Out of the Ashes, Part 5

Out of the Ashes by Misty Meenor A Comic RetCon Universe Story The Martian Manhunter and Miss Martian characters are the property of DC Comics. The night guard at the gate of Terberon Research Corporation settled in his chair and propped his feet up on his desk, pouring the first cup of coffee of the night from his thermos. The front window of the gatehouse afforded a clear view of the road leading up to the facility, as it wound through the trees toward the brightly-lit final half-mile straightaway culminating at the gate. In the darkness, the headlights of any approaching traffic would be visible a good five minutes before it eventually arrived at his post. The first indication he had that his facility was under attack, was the sniper's bullet exploding out of the darkness and into his brain.

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Thick, searing smoke fills the room, lit unevenly by roaring ruddy-orange flames. My face is pressed to the floor, my lungs fight to find oxygen in the superheated air. Breathing is impossible, yet somehow I am aware of the smell: a greasy, nauseating stench rises over the toxic fumes from things that aren't supposed to burn. My clothing flares and burst into flame, melting into my incinerating flesh, skin crisping and splitting open, charred bones cracking with the heat, sizzling juices spilling out. The agony is indescribable, unbearable, yet unconsciousness refuses to come. I scream until my chest refuses to work, and my lungs are unable to fill.

I wake in a blind panic, desperate to draw breath, hands clutching at my throat, my heart hammering in my chest.

I was starting to remember my dreams.

~o~O~o~

The dojo was a good-sized storefront space fitted out into a martial arts gym. At this hour of the evening, classes were in full swing; it was a cheerfully noisy, frenetic place. I studied the activity with a curious eye.

As far as I was able to tell, aikido is the art of becoming one with the floor. About half of aikido practice involves falling down at high speed, in a futile attempt to unite with the ground.

The other half of aikido practice involves helping your partner to become one with the floor.

Still, observing the more advanced students, I could see why Ben Turner thought aikido would be a good fit for me. In action, a skilled aikidoka blended his movements with that of his opponent, using the opponent's momentum against him, usually ending with a throw or immobilizing hold. It was a martial art that did not depend on a great deal of strength, which was good. The less I needed to use, the less likely it was that I would overdo it and kill or injure somebody by accident.

Emma Ruiz was a short, angular woman, about my height, of indeterminate age. Her body seemed as fit and supple as a young woman's, but her face reflected a depth of experience, with fine lines around her eyes and mouth. Mostly from smiling, if her current expression was any indication. "Hello, may I help you?"

I cleared my throat. "Umm… Ben Turner suggested I talk to you about lessons?"

"Ah, you must be Miss Doolittle," she beamed. "Come in, I must admit I've been curious to see who has attracted the interest of Ben Turner."

I stepped out of the reception area into the dojo proper. She padded barefoot around me, dressed in a loose wraparound white jacket, with flowing black pants. "Hmmm. Walk for me."

I walked across the room and back, being careful not to step on the training mat in my shoes. I was wearing the same shape I had used to meet Ben Turner, essentially Miss Mars with a normal skin tone and short blonde hair, tied back in a pony.

Ruiz sensei nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I see what he was talking about." She grinned at my expression. "Don't worry, Ben didn't betray any confidences. He simply described your problem to me, not that he had to, it's obvious." She waved away my startled look. "He told me you would benefit from my help, he offered some suggestion on the direction your training should take, that you wanted to be circumspect, and that you don't move well, that's about all."

For the first time, her face grew serious as she escorted me into the tiny office. "Before I can help you, you'll have to tell me something about yourself, however. I shall have to decide how much is enough. If it's not enough, then I shall regretfully decline to accept you as a student. Please, sit. Tell me as much as you think you can share."

I cleared my throat, and took a deep breath. "Well, I'm a metahuman, and I used to be a man…" I explained about the event at the mall, my concerns about injuring someone, my determination to use my new abilities where I could, almost everything. I didn't tell her I could shapeshift, and I tried to leave out anything which might identify me.

"I won't deny that I haven't told you everything, but rather than lie to you, I would prefer not to say any more. I am being cautious, but I hope you can appreciate why."

