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Message-ID: <47403asstr$1081725006@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Imagineer <imagin8r47@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Cruel Summer 25 {Imagineer} (dream Fsolo ScFi)
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Date: Sun, 11 Apr 2004 19:10:06 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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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/


// 25: Watched


  Andrew came out of the bathroom, his skin still damp underneath his
Percussive University sweats. He'd hoped the shower would invigorate
him, but he was still as mentally and physically drained as he'd been
when he'd arrived. He collapsed in a bean-bag chair.

  No Val. No gemstones. No Eric. Nothing but circling endlessly,
picking at the same tired scraps of information, like a tardy vulture.

  And thoughts of Ginger. It had been Eric who deserted her, but it was
Andrew who paid. She called him every day now, just to chew him out for
not finding Eric yet. But the bitchier she got, the more Andrew wanted
her. And the sicker he felt for it.

  The stereo blared something he recognized from the radio. He let the
desperate, angry sounds wash over him.

  I cannot take this anymore
  I'm saying everything I've said before
  All these words they make no sense
  I find bliss in ignorance
  Less I hear the less you'll say
  But you'll find that out anyway
  Just like before...

  Everything you say to me
  Takes me one step closer to the edge
  And I'm about to break
  I need a little room to breathe
  Cause I'm one step closer to the edge
  And I'm about to break

  I find the answers aren't so clear
  Wish I could find a way to disappear
  All these thoughts they make no sense
  I find bliss in ignorance
  Nothing seems to go away
  Over and over again

  shut up when I'm talking to you 

  The tune wasn't his choice, but it fit.

  Two geeky-looking guys in their mid-twenties were seated in front of
an array of computer gear on the kitchen table of the apartment, but
they weren't working. They were surfing the Net.

  "Stop laughing, asshole, it's not funny."
  "Yeah, So what's yours?"
  "I'm not telling."
  "Okay, fine. I'll find out for myself." Keyboard and mouse intensity
increased at one of the consoles.
  "Bullshit you will..." a hand reached for an Ethernet cable.
  "Go ahead, dumbass, pull the plug. I've got the WiFi running, and
there's no way you'll find the access point before I pull your file."
  One of them leaped up and started lunging around the apartment,
checking cabinets, closets, and behind furniture before disappearing
into one of the bedrooms. Thumping and slamming noises indicated the
search continued...
  "Got it! Give it up dude, for your porn name is..."
  The searcher returned to the kitchen. "Dude, that is so uncool.
Seriously."
  A slap fight ensued over control of the keyboard. The searcher lost
to the surfer, who started giggling. "Fluffy Wysteria?" He broke out in
hysterical laughter. "And you thought mine was funny?" He laughed so
hard his chair tipped over backwards and slammed to the floor. After a
moment of silence, this just seemed to make him laugh all the harder.
  "It was my sister's cat, dude! I didn't name it. And all the streets
in my neighborhood were named after flowers." The protester's partner
would not be subdued. "Hey, it's still not as bad as yours. Tiny
Woodview?" But the laughing was beyond control at this point; the
protester turned to the only other person in the room, who up to this
point had been trying to watch television.

  "Andy." Ignored. "Yo, Andy!"
  "What?" Andrew was not amused.
  "Which porn name is worse -- yo, shut up, Chuck! Shut Up!" A couch
pillow to the head finally brought the laughing under control. "Which
porn name is worse, Fluffy Wysteria or Tiny Woodview?"

  Andrew leaned back in the beanbag, looking upside-down at the two
frat-house rejects that were his on-site analysts. Why did he agree to
let them camp out here instead of keeping them locked up in
headquarters? Oh right, it was his boss' idea. Probably meant to punish
him. Like this whole fucking mission was one big punishment.

  "Porn name? What the fuck you clowns talking about?"
  "Dude, you been in a dungeon for five years? Porn names. You know,
the name you'd adopt if you became a porn star. It's a game, see, you
take your first pet as your first name, and the street where you grew
up as your last name. That's your porn name."

  Andrew pulled his head back up and looked back to the television.
"Our case is totally fucked and you guys are screwing around with porn
names. Don't you ever work?"
  "Woah, chill out, dude. We'll get back to work just as soon as you
give us something to chew on. Any info? Any leads? No? Okay. Have a
smoke or something and relax. When the work comes we'll be all over it."
  Andrew was too tired to jump up and wring the little putz' neck.
"Fine, have your fun."

  "So which one's worse?" They weren't going to give up.
  "What were they again?"
  The laughing one, still in a supine position on his fallen chair,
piped in. "Mikey's is Fluffy Wysteria, and mine is Tiny Woodview."
  Andrew answered without turning away from the TV. "They're both
retarded. You should pick again."
  Mikey walked around the couch to get within Andrew's line of sight.
"Yo, that's just it, you don't get to pick it, it's just your pet's
name and your street name."
  Chuck got up out of his chair. "Hey, Mikey, let's see what Andy's
is." Mikey went back to the table to stand over Chuck's shoulder.

