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Message-ID: <47411asstr$1081735805@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Imagineer <imagin8r47@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Cruel Summer 31 {Imagineer} (nosex viol ScFi)
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Date: Sun, 11 Apr 2004 22:10:05 -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/


// 31: Provoked


  I wouldn't if I were you
  I know what she can do
  She's deadly man, and she could really rip your world apart
  Mind over matter
  The beauty is there but a beast is in the heart

  Oh here she comes
  Watch out boy she'll chew you up
  Oh here she comes
  She's a maneater

  Andrew pulled up to the back of the warehouse and killed the
ignition. Muffled echos of the city at work crept into the space
vacated by enhanced internal combustion.

  The random distant conflicting sounds matched Andrew's thoughts.


  Ginger was coming.

  It had been several hours since he'd gotten the call, and he still
didn't know how to react.


  Ginger, the vision of feminine beauty and strength who'd coaxed the
stud out of him.

  "So, Dandy Andy, which do you like better: the front hook bra? Or the
crotchless panties?"

  Ginger, the witch who'd drained him of his essence and crushed his
heart like an empty can of Mr. Pibb.

  "Sorry, babe, it's just not working out. I need a man who matches
ambition with execution."

  Ginger, the co-worker who ended their office romance -- if one could
call sweaty body parts slapping against each other under the conference
room table 'romance' -- abruptly only to take up with his boss. Only to
drop in on him a few weeks ago with the most tempting of apologies...
and news of his first field assignment, one that would turn out to keep
their reconciliation a distant promise.

  On. Off. On. Off. On? Andrew Dean felt less like a man than a
lightswitch.

  Andrew knew he shouldn't let himself get so twisted around by a
woman. But Ginger wasn't just any woman. Her refined sensuality had a
way of oversaturating the color of life -- and threatened to burn
through it like a projector bulb on a stuck reel at the slightest hitch.

  But the paradox of Ginger the lover was merely Andrew's second most
vexing conundrum this morning.

  Because if Ginger was coming, that meant The Boss was coming. And
that meant one of two things. Either Andrew had been sent on a recovery
mission and failed to recover anything after weeks in the field and all
the support he asked, in which case he was fucked...

  ...or he was never meant to succeed at all, and this was all a setup,
in which case he was fucked.


  It was an empty husk of a man who entered the warehouse office to
join his fellow team members in waiting for the arrival of their leader.

  "Jesus, Andy, you look like you've seen a ghost!"
  "Yeah, he looked in the mirror."
  "Can it, Burnett, it's not like any of this is Dean's fault."
  "Yeah, Burnett, he can't help it if Eric never showed and the girl
has the goods hidden away."
  "An experienced field agent wouldn't have taken so long to find her."
  "Fuck you, Cooper; not like you ever would have thought of a porn
name."
  "Fuck you, Up Chuck; I don't get paid to think."
  "And you never will."

  A pearl-white Cadillac pulled up outside. "Boss just pulled up,"
Mikey announced. He pulled his finger out of the miniblinds, snapping
shut his peepslit with a dusty metallic shimmer, and slid down the
stairway rail to the sunken floor of the warehouse. Everyone clammed up
and began shifting about, looking for the right place to sit or stand,
the right pose to strike to look good. Or at least not look like the
biggest fuckup on the team.

  The door pulled open. A tiny bell jingled. Metal miniblinds swung
away and crashed against glass. The sharp rapping of high heels against
a cold concrete floor announced the entrance of a woman. Door closed,
heels began stepping down the flight of stairs.

  Andrew, Mikey and Chuck, Burnett and Cooper, Rosewood and Taggert --
fresh troops arrived from overseas ops just an hour earlier -- all
looked to the shallow stairs descending from the ceiling.

  Click. A red stiletto pump appeared.
  Click. Another appeared on the next step down, supporting a sculpted
ankle.
  Click. Click. All eyes were on a pair of taut calves.
  Click. Click. Click. Smooth knees. Toned thighs.
  Click. More thighs.
  Click. Male minds expected to see skirt, butt, waist, hips,
something, but the legs just kept coming...
  Click. Click. An ass worth waiting for, barely covered in the
shortest and tightest red "business" skirt any of them could remember
seeing... outside of a porno, anyway.
  Click. Slim wasp waist sheathed in white silk.
  Click. Red bolero jacket.
  Click. Twin swells that stretched the definition of "swell."
  Click. Click. Long, graceful bare neck, caressed ever so gently by
perfect strands of escaped blonde hair. 
  Click. Blonde silken tresses locked up in a french braid. At least
one of the men knew the carpet didn't match the curtains. Or at least
it wouldn't if it were allowed to grow.
  Click. High cheekbones and arching eyebrows framed wire-framed
crystaline sunglasses.
  Click. Click. Click. Commanding disappointment burned through the
tinted lenses and clouded the room.

  Burnett tipped an imaginary hat. "Ms. Hartwick."
  "That's *Director* Hartwick," she snapped.
  Cooper tried to cover for his partner with charming wit. "He keeps
forgetting your title because he's dazzled by your youth and beauty."
He failed miserably.
  "Is that supposed to make me wet?" The retort was delivered with a
withering stare.

  Andrew greeted his boss coldly. "Ginger."

  "You were expecting maybe Winnie The Pooh?"
  Chuck nudged Mikey. "Winnie The Pooh never had honey *that* sweet."
  Ginger shut him down. "Neither will you, Geek."

  Her eyes canvassed the room. "Where the fuck are Johnson and Johnson?"
  "They're with the package," Burnett explained. "We relieve 'em in
about an hour."
  "Change of plans. We're retrieving her now. I want to see what I can
get out of her."

