Tales of the Whethermen

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The cup of coffee cradled between her palms grounded her. It was solid and hot and something she could understand in a place that she hardly understood at all.

Michele Cho had been in her fair share of offices before, of course—though, honestly, she tried to avoid them and all the career implications they held that made her blood run cold—but she had to admit that she’d never been in one huge enough to have two small rooms inside it and still be grossly spacious. The doors to both were closed. She assumed one was probably a full bathroom. She wondered if the other one was a tiny bedroom. One corner of the office even had a kitchenette.

“Do you live here?” Michele asked and sipped at her coffee, Nice, strong, dark blend—thank God he doesn’t cheap out on the coffee like Isabella always does.

“It is my building,” Fortunato answered. “So, yes, I live in it. When you have a high-rise with a view of the water, why bother with mansions and estates just to have lots of lawn space?”

“No, I mean: Do you live in this office? I’ve seen single-family homes that are smaller,” she responded.

Fortunato laughed. “Working 12 to 18 hour days at times, I suppose one could argue I live here, but no, I have the entire top floor as my actual abode—the penthouse suite to end all penthouse suites, if I do say so.”

Michele was silent for nearly 10 seconds, though it felt more like several minutes. “I’m sorry,” she said, when she realized he was watching her closely, waiting for a response. “I’m very nervous being here. I don’t know how to talk to a billionaire.”

The smile Fortunato gave her was two parts narcissistic to one part comforting, and that ratio wasn’t lost on Michele—still, though, the comforting part was welcome, since she had anticipated something more predatory in its place. She sipped more coffee as if it would fuel her confidence.

“Talking to a billionaire is easy, Solstice,” Fortunato said. “You talk to me the same way you would talk to a multimillionaire,” he added, then paused. “Except that you add a few zeroes.”

“Hmmmm,” Michele murmured, smiling instead of giving him a nervous and insincere laugh, uneasy all over again with the awareness that he knew she was Solstice—probably knew more about her non-costumed life already than her own father did, and maybe more about her costumed and non-costumed life than her stepsister did. “But I don’t know how to talk to millionaires, either. I’m just a simple Goth girl with a costumed crime-fighting hobby.”

“Query is a millionaire,” Fortunato countered. “I estimate he has to pull in at least 300K each year somehow—maybe double or triple that—and probably has between three and ten million stashed away to do what he does. And you know him.”

“Barely,” Michele said. “He helped me out of a bit of a problem I had as Solstice, and he’s given me some tips. Reluctant part-time tutor more than friend, I’d say.”

“But still, you know him, and he and I are not that different,” he said, though Michele thought to herself: You may share similar issues over controlling situations, but I doubt you share much else. “And about that ‘trouble’…” Fortunato added. “…I have called you here to help with that. A bit of a favor to Query, so that I can gain some favor in return. But I would need something from you before I can offer you protection from the Emerald Godfather.”

“I’m not that kind of girl,” Michele said teasingly, trying to gain some kind of leverage in the conversation. Banter might make her seem less awkward and confused—might make her less of potential mark.

“Zoe—or perhaps I should start using her codename now instead when I talk shop—Loc-Down made similar jokes when we first met. Do I seem like the lecherous type?”

“Most men with lots of money are. Also, I tend not to trust moneyed people.”

“Also very like Loc-Down, Solstice; I think the two of you would get along well. But you see, while you may not trust moneyed people, money is what can save you. The right amounts, filtered through third parties so that he does not know who your patron is, could put the Emerald Godfather off you. Money as recompense on your behalf will solve everything, for he loves money more than he likes Marty the Hun. He will forget that you took Marty from him.”

“And what do you want in return for this help?”

“I am forming a team. I want you on it, mostly because you came highly recommended by Query, and his character judgment is sound, even if I doubt many other parts of his judgment. Full-time job, with salary and benefits—though, obviously, you wouldn’t be patrolling and fighting all the time. In fact, a good share of your time will be public relations and community relations work while in costume. Looking good and making people feel safe and giving the press something to write about. But you would need to be on call a good share of the week for field missions, and I would want you living here in the building—rent-free, of course—both to keep you close and keep you safe from those who might try to reach out for you. Just in case Marty has any friends I do not know about yet for whom money is not enough to quell their hurt.”

“I’m guessing there’s a contract involved. Signed in blood?” Michele taunted mildly. Silently, though, she was cheering. A chance to get paid for what she did essentially did as an avocation now? She enjoyed freelance graphic design and improv comedy work, but she wouldn’t be able to pay the bills with either if she didn’t regularly lift cash off he criminals she took down.

“Ink will do,” Fortunato said. “The contract is more about non-disclosure on your part, severance terms if you’re fired and things like that. There is no contracted term of employment because I feel I need a bit of a probationary period to assess you. And before you ask: Yes, you can take time to have an attorney look the contract for a few days before you sign it. I figure the odds are about 50-50 that Query has already offered his pet lawyer to you for that task.”

Michele shrugged noncommittally—Query hadn’t done any such thing, but she could ask him later if he would, and if Fortunato thought Query had her back, she wasn’t about to give him a reason to think otherwise.

“A job like that sounds good,” she said, and realized there was still a tremor of nervousness in her voice. She’d have to get over being unnerved by this man’s money and power—and soon, she realized. “If the money is right. But I’m going to need something, too.”

“They always do,” Fortunato said. “And what special thing do you want in addition to me saving you from a mobster and paying you well?”

“Whatever apartment or suite or condo or whatever you plan on putting me up in, well…”

“Yes?”

“It’s going to need to be big enough for two, I think,” and then she paused, reconsidering her words and remembering that she was in some kind of position to negotiate here, and shouldn’t leave a single detail vague. “Or maybe it would be better to say it needs to be half-again to twice as big as what you were planning to give me, with at least two bedrooms. And we’d better make it two bathrooms as well.”

* * *

She slid through the shadows, feeling like a child pretending poorly to be a ninja. It didn’t matter how thoroughly she’d been trained and how well she was taking to the skills; they seemed to her like ill-fitting clothes.

Or maybe more accurate to say they’re like someone else’s clothes—someone with a fashion sense totally counter to mine, Vanessa considered. She glanced down at the tight, shiny, light-blue gloves of her Allison Wonderland costume and sighed as she began to tap out a message on her iPhone Sextet. I don’t like the feel of this role, but I don’t have a choice, and I’ll play it as I need to. But only when I must.

Hey, Zoe, Vanessa texted on her phone. Whatcha doin?

A minute later, the response: Thinking about hitting dance floor to woo a cute guy. Whassup Vanessa? Hey aren’t you on patrol tonight? Field ops?

