top's
collar and savagely ripped it open down the middle; the girl gasped in
surprise, but thrust her chest forward in encouragement. He grabbed her
tits in both hands.

  So much for the badass.

  ...the tattered shorts hung low on her hips, exposing most of her
white lace thong. Flynn's hands slid down her sides to rest on her
hips. Sapphire's brow furrowed in frustration; her tits still demanded
attention; why had the hands left them? Flynn quickly twisted his
middle fingers around the waistband of the undergarment and hoisted
upward. The overheated girl felt herself yanked up off her feet, her
worn panties digging into her crevice. Her eyebrows arched in confused
pain and pleasure as he jerked upward again and again, higher each
time, her arms and legs flailing with each tug on the material, the
Sapphire mules alternately slapping the bottoms of her heels and
dangling from her toes. Finally the tortured fabric snapped, gusset and
hip seam failing at once. Flynn pulled the useless garment out from
beneath his prey's loose shorts and stuffed it in his coat pocket.

  Sapphire felt her only flimsy claim to modesty leave her. Before she
could protest, she felt something push aside the dangling crotch of her
makeshift shorts and press up against her sex. Something hot. Something
hard.

  Something she wanted.

  She felt outside herself as she felt her weight shift and watched her
leg come up around the aggressor's hips, almost climbing up on him as
she pulled him into her. But any sense of disconnection vanished when
his cock penetrated her to the core.

  He was fucking her. And she liked it. She needed it.


  Flynn's one-eyed monster lived up to its label, demanding his body's
full cooperation in its gleeful feast. This girl was incredible. An
innocent animal, at once delicate and ferocious. Her claws dug into
him. Her hips beckoned him forward. Her whole body gripped his member
in rippling waves with each accelerating meeting of their loins. He
watched her face while she rode him, tortured ecstacy playing over her
delicate features. He was beating the Black Widow at her own game.

  Flynn's eyes fixated on the baubles dangling from the girl's wrists;
they glittered in the dim light of the alley as they jingled to and
fro. They were comically out of place on this faux prostitute, even as
tacky oversized obviously-fake glass pieces they belonged on the
dressing-table of one of those $300-an-hour in-call girls, not around
the wrists of a daddy's-girl in the trashiest outfit her scissors could
craft from her suburban wardrobe. They begged to be taken. They were
bait. Another lure of the Black Widow.

  They would be his trophies.

  But he had to hold off on cumming if he was gonna get 'em off without
her noticing. After all, he didn't need her crying "rape." At least not
until his little brother got a poke in.

  It wasn't gonna be easy. She was tight, wet, and making the most
amazing little mewling sounds...


  The rough textured concrete wall grabbed at her shredded clothing as
she ground slowly up and down. She was lost in the sensation of him
rhythmically filling and emptying her, registering only the most
distant and vague reports of the air, the wall, his body, his wandering
hands over her skin. She felt her orgasm building, helpless desire to
submit blocking any trace of reason. His hand came back to her wrist.
Holding it over her head. Pinning her to the wall, symbolically if not
physically. Fingers fondling the precious gemstone dangling from the
wristband. Tugging on it. Caressing the soft inner skin of her arm and
wrist. The tip of his thumb hooking under the satin ring that bound the
symbolic gemstone to her wrist. Pushing it against the heel of her
hand. Fumbling with it. Loosening it. Gradually relieving her of her
bondage. And her power.

  Suddenly she felt cold.

  No!

  Sapphire's eyes shot open; she jerked her arm upward in a panicked
attempt to keep the loose wristband from escaping her.

  Flynn was lost, his eyes unfocused by the force of his orgasm. The
suddenly-unwelcome jets of cum further knocked Sapphire out of her
trance. Reflexively she lifted herself up off him, his turgid member
popping out of her, still shooting, streams staining the heroine's
tattered shorts as she floated upward to escape his grip. When she'd
gone high enough that her knee reached his chin, she lifted her leg
sharply, a wicked blow sparking off his scruffy beard and sending him
jerking back toward the pavement.

