Out of the Ashes, Part 10

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. I headed towards the bar but didn't get far before there was a touch on my arm. "Um, hey gorgeous, how's about getting us a drink?" The line sounded over-rehearsed and rushed, more of a plea than a confident request. I pasted on a smile and turned to face a short man with a middle-aged spare tire and a ruddy complexion, thin hair pasted across his bald head. He was standing alone, so 'us' must have meant, well, us. His eyes were fixated on my breasts. I kicked myself for spending so much time working on my face; in this crowd, I could have had slitted pupils, sharpened teeth and a snake for a tongue, and only the other women would notice.

---

After Agent Merrick left, I spent some time sorting through our clothes closets. I needed something to wear to the Haldibane party; Tina had said they'd let a few extra working girls in, so that was my ticket. She said it was a chance to dress up, so I needed to find something that a hooker would dress up in. I wouldn't actually wear it of course, I'd shapeshift a copy, but as Dolores had pointed out early on, it helps to know how the real thing looks and feels, in order to copy it accurately. There wasn't a lot to choose from, and I was worried I'd have to go shopping; Dolores could never be accused of wearing hooker clothes -- and she sure never let me buy any.

Finally, at the back of her closet, I found something, a clingy little black number. I held it up in front of me and studied my reflection in the mirror. Very promising. I remembered this dress, Dolores had worn it to a New Year's Eve dance, the first time I'd seen her outside of work. She'd confided later she'd worn it to catch my eye, and it had worked, in spades; she'd caught all of me. I hadn't been able to take my eyes off of her all night, and neither had any other red-blooded male. She said she'd spent the whole evening tugging it up or pulling it down, trying not to pop out of it, and never worn it again. That had been fine with me; Dolores would attract male attention dressed in a burlap sack, but with this dress she could start a riot. I paired it with the stilettos I'd worn to the dance last night -- was it only last night? -- and nodded. Perfect.

I held the dress up again, gazing into the mirror but seeing Dolores as she danced that night. Remembering how she felt in my arms, the light in her eyes, the warmth of her smile. The taste of her lips. Oh, Angel, where are you? I was at my wit's end, with nothing left to try until I heard from Court's people, or, less likely, Agent Merrick. The Haldibane party was at least ten hours away, and Dolores was counting on me. She needed me and I couldn't help her.

I was frustrated and angry and helpless. And very, very guilty for involving her in any of this. I wanted to hold her as Dan and tell her it would be all right, and I wanted her to hold me as Megan and tell me the same thing. And most of all, I just wanted to have her back, and for all of this to be over.

The doorbell interrupted my bleak mood. Hurriedly, I shifted back to Megan and rushed to the front door, peeking through the peephole. Oh. Wow.

"Hi, guys. Come on in." Deb and Trish rushed inside to enfold me in a hug, and I hugged them back wordlessly, soaking up their compassion and support. After a few moments, Deb pulled back a little, and wiped the tears from my cheeks with a gentle smile. I hadn't realized I was crying. "We came over to see how you were doing, and found this guy standing on the sidewalk outside." Startled, I looked up and saw that Kyn had slipped in behind the girls, and was standing shyly in the doorway.

He studied his feet, embarrassed. "I, uhhh, wanted to see if you needed anything. But didn't want to intrude," he mumbled.

"Awww..." His earnestness made me smile, and I pulled him inside and gave him his own hug, wrapping my arms around him and resting my head against his chest for a moment, while he patted my back awkwardly. "Thank you." I broke the hug hastily; it had felt nicer than I wanted to think about right then. "Thank you all." I answered their unspoken question with a shake of my head. "There's been no news."

"So... we wondered if you'd had lunch yet?" Deb asked.

I considered. It would be a couple of hours before I could check for anything from Courtney, and even if the D.E.O. was going to play ball, I doubted I'd hear from them any time soon. In the meantime, anything beat sitting at home alone. "Yeah, sure. I could use some air." I grabbed a jacket and my purse, making sure I had my phone. "Oh, do you mind if we walk over to the school? My car's still there. Then I can drive us," I suggested.

The rain had stopped, but the sky was still heavy and low, and the wind blew with an autumn chill. Deb and Trish walked on either side of me, hands in our coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind, the three of us taking over the sidewalk with Kyn tagging along behind us.

"My fingers are simply exhausted, I've been on the computer chatting all morning. The school rumor mill is positively abuzz about last night." Deb declared.

"Uh-huh. The best one was, the cops took you away because you killed Susan. But nobody really liked her, so it's all good." Trish joined in.

I winced and glanced apologetically back at Kyn. He'd agreed to take her to the dance, after all. "Some people liked -- like her. Anyway, I'm sure she'll be in school Monday, so the cops'll have to drop the murder charge. No prison time for me. It's the perfect crime, really."