Boss wants me to fine trouble but mostly testing GPS trackers, field op software package and communications, Vanessa texted back. Talking with Fortunato on Bluetooth while I text ya in fact.

Is that a good idea?

For my safety or bc it’ll make him mad if he finds out?

Either/Or, Zoe responded.

Allow me me passive-aggressive outlets for dealing w the bastard & I won’t pester you about going to church weekly.

Agreed. Now let me hit one this guy.

Gotta run anyway. Looks like I found trouble, Vanessa texted, and then slipped the phone into a pocket of her costume. Far ahead, a group of people were gathered in a way that might not otherwise immediately be suspicious except that Fortunato had sent her to the worst part of the Hollows. Nothing much good ever happened in the streets of this part of New Judah at night.

She put a tiny pair of night-vision binoculars to her eyes and spied several weapons, though she couldn’t make out what was going on. If Fortunato’s contacts were reliable, there were no police operations going on right now around here, so it was likely a dirty deal.

“Base, this is Allison Wonderland,” she said with a syrupy tone into the Bluetooth device hugging her ear.

“I have been talking with you this entire time,” Fortunato responded icily. “You hardly need to announce yourself.”

“Yes, but you wanted to test equipment, policy, protocols and procedures,” she said smugly, “and I just ran into what is probably a drugs or arms deal. So I’m talking all official-like now. Do you want me in field mode mindset or not?”

“Fine. You have found a possible crime, Wonderland. Confirm that it is a crime. And then fight it.”

“Not so fast, Base,” she said. “I have no vested authority to intervene in a crime or to detain suspects. Citizen’s arrest rules probably don’t apply 100-percent to what I’m about to do. Vigilantism and obstruction of justice might, though.”

“New Judah is very tolerant of costumed crimefighters,” Fortunato responded. “Do not play games with me.”

“This is no game. I’ve already had the misfortune to be strong-armed into joining your team. Last thing I need is to be arrested for acting like a cop when I’m not one. The way my luck is going lately…”

“I almost have all of my pieces in place. Every member of the team, including yourself, will enjoy police-equivalent credentials soon. Local and state for everyone, and likely federal authority for select members within the next year or two.”

“Soon isn’t now, and a criminal record is forever.”

“Are you refusing to do your job as my employee?”

“No, I’m demanding a promise. And my iPhone has been on record mode this entire time, so it will be on the record,” Vanessa said stiffly.

“What are you demanding? And make it quick.”

“Simple,” she said. “You promise if I’m arrested for doing this, you will bail me out. You will hire me the best attorney money can buy. If I am found guilty of a crime, you will pay for counsel for me to fight for me through every last appeal I’m entitled to. You will pay any fines I am assessed. If I go to prison, you will continue to pay my salary for every day I’m there and put it into an account in my name so that I can have a life when I get out. That’s what I want.”

“Done and promised on all counts. You could have said all this before you left the building tonight,” he noted.

“I won’t expect anything from you ever again, or trust your word ever again, unless I have leverage over you, like I do now, because you want me to wade into a mess and test my powers and test your systems and throw weight around on your behalf. Leverage. Manipulation. That’s what you taught me matters when you left me no choice but to sign a contract to be on your team. That’s a lesson I won’t ever forget.”

“I am sorry to hear that is what you have taken as a lesson out of our earlier negotiations,” he said.

“I am, too. Sorry because I used to like working for you and sorry that you think what you did to me was a negotiation instead of flat-out extortion. Confirm that your systems have my position at roughly 500 Jervis Street.”

“GPS confirms,” Fortunato said. “We have your position and are tracking.”

“Are my vitals transmitting clearly?”

“Affirmative.”

“Engaging targets; contact the authorities in two minutes,” Vanessa said, and fixed her mind on the task. Put aside Vanessa Santos and took on the role of Allison Wonderland. She strode forward, keeping to the shadows as much as possible, and pulled her firearm from the holster at the lower back of the glistening, aqua costume that, along with the blonde wig on her head, made her look something like an R-rated version of Alice from the Wonderland novels and movies.

When she was within about ten yards, Allison Wonderland sprinted from the shadows. Five men, and two of them noticed her right off. As they did, the other three pairs of eyes turned toward her. The two men who had spotted her first were raising their guns, and she forced down her panic.

Patience…patience…just a another moment or…

All of them were looking directly at her now, and she closed her eyes, letting loose with her Luminar powers to project a blindingly bright explosion of multicolored lights in front of her. She remembered the two men who had her in their sights and spun away from where she had been immediately, opening her eyes as she ceased her lightshow.

I wish Fortunato’s people would hurry up with the mask they promised to protect me from my own light shows without compromising my vision in dark places.

The three men who had been slowest to notice her were pulling their guns now, but seemed unable to get a fix on anything after being dazzled by Allison Wonderland’s powers. One of the two men who had been getting ready to shoot her from the start was too confused to fire; the other one sent three rounds blindly in the general direction of where she had been just a moment before.

Congratulations, Trigger-Happy Boy, you’ve just volunteered as the primary threat.

She aimed for his head, feeling a little twinge at the prospect. Her pistol was filled with rubber bullets for theoretically non-lethal effect, but she knew all too well from her combat education that when rubber bullets did lead to fatalities, it was often because of a headshot. “Shit,” she said softly under her breath, and fired two pepper rounds at his skull. The twin impacts were enough to stun him already, and now he was coughing and tearing up from the light haze of pepper mist released near his face.

Allison Wonderland knew that every second ticking by was one second closer to her opponents regaining their bearings, and her focus slipped a little with that sense of unease. The next two rounds struck one of the men in his ribs before a third struck his right temple. Her next four bullets all struck the torso of the man nearest him, and Allison hoped that was enough to keep him out of action as she fired on the fourth man, two shots catching him near the back of the head as she regained her focus.

She tried to target the fifth man, but he was gone. Four down, and one having found cover—and soon to regain his sight probably, too. Allison Wonderland wasted no time pulling a can of pepper spray out of her belt and quickly blasted each man on the ground in the face to ensure that they’d be useless in the short run even if they weren’t fully knocked out by the bullets, circling as she did, trying to reacquire the last man or, better yet, confirm that he had fled and was no longer part of the scenario.

“You’re a bitch!” he shouted from behind some nearby garbage cans. “But at least you dressed sexy. Gotta love a trans woman who’ll dress like a hottie from the comics. Last transhuman bitch I put down dressed like a member of a SWAT team with a mask fetish. Maybe you’ll still be breathing enough for me to show you a good time before I kill you.”

He fired twice from behind his cover and Allison Wonderland was desperately in search for cover herself as the bullets whizzed all too close to her head.

“Wonderland! Situation!” Fortunato barked over her Bluetooth.