  "Don't you assholes be pullin' up my file," Andrew called out.
  Fuck, these kids needed a babysitter...
  Andrew hauled himself up out of the beanbag chair with a little
difficulty. They need a decorator, too.
  "Hey, what'd I say about pullin' up my file." Chuck was busy at his
keyboard, pulling up the Unit's file system through a VPN connection.

  "Chuck?"
  "Yeah?"
  "Try to remember that while you're here, I'm your boss."
  "Yeah." Fingers accelerated over the keyboard, continuing to navigate
to Andrew's file. Chuck's hand raised in dramatic fashion over the
Enter key.
  "Okay, Chuck?" Andrew clapped his hands down on Chuck's shoulders, as
if to give him a massage... or wring his neck.
  "Yeah?"
  "Try to remember that back when I went through Basic they still
trained every agent how to kill a man with his bare hands and dispose
of the body in a way that it would never be identified."
  Chuck's hand moved to the mouse and closed the window.
  "Thank you. Now, I'd be happy to tell you my 'Porn Name.' What's the
formula again?"
  Mikey interjected. "Is this what they call bonding with the troops,
boss?"
  "Hey, you guys keep trying to tell me I'm just a geek like you."
  "Man has a point," Chuck smiled.
  "Yeah. What's your first pet's name?"
  "Buster," Andrew answered. Eyebrows raised. He explained. "Great
Dane. As a puppy he was always knocking over and breaking shit." His
assistants nodded in acceptance.
  "And what street did you grow up on?"
  "Cherry Street."

  Mikey's jaw dropped. Chuck just started laughing again. "All bow to
the Porn God, Bust Her Cherry!" he shouted through hysterical laughter.
His chair went over again, and he went with it, rolling on the floor
and holding his stomach as he struggled to breathe between chuckles and
wild hyena sounds.
  Mikey shook his head in a double-take. "Seriously?"
  "Seriously." Andrew cracked a smile. "Guess the old man's not such a
dork after all."
  Mikey wagged a finger. "I'm 'onna haveta keep ma eye on you, bro.
First the bad-ass wheels, now this. 'F yer not careful you might get to
be cool."

  Andrew clapped Mikey on the back. "You're catching on, Fluffy." He
went to the fridge to get a beer. "Hey, where's my Heiney?"
  "Right behind you sir," Chuck said, struggling to get it all out
before bursting into hysterics again.
  "Ha, ha, Chucky. My *Heineken*. Did you drink it?"
  "Oh, sorry, my bad," Mikey apologized. "I was gonna restock, I just
didn't think you'd be hangin' around today."
  "I thought you guys drank that microbrew shit."
  "That's Chucky's. I like to go old school."
  "If you're trying to score points it's not working." Andrew grabbed
one of the dark-brown bottles with the indecipherable label. "Chucky,
mind if I have one of your, uh, Bear Whiz Beers?"
  Chuck's laughter ebbed. "Knock yourself out."

  Andrew popped the top with the bottle opener on the counter, and
noticed easily a half-dozen other bent bottlecaps strewn about. "Jeez,
guys, this isn't a frat house."
  "You got that right, because if it was, we'd be gettin' some Pussy!"
Chuck began thrusting lewdly from his fallen chair.
  Mikey corrected his partner. "Hey, Chuck, Mr. Field Agent here got
some pussy, remember? We just showed up too late for the party."
  "Oh yeah. Whatever happened with her, Andy my man?"
  "You tell me. You're supposed to be digging her up." Andrew started
clearing off the bottlecaps and other detritus that had accumulated in
the last couple of days since the boys had moved in.
  "Can't find a girl that has no credit and no family, you know that,
Chief."

  "Hey, why didn't you tell me a FedEx came?" Andrew held up a FedEx
letter laying on the counter.
  "Oh no, that's the one you had there before. The waybill, remember?"
The copy of the waybill that the jewels had come in under.
  "Dammit, guys, you can't just be leaving this shit all over the
place."
  "You left it there, dude."
  "Well, still, you should have put it with the files."
  "Hey, don't wanna disrupt your system. You're the hotshot here."
  Andrew thought he detected genuine respect.

  Andrew idly pulled out the waybill as he took a long pull on the brew.

  Violet Valentine. That was actually a pretty good porn name.

  Andrew's heart nearly stopped. His hand shook as he tried to put down
the beer without looking away from the waybill.

  "Fuck. Me. Naked."

  The two young data-hounds both looked over at their leader, then at
each other. No Way! Mikey jumped to his keyboard as Chuck scrambled to
get his chair upright again.

  They knew exactly what he was thinking. Porn Name.