Kyn cleared his throat diffidently. "I, uh, I started that one. I thought maybe you could use the street rep. Y'know, for the next dance."

I turned and swatted at his arm, laughing. Deb and Trish thought it was hilarious. "Ooooo, don't cut in on Megan. The last girl who did was dead for two days!" Trish warned.

Somehow, the marching order had changed, with Deb and Trish up front, and Kyn and I walking together.

"I did chat for a bit with Susan this morning. It wasn't for long, she was stealing time on her brother's computer -- she is so grounded. She's lost her cellphone and her internet." Deb giggled. "She really does feel badly about what happened -- beyond just being hung over," she chuckled. "She's been drunk a couple of times before, but never mean like that. It scared her, I think."

I shrugged. "Well, good. It should." I wasn't terribly sympathetic to mean drunks, then had a thought that made me feel ashamed of my attitude. "I wonder... if it runs in the family? If her mom or dad has a drinking problem..." That perspective took the humor out of the situation, and we walked in silence the rest of the way.

At the car, I fished the keys out of my purse, then had an awful thought. *Umm. Any chance you'd be able to tell if the car's been tampered with?*

*No listening devices, no explosives, no mechanical damage.* the ring assured me.

We piled in to the cutemobile, and I got the heater going while we decided where to eat. Deb wanted pizza, while Trish had a craving for Chinese. Kyn probably preferred a burger, but he was a teenaged boy just happy to be along for the ride with three girls -- okay, one in particular -- and besides, teenaged boys eat anything, so he didn't get a vote. I wasn't particularly hungry, but a Chinese place sounded like less of a high-school hangout, which suited my mood just fine. So we headed off to the Chinese place Trish wanted, while the girls called Mike and Scott and invited them to join us. The guys promised to drop everything and meet us there on the double.

Sadly, the Chinese restaurant was just across the street from the pizza place. Somehow word got around, and by the time Mike and Scott joined us, the place was hopping with kids from school. I couldn't blame Deb and Trish, I doubted they were responsible, but they were in their element, waving to friends who just happened to develop a sudden hankering for Chinese food, chatting with kids as they stopped at our table to glimpse The Girl Who Was Wanted By The Police. The murder-kidnapping had made the headline of the morning paper, which made me the target of far too many sympathetic looks and whispers, and an unending stream of well-intentioned people who offered their condolences, while I poked my chopsticks unhappily into my lunch, picking out the broccoli and water chestnuts and letting Kyn steal my chicken. "She's not dead." I muttered. "They look at me like she's dead."

Kyn nodded unhappily. "I'm sorry, this wasn't a good idea, was it? We just wanted to take your mind off things."

I sighed. "It's not anyone's fault, it just happened. I'm just not in a very sociable mood right now." I reached for my purse and stood up, touching his shoulder and giving him a small smile. "But thanks for trying." I tossed some money on the table to cover my share of lunch, and gave Deb and Trish a hug. "Thanks for the thought, guys. But I'm not really up for this."

Deb nodded guiltily. "I'm sorry, Megan. We could go back and just hang at your place, if you want."

I shook my head. "Nah, it's okay, you guys stay. I need to run some errands. But it means a lot that you tried. Thanks for thinking about me." I gave her another quick hug and a kiss on the cheek.

I was unlocking my car when Kyn caught up. "Umm... is there any chance I could get a ride home? Mike and Scott came in his car, and it only holds four, so..." He gave me a pathetic puppy-dog expression.

I shot him a skeptical look. "They put you up to this, didn't they?" I glanced towards the restaurant, but the conspirators were too clever to be caught peeking out from behind the curtains. I pointed to the street. "What about the bus?"

He tried to look even more pathetic, as he reached into his jeans pockets and turned them inside out. "No money." The effect was spoiled as the all the coins he'd tried to palm slipped out of his hand and clattered on the pavement.

Okay, that made me laugh. "Get in," I growled in mock resignation.

He sat in companionable silence as I drove, speaking only to direct me through the subdivisions to his house. It was a nice place, his parents were out front, raking some early leaves and readying the flowerbeds for winter. Oh, great. Please don't make me meet the parents right now. They looked up as I pulled into the driveway, but just smiled and waved at Kyn, and continued with their chores.

He undid his seatbelt and turned awkwardly to face me, "Well, thanks for the ride..."

Inwardly I winced at the clichéd scene. I took a deep breath, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, looking straight ahead at the garage door.. "Kyn...it's not gonna happen. You and me, it just can't. Not right now, maybe not ever. I can't even say if I'll be in school on Monday. Or a week from Monday. Or... ever. If Dolores... dies... I have no guardian, no place to live. I... I don't know what happens then, but school will be the least of my worries."