She studied me, a thoughtful look on her face, until the silence grew awkward. Finally she spoke, still considering me. "I believe you. Sometime I'd like to see what you can do -- but never in this dojo. In here you are a normal young woman, as normal as you can be, is that clear?"

I nodded, swallowing. "I understand."

"If you can't be hurt, we can try to accelerate your training. A great deal of aikido is learning to fall well. That will still be important! It is part of learning to flow with your opponent. But normally we don't progress a student until we know they've mastered enough technique that they won't be hurt in the advanced classes." She grinned. "You will get a lot of practice falling. We run three one-hour classes a night for all levels, plus specialized classes and individual instruction on Saturdays. I want to see you two nights a week, plus Saturdays, for the whole three hours each time. Can you do that?"

"Thank you. I can do that." It was daunting, and it must have showed on my face.

She chuckled. "You may change your mind after a couple of weeks, it won't be fun until you can master the basics, at least. It will start to come a lot easier once your head accepts your new body. Did Ben have any suggestions on that?"

I nodded. "He suggested a dance class."

"Oh, I think as far as creative movement goes, you'll get your share of it here," Ruiz sensei laughed. "Take a dance class if you like, of course he's right, it'll help. But I have a suggestion a man wouldn't think of, if you're interested."

I answered cautiously. "Of course."

"High heels."

~o~O~o~

Ruiz sensei was right about wearing high heels; you can't take two steps without being aware of your body: your posture, how you hold your shoulders, the jut of your breasts, the angle of your pelvis, the sway of your hips. After a while it all becomes subconscious -- which was specifically the point, for me -- but it's always there.

It's simply not possible to walk like a man while propped up on your toes by a narrow two-inch-high stilt. I was forced to throw out all of my ingrained male-body movement patterns and reflexes and slowly relearn new ones from first principles. It was far more than simply strutting across an empty room and back. It was going down stairs. It was stepping from pavement onto uneven gravel, or from tile onto carpet. It was trying to squeeze past groups of students in a busy hall whilst dodging rowdy boys. It was the simple act of picking something up off the ground. Everything changes.

Deb caught up with me in the hall while I was tottering off to class. "Hey, you, where do you disappear to at lunch? We never see you in the cafeteria."

I gave her an embarrassed shrug. "I just go to the library and catch up on homework. Saves having to do it at home."

That earned me a shrewd look. "Are you sure you're not just hiding out? Nobody ever sees you outside of class. I know, I've been asking."

She had me cold. The homework was just an excuse; the classes were pretty easy, even if I didn't know the material that well. The textbooks weren't bad, there was always Google, and hey, it seemed that the teachers actually didn't mind answering questions. It didn't hurt that I'd put all that hormonal rebellious teenage angst behind me twenty-five years ago, of course, which left a whole lot more energy to focus on the learning part.

Unfortunately, the other poor students were all first-timers to their teenage years. I'd forgotten how important to survival it was to know where you stood in the pecking order; to know whether you should make eye contact with the person approaching you in the hall, or be seen talking to that kid after school, or which table you might be allowed to use in the cafeteria. Girls established their pecking order in different ways than guys, but nevertheless it was there.

So I'd been avoiding the whole mess.

Learning to deal with that mess is the main reason you're here, remember?

I sighed and tried to go on the offensive, working up a half-hearted glare. "You've been asking about me? What are you, a junior detective?"

Deb nodded brightly. "You bet! Come on, have lunch with us. We're nice people -- okay, a few of us are nice," she amended, then paused to think. "Alright, alright, I'm the only nice one. But I'm soooo lonely!" She pouted and batted her lashes at me.

I had to laugh. "You are such a liar. I'll be lucky to get close enough to even bask in the glow of your entourage."

She grinned triumphantly. "Don't worry, I'll save you a seat. Eeep! I'll be late for class. Schroeder's a pain that way." She turned to hurry off as the class bell rang, then called over her shoulder, "Now that I've tracked you to your lair, I'll come get you if I have to. Byeeee." She wiggled her fingers at me and was gone, leaving me late for class.