  Mikey was bringing up his map. "What's the last name?"
  "Valentine."
  "I'm on it. Chuck, see if you can get an SPCA archive or something."
  "Yeah. Does my bologna have a first name?"
  "Violet," Andrew answered. He came around the kitchen table to watch
them.
  "I got two hits right here in Oak Valley proper," Mikey announced,
"Valentine Lane and Valentine Place, both in the same development." He
toggled to a command line. "Chuck, you gettin' anything?"
  "No SPCA database, apparently they still use local paper records, but
it doesn't matter because they don't operate on their own locally, they
work through city programs here."
  "You got that?"
  "Yeah, I'm already working it."
  "Okay, I'll check the local newspaper archive photo captions."
  "Good thinking."
  Mikey's fingers shot out a command line, and in seconds he was
jumping to an advanced search of a newspaper conglomerate.
  Mikey explained over his shoulder to Andrew as he clicked through the
search results. "Kind of a long shot, but local sections of the paper
like to fill space with cute slice-of-life photos -- no story, just a
caption calling out some kid's birthday party in the park, or a family
walking around the lake, or-"
  "-or a little girl hugging her pet bunny rabbit, yeah I know." Andrew
was a data hound too. "Good thinking," he added as encouragement. These
guys were good. Maybe as good as he was.
  "Looks like the city pet licenses only go back to 1996 online," Chuck
announced with some dissatisfaction. "I guess we'll have to go downtown
and lick paper." He looked over to Mikey's screen. "Wanna split your
search?"
  "No, that's okay, the results aren't that big actually." Mikey's eyes
never left the screen. He was clicking and scrolling and closing
furiously, opening three and four windows in parallel, working as fast
as the server could feed him pages.

  Suddenly he stopped.

  "BAYUM!" he shouted, jumping up out of his chair so fast he knocked
it over -- Andrew had to jump out of the way -- and smacking his mouse
off its mousepad in triumph.

  Andrew and Chuck looked past him at the screen. Mikey began to circle
the room with a barnyard strut.

  There it was on screen:

  Heartwood Gardens resident Angela Barrett shares a playful moment
with her new kitten, Violet.

  "Who's the man?" Mikey asked the room.
  "You are," Andrew answered.
  "Who's the FUCKING Man?" Mikey screamed.
  "You are, Mike," Andrew affirmed.

  "I don't get it," Chuck said. "Heartwood Gardens? How'd you know to
search that? How do you know that's a match?"
  Mikey was still prancing. Andrew grabbed Mikey's mouse and answered
for him. "Both Valentine Lane and Valentine Place are in a development
called Heartwood Gardens. Local happy-photos like this usually refer to
the neighborhood, not the street." Andrew turned his head to look at
Mikey. "Great job, Mikey. You nailed it."

  "Wait," Chuck continued, "you can't tell the actual street from this.
How do you know this is the one?"

  Mikey returned to the table, pointing at the picture above the
caption. "Just *look* at that face, man, you *know* it's her! That's
*exactly* the kind of babe Eric goes for!" Mikey was now jogging in
place, hands over his head, recalling the prizefighter stereotype.

  "She's twelve in this picture," Chuck admonished. "Maybe eleven."
  Mikey was unfazed. "Still, you can *tell*, dude. You can *see* she's
his type, even there!"

  Andrew offered a more rational explanation. "Violet's not a really
common name for a pet. Here," his hands danced over the keyboard,
impressing Chuck with his speed. A pet name database page came up; he
typed in 'Violet'. "There, see, number 621. Less common than Jezebel or
Clyde... or Andrew," he noted, reading the names just above it. "Only
seven pets in this nationwide database with that name. In a
neighborhood of a couple hundred people that's pretty damn good odds."

  "Okay, so we know the neighborhood. I guess we gotta lick paper to
get the address," Chuck sighed. He hated paper records.

  Mikey was still in He-Man celebration mode, bouncing on and off the
couch. "No way, bro, just ogle the picture, the truth shall set you
free!"

  Sure enough, right there in the corner of the newspaper photo, the
top part of numbers painted on the curb where the girl -- Angela
Barrett -- sat. "Four One Seven," Chuck read. "Damn, Mikey, you *are*
Da Man."

  Andrew grabbed his keys. "I'm going for a drive-by. You two stay
here." 

  Mikey was busy chanting, "Who's da man? I'm da man! Who's da man? I'm
da man!" but stopped long enough to call after Andrew, "bring back
pizza!"


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


  "And I want metallic foil trim all the way around the hem -- both the
skirt and the top."
  "That's not how I wear them," Angela grumbled, mostly to herself.
  "Excuse me?"
  "Um, that's not how I'd make them. Sapphire seems more no-nonsense
than that."
  "Well, that's your opinion. I think I know a little more about it
than you. Are you even *on* the Internet?"
  Internet? Was there stuff about Sapphire on the Net? "I don't have
much time for that anymore."
  "Yahwell, I've been following her career from the beginning. I have
all the pictures, and expert photomanips, witness transcripts...
there's even a copy of her police file, though I haven't been able to
get that yet. She's like the ultimate girl, kickin' ass and gettin' all
the cute guys to worship her. Some people say there's two of 'em, but
nobody's seen 'em both at the same time, ya know? So they're just
stupid. Anyway... metallic foil trim on the hems, ok?"
  Angela shrugged. "Sure, okay, but that'll cost more."
  "How much more?"
  Angela stalled as her brain struggled to figure it out in her head.
She knew how much fabric and how long a standard Sapphire costume took.
Metallic foil, what'd it cost? "Go pick out the trim you want. Back
there, on the end of the aisle marked "Ribbon."