“One target left. Armed and firing. Situation currently fucked up!” she shouted back at him.

“Police are being notified now,” he said. “Stay alive.”

Another bullet passed all too close to her as she headed for the recessed entrance to a local store that was, like all of them nearby, closed for the night. She paused just a moment to fire a shot in the direction of her last target, hoping to buy a few more seconds, and then felt the burning impact of a bullet in the center of her chest. She stumbled back and hit the brick wall of the nearby building, cursing herself silently.

I was just a few feet away from cover, she thought miserably. She heard the footsteps of her assailant and the smug “Hey hey hey” from his mouth. “Gotcha,” he said, “and now to get…”

He paused and she realized he had finally noticed something wrong with her chest.

No blood between the exposed cleft of her large breasts.

And I only have porn-star sized breasts because they’re actually part of my torso armor, she thought. Distracting eye candy and an irresistible target.

Before he could collect his thoughts, she attacked him with her Interfacer powers. There were too many people before to use those abilities, but one person was perfect. One person to feel a sudden sense of visual distortion and accompanying dizzy disorientation, plus hallucinations. Judging by the way he was suddenly batting at the air, Allison Wonderland was guessing something like bats or wasps in his case. Her chest hurt with the bruise forming underneath her chest armor, but she smiled all the same as she projected a spray of colored light into the man’s face with her Luminar powers to enhance the disorientation from her Interfacer powers. He still had a gun, though. She remembered the other man, who’d fired blindly, and she reminded herself that her head and limbs had no ballistic armor to protect them.

So, as the man swiped at things only he could see, while dazzled by a rainbow-hued cacophony that was all too real, Allison Wonderland calmly raised her gun.

Three pepper bullets left in her pistol’s magazine, she knew.

She unloaded every one of them, aiming right between his eyes.

As he slumped against a newspaper vending machine, Allison Wonderland found she cared a lot less now about whether one of those “less than lethal” bullets might result in a lethal outcome or whether one of them might have taken out an eye, and decided now was as good a time as any to practice her muay Thai skills as she landed a pair of roundhouse kicks to his head. He slumped flat to the ground, unmoving but still breathing.

“Status,” Fortunato barked.

“Alive,” Vanessa said with a faint groan, suddenly feeling a lot less Allison Wonderland-ish with the battle over. Even less so as she heard the first of the approaching sirens. “Hit in chest, but armor held up. Bruised but nothing broken, I’m pretty sure. Get me pickup six blocks east of current position. We’re done for tonight. And for all the nights until you have at least one other person in a costume to cover my ass.”

“Glad to hear that ‘can-do’ eager spirit,” Fortunato said, “because Loc-Down’s costume and gear will be ready tomorrow and Solstice’s by Thursday. This should be a fruitful week for you testing things out in the field.”

“Shit,” Vanessa swore softly.

“Yes. Do keep that in mind,” Fortunato drawled, “the next time you want to get a little insubordinate with me—otherwise, you would have been enjoying a few days of R&R instead.”

* * *

Isabella was shocked to walk into the apartment and find hot food waiting, and plates on the table—actual silverware, too. A candle burning in the center of the table and drinks out. This was just plain weird; Michele was even less domestic than she was.

“Did I walk in on the middle of a date?” Isabella asked, glancing toward the short hallway that led to the bedrooms and bathroom and then back at her stepsister and roommate, who was sitting on their small couch in the living room right next to their tiny kitchen and eating area, sipping at some red wine in an actual wine glass. She didn’t even know they had wine glasses. “Should I go…or call up a date of my own to share the feast?”

“You’re kinda the guest of honor,” Michele said, “as much as you don’t deserve it. But it’s a celebration, and I need someone to join me.”

“What are we celebrating that I’m not worthy of celebrating?” Isabelle shot back.

“Well, Izzie, we’re celebrating that it looks like I’ll have a high-paying new job with Fortunato,” Michele said, walking to the small table and sitting down before her empty plate.

“Well, we should be moving into a bigger place, then,” Isabella said as she joined Michele at the table.

“I will be,” Michele said. “Very soon.”

“Oh,” Isabella said, keeping her tone neutral, having picked up on the I instead of we.

Michele let her stepsister twist for a while as she served up food for both of them and poured a glass of wine for Isabella, refilling her own after downing the last of it.

“It’s going to be a great place,” Michele said. “And rent-free. I’ll even get comped at the restaurants in Fortunato’s building. Gonna be great for my retirement plan with all the money I can save.”

“Or blow on your nightclub lifestyle,” Isabella sneered.

“Yeah. Problem is, it’s a big place. Too big.”

“Yeah, big problem for you there,” Isabella said. “My heart bleeds for you.”

“I was just thinking that we tolerate each other well enough most days, Izzie. I’d feel a tiny bit guilty leaving you in the lurch with no roommate. And I dunno…Fortunato may be able to benefit from someone inside the motor vehicle department like you, for those times when he needs info on someone’s address. I dunno. Probably a bad idea…” Michele said, trailing off casually. Say “yes” you obnoxious twat, she thought. Don’t be a prideful bitch.

“I suppose you’ll charge me rent to live with you,” Isabella said.

“Of course,” Michele said. “I figure $200 a month should do it. That’ll cover the cigarettes you steal from me, the feminine hygiene products you steal from me, the booze you steal from me, the condoms you steal from me. And so on.”

“Hmmmm. I guess that’s a fair price,” Isabella answered, trying to hide her delight at the thought of her rent being cut by more than two-thirds. You just can’t comfortably say you love me in some heartwarming fashion any more than I can say it to you, can you?

“So, you in? I mean, it’s cool if you don’t want to. You can have your independence and all if you don’t.”

“Yeah, I could. But someone’s gotta keep you grounded and give you proper advice on how to navigate men and shit. Especially now that you’re juggling a billionaire man that you probably can’t trust.”

“Not like I can trust you, either,” Michele lied blandly, “but you’ve done right by me a few times.”

“Well, we’ve been stuck with each other this long,” Isabella said. “I suppose I can let you cramp my style a little longer. We’ll just take it day by day, right?”

“Right, Izzie,” Michele agreed, digging into her food quickly to mask her sigh of relief.

* * *

The trip to Florida had been the perfect thing to clear his mind. He’d been getting precious little personal time or real sleep trying to build his criminal empire in Newark, and a vacation had been in order. Not to mention that verbally abusing Janus and spreading around knowledge about how he had faced down the criminal kingpin had made it prudent to skip town for a while.