  One of the stunned five managed to catch his fallen leader before he
hit unyielding concrete. He struggled to hold up the dead weight. Flynn
was out cold.

  Sapphire had regained some of her composure, though only barely. As
she touched back down, back still against the wall, her nostrils
flared, her chest heaved, breasts exposed through the ripped top, she
reclasped her errant wristband, then lowered her arms from above her
head to her sides, hands clenching into fists.

  Harmful or not, she would not allow herself to be conquered.

  Two of them lunged for her.

  Like lightning her fists shot forward, twin thrusts of sapphire force
slamming the punks in the chest like a wrecking ball. Only one
recovered, spinning awkwardly to regain his balance and make another
attack. He grabbed her outstretched arm at the elbow, twisting her
around him. Surprised, the near-naked nymph lost her balance and went
sprawling face-down toward the ground. Their momentum pulled him down
on top of her.

  "So you're a badass after all, eh bitch?" He used his weight to pin
her pelvis to the pavement; her feet couldn't get traction to push him
off, and he still had her arm, now by the wrist. He smelled of bitter
sweat and bad liquor and wet ashes. Sapphire felt her arm twisted
behind her back. Her other hand sparked unfocused blasts of force off
the pavement as she tried to push herself up, but she wasn't strong
enough. "I'm gonna enjoy fucking you." She felt her forcefield push
against his weight in the small of her back, keeping him from crushing
her. She heard a zipper and felt the back of her shorts tugged to one
side; he lifted her pinned arm and drove it painfully upward, forcing
her up on her knees. "Almost as much as I'm gonna enjoy fucking you up."

  Sapphire was still blazing; her anger still held sway over her
desire, but not by much. She knew she couldn't let this worm mount her
or she would be finished. She crawled desperately forward, her knees
driving against the rough pavement, her chest grinding along, sapphire
energy sparking as it shielded her skin from abrasion. He tried to pull
her back down, but she twisted underneath him. Now on her back, she
brought her free hand up, clocking her attacker sideways. His eyes
rolled up into his head as he collapsed to her shoulder.

  Pushing out from under him, Sapphire got to her feet. Her chest
heaved with effort. Her eyes scanned the alley for the next comer. Her
whole body buzzed with energy. The sapphires didn't have much left, but
she knew it would be enough.

  There were two enemies left. They looked at her in abject terror.

  They took off running down the alley, back toward the boulevard.
Sapphire leapt after them, a lioness lunging for a meal. Her focus
squeezed the sapphires to perform, her feet landing squarely on the
sidewalk several steps ahead of the retreating punks. She spun around
and stared them to a halt. With a flip of her wrists she knocked them
both back on their butts. Fear froze them to the spot. The superheroine
stalked toward them, stopping at their feet to take up a fearsome pose,
legs apart, hands on her hips, bending over at the waist to show them
her snarl. The one to her left pissed himself.

  "Where can I find the Black Widow?" she growled.
  "I- I- I- I th-thought... you were..."
  "Tell me now!" she ordered.
  "I d-don't know... I've, uh-h-h, never seen... I-I mean... no one
knows..."

  She howled in furious disgust. "Useless!" Hips rocked, she kicked at
the ground. The frightened pair were sent tumbling violently back down
the alley. They scrambled to their feet and ran, leaping over their
fallen mates in panicked retreat into the darkness. The sound of a
garbage can sent flying marked their escape.

  Adrenaline and sapphires fading, a sense of desperation built up to
despair as the girl surveyed the scene. Three men lay unmoving but for
labored breathing in the alley. What had she done? She could have
killed them. She may have killed them already by exposing them to the
unbridled power of the sapphires. She was no closer to stopping the
Black Widow. Or controlling herself. What had she been thinking, coming
out here, playing the heroine? She was anything but. She was a failure.
She was a hazard.

  She had to get out of here before she made things any worse.

  She had to get home.

  Tears welled as the horrified heroine fished the cash out of her
nearest victim's pocket.

  Desperately flagging a cab, Angela tried in vain to contain the sobs
that wracked her body.

   


__________________________________
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