  The girl flitted across the store, grabbed the roll of one-inch
silver foil, and flitted back. She would pick the tackiest and most
expensive one. Angela noted the price, did some lip-licking number
crunching, and quietly wrote down a number. She turned the pad so the
girl could see it.
  "That just to add the ribbon? What's the whole thing cost?"
  Angela wrote down another number and wrote "TOTAL" next to it.
  "That's with the glass sapphires and the wings and everything?"
  "Everything but the shoes."
  "I have the *perfect* pair. You'd die! How should I put those big
stones on the shoes?"
  "Depends on the shoe. You can hot-glue on the glass or use some
thread around the mount to tie them on."
  "Cool! And you're sure you can have it done before the Alluring
Enduring Party?"
  "How's day after tomorrow?" It would give her something to do. She'd
found the Sapphire energy wasn't lasting as long at night as it used
to. She tried not to think about how she was making that happen on
purpose, even as her exposed Sapphire mule dangled lazily from her
foot. And she tried not to think about why she was squandering that
energy, even as flashes of dark fantasies raced through her mind.
  "Fabulous! So, half now, half when I pick it up?" Her checkbook was
out.
  Angela shrugged. "Yeah, that sounds good. Make it out to Angela
Barrett."

  The girl bubbled in the amount and Angela's name, and looped her
signature. She popped the check out of the book with a quick Snap!
"Here you go." 
  Angela put the check in her bag and pulled out a measuring tape as
she slid off her work stool.

  "I need to measure you."
  "Okay!" the chipper customer responded in sing-song. Angela came
around the counter and started getting measurements.
  "Now for the length, I want the skirt to come down to here," she
marked her upper thigh with her hand, almost up to her crotch, holding
it until Angela measured, "and the top to just cover my chest, to right
here," she put her hand right under her breast.

  Well, Angela thought to herself darkly, she's got the length about
right...

  "Don't make it too short -- I don't want to flash anybody, at least
not accidentally! But don't make it any longer, either -- I don't need
to be showed up in front of my boyfriend by some tramp. Okay?"

  Angela tapped her pen to the notepad, indicating that she had the
measurements to make it right. "Got it."

  After the chipper coed had gone, Angela took another look at the
fashion sketch she'd left. Angular charcoal marks etched an
impossibly-slim girl with mile-long legs, short busty torso, twiggy
arms, and a primitive mountain of hair spilling over a shimmering
headband. The form was nude except for a pair of scandalously-short
robelike wraps, one around the chest, the other around the waist. A
dark shadow hinted at the junction between the girl's legs threatening
to expose itself between the gauzy folds of the skirt, and twin shadows
emphasized the almost-visible lower curvature of the over-endowed
chest. Pencil-thin straps suggested the top's defiance of gravity,
while cocked hips somehow kept the skirt in place.

  So that's how the world sees me.

  Angela preferred Ricky's comic-book artwork to this Vogue-ish
cartoon. At least Ricky's drawings conveyed a sense of power and
purpose; the fashion sketch just made her look like a vacant sexual
object.

  Angela was constantly battling between her desire to do good and her
embarassment at being seen in the risque outfits the sapphires forced
her to wear. It was amazing that people wanted to dress that way on
purpose. Some girls just aren't shy about anything...


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


  Andrew wrapped up his progress report. Now that he'd found the girl
-- the *right* girl this time -- he was hopeful that he'd finally be
out of the doghouse. "So I staked out her house last night. She didn't
go anywhere. But I think she sent someone a signal."
  "What kind of signal?"
  "About 9pm, after her mother left for work, she got dressed up, like
she was going out."
  "I thought you said she didn't go anywhere."
  "She didn't," Andrew defended. He was surprised at the accusatory
tone. "She just stood there in the window, like she was waiting for
someone. She was all dressed up, like in a two-piece cocktail dress."
Like what Ginger wore that time she took him clubbing. His prick
twitched just thinking about it. "And she was wearing four of the
stones. One on each hand, and one on each shoe."
  "Just four stones. Are you sure?"
  "Positive. I looked very closely. No earrings, no choker. And she
wasn't wearing the panties." He looked at the FedEx scan again. No, he
remembered the red satin bikini she'd hiked up those coltish legs
underneath that short-short flared skirt. Definitely not the same.
  "So you got a good look." Did Andrew detect jealousy?
  Andrew cleared his throat. "Yes. Yes I did. She stared out the window
a long time. But she never left the house."

  "Listen, Dean. Don't do anything. Just keep an eye on her -- from a
*safe* distance -- and call me if Eric shows up. No contact, and no
cowboy shit. I'm sending two teams who know what they're doing. Stay
out of their way. You've fucked this up enough, don't make it any
worse. Am I clear?"

  Andrew Dean seethed. "Crystal."


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


  "I'll be back the day before the party to pick it up!"

  That was three girls in two days. If Angela didn't know better, she'd
think that Sapphire was becoming an underground phenomenon. It was a
good thing they all wanted the same flouncy camisole and matching
miniskirt that Sapphire had worn on that first fateful night -- it
meant making the custom pieces didn't take too long. The design was
super-simple, just one piece of cloth each sewn into a conic band and
elasticized along the top edge, sometimes with spaghetti straps over
the shoulders. It also meant maybe there weren't any other photos of
her later adventures floating around out there.