A couple weeks will have sufficed, I think, thought Paul Eisenhower, looking like any random middle-aged executive with two employees in tow—albeit employees with bigger muscles than most—as he entered the Newark Liberty International Airport terminal from his United flight in a three-piece suit, rather than sporting his gray bodysuit and a full-head mask that resembled a bone-white demonic visage with golden veins, small black eyes and small demonic faces all across the brow—the face he presented as Rancor. Janus has too much on his plate to think about me; shit, he probably doesn’t even know what’s going on in Newark. No one does—no one cares—that’s why I’m on the top of the criminal food chain here.

A position further solidified by being a man who’d turn down Janus boldly. Word was that Estaban was ready to link up with Rancor and put his drug and prostitution territories under the transhuman’s control. People feared and respected him more now, and so the world was good.

All gain for me, Rancor considered, and no real loss for Janus. Win-win.

After the luggage had been retrieved and they had reached his silver Cadillac CTS in the long-term parking lot, though, the winning feeling dulled a bit when one of his men clicked the button on his key fob to start and unlock the vehicle and nothing happened. No beeps. No flashing lights.

“Boss, hold up a bit,” he said, and nodded to the other man, who tried his own matching electronic fob and got the same result. “Boss, it might just be something wrong with the car, but let’s move back while Nick calls for someone to pick us up and someone to tow the car. Could be a bomb or something. Just gotta be careful.”

Rancor nodded, and they fell back about 20 yards. As Nick began to make a call, Rancor  heard footsteps, and turned quickly. His lead man had reacted the same, and they saw Underworld approach in full costume, wearing a black catsuit and an ornate crimson and gold domino-style mask. Her green-lipsticked lips curled into a smile. Her hands were empty, but Rancor saw his man’s hand push aside the suit coat and reach for his gun, before swearing quietly.

The guns are in the car, because we just got off a flight, Rancor remembered. I should have had some guys meet us here; seems my identity isn’t as secret outside of my costume as I thought.

But Underworld wasn’t armed right now, and Rancor took comfort in that, even as he began to second-guess his decision to be so bold with Janus before.

“I distinctly remember a non-disclosure demand when you were invited to join up with us,” Underworld said.

“Well,” Rancor noted, “it wasn’t exactly a contract, was it? And the demand came along with the invitation, so it wasn’t as if I was given any chance to even not know what you were up to. If I chose to share…”

“If you had only spilled the beans about us forming a team, Rancor, I might not be so irritated,” she interrupted. “And insulting Janus? I normally couldn’t care less. But then there’s both together, plus you’ve been disparaging our entire operation and puffing yourself up as some tough guy who’s too good for us, and that means you’re fucking with my reputation and my business, too.”

“So, what do we do about that?” Rancor asked, considering his options and deciding that launching a Psi attack and kicking in his Primal powers for a fight was a bad idea—to directly assault her would be to declare war against Janus’ entire operation. “You’re clearly delivering a warning, and I don’t really want beef with you. How do we make things right?”

“Who says I’m delivering a warning?” Underworld responded.

“So this is just a social call, and my Caddy just happens to be non-functional as a coincidence?” Rancor said dubiously. “You happened to be Newark and thought you’d stop by to meet me at the airport?”

“No, Rancor. I hate most urban parts of New Jersey, to be honest, and I think Newark is an armpit,” she said. “But I’m not here to deliver a warning or obtain compensation for your insult. I’m here to send a message.”

With that, everything suddenly went black. Rancor and his men found themselves plunged into total darkness. Rancor tried to reach out with his fear-inducing powers, but couldn’t get a lock on Underworld. He couldn’t see her, and she must not be where she had been before. Not that he was surprised by that, considering that among her many powers, she was a Speedster. He tried to remember if she could see in her own darkness, and realized he wasn’t sure if anyone knew the answer to that.

But he did know that the size of the area she could rob of light was limited, and he began to back up, trying to remember where the other cars in the parking lot were around him, bumping into a few as he moved.

He still hadn’t found the light. Rancor was pretty sure the effect of her darkness was less than a 50-foot radius around her and now, as he ventured blindly into unknown territory in the parking lot, unsure of where he was now and increasingly running into things, he knew he must have gone that far or farther by now.

Oh, God, she’s staying with me. She’s pacing me and making sure she stays close enough to keep me in darkness.

He continued to reach out, trying to grab her mind with his and fill her with fear. That was his only hope. But his Psionic powers didn’t work well for seeking out a mind and he generally needed to know where the person was to make a link. He thought about activating his Primal powers to enter his rage state, but he could only keep that up for a limited time, and he would need that ability badly if he got into an actual fight with her.

Maybe this is the message, he thought. Maybe this won’t get violent. She wants me to know just how outclassed I am. Wants to put me in my place and make me wet myself. Well, I may not actually buy into the idea that I’m outclassed, but she definitely got the drop on me this time. We can still work this…

“Boo!” Underworld shouted from nearby, and suddenly Rancor’s world was filled with bright sunlight again. The suddenness dazzled his eyes and cause him to stumble as he ran his left shin into the front bumper of a beat-up Ford Tempo. Her hands were on him and he reached out to her mind, but his focus was shot—fear and momentary blindness. It only got worse as she lifted him up—she hadn’t really grabbed him; it was like he was glued to her palms and when he was over her head, she slammed him down on the roof of a car, knocking the wind out of him.

Whatever slight hold he had gained on her mind was snuffed out.

She kept hold of him with her contact telekinesis and slammed him into the side of a neighboring vehicle even as she produced a dome of darkness around her again to keep his associates from trying to take her down or save Rancor. Slammed him onto the hood of the first car and then into the pavement of the parking lot.

Over and over, until she could feel him literally breaking underneath the assault. The prolonged use of her telekinetic power was taxing, but she kept smashing him into the ground and the vehicles around her until she was relatively sure his rib cage and skull were thoroughly shattered, and then flung him away as she lifted the darkness again.

She looked at his broken body on the ground several yards away, and saw him breathing raggedly. Whether he would survive was the question now, though she doubted he would. If he did, he’d be in no position to run anything or exact any revenge. He’d be lucky if he wasn’t crippled.

But death seemed more likely, and while she wasn’t much for murder most days, Underworld wasn’t about to let anyone casually mess with an operation she was half in charge of. People needed a reminder that she could be a threat when she wanted to be, and that she was no pushover.

Underworld looked at one of Rancor’s well-dressed goons and then the other. Neither was making a move on her.

“The message, in case it isn’t clear,” she said loudly, “is for both of you to deliver. To Rancor’s former crew and any other low-life assholes you associate with. Spread the word that this is what happens,” she added, pointing to Rancor’s still body, “when you insult Janus or me or try to act like you’re tougher than us. Make sure you talk about this a lot, gentlemen, or I’ll be visiting you like I did Rancor, and someone else will be delivering the message instead of you—after they attend your funerals.”