  A cold chill took over the room.

  "Did HQ authorize interrogation?" Andrew wondered aloud.
  "I'm sorry. I must have missed the memo where you became my boss." 

  Director Hartwick, I'm afraid I have some bad news. 
  Yes, Mr. Chairman?
  Operations will be curtailed sooner than we expected. As much as I
value your... performance, your unit has been identified as redundant
and will be disbanded in thirty days. You will be transferred to
Archives under Director Barry until we can find a position more suited
to your... talents.

  "It was just a question," Andrew grumbled.
  "It was out of line. You're on thin ice already. I expect you to shut
up and do what you're told, and if you're lucky, I might be able to
keep your sorry ass out of prison."

  Director Hartwick, I don't have to tell you that with your own
primary agent gone rogue, and your subsequent inability to locate him
or his package for weeks, that you are personally on thin ice here.
Director Raimi continues to insist that you're holding back.

  "Frankly, Agent Dean, considering your longtime working relationship
with Agent Lockwell, I expected quicker results. There are those in the
Agency who believe you may have been compromised."

  Frankly, Director Hartwick, considering your... intimate knowledge of
the rogue agent, we expected quicker results. There are those in the
community who believe you may have been compromised.

  "Spare me the lecture," Andrew hissed. "This whole exercise has just
been you setting me up."
  "Jesus, Andy, don't be so fucking paranoid. Now listen up, boys.
We've been ordered to take any action necessary to immediately retrieve
as many of the stones as possible. Both Eric and the girl are
considered expendable."

  Your orders were to locate, observe, and report. Whatever your
personal animosity toward Agent Lockwell for putting you in this
position, I expect you to obey those orders. Under no circumstances are
you to take any action with respect to the package or its couriers.

  "As if Eric would be within a thousand miles of here by now. He
probably took his half and disappeared. We should be watching the black
market, not the pink house," Chuck groused, forgetting his place.
  "He's supposed to be here," Ginger slipped.
  "What's that supposed to mean?" Andrew challenged.
  "It's unlike him to go halfway, either with the package or the loose
ends left behind," Ginger recovered smoothly.
  "Well, I apologize for not conforming reality to your woman's
intuition," Andrew said dryly.  

  I apologize for the delay, Mr. Chairman. It has only recently come to
light that a member of my team has been withholding information. I am
going on-site to contain the situation personally. I assure you that we
will be clean and ready to resume operation within a week.

  You have two days, Director Hartwick. After that we must assume that
your entire unit has been compromised and deploy Unit Two to extract
and erase.

  I understand, Mr. Chairman.

  If it comes to that, make sure you aren't on-site. I would miss
our... meetings.

  "Don't be so smug," Ginger snarled. "Eric Lockwell is near. He never
goes halfway. I'm just tired of waiting around for that dickless prick
to make his move."
  "Um, isn't 'dickless prick' an oxymoron?" Mikey's smartass comment
was pure reflex.
  Ginger spun on a high heel to confront the junior tech. "I thought
you were the Oxy Moron of this bunch. Forget to pack your Clearasil?"
she taunted, jamming a sharp manicured nail into Mikey's chin, popping
a fat zit with a squirt of pimple-butter.

  Cooper was confused; why did they wait around all this time if they
were just gonna grab the girl in broad daylight? "So we're just gonna
let Eric get away with the other four stones?"

  Ginger still had her finger on Mikey's chin. "No, we're gonna squeeze
this girl--" Ginger pushed her fingernail deep into the fresh crater,
bending Mikey backwards in helpless submission, finally shoving him to
the ground "--until she gives him up. Or he gives himself up to save
her."

  Andrew gave Ginger a disapproving look. "You're gonna use Angela as a
hostage? You're assuming he gives a shit."
  "It's not an assumption, it's an understanding. Eric falls for every
pretty young thing he hasn't fucked yet. You should know that well
enough, you worked for him; you covered for him."
  "I know Eric doesn't let desire dictate business. Besides -- hasn't
fucked yet? I've seen this girl. She's hotter than Staci Flood." Hotter
than you, Ginger. "Pictures don't do her justice. She's like an angel
from heaven. Eric would have dipped his wick in her wax before his bags
hit the carousel."
  "And yet he didn't."
  Andrew rolled his eyes. "Like you know."
  "I always know. I can feel it."


  She felt it every time he was off fucking one of his teeny-bopper
conquests. Her heart grew colder and blacker with every dalliance.

  But this time it was different. This time her woman's intuition
warned her not of extra-curricular activity, but of emotional rift.
This time she was disturbed that Eric *hadn't* slept with his mark.

  When Eric had left, Ginger thought she'd had him wrapped around her
finger. She'd known when he'd fucked that dignitary's daughter to get
the sapphires and it hardly fazed her. But then something changed a few
weeks ago; she'd awoken with a start in the dead of night, feeling
suddenly empty, her soul barren. And she knew. Knew she'd lost her
mate. The only one who'd ever seemed as alive, as focused, as ruthless
as her. Eric had been powerful in a way that no other man had been, and
yet subtly subservient to her desire. A gleeful tool of her ambition.
All that vanished in a singular moment of... disappointment. Disgust.
Dread.

  Eric had found in Angela what Ginger could never give him. Someone to
love. Someone to protect. Ginger's invulnerability was her flaw.

  The first time they'd broken up -- Eric had broken up with her --
she'd been crushed. This time she'd approached him. She'd held the
upper hand. She'd called the shots. And she was perfectly willing to
cut him loose if he failed to perform. In fact, she'd almost hoped he'd
come up short. It would prove that he wasn't worthy of being her
partner. That no one was.