He sat back, slumping in his seat, the realization seeping in. He exhaled softly. "Oh. Megan, I-I'm so sorry. To have a loved one go missing is terrible enough, but none of us really considered... what happens after..." His eyes darted involuntarily to Mom and Dad, puttering away in the yard, a variation on a domestic scene he'd taken for granted every day of his life. After all, he was still just a kid. "I can't imagine what it must be like for you."

I shrugged tiredly, and lay my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes. "I'll manage. One thing at a time. I just need to get through the weekend. Then I'll worry about what comes next." I forced a smile. "Hey, maybe I will be in school. Oh, I hope so. But... you should go now."

He nodded helplessly, his huge football player's hands clenching and unclenching. "You're not alone, Megan. We're your friends. If we can help..." he trailed off. What could teenagers do against grownup problems? Reluctantly, he got out of the car, then leaned back in. "The police will find her. I'm sure they will." Even as a naive kid, he realized how weak those words sounded, and he tried to come up with something more reassuring, but nothing would come. "Just... we all care about you, Megan. You're not alone."

He closed the door and stood in the driveway, watching as I backed out. Alone.

~o~O~o~

Still no messages; I sat down at the kitchen table, scooping the Joanne Jahns identity back into its envelope. I fingered the bank card briefly; if the D.E.O. kept their promise, there should have been a very substantial deposit made, as soon as I accepted their agreement. But using it carelessly would leave an electronic records trail a mile wide, and make it easier for them to figure out what I was up to. Which was their intent, of course. Using the credit card for anything serious was a non-starter, but withdrawing cash, that had possibilities, if only to keep them guessing. Or maybe it would be better not to use it, and keep them guessing more. I wasn't pressed for cash; as long as the Cartel had drug dealers and crack houses, I would never be short of funds.

I set the package from Court's people on the table, looking around for a knife to slit it open, before mentally smacking myself on the forehead and just shapeshifting a sharpened fingernail. Inside was a sheaf of printouts, with a faxed handwritten note on top.

My guys swear this is more information than we had in the computer. Make sure you thank Jade. Even so, it's not a lot.

-- Court.

P.S. Don't make me come after you. I don't have many drinking buddies. -- CC

I smiled a little at the note, then flipped through the printouts. The coffee was still thickening on the heater from the morning, so I poured a cup, more out of Dan's habit than any real need. Even with Jade's help, there wasn't much, but what there was, was gold.

Haldibane Labs was a startup company that had developed a series of artificial limbs, using a revolutionary technology that enabled them to literally link the prostheses to the existing nerve endings of the patient, almost eliminating the need for retraining, and allowing for more sophisticated devices by at least an order of magnitude, capable of fine motor control, and much greater sensitivity to pressure, texture and temperature. Initial human trials had been very promising, and they were achieving astonishing results with treating -- even curing -- spinal chord injuries in lab animals.

Haldibane's technology was based on a new class of synthetic materials known as biometals, substances with a metallic crystalline structure, that could actually be induced to grow microscopic tendril-thin wires -- and even the direction and amount of growth could be controlled, using exceedingly tiny electrical signals. Haldibane had discovered a way to integrate biometal into living nerves, interpenetrating existing cells and forming a connection that allows the electrical signals to be passed between the body and an artificial limb. A tiny computer chip would act as an interpreter, translating signals from the body into those the prosthesis would understand, and vice-versa.

Naturally, investors had beaten a path to their door, and the company was flush with funds as they prepared to file for F.D.A. approval and go public; then came reports that the earliest lab animals were showing signs that the nerve bindings were degenerating over time, leaving the test subjects in constant pain, and the nerve endings severely degraded, incapable of controlling even a more conventional prosthesis. Needless to say, the human volunteers began clamoring for their devices to be removed before the damage was done. Very quickly, the money dried up, and they were forced to cut back substantially.

At this point, the company was acquired by an arm's-length consortium of companies known to have Cartel ties, through a series of legal cutouts that made tracing the connection all but impossible, unless you knew it was already there. The company began to invest substantially in research, but spent almost nothing on production, downsizing even more and selling off most of its remaining facilities. As a privately-held company, there was no obligation to disclose the direction of the research, but personnel records show that almost all the technical new hires were Ph.Ds specializing in the anatomy of the brain, or behavioral psychology. This R&D stage lasted about eighteen months.

Then, whatever the Cartel was working on, the bottom fell out.

Not all of the materials classed as biometals were suitable for Haldibane's technology, in fact, only one very particular type was. It was manufactured in tiny amounts by a small company in Pennsylvania, one of the high-tech companies that are frequently spun off to take advantage of university research. And about six months ago, some government department slapped a Top Secret classification on anything to do with the manufacturing process, and bought up all the current stock and future production, effectively denying Haldibane the raw material it needed to exist. Publicly, the company was forced to suspend operations.