She looked at each man in turn again.

“Was I not clear enough?” she said with venom in her tone, and both men fled.

Underworld’s phone started ringing and she pulled in from the pouch at her waist.

“Since I’m not allowed to track you anymore, would you mind telling me where you are?” Janus asked.

Such perfect timing, Underworld thought, that I’m suspicious he’s still got trackers on me or someone watching me. But I’ll chalk this up to coincidental timing and a gut feeling on his part. No need to get too paranoid or I’ll be jumping at all the shadows.

“Just running an errand in Newark,” she said, pulling a small set of night-vision goggles down from her face to drape from her like necklace.

“Oh,” he said, understanding immediately. “I assumed you would send someone else to do that.”

“Some things require a personal touch,” she said, looking at Rancor’s body. If he was breathing now, it was too shallow to notice, and it was certainly time for her to move on before any authorities or potential witnesses arrived. “Some things, in fact, require a woman’s touch.”

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The thought of a conflict tonight had already filled Epitaph with mixed emotions, and even more so now that he was hearing the sounds of violence nearby. He was still mulling over what Query had asked of him this afternoon, unsure if he wanted to be the man’s eyes and ears in a new place, but suspecting it was probably for the best. The Guardian Corps would get along fine if he ratcheted down his patrol time with them, and Query would no doubt find someone else to report back to him on the happenings within that organization.

But it was still a lot to think about. He just wasn’t sure his head was in the game tonight.

Or maybe a conflict is just what I need to clear my mind, he thought, shifting gears and dashing toward the sounds of trouble, the broken tombstone slapping slightly against the torso portion of his short-sleeved gray bodysuit—the top half over his chest and the bottom half over his back, attached by chains and forming a grotesque sort of vest. Yes, I think a good fight with a bad person will clear my mind nicely.

His thoughts were always clear like this, and never muddled by quotes of death or remembrance—at least not until he opened his mouth to voice those thoughts. He wondered if there would ever again be a day like when he was younger, when he could speak out loud without using lines from movies and novels, quotes from philosophers or some other person’s notable words.

At least Query almost always understands what I mean when I talk. If there was no other reason to be the man’s friend, that would be one that made it worth it.

The trouble turned out to be in a nearby parking lot. Mostly out of sight in an empty pair of spaces between a van and an SUV, one man was beating another with a baseball bat. A knife lay on the ground, as did a gun, and the victim—probably the owner of both—looked as much like a street tough as his attacker did.

Gang activity, most likely, or a fight over a woman, drugs or money, Epitaph guessed. Probably no innocent to save tonight, but there’s still no reason to let the guy on the ground get killed.

Epitaph cleared his throat loudly.

The man with the bat stopped, startled, and turned toward him. His eyes were almost glittering in their sharpness and intensity. A bit of spittle hovered at the corner of the man’s mouth. He seemed entirely undaunted by the sight of the transhuman mere yards away, even though it was pretty well known that Epitaph was about as close to bulletproof as a person could be, and even less vulnerable to something like a blunt weapon.

Damn. The guy’s probably hyped up on skeez, Epitaph realized as he took in his appearance and demeanor. He’s in full psychotic mode and isn’t going to have a rational thought in his head.

Apparently, though, the man still had enough clarity to know what he was up against and picked up the gun on the ground.

Probably thinks a point-blank shot at my head will do me in. It could—maybe—or possibly stun me, but we’re not going to get to that point, I hope.

Epitaph held up one hand, index finger extended upward, and shook it slowly back and forth, in rhythm with his shaking head, to dissuade the imminent attack.

“It’s going to make me so happy to be the guy who kills you,” the drug-addled man said in a voice that merged a manic whine with a growl, heedless to the warning. “I’m gonna be so happy to have the rep of being the guy who wasted Epitaph.”

“Nothing is more fatal to happiness than the remembrance of happiness,” Epitaph said.

The man said nothing in response, simply lunging forward, swinging the bat with one hand as the other gripped the pistol, waiting for an opportunity to use a bullet up close—or all of them.

The bat connected with the ubiquitous telekinetic field pushing out from all around Epitaph’s body, and the impact force vibrated down the attacker’s arm, causing the grip to loosen on the bat for a moment, though he didn’t drop it. Epitaph corrected that by grabbing it with his left hand and wresting it from the punk with his genetically enhanced strength. Even as the attacker’s other hand came around with the pistol, Epitaph quickly took hold of the man’s wrist and snapped it easily.

Too easily, in fact, Epitaph observed silently as the gun clattered to the pavement, seeing a wrist bone poking out of the man’s arm. Too much force. The downside of being a Brute is knowing your own strength but not always being able to moderate it well.

“Some men are alive simply because it is against the law to kill them,” Epitaph said, hoping once again to appeal to man’s common sense, if it could be reached beneath the skeez.

But the still-sharp effects of the drug made the man as heedless of his pain and injury—and the warning—as he had been to Epitaph’s earlier attempt to prevent the fight from starting. Depending on when he’d loaded up, he might be this way for just a few more minutes or another 15, Epitaph realized. That was the trap with skeez—they said the high you experienced inside your head was the best you could ever have with any drug, but it lasted only a half hour, give or take. And during that time, as your usual consciousness went deep inside to frolic, the rest of your brain turned sociopathic and took your body for a ride you’d barely remember or not at all, though the memory of the high would haunt and tempt you forever.

He’s going to come after me again, compound fracture in his wrist or not, Epitaph considered. Sometimes they have just enough reason to know when to give up out of self-preservation, even on skeez, but not this one.

So when the man lunged at Epitaph, the costumed hero tossed aside any pretense of finesse. He punch him fast and hard in the face and watched as the man went limp as a ragdoll.

Jesus, I hope I didn’t break his neck. Just like I feared, I’m a little off tonight. Maybe I should pack in the patrolling early.

Epitaph watched for a few moments, and when the unconscious man’s chest rose and fell in a more or less normal rhythm and his neck and one arm twitched a bit from the effects of the skeez, he sighed. Not dead. Not paralyzed. The nose was smashed, though. Maybe a concussion.

“Memory is the mother of all wisdom,” he said to the now-prone attacker, and hoped that was true. Hoped that some part of the skeez-huffer would remember the consequences of having taken the drug and who he’d tried to face off against tonight under its influence. If nothing else, the bone poking through his wrist might inform him of the folly of taking skeez.

Better to go for heroin or meth—at least the chances are lower you’ll kill someone or be killed while under the influence.

Epitaph sent a quick text message to a contact at the nearest police precinct about the unconscious criminal, then hefted the man’s injured victim over one shoulder to carry him to an emergency room just blocks away, leaving the skeez-huffer on the ground.