  And Eric had obliged her. Not by any word she could have heard or
deed she could have witnessed. But still she knew. She knew the moment
his proclivity for innocent flesh had shed its cocoon and become
something more specific, more dangerous, more debilitating, more...
pure.

  And later when Ginger saw the surveillance photographs of Eric's
smuggling conspirator, the form of his defining moment became clear. He
had laid eyes on her, and he would never again be settled. This was the
kind of girl that other girls instinctively loved and hated at once.
She had a feminine charisma greater than the sum of her parts, a
breathtaking ordinary perfection that inspired and angered women for
not being her and men for not being with her.

  At that moment Ginger knew she was alone. She knew Eric wasn't
playing along anymore. She knew he was a threat, because she was a
threat to him and his newfound angel. She knew she'd have to kill him.

  She was looking forward to it.

  Ginger only had two days to make this work.
  That would be one day more than she needed.


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


  A high-pitched burbling reached a submerged and meditating young
woman's ears.  A furrowed brow broke a plane of bubbles, the sudden
splash of water almost deafening against the silence of her broken
mantra.

  The interrogative sound repeated, now more shrill in the steamy air
above bathwater.

  The phone.

  Breasts rose above the waterline, clinging bubbles protecting private
modesty as Angela reached for the handset.

  "Hi, mom. Yeah, I'm on the cordless. I'm taking a bath."
  "Didn't you see my note on the table? I asked you to call me as soon
as you got home."
  "I'm sorry; I didn't go into the kitchen. I had kind of a long night
so I headed straight to the tub for a warm soak."
  "I'll say you had a long night. You never called. And I've been
calling home every hour since I left for work this morning."

  Even through the static in the cheap old cordless phone, Angela could
tell by the stress in her mom's voice that this was not going to be
short & sweet. She let out a long, frustrated sigh.

  "Angela, are you in trouble?"

  "Please mom, not now." Angela's voice was pleading, barely above a
whisper.

  "Yes, now. I worry about you. As long as we live in the same house,
at the very least show me a little courtesy." 
  "I'm sorry, mom. Sometimes I get... tied up."
  "What?" Her mom was shocked.
  "Not literally, mom." At least, not exactly, not so far. Except for
that time Josh made her wear that humiliating Super Girl costume...
  Angela sunk back down low in the suds, begging the bubbles to wash
away that dirty feeling...

  "What are you doing all hours of the day and night that's so
involving you can't stop and call me to tell me you're not lying in a
ditch somewhere?"

  "I... I can't tell you, mom. It's... private. Don't worry, I'm okay."

  "Don't lie to me young lady, I know better. Don't think I don't know
you sneak out to the back porch late at night, and tell me you're
working late when you're somewhere else, and tell me you're out with
certain people and you're off doing God knows what until all hours of
the night. Don't think I haven't noticed your change in wardrobe since
graduation, and don't for a minute tell me it's all because you got a
job at a fabric store and suddenly discovered fashion. This isn't like
you, Angela; I know my little girl is too smart to get involved with
drugs or fall in with dangerous people, so quite frankly I don't know
what to think. Have you been inducted into some weird cult? Are you
clinically depressed? Is your behavior the symptom of some physical
problem? Are you involved in a bad relationship? Honestly, Angela, I
try not to pry, and I think I'm a pretty understanding parent. I don't
ask for much, and I don't interfere, but this is just too much. I'm
living with a stranger."

  Angela was near tears. She wished there was some lie, some sweet
happy yarn she could spin to ease her mother's mind. But the weight of
her situation and her exhaustion strangled her thoughts, leaving her
only the truth of weary desperation. "I'm sorry, mom. Please just trust
me when I say I'm all right. I wish I could tell you what I... what's
going on, but you wouldn't understand."
  "How will you know if you won't trust me? I may not always
understand, but I always listen. You know you can tell me anything,
honey, and you'll still be my daughter and I'll still love you."

  "I know, mom, I do. Please, just don't ask me anymore okay?" Angela's
voice broke; tears welled up. "I don't want to hurt you."

  "I don't know what your Big Secret is, Angela, but it scares me, and
it hurts to think that you're just shutting me out of your life. You
may be a grown woman, but I am still your mother." Gladys Barrett's own
voice wavered with the emotion of a breaking heart. "And if you feel
you can't stand to tell your mother what you're doing with your life,
at least let me know when to expect you home. Because if you don't even
care about me that much..." Gladys paused to gather her strength
"...then I'm afraid I can't let you stay."

  Tears streamed down the tired teen's face; her voice sounded so very
small. "M-mom, please..."


  Gladys Barrett's voice was suddenly very businesslike. "I have to go
now. You have a lot to think about. And I hope when I get home tonight
you'll have something to tell me."

  The handset clanked down heavily onto the payphone's cradle. Gladys
leaned up against the wall, unable even to breathe for several long
moments in fear of the bridge she'd just crossed. She didn't want to
lose her daughter, but one way or another she was slipping away. Dark
silent moods, erratic behavior, no social activity, a disturbing change
in wardrobe and image. Gladys knew that the end of high school was a
life change, the final measure of childhood, and she now regretted not
having taken a firmer hand in preparing her daughter for it. Her own
parents had not been there for her, and Gladys foolishly thought that
would be enough for her own daughter.