Lunch found me standing with a tray in my hands, looking stupidly around to find Deb in the chaos that was a high-school cafeteria. It wasn't a huge school, by any means, but neither was it tiny; I'd guess there were four hundred kids coming, going, sitting, standing, and just milling around about fifty tables. Fortunately my eye was caught by the sight of a pretty, raven-haired girl standing and waving frantically at me. I pretended to look behind me to see who she was waving at, then pointed to myself, looking puzzled. "Me?" I mouthed.

Deb rolled her eyes in exasperation, and jabbed her finger at me, then pointed emphatically to an open seat next to her. I grinned and navigated the busy room towards her table.

"Megan, you made it! You know most of these guys from one class or another. Guys, this is Megan." She pointed around the table. "Trish, Scott, Kyn, Susan, Mel, and of course you know Mike."

I set my tray down and sat, giving them a shy wave. "Umm, hi."

Mike was sitting on her opposite side, she grinned up at him and nudged him sharply with her elbow. He cleared his throat awkwardly as the others grinned at his discomfiture. "Ah, about that locker thing, I was a pretty big jerk. I'd like to apologize."

I glanced suspiciously between Deb and Mike, looking for the punch line. "For real?"

Mike held up his hand, palm out. "For real. I swear."

I offered him a grateful smile. "Apology accepted, and thank you. I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot. Can we try again? Hi, I'm Megan." I reached across Deb to offer him my hand.

He grinned in relief, and played along, carefully taking my little hand in his paw. "Hi, Megan, I'm Mike, it's a pleasure."

I winked at him. "So, you got a girlfriend, Mike?"

"Hey, hey! Enough of that!" Deb scolded as she pried our handshake apart. "I wanted you two to make up, not make out!" She gave Mike a light-hearted slug in the arm, despite his protestation of innocence and everyone's laughter.

I did recognize most of Deb's friends. Trisha and Mel were in my homeroom, along with Deb, of course. Aside from being locker neighbors, Deb and I were friendly, but not that close; the three girls had known each other all through high school, and sat together whenever they were in the same class. Susan was new to me; tall and athletic-looking, with short auburn hair.

Scott and Kyn were on the football team with Mike; Scott was high-spirited and boisterous, always roughhousing good-naturedly with somebody or other in the hall, making him a navigational hazard for us smaller denizens.

Kyn wasn't in any of my classes, but I knew his name; half the girls in senior class whispered about him. He was a good-looking guy, broad-shouldered and athletic, and he could have dated any one of them if he'd only worked up the nerve to ask. I was a little surprised to see him here; normally he spent his lunch period hiding in the library, too. We'd seen each other often enough to smile and nod to one another. He smiled at me shyly, then looked down at his lunch.

My stomach twisted. I didn't have to be a detective to recognize a setup when I saw it.

Susan was sitting next to Kyn, I think she saw it too. She shot me a glance reserved for one predator to another, and edged her tray closer to his, setting her arm next to his on the table, doing her best to send out proprietary signals, although I could see it was making him uncomfortable.

I kept my head down and picked at my lunch, letting the others chatter on around me. Deb was having none of it. "So, Megan, you're coming to the dance Friday night, right?"

I looked blank. "Um, maybe, I dunno. I don't really dance much," I mumbled.

"Come on, it'll be fun! We're all going, it's a Friday night, you can't stay home!"

If Dolores finds out she'll make you go anyway. I smiled weakly. "I guess. Okay, I'll go."

Deb flashed me a reassuring smile. "Don't look so scared, it'll be a blast! Just keep away from Scott when he's dancing," she teased.

Scott pretended to take great offence. "Hey, what's wrong with my dancing?"

Mike could get away with answering that. "Nothing, if you're a moose."

Trisha patted his hand sympathetically. "There, there, Scotty. I'll dance with you. It's not your fault Mrs. Singh put your name on the accident forms." She mimicked the school nurse's voice. "How did you become injured?" She heaved a sigh and made a check mark on an imaginary clipboard, "Scott."

Kyn was still too shy to look up, but the banter had him grinning into his plate, I noticed.