  Still, all the attention made her uncomfortable. And depressed. She
was hardly living up to the image of the powerful heroine that the
first two young women had fondly described. But this last girl wasn't
even interested in that -- she'd just wanted 

  The bell rang again. Angela looked up to see a tall blonde heading
straight for her.

  "Hi, I understand you can make me an outfit for the Enduring Alluring
party."
  "I've done a little sewing. If I can't do it there are other ladies
who work here who can help you. You have anything specific in mind?"
Angela asked the question despite her gut telling her the answer.

  "Um, yeah, actually. A friend gave me your name." She looked around;
there was only one other person in the store, off in the corner.
Nonetheless she lowered her voice. "I understand you do comic-book
costumes."
  Already I have a reputation, Angela mused darkly. "Well, sort of."
  "I was wondering if you could help me put together something like
this." The blonde opened her purse and pulled out an inkjet-printed
page, smoothing it out on the counter. "I know some people think what
she's doing is wrong, but I'm glad that somebody finally has the guts
to fight back against the evils perpetrated against women."

  The image was not what Angela expected. But it was not unfamiliar,
either.

  What the blocky print of a low-res download lacked in detail it made
up for in intensity.

  Unnaturally long and slender arms and legs arched out from a slim,
firm body tightly sheathed in a black cropped tank top and high-cut
bikini bottoms, a long black cloak billowing behind her, long black
hair whipping angrily back from a menacing scowl.

  It was the Black Widow. The very image Angela had seen on the news.
This girl had probably gotten it off the TV station's web site, Angela
reasoned. It was Ricky's work, she was even more sure of it now.

  The room began to move; Angela steadied herself on the counter. It's
just a costume, her head argued. But her heart won the day. As troubled
as Sapphire might be, she was no killer. This Black Widow was bad.
Angela would have no part of her glorification.

  "I'm sorry, I can't help you."
  "But I thought-"
  "No. I think you need to leave." A very stern Angela pointed toward
the door.
  "Well! I'll just do it on my own, then," the blonde huffed as she
stormed out.

  What was wrong with people? This Black Widow woman wasn't a comic
book character or a villain from some bad TV show; she was real. And
she was killing people. You can't just go around killing people.

  But how is she any different from you? Now that you know what the
Sapphires can do, how can you still use them?

  Angela held her forehead in her hands in despair. The gems on her
wrists refracted dazzling light across her closed eyelids.


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


  "I heard they bugged the Barrett house," Chuck said in between
mouthfuls of Bugles.
  "Yeah, I'd like to get in on that surveillance loop," Mikey winked.
  Andrew Dean was pissy, as usual. "You heard the boss. Any of us go
within a mile of the house without explicit orders and we're canned."
  "Damn, must be the boss's time of the month."
  Andrew just growled and returned to the couch.
  "S'okay," Mikey smiled at Chuck. "Once the streams get cleared out of
analysis it'll be easy to pick 'em up off the archive server."
  "I guess they didn't find the rest of the stones while they were
there."
  "Can't conduct a very thorough search when you're under orders not to
disturb anything."
  "Not so. They brought in the X-Ray Specs."
  "I thought those things didn't work."
  "Yeah, they finally got the bugs worked out. Read about 'em in this
month's American Surveillance Technology. They still kill most
household pets within a week and the suit weighs like over a hundred
and fifty pounds, but they work great. The Company rig is camo'd to
look like a really fat guy out to read the meter; the gear and
shielding is inside the fat suit, with the head unit and goggles in
pockets on a tool belt. The neighbors never suspect a thing, unless
they take a Geiger counter to their dead parakeet."
  "Sweet. Still, I wouldn't want to be the poor bastard who gets that
duty."
  "Not if you wanna have children."
  "So, Agent Dean, tell us again how the hot little hunny did a
striptease for you."
  "Not for him, for Eric."
  "Oh, dude! That's cold."
  "What?"
  "You know Eric took his girl."
  "Oh yeah. Sorry, Andy."

  "It wasn't for Eric," Andrew spoke from the couch, still staring at
the wall. "It was for us. She knows we're watching her. She knows we
want the stones. She probably knows we searched her house. She's
telling us she doesn't have all the sapphires, and if anything happens
to her, we'll never get the rest of them."
  "Which you already know, because you found her partner with the other
stones."
  "And lost her."
  "Fuck, dude! Why you always have to rub shit in?"
  "I'm just saying."

  Andrew continued. "This girl has been toying with us from the
beginning. Eric really knows how to pick 'em. But my 'superior' thinks
she's just an innocent bimbo Eric's using -- one who's so hot that
he'll get stupid just to protect her."
  "Yeah, well, don't worry about it buddy," Mikey said as he hopped
over the back of the couch. "You're out of it now. Field work ain't all
it's cracked up to be."
  "Yeah, man, be happy you're still a geek like us."
  "With one difference," Andrew brooded.
  "What's that?"
  "When Eric Lockwell shows up, he's gonna know it was me that found
her. And he's gonna be pissed."
  "True dat." "Sucks to be you."
  "Thanks for the support."