  Her eyes were drawn to a business card stuck to the wall above the
phone. "Sapphire Exposed." Sapphire and Black Widow. Two sides of the
same coin. The fantastic stories of superhuman vigilantes certainly
underlined what a dangerous place the world could be. Angela needed to
find her place in it before the darkness of chance opened up and
claimed her. As it had done to Gladys at that age. Left to chance, her
own life had seen years spent just scraping by, letting things happen,
never working toward anything, until one day a friend forced her to
*take* a chance. That awakening blossomed into love and happiness and
direction. Direction kept for the sake of her newborn baby daughter
when tragedy later took her husband. Gladys hadn't made much of herself
by any callous social standard, but she was alive and kicking,
well-grounded and satisfied, and hopeful that as she'd found and kept a
positive place in life, her daughter would do the same without so many
missteps and steps not taken.

  But Gladys' hope was slipping against ominous signs that Angela was
lost. Perhaps only an exaggeration or two away from becoming an
embittered casualty-in-waiting like the Black Widow. What was *her*
mother's mistake? And what upbringing could have led Sapphire to her
present place in the world? If Angela were given such a weighty mantle,
what path would she choose?

  Gladys feared her attempts to raise her daughter were now falling
short of even the mundane challenge of coming of age, much less such a
remarkable destiny as that the young woman called Sapphire must face.
Gladys despaired that perhaps despite best efforts Barrett women were
forever resigned to drifting struggles for a good simple life.


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


  "Dude, that's your cell phone." Johnson tapped his partner.
  "So?" the other Johnson asked.
  "Aren't you gonna get it?"
  "Who's calling me here?"
  "Maybe it's Ginger. She's supposed to be coming in today."
  "Why the hell would she use a public network?"
  "Maybe the private network's been compromised."
  "Eric *is* a clever bastard..."
  "Or maybe it's that cute chick at the grocery store finally screwed
up the courage to call you," Johnson teased as his partner flipped open
his phone.

  "Yello."
  It was Ginger. "Pull back and gear up. We move for extraction in ten
minutes. Position yourself for rear entry."
  "Got it."

  Johnson straightened up after leaning over to listen in. "Didja hear
that? Ginger Hartwick demands rear entry. Now that's an order I can get
behind."
  "Shut up. You know what this probably means."
  "Yeah, I know. As long as I don't have to watch when they break her."
  "I dunno. Boss can be a sick fuck sometimes."


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


  Eric Lockwell's phone unexpectedly blared to life, a distinctive
ringtone marking an intercepted and cloned call. 

  Ginger was here.

  Eric pressed Mute+Send and listened intently. After a few seconds, he
hung up, shaken by the news into a sudden clarity.

  Jesus. Weeks of hand-wringing. Unable to approach an innocent girl
whose life he'd so carelessly endangered because he dreaded the
decision it would force upon them -- either turn her back on her
friends and family and disappear with him, or stay and face certain
death at the hands of a ruthless power-mad renegade secret agent.

  The choice would be made for them in ten minutes.

  Concerns over how to break the news, over how to approach her, over
how she might react, over the tough spot it put him in, over the
unfortunate life-altering choices it thrust upon her, all vanished in
the sudden immediacy of the threat.

  Hi, Angela, my name is Eric Lockwell. I think I love you. I'm here to
ruin your life. But trust me, it beats the alternative.

  The words would work themselves out. The important thing was to
ensure her safety. Eric knew what Ginger Hartwick wanted, and he knew
she couldn't afford to leave anyone alive. Not even an innocent girl
whose only crime was flirting online with a stranger.

  A van up the street suddenly sprang to life, lurching off around the
corner. Eric had to move quickly; in a few minutes Johnson and Johnson
would be back on foot to slip around the back of the Barrett house. He
needed to be inside before they could suspect anything.

  Eric gathered his weapons and ammo and moved to the front of the van.
He'd left the radio on...

  My fantasy has turned to madness
  All my goodness has turned to badness
  My need to posess you has consumed my soul
  My life is trembling I have no control

  Eric stepped out of the van, looked quickly up and down the street,
and with a predatory grace hopped the fence.


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


  Angela dunked her face in the icy-cold water for the third time,
finally patting herself dry. The tears had gone, but not the sorrow.

  Her mom was right. Angela had to leave. She'd already foolishly put
her mom's life in danger. Looking around and hoping nobody saw her flit
off into the night or flutter back home was child's play in an era of
radar and night vision and spy satellites and consumer infrared digital
cameras and the Internet.

  She'd long passed the point of no return. Sapphire was a wanted
fugitive. Even if she cleared her name, stories of her exploits had
already made the news, and even if she never donned the gems again she
was bound to be hounded by opportunists, power-hungry criminals, even
the government. Indeed, if she simply disappeared she was inviting
peril to seek her out and force itself upon her. She'd been exposed to
enough superhero lore to know how these things worked. She had to
leave, if only to lead the trail away from the person who meant more to
her than anything.

  Her heart ached at the prospect of leaving. But it nearly broke at
the prospect of leaving without telling her mom why she had to go.

  What choice did she have? With a pair of killers on the loose and
gunning for her, she didn't have time to stick around and work it out.
It was too much to take at once. "Mom, I'm Sapphire. No, really. I fly
around in skimpy outfits and beat up bad guys, but sometimes they take
advantage of me. And I think the Black Widow and the Hunter are trying
to kill me, and the Hunter knows my weakness. But don't worry. I'm
doing good." There was no telling how Gladys Barrett would react to the
news, but it wouldn't be good. Her mom's reaction might even put her at
risk.

  Maybe Angela could come back someday, or call or write, try to
explain things when she'd figured them out a bit better herself. But
for now she'd have to leave her mom in the dark. It was the only way to
ensure her safety.