Scott took the teasing in stride. "You people just don't appreciate a great talent!" He waved his arms in a broad flourish to emphasize his words, and managed to knock over the remnant of Trisha's drink, to his embarrassment and a new round of laughter.

After lunch, Deb caught up with me as I was returning my tray. "Susan's got her eye on Kyn, she's not happy that you're going to the dance."

I sighed. "I kinda picked up on that. She can have him, I'm not looking for a boyfriend."

She put her hand on my arm, shaking her head earnestly. "Oh, hey, no, it's not like that. It's not even a date. We're going out as a group, no pressure. He's a really sweet guy, but super shy. Just be nice to him, okay?" She looked smug. "Besides, if you weren't going to the dance, Susan still wouldn't have him, because he wouldn't be going either."

I blinked, putting two and two together. "This was for his benefit? I thought you were trying to hook me up…" I thought about it a moment. "I don't know whether to be offended, or relieved…"

She laughed. "Well, okay, it was a bit of both. Kyn really is nice, you'll see, but he has an awful time around girls. He happened to mention to Mike that he saw you in the library a lot, and thought you were cute -- well, all the guys on the team do -- and Mike asked if I could help, and I figured the worst that could happen is, you'd both go to the dance and nothing would click."

She crossed her heart. "I swear to you, I wouldn't set Kyn up with just anyone. Maybe it'll work out, maybe not, but whatever happens with you two, I know neither of you would do anything mean or thoughtless. Maybe he'll be a little less shy around girls next time. Susan only wants him because he's a challenge. She'd drop him as soon as he refused to hang out with her party crowd. He doesn't need that."

My brain got stuck halfway through her speech, and I stopped to look at her. "Me. The football team talks about me." From firsthand experience, I knew 'cute' was not a term used in the locker room. I turned all kinds of red.

She grinned at my embarrassment. "Mike says they talk about you a lot. You might hide in the library, but don't think you haven't been noticed, girl. Trust me, all the guys know you."

I knew what teenaged boys did, when a girl captured their fancy. Ewww. "Why don't they talk about you? They all know you, and you're prettier than I am."

She made a face. "I am? Not hardly. Besides, Mike would kick their asses. That's what boyfriends are for," she smirked.

I was skeptical, but had to concede that Mike was probably the only guy allowed to talk about Deb in the locker room. While he was around to hear it, anyway.

Deb grabbed my arm and steered me out into the hall. "Hey, since you're coming to the dance, you should come to the football game after school on Friday, too."

I fixed her with a steely glare. "You just never quit, do you?"

She giggled. "Nope. So that's a yes?"

In for a penny, in for a pound. I heaved a great put-upon sigh. "I suppose."

~o~O~o~

"Megan? I'm home!" Dolores found me going through my closet. "Whatcha doin'?"

I gave her a hug and a stood on my tiptoes to give her a lingering kiss. "Mmmmm, welcome home! Oh, well, I'm sort of looking for something to wear Friday night. There's kind of a dance…"

Dolores was predictably delighted. "Oh, your first dance! What have you picked out? Show me," she demanded.

"Well, I'd pretty much settled on these baggy jeans and a sweatshirt, but," -- I forestalled her vehement protest with a grin and a finger to her lips -- "I knew you'd never let me get away with it. So, I went with the skirt and crop top." I laid out the combination on the bed, a short floral print skirt with a black sleeveless top. "What do you think?"

She held the hangers up against me, considering. "Good choice! You're getting the hang of this!" She cocked her head. "You'll need a belt, I think. Something to add a little pizzazz… a nice necklace and some bangle bracelets, too. What shoes have you picked out?"

I shyly pulled out a pair of four-inch stilettos I'd nabbed during our first shopping trip, at the secondhand store.

Her eyes widened. "Wow, you'd better practice in those, first. You're going all out for this, aren't you? What's the occasion?" She looked at me shrewdly. "There's somebody special, isn't there?"

My face paled. I looked at her, hurt at the accusation, shaking my head vehemently. "No! I swear! Angel, I would never do that to you!" I could feel the hot tears welling.

She laughed gently and pulled me into a hug. "Shhh, sweetie, I was teasing. I'm not worried about losing you to some kid, but this is really messing with your head, isn’t it?"