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


  Sapphire's landing was poor; the gemstones sparked in protest, only
their dying energy keeping her from completely collapsing on the deck.
It had been a short trip, but already she could feel the heat on her
skin. The heat of need. The girl staggered inside.

  The house was dark as she leaned up against the curtains that covered
the glass door. Her hands were already at her swollen breasts, kneading
them rudely underneath the cropped satin top. God she hoped her mom
wasn't home! But rational thoughts didn't survive long against the
onslaught of sapphire-driven sexual energy. Her mind was a blur of
memories real and imagined; she hardly needed a cohesive fantasy
anymore.

  A cool hand cupped her sex. "Ooh, please don't touch me there." A
sharp fingernail hooked worn satin and curled upward, tearing a ragged
hole; slender fingers slipped inside the breach, one curled to tickle
her swimming nub, another delved between wet lips into heaven...

  Sapphire fell over the arm of the couch to land askew on the
cushions. One foot perched on the top corner of the couch, stiletto
heel threatening to puncture the material; the other heel dug into the
carpet. Hips thrust lewdly upward, improving the angle of attach for
the intruding fingers.

  "Oh God, it's happening again!" she gasped. She tossed her head back
and forth, hair flying, trying desperately to shake her tiara loose.
She'd perched it precariously on purpose just for this moment, but it
still didn't want to fall. She felt so close; her hand was ablur over
her clit. "No, I'm losing my powers!" she whimpered in feigned horror.
In a moment of frustration her hand finally left her chest long enough
to knock the tiara away. She was immediately rewarded with a
mind-blowing rush; the room glowed blue in the gemstones' death throes.
The girl's body tensed and shook with the sapphire-enhanced power of
orgasm; she gritted her teeth, the only glimmer of self-control
fighting the urge to scream in release. Finally, the teen went slack,
melting into the worn-out couch; her right shoe slipped off her toes to
thud on the floor. Slowing waves of pleasure spasms coursed through the
disheveled damsel, giving way to calming, deepening breaths.


  The metallic tick-tick-tick of the clock on the bookshelf punctuated
the silence of the room. Angela regained her composure, and with it
growing shame.

  Sitting up, hands smoothed the girl's scant garments to reclaim some
semblance of modesty. One hand found a silvery tiara and perched it
atop unruly hair. Standing now, still a little dizzy, the waistband of
ruined panties snapped apart on one side, unfettered whisps of satin
falling to caress a thigh. Bending over to pick up one shoe, then
leaning over the couch arm to fetch its mate, breasts swayed into view
then return to their shelter beneath a short silken curtain; a sharp
intake of breath marked their nipples' continued sensitivity. Slowly
bare feet shuffled off down the hall to the safety of the bedroom. The
bed received an emotionally-confused teen's supple form; it lay forlorn
for long moments. A pair of tears lingered on a cheek before
disappearing into the bedspread. 

  Finally air chilling skin motivated action.

  Angela looked at herself in the mirror. She was a wreck. Like she was
every night. Her body still fairly buzzed in the after-effects of the
experience, perpetually on the verge of uncontrollable shakes. She
yanked off her ruined underwear and tossed them in the trashcan next to
her bed. Why did so many nights have to wind up like this? Why was it
that no matter how hard she tried to make good use of her gift it
eventually teased her into wanton submission?

  But how hard are you trying, really?

  Angela reflected on her activity of the last few nights. Since that
episode in Twisted Oaks. The night she'd learned that the unbidden
urges the sapphires instilled in her weren't the only price exacted for
their use. Those people she'd touched weren't pillars of society, but
they hardly deserved the fate the cursed stones had dealt them. As soon
as she'd gotten home, she'd resolved never to wear them again.

  Well, be honest, Angela -- not as soon as you'd gotten home. As soon
as you'd gotten off.

  And it wasn't until the velvet-shielded gemstones were reflexively
slipped over her wrists the next morning that she was reminded of her
dilemma. Whoever they belonged to before her was sure to want them
back. And surely not for the good of Man. They would certainly do bad
things to her to reclaim the evil sapphires, and then do God knew what
with them to others. Angela had a duty to keep them safe. They were her
burden.

  Or so she rationalized. Truth was simpler: she felt naked without
them, an irony that she struggled to suppress. And now it seems she was
addicted to the high they gave her. As horrified as she might be at
what they made her do, as depraved as she might feel after an episode,
a part of her couldn't forsake the thrill, the duality of power and
weakness.

  But she couldn't go around killing people. And she couldn't just turn
her back on those she'd already touched. So the more clear-headed
thoughts of day became the plans of night. If she was to be forever
cursed to wear the sapphires, she had to understand what effect they
were having on others. But how?

  In desperation, Angela had spent the last few nights as Sapphire
hanging out at the QuickMart. Waiting for something to happen to Dirk.
After all, she'd "interacted" with him just like the others. Maybe not
as much as the three punks in the van, but at least as much as the
QuickMart duo. At first she'd thought of telling him to get checked
out; she'd thought she should warn him. But what good would that do?
According to the news the medical community was baffled by what had
happened to the bodies and coma patients that Sapphire and Black Widow
had piled up. So mostly she'd just kept an eye on Dirk, in the slim
hope that she could learn something about the affliction.