  Angela had known this summer was her first as an adult -- there was
no back-to-school September to dread, no summer classes, no arts and
crafts camp to cheat her of valuable time-wasting at the mall or in
front of the TV. But if she'd had any idea of the extraordinary burden
the adult world would place on her, she would have flunked every class
and stretched out high school forever. And if she'd known the suffering
and death the sapphires would cause, nevermind the personal
humiliations, she never would have played at being a superheroine. She
never would have put on those cursed stones at all. She never would
have spoken to Scott. "Don't talk to strangers." How she'd so
flippantly dismissed such grammar-school forebodings. She was a big
girl, she knew how to handle herself. What a foolish girl she'd been.
And what a foolish girl she still was. Less prepared in the knowledge
of what she'd unleashed and what impossible task lay before her than
she'd ever been. Trapped by events she'd set in motion. Her life
consumed in this frightening destiny, forcing her to sacrifice
everything she had just as she was beginning to appreciate it.

  Hers was the life of a superheroine. And it sucked.


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


  Ginger stepped forward, planting her high-heeled shoes with practiced
skill, keeping her balance as the floor of the panel van jostled and
shimmied beneath her. Burnett saw her approach in the rear-view mirror.
"Yeah?"

  "Did you get it done?"
  "Cooper -- hand Ms. Hartwick the trigger."
  Ginger accepted what looked like an upscale garage door remote. It
probably was. Burnett actually preferred consumer-grade parts from the
local home improvement superstore. Maybe that's why he was missing a
finger.
  "Do the others know?"
  "They're clueless," Cooper grinned.
  Ginger harrumphed. "Well, that's more or less a permanent condition."
  She looked to back to Burnett. "How much time will we have?"
  "Depends on the house. When you press the left button, that'll open
the gas valve wide. Five minutes, maybe. Though you don't wanna be
lighting any matches while you're in there."
  "And the right button?"
  "Shorts the gas range burners' ignition. Provided there's enough gas
released in the house to reach the kitchen, it'll explode within a
second."
  "What kind of range does this transmitter have?"
  "Well, it's a garage door opener." Burnett sounded insulted by the
obvious question, but Ginger's glare told him that his answer was not
sufficient. "Couple hundred feet. But I wouldn't trigger the first one
until you're inside."
  "Why not?"
  Cooper answered. "This chick's got a thing for candles. If that valve
opens and she's home taking a bath, she could be barbecue before you
get through the front door."


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


  Bare feet padded into the kitchen. A petite looking young woman
approached the refrigerator wearing two towels, one in a loose turban
and one just barely covering her assets. A foot hiked up onto the
counter; the towel parted up the side, the lower curve of taut young
buttocks peeked into view...


  Angela regarded her smooth leg suspiciously. She hadn't shaved her
legs in... she didn't know how long. Pits either, she thought as she
ran a hand underneath an armpit, feeling nothing but silky-smooth skin.
Was her hair falling out? Was this some kind of sapphire-radiation
poisoning? There hadn't been any more hair than usual in the drain; if
anything there'd been less, and her long dark mane had never been
healthier. But she was completely smooth everywhere else. Even... down
there? A hand checked furtively, and pulled back in shock. Even Down
There. Guess I don't have to pack the razors and Nair...


  "Wow, you *are* beautiful."


  Angela shrieked, jumping back. Adrenaline charged her.
  Is he armed?
  Is he going to grab me?
  Where are the sapphires?
  What condition are they in?
  Can I get them on before he can attack me?

  The man sat unmoving in the old overstuffed chair, his hands draped
over the chair's arms, his legs crossed.

  "It's me, Scott. Scott Phillips. Listen, I'm sorry about barging in
on you like this, but..."
  Oh, God. No. Not now. Not today. Any day but today.
  She was about to bolt for her bedroom when she saw something on his
lap.

  He had her sapphires.

  The room spun and tilted, then went dark.


  "...Angela... Angela? Come on, sweetie, snap out of it."
  She heard someone talking to her. She was laying down, on a couch.
Her mom's couch. "Wha-? What happened?"
  "You passed out. Here, drink this."
  Angela's eyes were slowly coming into focus; she took the offered
'World's Best Mom' mug and brought it to her lips. She sipped at the
tap water for several seconds before becoming fully aware of where she
was... and that the hand and the voice were male.

  Suddenly she was wide awake... and cowering in the corner of the
couch.

  "Woah, calm down, I'm not here to hurt you. I'm Scott, remember?"

  Angela eyed the intruder suspiciously as events came back to her.

  "What are you doing in my house?" she asked, though she suspected she
knew the answer. She looked about frantically, calming down only
slightly when she saw her sapphire wristbands and shoes on the kitchen
counter next to her tiara. She eyed him with fear and mistrust; there
was no way she could get around him and get her things on before he
could wrestle her to the ground. Or pull a gun on her; she caught the
flash of a polished handgun in a shoulder holster between his leather
jacket and his white ribbed muscle-shirt.

  "Listen, Angela. I don't have a lot of time. Where are the other
sapphires?"
  She looked away. "I don't have them," she said with dread.
  "Oh, shit." He ran his hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "Can
you get them?"
  "I don't know where they are, exactly. They were... stolen." That was
true enough for the moment.

  "No wonder they couldn't find them," he said to no one. "And you must
have kept these with you." He could see by her expression that he was
right. "So you were expecting someone to come looking, weren't you." It
wasn't really a question. "I guess it was pretty obviously too good to
be true." He sighed in resignation and stood up. "Well, there's no use
crying over spilt milk. Come on, we've got to get you out of here. We
don't have much time."

  "What are you going to do to me?"
  "Angela, I'm here to protect you. I'm sorry I got you in this mess in
the first place."

  He was being way too nice. She'd written him off as a bad guy a long
time ago; this wasn't working for her. "I don't understand," she fished.