I nodded as the tears rolled down my cheek, and she sat us down on the bed and gently rocked me as I let it out. "I-I know I'm a g-girl now. I kn-know it, but it j-just feels so wr-wrong sometimes, like I'm some kind of a p-pervert just p-p-pretending with these k-kids… I have to l-lie to them about who I-I am, I'll n-never be one of them, not r-really… and then, and then, I get mo-moments like just n-now when I was so into p-picking out the right c-clothes and l-looking my best and ma-making the right impression. And, and then I get a r-reality check and I ask myself why am I even doing this? I don't want a b-boyfriend, and it's not f-fair to him and, and, it's not fair to you…"

She stroked my hair softly. "Hold on, a boyfriend? Better start from the beginning. What's all this about?"

So I told her about Kyn, and Deb's evil plot to put us together, and the football team. "…and Deb said the whole team thinks I'm cute. Angel, I've been on a football team. Unless horny teenaged boys have grown a lot more sensitive in the locker room over the last twenty-five years, girls are never 'cute'. Girls are fuckable. 'Cute' is maybe a seven out of ten on the fuckability scale. My head can't get past 'God, the football team thinks I'm fuckable!'"

I took a shaky breath, still wrung out from my cry. "When Deb told me, I was seriously creeped out, I mean, it's not just the football team, it’s the whole damn school! The thought that I might be starring in some kid's wet dream, somebody I see every day... just…ick."

I choked out a laugh, "But just now, when I was figuring out what to wear, a part of me was thinking, cute? only CUTE? I'll show them! Messed up, huh?"

She chuckled softly and squeezed me tighter. "About as messed up as every other girl out there. Honey, those girls are learning just the same as you are. They've been blasted all their lives with the magazine ads and billboards and television, and the whole world telling them young women have to be beautiful and have to be sexy, but it's just starting to sink in, hey, those messages are aimed at them, now.

"They're barely getting used to having hips and boobs and periods, and now suddenly they're supposed to be putting on flawless makeup, walking in ridiculous heels, showing off their cleavage, wearing tight jeans or short skirts, sending out all these sexual signals, but they haven't the foggiest idea what they're going to do about it if anyone picks up on them. On the outside, they may look like women, but inside, they're still little girls. Deep down, most of them are as queasy about the whole thing as you are."

Dolores kissed my hair. "I know it's hard. For you it happened overnight, and yes, most of the girls your age have had a couple of years to get used to the idea. But believe me, some of them are just as new to it as you are. You're not as different as you think."

I sighed, and just enjoyed the cuddle. "If you say so…"

"Uh-huh. I say so. Now, tell me about this Kyn. Is he fuckable?"

I pulled away and looked at her in shock. "Dolores!"

She laughed at my reaction. "What, you don't think girls have locker rooms too? You're in for a rude awakening. Just tell me about him."

I grinned ruefully and we lay back on the bed, holding hands and looking up at the ceiling. "Well, on the team he plays wide receiver, and he's got the build for it, tall and lean. Big hands. Broad shoulders. He's really shy, though, I don't know why. All the girls I know would date him in a second. I see him in the library a lot, we kind of smile and go oh-you-again, but we've never really spoken. I guess we were both hiding out in there. Deb says he's really sweet, but I don't know him at all. He's got a nice smile, though. "

She nudged me. "Megan thinks he's cuuuute, " she teased in a singsong voice.

I sighed dreamily. "Oh, he is so fuckable, Dolores."

She lifted her head to look at me. "Seriously?"

I giggled and poked her in the ribs. "Gotcha." She squeaked and that started a tickle fight. These days I almost always lose tickle fights, it turns out it's a lot more fun that way, who knew? Okay, plus I seemed to be a lot more ticklish than I ever was as a man.

One thing lead to another and it was some time before we were speaking again, but Dolores knew a diversion when she enjoyed it. "Seriously, he's cute?"

I rolled away from her and yawned hugely. "I'm very tired, Angel. Can we talk about this in the morning?"