Remembrance would be good, Epitaph thought as he spared the thug one last glance. Remembrance of how close you might have been to death tonight.

“We all have our time machines. Some take us back—they’re called memories. Some take us forward—they’re called dreams,” Epitaph said out loud, and headed for the nearest hospital, hoping that one or both of these injured men tonight still had dreams left in them.

* * *

Janus calmly and silently surveyed the 23 transhumans standing or sitting before him and his entourage of five women—Crazy Jane, the Fates and Underworld. He smiled broadly, because the mask he wore today, crocodile skin on one side and mink fur on the other, revealed nothing but his mouth and chin. And he so wanted these people to feel welcome.

“If you are here in this warehouse, you are on my metaphorical ‘A-list’,” the crimelord said. “The first thing you need to realize is that we will never meet here again. We will never all meet in the same place again. And we will never have a single, consistent, central location at which to meet.”

“Isn’t the lack of a headquarters going to make us less able to work efficiently and stay in contact?” asked Red Alice, one of the nearly two-dozen assembled members of Janus and Underworld’s fledgling team.

“Oh, there is a headquarters,” Janus told her, his eyes scanning back and forth across the rest of the gathering to make sure he had the attention of all of them. “But none of you will need to know where it is, and Underworld and I will ensure there is always someplace safe for you to gather when you need to.”

Red Alice opened her mouth to speak again, and Janus lifted a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture.

“The second thing you all need to know,” Janus continued, “is that I have also hired—and will hire more in the future—other transhumans who would be decidedly B- or even C-list, metaphorically speaking. They don’t need to be here today because they aren’t as important to me. When you are teamed up with them, you are not to treat them in any way that suggests they are second-stringers. Part of this is for your own survival, as some of the people I have hired are specialists and are every bit your equals or superiors, and some of them may kill you at such an offense. The other reason is because I want even the most inept and expendable people to believe they matter, and if you take away their motivation by letting them know they aren’t every bit as important to me as you all are, I may kill you as both a punishment to you and a lesson to the others. If you think you might represent me in anything other than a professional manner, you would be better to never work for me at all and leave now.”

He paused to let that sink in, and looked from one set of eyes to another, satisfied that no one was yet dissuaded.

“The reason that all of you—my top, key people—are here today is so that you can see first-hand with whom you will be working. So that you can know now who your teammates are and which people you will most regularly be working with. You will all receive modest but significant stipends for being on-call as a member of our team,” he said, glancing toward Underworld to remind them they had two bosses.

“Does this team have a name?” Red Alice queried.

“No, my dear, and I’m not sure it needs one,” Janus said. “But if it gets one, you’ll find out in the company newsletter. Now, you also all will receive additional fees and/or percentages of takes for the jobs that you undertake, which should line your pockets quite nicely and consistently. That said, you are welcome to continue your solo work when you aren’t on our clock if you have the energy or desire to, so long as you don’t interfere with our operations or embarrass us.”

“What would be something that would embarrass you, sir?” Red Alice blurted out.

“Oh, getting caught and saying you work for me. Horning in on someone’s territory for your own gain and saying that you’re doing so under our orders. Bragging to anyone that you’re on our payroll, even though people will figure that out eventually on their own. You get the idea, my dear, I am sure,” Janus said. “Now, all of that said, I have a rather large, special job right now for which I need 13 of you—Alabaster, Red Alice, Laugh Riot, Minotaur, Mindfuck…uh, Sister Penance, Fatal Natal, Lady Ronin, Medusa, Odium, Thanksgiving and, um, oh yes: Menthol and Urban Decay. Those individuals need to stay here; the rest of you go with Crazy Jane to a nearby building where she will finish up the orientation, get you some paperwork to fill out, as well as pay you your first stipend for your time here today. Thank you all.”

He waited as the 13 people he had indicated remained, those who were standing up until now finally sitting, with the exception of Odium, who had been as rigid as a statue the entire time and remained so—and watched as the other 10 filed out with Crazy Jane.

When they were gone, Janus pulled up a chair, sat on it and leaned forward toward the baker’s dozen of villains.

“Now, let’s get real and let’s get honest,” he said to them quietly but clearly. “The A-list isn’t metaphorical; it’s very real. All of you are my A-list. The others you just met are the B-list. They are important, let there be no doubt. But they aren’t the top picks. You are, as are a few others whom you will only meet occasionally or in some cases perhaps never at all: Muerta, Tooth Fairy, Caterwaul, Dr. Blood and Steampunk. Everyone else you work with, unless I tell you otherwise, is C-list. Cannon-fodder. Tools.”

Janus paused and took a deep breath. “However, if any of you tell any of the others they are B-list or C-list, I will kill you personally,” he said, brushing away a piece of lint from his taupe linen suit. “Of that have no doubt. You can revel privately in your privileged status. Which, by the way, will include access to our several safe-houses, which will serve as your homes for at least several days each week. They are very well-appointed, and each has a room specially furnished for you according to your needs and wants. These are where you will bunk when on duty for us. After today, you will never all be together at the same place at the same time.”

“Won’t that be disruptive and confusing to always be moving around like—” Red Alice began, her words cut off as Loveless, chief among The Fates, fired a bullet into her chest at a subtle signal from Janus. Loveless’ shiny black vinyl-clad arm lowered again to her side, the pistol resting against a thigh just as dark and glistening.

Red Alice stumbled backward in her costume that hinted at both Alice of the Wonderland stories and the image of a Goth party-girl. The blood was barely noticeable against the blood-red sheen of her PVC corset, though it became more noticeable as it ran down into her billowy skirt of red, green and white, before virtually disappearing again into her black stockings and heavy black boots.

She kept her footing at first, and her body shrunk to about three-quarters of her normal size as she activated her special Morph power, no doubt hoping the increased density of her body might protect her from further attack. She picked up a large metal pipe nearby with her Brute strength, clearly thinking there was a fight here she might still be able to win. Janus said nothing and did nothing. He knew that Loveless’ aim was true, and after several moments, Red Alice simply toppled to the ground, one of her lungs collapsing and filling with blood. Her breath coming in ragged gasps. The pipe continued to clatter loudly against the cement floor for several seconds.

When finally she was almost quiet and almost dead, Janus spoke again. “I don’t like to be interrupted, certainly not in the frequent fashion young Red Alice has been doing. I also don’t like to have my very basic orders and directives questioned. I appreciate trust, loyalty and discretion. If any of you cannot provide that, you can leave now before another one of you ends up with a bullet for a final souvenir.”

No one stood. No one left. Every single one of the dozen remaining simply turned away from Red Alice and tuned out her final gasps. Janus took note of the body language of Medusa and Alabaster, who seemed to most disturbed by what had happened, Medusa in particular.