  It was hard to feel sympathy for Dirk. Dirk was a low-life. Dealing
junk in front of the QuickMart. He was so blatant it made her forget
her original purpose for watching him. She'd called the cops on him
twice, but apparently he had a spotter; he always knew when to
disappear around back into one of the nearby houses' yards. She felt
frustrated and helpless watching him work. She fought the urge to just
swoop down and collar him herself. Between what she and Black Widow had
done, the cops were probably more interested in collaring her than a
small-time dope pusher.

  So after three nights of boredom and frustration, tonight she'd given
up on him and gone back to the alley behind the nightclub, and the park
a block away. She didn't know what she'd expected to find, except
powerful memories of a heroine's career in shambles from her very first
night out. But it beat watching crime in progress and feeling helpless
to stop it.

  Angela peeled off the simple camisole top and stepped out of the
simple skirt. She held the camisole up to the light, then the skirt.
They were a little thin and revealing, but they'd go another night. She
mostly kept to the shadows anyway. Sad that the real Sapphire's uniform
had to be even simpler in construction than the ones Angela was making
for other girls. Sadder still that what had at first seemed a glorious
gift of good had turned so ugly.

  She felt cursed. Dirty. Dropping her "uniform" in disgust, she padded
into the bathroom to drown her depression in bath oil and scented
candles.


  As she did, a van parked across the street started and drove off.

  "Dammit Dan, why do you always have to pull out early?"
  "Shut up, Steve, it's time to go. We don't want to sit here too long
or the neighbors will get suspicious."
  "And they won't get suspicious if a van suddenly drives off at
oh-three-hundred hours after nobody gets in it."
  "Shut up, Steve. You're just pissed because you didn't get to see
what she'd wear to bed tonight."
  "And you're just anxious to get home so you can whack off to the tape
of this girl frigging herself. Well tonight I'm turning the tape in
*before* you make your 'personal backup copy.'"
  Dan groused. "You never know when you're going to need some personal
insurance."
  "Yeah right," Steve retorted. "Personal porno is more like it."
  "I wasn't the one complaining about pulling out early. You've seen
four nights of her sleepwear collection, and you got to see her come
five nights in a row. Aren't you ever satisfied?"
  "I won't be satisfied until I get to tap me some of that ass," Steve
joked. "Besides, after last night's see-through nighty, I just had to
see what else she has in those drawers."
  "You've already seen what's inside her drawers. You've seen her buck
naked and screaming 'oh god, more, more!'" Dan said, mimicking a girl's
ecstatic screams. "That's about as good as you'll ever get in this job."
  "And when Eric shows up and they haul him away, anybody's gonna care
if I come back for a little party?"
  "Steve, you need to get a hold of yourself." Dan saw in the rear-view
mirror as Steve grinned and grabbed his crotch emphatically. Dan jerked
the wheel, squealing the tires and sending Steve careening up against
the banks of surveillance equipment along the van's walls. "Not like
that, you horn-dog. Seriously, you need to chill out. Get a hooker. Put
this girl out of your mind. You can't mix business with pleasure, you
know that. You'd be terminated. I can't believe you're even talking
about it."
  "Relax, dude. I know we can't, but it's fun to think about."
  "As you're polishing the bishop?"
  "Shut up, Dan. Can't you enjoy your assignments?"
  "Well, I think this one is over. Five nights in a row she dresses up
like a nightclub slut, sits on the back porch for hours, then comes in
and frigs herself. She's not even using her computer anymore. I don't
think she's meeting Eric. I don't think Eric's coming with the other
stones."
  "That's cuz Eric doesn't have the stones. We've got her stones right
here." Steve grabbed his crotch again.
  "Seriously, you need to see a shrink about that," Dan said, realizing
the pun potential as soon as it escaped his lips. "And don't even make
a joke about shrinking." Steve's open mouth closed, suppressing the
unwanted line. "Look, we've been watching her for five nights now, and
Johnson and Johnson," Dan glared into the rear-view mirror as Steve's
smile spread, "Johnson and Johnson have been following her around for
five days. There's no meet, no drop-off, nothing. Eric knows the game;
he's long gone. This case is stone cold. They had weeks to meet before
Andrew found her; if Eric didn't do it already then he's not going to
do it. She's obviously not an international spy, just an extremely
horny teenager. I'm sure Command is going to call for extraction as
soon as the house is empty. They'll have to find Eric and the other
four stones on their own."
  Steve turned serious. "And you don't think they're gonna squeeze her?"
  Dan grimaced. "I don't want to think about that. I've already told
them I don't want to be on the interrogation team." Dan knew if Command
decided she knew something they wouldn't be nice about getting it out
of her.
  "Hey, don't be so down; maybe they'll just fuck it out of her," Steve
said, punching Dan playfully on the shoulder as he chuckled.
  "That's not funny."
  "Well, seriously, maybe it'd work. You saw the same thing I did. The
damsel-in-distress act. She's got a definite hangup. You know they'll
use it."
  "Look, I said I don't want to think about it." The van pulled into
the service entrance of an industrial building. "Let's just turn in
what we have and be done with it, okay?"
  "All right. I'll buy you a beer."
  "You can't, everything's closed."
  "Shit, I hate working nights. I'll buy you a beer when this is over,
all right?"
  "Fine."