  "I know. There's a lot I haven't told you." He held out his hand to
pull her up off the couch; she wasn't taking it. "Look, now's not the
time to get into it." He put one hand on the butt of his gun, "Don't
make me do this the hard way." She took his hand and let him pull her
up off the couch. "Hurry up, get dressed." She hurried to her bedroom;
he followed, his eyes following the bouncing buttocks... until he met a
closed door.

  "Start talking," she commanded from the other side of the door.

  "Angela, my real name is Eric Lockwell. I'm with the government. I'm
a... secret agent. A spy. Those sapphires I gave you didn't belong to
me. I stole them from some people who... you're gonna laugh... well,
they think they could be used to build some kind of big laser, when
really they're just really big gems, but they're still worth a lot of
money to whoever has them."

  Angela was shocked. So they didn't know about the stones? What they
could do? Well, that changed everything. She tugged the sweater back
over her head and tossed it on the bed, going to the closet in hopes of
finding one last workable Sapphire uniform out of her thoroughly-looted
wardrobe.

  Angela didn't need this. She had her own problems. Where were these
creeps weeks ago before everything had turned to shit? She would have
gladly given up the stupid stones then; but now she was committed. Mr.
Aquino had been right. She was a superheroine. She had a pair of evil
super-powered killers to stop. She didn't have time for this. 

  "Keep talking," she stalled.

  "Well, my employers are a little pissed that I took the sapphires,
and they've been looking for me. Well, actually, they've been watching
you for over a week now waiting for me to show up so they could get
them back and clean up their mess."

  Angela opened the door a crack. "You've been spying on me?"

  Eric heard a vehicle pull up outside.

  "Look, Angela, I don't mean to be rude, but we have *no* time!" He
grabbed the doorknob and pushed in. "I have to get you out of here,
right... now . . ."

  All of Eric's higher functions shut down as his eyeballs communicated
directly with his most primitive self.

  Dark blue sheer split sleeves with satin cuffs. White sheer short
swimsuit wrap tied in a knot at one hip. Dark blue lace string-bikini
panties underneath. And her breasts just sitting right there, live and
uncensored, perky as could be. Angela saw where his eyes were stuck and
spun around, turning her back to him, stalking around the room looking
for something.

  Eric regained voluntary motor control of his tongue. "Umm, baby, we
don't have time for this..."
  "Keep your pants on, it's not what you think. Shoot, I can't find a
top!"

  Eric looked around; there were articles of clothing everywhere. She
would be the death of him. The death of them both, actually. He grabbed
a sweater. "Here," he said, tossing it at her, "this'll do."

  "You don't understand," she said with growing frustration. "I can't
wear that!" She had one arm clutched over her chest modestly. After a
few more frantic moments spent with her eyes darting around the room,
cataloging all the places she'd looked, she realized she'd exhausted
every last workable blouse, camisole, tube top, and baby tee.


  Jesus, Eric, you'd think by now you'd be used to the self-absorption
and skewed perspective of teenage girls.
  But right now it wasn't a charming personality quirk, or even an
annoying turn-off.

  Right now it could get them both killed.


  They both heard a car door slam outside. Angela's head snapped to the
window; she peeked outside through the curtains. She rolled her eyes.
"Friends of yours?" she said with a disgusted tone.

  "Angela, in about sixty seconds some very bad people are going to be
in your house, and we need to be gone before they get here. Now come
*on*!" He waved her out with one hand; the other opened his jacket to
flash his gun.

  Angela let out a big "whatever" sigh, walking/stomping toward him
like a petulant schoolgirl forced to put down her dolls and finish her
chores. As she walked she hiked the skirt-wrap up her torso, stretching
it over her bare breasts into a makeshift top. Eric's eyes nearly fell
out of their sockets; he almost tripped over his own feet backing out
of her room.


  "These people who are coming to get us. Do they include a tall skinny
bitch and an asian dude?"
  What was she talking about? "No... why?"


  She pushed her way past him, heading back out to the kitchen. "Are
they police?" she asked over her shoulder.
  "No! Angela, I know this is a lot to absorb all at once, but I really
don't have time to explain every little detail right now. They're not
coming to arrest anyone. These people are coming to *kill* you to get
to me."
  "So why don't I just kick you to the curb, then?"

  She'd grabbed the tiara and stuck it in her hair and snatched the two
wristbands off the counter before he realized what she was doing.

  "What are you doing? That's really not a good idea," Eric said,
grabbing the shoes before she could get them. "I don't even see how you
can walk in these things. Come on, put some pants on and let's go." He
motioned her toward the hallway and her bedroom beyond. She just stood
there, hands on her hips, as if waiting for him to hand over the shoes.
"Come on," he waved again. She remained frozen to the spot, giving him
a stubborn look.

  "You really have no idea, do you?"
  "What are you talking about? Angela, they'll kill you anyway. They
want the sapphires."
  Her response was angry. "Well, I'm not *done* with them!" 

  This girl was impossible! What part of 'they're going to kill you'
didn't she understand? Did she think they were role-playing? "Angela,
this is not a game. I'm deadly serious. I really am Eric Lockwell and
government agents are really on their way up to your porch *right*
*now* and they *really* *do* want to *kill* you." He reached for his
gun. "I didn't want to have to do it this way, but..." he started to
point the gun at her, but something happened and the gun slipped out of
his hand. He stumbled and grabbed at it, dropping the sapphire-adorned
heels and changing the gun's trajectory several times before it hit the
floor and clattered off behind him.

  Of all the times to get a case of butterfingers...