No surprise there; they are the two I knew would be most averse to “senseless” violence, but there are plenty of jobs that won’t push their envelopes, Janus thought. At least not too much.

“Good,” Janus said. “Now, as I said, you will have access to many of our facilities in a way that no B-list person will unless he or she rises through the ranks, and which one on the C-list will likely never access. However, as much as I trust you all and have faith in you, none of you will ever know where our central headquarters is located, and if you try to locate it, you will only find your final resting place.”

* * *

When Isabella entered the apartment she shared with her stepsister, Michele was staring at a wall across the room as if in shock.

It was such an unusual look for the Goth woman who dressed as Solstice to fight crime that Isabella was actually a little frightened. Not of her roommate but for her, though she didn’t think she’d ever say such a thing out loud for fear of ruining her bitchy reputation.

She did ease cautiously into the living room, though, and said, slowly and softly, “Michele? You OK? Did I finally push you over the edge stealing another pack of your cigs?” she joked, and knew it came out lamely. That embarrassed her, if only because it might give Michele a hint of how much her stepsister truly cared about her and her well-being.

“Oh,” Michele said absently, brushing her short black hair away from the light golden-toned skin of her face. “Sorry. Didn’t hear you come in.”

“Are…you…OK?” Isabella repeated.

“Yeah. I guess,” Michele answered. “I got a message from Fortunato. Y’know…the billionaire former superhero? He wants to meet with me—as Solstice. Says he has an offer I probably shouldn’t refuse. Seemed very nice about it. But it’s weird.”

“I guess. Sounds different. Don’t freak, Michele.”

“I’m trying not to, Izzie; I really am,” Michele said, and a little tear trickled from one eye. That weirded out Isabella more than anything else so far—she couldn’t remember the last time Michele had cried in front of her to any extent. “But he called our home phone number. I have a secret identity, Izzie. How the fuck does Fortunato even know who I am? And why does he care? So much happening lately; too much. Such heavy-duty shit.”

Isabella decided this probably wasn’t a good time to tell her that Query had been in their apartment recently and probably knew more about her than she thought he did—probably more than Fortunato. That he and Isabella had chatted in detail about Michele. Even pulled a little prank of sorts on her.

In fact, maybe never would be about soon enough to tell her all that.

* * *

“So, I hope you all enjoyed the tour of this safe-house-slash-satellite-facility,” Underworld said to the members of the A-list as they came to a halt near the doors where they had first entered 40 minutes earlier. “This is just one such building, but all of them are very similar. Very nice accommodations and amenities, complete with a chef to make sure you eat well. Of course,” she added, “Janus would have me conducting this part of your orientation, because it’s too ‘girly’ for him, I guess. Rest assured, though, that while I’m not as murder-prone as he is, I won’t hesitate to fuck one of you up if you break our trust or ignore the rules of being on this team.”

“I do hope you appreciate the effort we’ve put into outfitting your rooms and facilities,” Janus interjected. “And, while none of you will ever see the inside of the HQ where Underworld, myself and our closest associates work, you will from time to time be able to access the skills of our staff there, who are mostly norm humans, for things like data gathering, sometimes even for your solo, free-time endeavors.”

“That pretty much brings us to the end of things,” Underworld said, taking charge again. “We’ll be in touch with your schedules, as well as locations of two safe-houses that you will all alternate between at first—this one is more of a backup and model site. We have other safe-houses as well, but they will only be brought into play if one of you is captured. If you are, do not even think of revealing the location of any safe-house. Yes, we will be paranoid enough to put the ones you know about on the ‘don’t use’ list for quite some time and move everyone to other locations for further missions, but if you are captured and one of our safe-houses you knew about is raided, rest assured you will die in custody or in whatever facility you are serving your reduced prison term for revealing our secrets.”

“I certainly don’t want to end up shot like Red Alice, so I don’t want to seem impertinent, but may I ask a couple questions?” Odium said respectfully, though the tone of his voice suggested he did so with great effort.

“Certainly,” Underworld said. “Red Alice was focusing on minutiae and asking questions at the wrong time. She was being disruptive and headstrong rather than smart and assertive. That’s why she’s dead. This is the time for questions.”

“First, while I would like to think I won’t get captured, and while I would like to hope the authorities who might won’t have access to any really good transhuman interrogators, what if we are confronted with someone who has Primal or Psi abilities to soften up our ability to lie or withhold information? I’d certainly hate to die in custody for something I fought hard not to give up.”

“Our eyes and ears are far-reaching, Odium,” Underworld said, though her gaze travelled around the entire group before she spoke again to him directly. “We’ll likely know if they cheat. Such things have actually been ruled unconstitutional by the Supreme Court, but you never know. We’ll also try to head off such things happening as well as give you a few tips and tricks to fend off such powers a bit. Now, you saying ‘first’ suggests there’s a part two…”

Odium cleared his throat. “Well, I don’t argue that your safe-houses are way classier than the term would suggest. But I’m willing to bet your main headquarters is even way more plush and well-appointed. Mind telling us why a bunch of norms get access to it but not your A-list? Not that I’m prejudiced or anything, but they aren’t in the same class as we are. We’re the future. Humanity 2.0.”

In an almost perfect mimicry of Odium, Janus cleared his own throat and stepped forward to stand next to Underworld. “I’ll take that one, Underworld,” he said. “The norms I employ, many of them talented tech geeks and high-end scientific specialists, hardly ever get to leave the headquarters unless in small, heavily supervised groups. They are each fitted with several tracking devices, at least one of them buried deep in the body. As this all happens while they’re sedated and we poke them in several places just because, they don’t even know where the devices are, and by the time a medical professional were able to X-ray them to find them, we’d know where to find the wayward employee.”

“Not to mention,” Underworld added, “that some of them have micro-ordinances implanted in their skulls so we can detonate their brains via remote control. They can’t raise families or have outside relationships for the dozen years they are in our service. They barely get outside, and while they have a lot of free dining and entertainment luxuries, they sleep in cramped dorms. If you want to undergo the indignities that go with the perks, you are welcome to bunk at the central headquarters.”

“I’ll pass, thanks,” Odium said. “I got nothing else to ask.”

Several others had minor questions, and Underworld fielded them all, finally sending the transhumans their separate ways some 20 minutes later. Once she and Janus were alone—or as alone as they could be, with The Fates doing their silent, imposing bodyguard routine behind him, she said, “So, Red Alice…”

“Yes.”

“You did say I’d understand why you placed her on the A-list soon enough,” Underworld noted.

“I did indeed.”