She snorted and slapped my bare backside. "It's 7 o'clock in the evening, Miss I-never-sleep-anyway. Nice try. Plus I'm starving, and we're going out to eat. So talk."

I rolled back towards her and she obligingly cuddled me on her shoulder. I sighed. "Yeah, I think he's very cute. There, I said it. Okay? Yet another entry on the ever-growing list of that-which-freaks-me out."

"I think you should date him."

"Dolores! …seriously?"

"Seriously."

~o~O~o~

The night guard at the gate of Terberon Research Corporation settled in his chair and propped his feet up on his desk, pouring the first cup of coffee of the night from his thermos. The front window of the gatehouse afforded a clear view of the road leading up to the facility, as it wound through the trees toward the brightly-lit final half-mile straightaway culminating at the gate. In the darkness, the headlights of any approaching traffic would be visible a good five minutes before it eventually arrived at his post.

The first indication he had that his facility was under attack, was the sniper's bullet exploding out of the darkness and into his brain.

"Gate is secure. Go." At the signal, the two cube trucks flipped on their headlights and began accelerating down the straightaway toward the gate. They had crept up the road with their lights disabled, the drivers using night-vision goggles to navigate the twisty route by the dim light of the moon. Both were painted and marked identically to those used by a common parcel delivery service.

The masked sniper dashed to the gatehouse and slammed the heel of his gloved palm down on the buttons that rolled back the reinforced chain-link gate and lifted the wooden zebra-stripe barrier. The second truck slowed briefly as it passed through the gate, and he jumped onto the rear bumper as it sped towards its target.

The research facility was a campus of perhaps a dozen buildings, the tallest of these was the five-story administration center. Behind it were the labs: a maze of oddly-shaped industrial warehouses, joined together with overhead bridges along which ran a variety of plumbing, electrical wiring, and ventilation duct work. Two separate sets of high-tension electrical transmission towers brought in power to substations located on opposite sides of the campus.

The first truck slowed slightly to navigate the narrow alleyways between the buildings. The second veered towards the admin center, stopping to disgorge the sniper plus four others, before speeding off after the first.

The men were outfitted in a similar fashion; black clothes, boots and gloves, armored combat vests, and masks, carrying automatic weapons. One carried a pump-action shotgun loaded with breaching shells, which he used to punch out the lock on the building's side door. Twenty-five seconds later the sole guard in the security center was dead; but alerted by the noise of the shotgun, she had sounded the alarm before she died.

Cursing, one of the men quickly cancelled it, knowing it would buy them only a few seconds. Already the other guards patrolling the buildings around the facility were beginning to radio in, asking for instructions. Before they had even left the building, the direct phone from Terberon HQ began to ring, as corporate security tried to follow up on the aborted alarm. Soon they'd realize something was wrong, and the local authorities would be on their way.

"Security clear. Returning to gate." Before they could reach the gatehouse, the alarm sirens began to wail, and sweeping red lights washed over every surface. They turned off the lights in the gatehouse, smashed the front windows for a clear line of fire, and waited in the darkness for the cops to arrive.

There was a sound of gunfire from deep in the facility, then: "Materials warehouse secure. Phase one complete. Commence phase two."

The materials warehouse was in the back of the facility, isolated from the other buildings by a high fence topped with barbed wire; another guardhouse controlled the gate. The gate was open, the guard, dead, and the two box vans were parked at the side door. The door had been breeched in the same fashion as the administration building and stood ajar, spilling dim light from inside onto the ground.

Men in black commando gear secured the perimeter of the warehouse against overzealous security guards; inside, on the signal, two men stepped into a freight elevator and began to descend. The two Terberon guards controlling the elevators were already dead.

The materials vault looked suitable for Fort Knox, a huge armored steel door large enough for a forklift truck. Massive bolts secured the door on three sides, protected from direct access by hardened steel plates. One of the men stepped forward and ran his fingers along the edge of the door, inspecting the armor, almost caressing it. Unlike the others, he wore no equipment, carried no weapon. "Fifteen minutes," he said to the second man, who nodded and relayed the information.

With a flare of intense light and a roar of flame, Heatstroke ignited, and set to work.

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