  Angela crossed over to where he'd been standing as he turned to pick
up his gun, calmly righting the dress shoes and slipping into them. By
the time he had his gun back in his hands and pointed in a useful
direction she stood before him looking for all the world like some kind
of Miami Vice cartoon prostitute. Okay, maybe more New Wave Hookers
than Miami Vice considering how see-through her wrap-top and panties
were... Damn, this girl was chock full of innocent attitude. It had
been so appealing when they'd been indulging each other online, but
right now it was going to get them killed.

  "Angela, these are not the kind of people you fuck with."

  "Neither am I," she snapped.

  Suddenly they heard the boom of a kicked-in door. Eric reacted
instantly, grabbing around Angela's waist, spinning her around behind
him, and throwing them both to the floor behind the couch. Laying on
top of his charge, Eric shoved the heavy particle-board coffee table
over on its side, using it as a makeshift shield.

  Two shots from a very big gun rang out through the house; Eric heard
one smack the coffee table; the other broke a window behind them.

  "Angela Barrett, this is the FBI! Put down your weapon and lay
face-down on the floor and you will not be hurt!" Eric recognized
Burnett's voice.

  "Listen up, bitch! We're here for the stones!" That was Ginger.

  Angela struggled underneath Eric. "Get off me, you idiot!" she hissed.
  Eric rolled off, coming up to a crouch. "Well, come on then!" he
admonished. Eric peeked up over the couch, firing two quick covering
shots toward the front door to buy some time, then grabbing her hand
and starting for the back door.

  He hadn't taken two steps when he felt a violent tug, and the girl's
hand was free.

  Eric turned to see his sweet Angela strutting defiantly toward the
front door, hands out and behind her like an Old West gunslinger.
Except that she didn't have any guns. His brain couldn't compute any
logical course of action, except to drop his jaw.


  "Freeze!" Burnett shouted, planted firmly in the center of the
doorway, both hands holding his Model 1911 aimed at the girl's
shoulder. His eyes flashed down to observe that she carried no weapon.
And that she was scarcely dressed. And that there must be a chill in
the room.

  The girl's hands jerked suddenly forward, palms flipped to face him.
His trigger finger twitched in reflex.

  He'd never felt recoil like that before. Did his weapon fail? No...
Did he just get hit by an invisible bus? No... so why was the foyer
rushing forward? Why was the doorjamb making hamburger out of his
shoulder? Why did he feel like he'd just belly-flopped into concrete?
Why was he outside, looking up at his partner and his boss? Why were
they looking at him like they'd just seen a ghost?


  Eric was dumbfounded. "Fuck me," he heard someone say. It was him.


  Sapphire turned on her would-be savior, this man who'd created this
whole mess in the first place. Her eyes flamed with anger.
  "Not after all the trouble you've caused, Mister. Siddown!" She waved
a wrist at him dismissively. The next thing he knew he was across the
room, pulling himself up out of a smashed piece of furniture.

  There was a crashing of glass behind them. Sapphire swung an open
palm around behind her; whatever had stormed in through the window was
hurled back out with a winded Thud. Sapphire turned her back on the
stunned trio at the front door to address the back door intruder.
"You're gonna pay to get that fixed, asshole!"

  Ginger called in to Eric from behind the protection of the doorjamb
and outer wall. "Eric?" 
  "Ginger," Eric replied with false warmth. "What's a backstabbing
*bitch* like you doing in a place like this?" 
  "Well, *honey*," Ginger grunted with excessive sarcasm, "what do you
expect when you give *my* jewelry to some teenage *slut*?" 

  Sapphire's gaze turned from the still-recovering Eric to the
still-prone thug on her front porch and the still-hidden voices at the
front door. They were trading barbs like she didn't even exist. A
breeze blew through the broken-open house like a wind tunnel, flapping
Sapphire's wing-sleeves. She was suddenly very aware of just how little
she was wearing. But she was beyond caring.

  "Unless one of you is named Ed McMahon and you're carrying a big fat
check with my name on it, I suggest you all Get the Fuck Out Of My
HOUSE!"


  Ginger checked her pistol. She looked at Agents Cooper and Dean.
"Shoot to kill," she snarled.
  Andrew was incredulous. "Are you insane?"
  "He's here, she's here, the gems are here, am I missing something?"
  "We don't *know* that!"
  Ginger tapped her ear. "House is bugged, stupid. Two minutes ago she
said the other four stones were stolen. So neither one of them is of
any use to us. Let's go."

  Before Andrew could lodge another protest, Ginger snapped around the
doorjamb, gun raised, shots fired. She expected to see Angela holding a
shotgun -- what else could have knocked Burnett back on his ass like
that? -- but she was unarmed.

  And unhurt. Ginger's aim had been off. It wouldn't be this time. She
looked right down the sights and into the girl's eye. The trigger
pulled. The weapon hissed. The girl flinched.

  Impossible. Ginger lowered to the girl's chest and pulled again.
Cooper now stood to her right, crowding the doorway, firing left-handed
and gangsta-style as was his custom. He wouldn't miss.

  The girl's top disintegrated where the rounds impacted, but there was
no dissapation of energy, no penetration, no blood, no reaction. Only
bright hot sparks as the bullets *bounced* *off*...


  Ginger fired again and again, fighting to keep the gun on target, the
slide pistoning, twin plumes of plasma venting upward with each shot.
Sapphire took two swaggering steps forward, suppressing the reflex to
cringe as a half-dozen pinpricks tapped her chest, shoulders, and face.
As the shooters' faces slackened in disbelief, the furious forceful
female raised her forearms in front of her and, bowing her head, pushed
violently forward with an animal yell.