“For no other reason than to serve as an example of what you’re capable of when you’re displeased. You wasted a human life—a transhuman life that might have been good B-list material if nothing else—to grandstand in front of the new recruits.”

“So what?” Janus challenged her.

“Aside from my usual solidarity with women, at least at a casual level until they prove they don’t deserve it, I think it was excessive and unnecessary. I don’t like murder just for effect, Janus. I’ve made a point of keeping my crimes as death-free as possible and as high-brow as I can.”

“Well, you didn’t kill her,” Janus noted. “I ordered it, and Loveless carried out the act. Your hands are still clean.”

“Not insofar as I am your more-or-less equal associate,” she retorted. “No matter how sociopathic you are, I won’t condone or accept constant slaughter. You were already pushing it with that IT guy you made such a public and fatal example of in the HQ not that long ago. And you killed a couple of your higher-up norm supervisors over the failure to snatch Zoe and the resulting coup of Query finding your team in the woods and the safe-houses there—also questionable. This murder, though, was way over the line.”

“I consider it special circumstances. I assure you this isn’t some casual habit I’m going to indulge often.”

“See that you don’t,” she said flatly, unconcerned whether he would consider it a threat or how he might respond—though with the blind loyalty and protective nature of The Fates, she fully admitted to herself that it made her stomach clench coldly to turn her back on those three usually silent and sometimes deadly women.

Especially Loveless.

* * *

Sarah was nervous as Peter entered her penthouse lair—what had once been the home of Mister Master. The place in which she had been imprisoned and violated over and over. Now the place she called her own home and which Peter had come to share with her roughly half the nights of the week.

She smiled nervously as they chatted about their respective evenings. They had patrolled separately tonight, as she had been too long out of her Ladykiller mode. She had put on that persona tonight, seeking the vengeance on abusive men that she could not mete out to the abuser she had killed to free herself.

I got free of him, but then again I didn’t, she realized. I wanted to hurt him over and over, not just kill him. But I had to go for the kill or I’d still be a prisoner. And now other men who hurt women pay the price for his crimes. He still has a hold on me because of that. I haven’t purged him from my system and I don’t know that I ever fully will. Dressing as Honey Badger and patrolling with Mad Dash is nice, but it cannot sustain me.

Peter told him that his night—much like hers—had been a wash, though his exact words were, “It was a real washing machine for me tonight; I texted a few hero duderinos and it seems like only Epitaph had much to showboat for putting on the tighty-nighties and making justice.”

Now they were not Mad Dash and Ladykiller, though; they were only Sarah and Peter. Neither wanted shop-talk to rule the night.

So she brought out some vegetables and meat to cook with, and they shared the sous chef duties, slicing, dicing and chopping so that she could cook up a chili with some Asian hot peppers as a special treat for the sweet-tempered dork she found herself dating now. They talked about news and gossip they’d seen on Twitter, books they were reading, shows they were following when they weren’t together. They shared tales of fellow costumed crimefighters and vigilantes they’d run into lately, and discussed Sarah’s plan to get a part-time gig helping out with transhuman security—in her Honey Badger mode—for the clinic run by a Regenerator named White Cross.

The calm, pleasant domesticity of it all seemed good for them both. It put Peter at ease, even knowing the long-rotted corpse of Mister Master was sealed up and stored away in a nearby room. It took the edge off her frustration at not having bloodied her metal claws tonight.

When the cooking was done, and the chili devoured—mostly by Peter, who’d burned plenty of calories with high-speed running tonight—she suggested they get to sleep before dawn came.

In her bedroom, she hesitated at what she was about to do, then steeled her resolve.

“Pete?” she began with a tremor in her voice. “Take off your clothes and get into bed. Um, just don’t get your hopes up too much—or anything else if possible.”

When he was under the covers, she turned off the lights and stripped down to her bare skin in the dark.

“Are you all righty-oh?” he asked.

“Yeah. But the lights stay off. No peeking, Pete. Please.”

She slid beneath the covers with him, and pressed her body up against his back, wrapping her arms around his chest. She almost balked—almost jumped out of the bed, but fought down the clenching in her stomach.

If I don’t do this, she thought, if I don’t move forward, Mister Master really will have won. He’ll define my whole life. He’ll be the last man who felt my naked body. And that is intolerable.

She thought Peter would freak. In fact, his nervous shivering renewed her urge to flee. The burn-scarred flesh of her left breast and both her legs had to feel alien to him, with the rest of her skin being smooth. He must be disgusted, she fretted, and then reminded herself he wasn’t pulling away. That he wasn’t tensing up. Reminded herself he was a 23-year-old virgin—and probably a nervous virgin at that.

“This is nice,” he said softly, and she finally sighed, realizing she’d been holding her breath in fear all this time.

“Are you sure?” she asked hesitantly. “I can put—”

“No,” he said. “It’s good. I like being held. Do I get to be the head spoon at some tip?”

The word tip made her clench again, and then she realized it was just his often-muddled wording, meaning point, and not some reference to his penis.

“Maybe,” she said. “Can we just stay like this, though? It’s nice to be the one—the one who’s doing whatever we’re doing. Or not. In charge, I guess.”

He chuckled softly. “Sure.”

She couldn’t bear for him to see her yet—to see her burn scars and shrapnel scars. But his growing comfort and ease emboldened her. She reached her unmarred right hand down and felt for him. He was hard, but he hadn’t tried to do anything with his tool. He wouldn’t. His restraint made her almost weep, and it made her want to give herself to him.

But it’s too soon for—too soon for that.

She stroked him slowly. “Pete, would it be OK if I played with you? I mean, I can—”

“A handwork?” he asked nervously.

She laughed. “Handjob, you silly boy. Well, at least you’re way easier to understand than Epitaph. Yeah. That. I may have another kind of ‘job’ in me tonight for you, too, later. Maybe we won’t be asleep by sunrise. But the lights stay off, Peter Nguyen.”

“OK.”

“And I want to get back the same that I give you,” she added, her lips gently kissing behind one of his ears, his unruly hair smelling of sweat just a little—a hint of apple-scented shampoo there as well. Smelling nice. “Mouth and fingers only, though.”

“Way OK,” he said, moaning as her stroking became quicker and more firm. “I think I can handle that. I’m no casserole, but I made it to second base-camp and partway onto third a few times in high-up school.”

Take that, Mister Master, Sarah thought savagely, even as she felt warm feelings toward the man in her bed, her rage never far away but backed into a corner for now. You don’t own me anymore.

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Image of Epitaph’s face adapted from a photo by David Goehring (original image at Flickr here) under Creative Commons license to “share” and/or “remix” the work as long as credit is given to artist and it is acknowledged that the artist doesn’t necessarily endorse my own work nor has any direct involvement in its use here.