  "So, will you be needing us for surveillance again tomorrow?" Dan
asked his superior.
  "No," the shadowy figure behind the desk replied, pausing to blow
smoke rings with a cigar. "Take the night off. I'll let you know Sunday
whether you'll be needed further."
  "So Johnson and Johnson will be supporting the extraction?" Dan knew
he was being nosy, but his boss tended to take the 'need to know'
clause pretty lightly with his regulars.
  "No, we're not doing an extraction. This job is going to be finished
on-site."


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


  "Can you fuckin' believe it? I tell 'em my whole story, they record
it an' everything, then nothin'. For three days I wait. Finally I calls
'em up, ya know? 'We're running something else this week. We'll get
back to you.' They better not print that shit without payin' me or I'll
sue their fuckin' asses. Can you fuckin' believe it? So how's the team
doin' without me?"

  Chad looked away and sighed. Dirk was stuck in a rut; this was the
third time today he'd asked about the team, and the fourth time he'd
told his World News Weekly story. If it'd been anybody else Chad
wouldn't be here now. But he owed Dirk a lot. It had been Dirk,
sophomore quarterback phenomenon, who'd convinced Coach to give
freshman Chad a shot at Varsity. That was two years ago. They'd been
through a lot together -- up to losing the State Championship last year
in overtime -- but even so, it was really hard being around Dirk now.
He just wasn't the same since The Beating. Chad tried to tell Dirk not
to let it bother him so much -- hell, Chad saw and felt for himself
what the chick was capable of, and he knew Dirk had nothing to be
ashamed of -- but there was more to it. It was like Dirk had seen for
the first time that he was vulnerable, mortal. He didn't do what his
doctors told him, he was popping way too many painkillers, and he was
smoking pot all the time now. His mood was permanently ugly. Chad had a
feeling that Dirk might never fully recover. Maybe Dirk was an asshole,
and maybe he did go pounding on those little faggots one too many
times, but he didn't deserve this. Any more than Chad deserved to have
to watch his friend self-destruct.

  "The team's hangin' in there. We got a new kid looks pretty good at
quarterback. But he's no Dirk Hurley. We can't wait to get you back,
man."
  "I can't wait to get back. I'm supposed to go to the doctor's next
week for a checkup."

  There was an awkward silence as Dirk pulled out a joint and nurtured
a light. Chad looked away. He didn't mind if Dirk smoked occasionally
-- it probably helped with the pain -- but Chad could tell this was
hardly Dirk's first of the day.

  "Listen, man, I gotta go. I'll catch you later."
  Dirk tried not to lose too much of his toke. "Yeah, okay," he said in
a reedy voice.

  Halfway across the parking lot, Chad turned, backing up as he spoke.
"Hey! You should come down to practice, go over the new playbook."
  Dirk coughed. "Yeah, maybe." He wasn't even looking at his departing
friend.

  A younger boy who knew Dirk only by reputation exited the QuickMart.
"Hey, Dirk," he called out as he headed toward his bike at the other
end of the storefront.

  "Hey,... Conner. Hey check this out, dude." Dirk wanted to tell his
story again; this kid hadn't heard it yet. When he saw Conner glance up
for a moment and then return his attention to his bike lock, Dirk
pushed himself off the wall and sauntered over with his best "I'm
sober" walk. "So check it out," he restarted. Conner was on his bike
but dared not leave while this older jock was talking to him. He
fidgeted as Dirk launched into his story.


  "Hello, Manxie," Azmid greeted his new regular, being careful to
pronounce his name as correctly as possible. "This is not your usual
time. What brings you here so late?"

  Max was about to answer when he felt a warm sensation. His hand went
to the top of his chest, where the amulet hung at the end of a necklace
underneath his shirt. He felt it vibrate for a moment. He quickly
scanned the store for other customers; who could it be? Out of the
corner of his eye he spotted someone walking past the front of the
store. A young man, walking with unusual stiffness for someone of his
age.

  "Excuse me," he said to the clerk as he went outside to investigate.


  Conner's whole body was oscillating as both legs fidgeted furiously,
attempting to dissapate the frustration of having to listen to Dirk The
Dopehead tell the same bullshit story. They stopped suddenly when he
noticed a slender Asian man standing behind his verbal assailant. Dirk
noticed that Conner's attention had shifted; he turned around.

  "Can I help you?" Dirk said as rudely as possible, forgetting that he
was a businessman and this gentleman could, despite appearances, be a
customer.

  "Excuse me; I overheard your fascinating and disheartening story
while I was inside. Is there more? My name is Max." He held out his
hand for a handshake.

  Dirk eyed the outstretched hand suspiciously for a moment, but the
prospect of an interested party overcame any mistrust. "I'm Dirk," he
said as he grabbed the man's hand firmly --

  -- and felt the world collapse around him.

   


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