  The doorjamb splintered as the two attackers were blasted past it.
Plaster cracked. Front door snapped in two, one half bending around the
doorframe, the other half crashing through the shattered window
adjacent. Shards of glass and wood peppered Sapphire's would-be
assailants, who scratched like crabs in the sand for escape down the
front walk.

  Sapphire stepped to the doorway. She heard broken sounds behind her;
twisting her hips and upper body around, she spied Scott Phillips aka
Eric Lockwell moving toward her, hands up and out in an "I won't hurt
you" gesture.


  "You've done enough," she snarled. Eric froze in his tracks, the face
of fear growing. "Get OUT!" she screamed, spinning on one leg, other
leg coming up around and snapping a waist-high kick. Though she was
still four feet away from him, Eric felt as if the kick had gone right
through him, hurtling back through torn curtains and shattered picture
window, slamming into a tree trunk before toppling face-first into a
rock-garden, out cold.


  Ginger recovered her feet around the corner of the house, releasing
her spent clip and searching for a replacement tucked into her skirt.
She was shy a heel, and her white silk blouse was shredded, little
sliver-pricks of blood peppering her ample chest. She didn't understand
why brute force wasn't working. Her fingers touched on something
unfamiliar clipped to her skirt. Something plastic.

  Andrew tugged on her sleeve. "Let's go before she *kills* us..."
Ginger looked over her shoulder past her traitor-to-be. Cooper was
already helping Burnett into the van. "All right," Ginger agreed. "Plan
B."


  Sapphire strutted down the front walk; she could hear an engine
racing; someone shouted "come on!" She reached the front of the garage
to see the woman halfway into a panel van, with the others already on
board.

  "Go, NOW! Don't you EVER come back!" she screamed.


  Ginger refused to be intimidated. This girl may be telekenetic and
bulletproof, but Ginger already had her weakness pegged. "I'll tell
your mom that you send your love." She slid the door closed.


  Oh, you did NOT just bring my mom into this.

  Before Sapphire could begin to give chase, a hot wind suddenly
surrounded her. And it was getting hotter. She was unexpectedly
airborne, launched out beyond the yard and into the street. A thousand
pinpricks peppered her backside. She mentally clenched in response,
curling into a ball and rolling with the shockwave, unfurling to come
to rest in a crouch.

  Sapphire turned to see a massive, smoking hole in the middle of her
house; a black cloud ringed by multicolored bubbling flame slowly rose
overhead.

  The stalwart superheroine rose to her feet amid the shattered and
smoking falling pieces of debris that were all that remained of her
childhood home. The van was swerving, still recovering from the
shockwave of the blast, but was already rounding the corner making its
getaway.

  They Would Not Get Far.

  Recalling too many episodes of "World's Wildest Police Chases,"
Sapphire wound up and let fly a two-handed shove, aiming for the back
of the van as it turned the corner. The air split with a tremendous
metallic boom as the rear suddenly lifted and launched sideways,
throwing the vehicle into a spin before skidding to a stop. In a single
bound, Sapphire was at the sliding door of the van, yanking it open and
blasting back whatever dared be inside.

  Ginger found herself thrown across the middle seat of the van,
smacking her head into the side panel. In a flash, Sapphire was in the
van, grabbing her by the lapel and yanking her toward the door, holding
the wily agent's face just inches from the heroine's furious eyes. 

  "You're not going anywhere near her."

  Burnett, Cooper, Andrew, Mikey, and Chuck sat motionless, not wanting
to draw this female phenomenon's ire, knowing that any attempt at
escape or self-defense was pointless.

  Ginger sneered. "The only way to make sure that doesn't happen is to
kill us all." Andrew was frozen in horror; was she *trying* to get them
all killed?

  Sapphire dropped Ginger. She was right. Was Sapphire prepared to
*kill* to protect?

  Ginger enjoyed the searching look of indecision that played over the
girl's face. 
  Mikey and Chuck were simply in awe of a woman who could not only
stare death in the face, but was so bold as to dare it to strike.

  Sapphire's face hardened. She had no choice.

  Ginger saw the resolve forming. But rather than cringe, she smiled.
"Of course, you might want to start with the two men who are already on
their way to you dear old mom's diner. Every second counts, you know."

  Sapphire's eyes narrowed. "You're bluffing."
  "I'm not. And if they don't get a call from me in ten minutes, and
every hour after that, they'll kill her." Sapphire's face darkened.
"You see, dear, I had no idea you were so... exceptional, but your
loverboy is a cold-blooded killer, and he needs strict boundaries. It's
my job to set them."

  Sapphire looked to the reluctant one sitting quietly in the back of
the van for confirmation.


  Andrew had no qualms about seeing Ginger killed, but she wasn't
bluffing. "It's true," he nodded in resignation.

  Ginger tapped her watch. "Tick tock. Better hurry. If you drive
really fast you could save her."

  Sapphire gave Ginger a look of hateful frustration. She pushed off
the older woman, knocking her across the van. Sapphire's toes only
touched asphalt for an instant before she was blasting skyward, quickly
disappearing beyond the trees.

  Ginger gathered herself up, straightening out and brushing off her
red jacket.

  "Fuck me, she can fly," breathed Burnett, still craning his neck to
look up through the windshield at the place between the trees where
Sapphire had vanished.

  Cooper let loose a low whistle of amazed appreciation. "Maybe you
shouldn't have told her about Rosewood and Taggert."

  Ginger dismissed the concern. "Unless she can also travel back in
time, it won't matter. Rosewood and Taggert picked up Mrs. Barrett ten
minutes ago. Now let's get out of here and get back to the warehouse
before Miss Superbitch comes back."
  The van slowly pulled out of the development just as fire trucks
roared past.





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-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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