It seemed the government was funding some secret research through Terberon Labs, and couldn't risk sharing their precious biometal with Haldibane. And surprise, surprise, the department was my new friends down at the good ol' D.E.O.

The final page was a brief transcript of a telephone call made to the biometal manufacturer, confirming that the product ships in silver-gray cylindrical containers.

I sat back, automatically brushing the hair out of my face, and sipped on my cold coffee. The kitchen had become increasingly dark as the late afternoon sun had sunk behind the neighboring houses, but it made no difference to my eyes, and I scarcely took any notice.

The D.E.O. had shut Haldibane down, possibly inadvertently, possibly not. But Haldibane was backed by the Cartel, now, and they were up to something too important to just roll over and die. So the Cartel stole the biometal back.

Item: The D.E.O. was lying about the theft.

Item: William Yee was killed, and Dolores kidnapped, to hide the connection between Haldibane and the Cartel. What was so important? Brain anatomy and behavioural psychology. Biometal wires. Definitely ominous.

Item: The D.E.O. was using the same biometal that Haldibane needed, and they were trying to hide it, too. Also very ominous.

Oh, Dolores.

~o~O~o~

The woman is sitting on the thin mattress, her knees held tightly to her chest, her thin robe pulled tightly around her. Her face is freshly washed, though her hair is matted and tangled. She looks up anxiously as the man enters, bearing a dinner tray and a small paper bag. Despite her anxiety, she forces a smile for him. The man speaks reassuringly. "You'll be pleased to know that there are no more rules to learn. Now we will focus on reinforcement; we must fix those rules in your mind. From now on, there will be no more punishment -- as long as you follow the rules." He taps his temple. "I don't need to remind you, the chip is in your head. Your thoughts must follow the rules, as well. That's what these exercises are about." He sets the tray on the floor and begins removing items from the bag: a small digital timer, a thin coil-bound notebook, a thick primary-school pencil. A hairbrush and a small makeup kit. He shows these to the woman before proceeding.

He picks up the timer. "When the alarm goes off, you will reset it for one hour. Then you have ten minutes to attend to personal needs. At the ten minute mark, you will take the notepad and pencil and you will start a fresh page, and write down what you have learned today. When you have finished writing, you will kneel on your mattress facing the door, and you will read what you have written, out loud, once. You will remain in this position, and think about what you have written, until the alarm chimes again. You will repeat this until the lights go out for the night. Understood?"

The woman nods, reluctantly. "Y-yes," she answers sullenly. She twitches once, and the chime on her collar tinkles gently. A look of pain crosses her face.

The man pretends not to notice the flash of pain, and presses the button on the timer, setting off the alarm, then steps quickly out of the way. The woman climbs to her feet and crosses to the table. She resets the timer, then hesitates, glancing briefly to the food on the floor, then ignores it to reach for the makeup kit. She stands at the table, and using the small mirror in the kit, she quickly brushes on some eyeshadow and mascara as best she can, then applies a coat of lip gloss. Reaching for the brush, she begins working the tangles from her hair, keeping a close eye on the timer. Hair brushed, she just has time to crouch and manage a bite of her dinner before the ten minutes expire. Opening the notebook, she stands at the table and begins to write, her handwriting large and simple, necessitated by the thick pencil. She writes slowly, interrupted frequently by spasms of pain. When she is done, she sets down the pencil, returns to her mattress and kneels, facing the door. She reads quietly, as clearly as she can, but the words frequently catch in her throat, as if she must force them out to continue.

"My n-name is Kitten. I-I a-am a sl-slave."

"A slave always has an ow-owner."

"A slave m-must always wear her col-l...her collar."

"A sl-slave is ob-obedient to her owner in th-thought and in d-deed."

"A slave w-wants to be attractive for her ow-owner."

"A slave n-never raises her voi-voice."

"A sl-slave does not wear c-clothes without her ow-owner's permission."

"A slave does n-not use the furniture without her owner's per-permission."

"A slave is not per-permitted to leave her assigned qu-quarters without her ow-owner."

The woman sets down the notebook and rests her hands on her thighs, facing the door, as the man continues to watch. Occasionally her collar bell chimes as she trembles, flinching visibly from the chip's punishments, as she struggles to control her thoughts. After a few moments she shudders in pain and falls onto her side, back arched, writhing in silent torment, almost the only sound the cheerful tinkling of her bell, and her agonized gasps for breath, but after a time the spasms subside and she slowly resumes her kneeling position, breathing heavily. Tears begin to roll down her cheeks, but she tries to remain as still as she can.

~o~O~o~

I sat in the growing darkness and shuffled through the printouts once more, trying to wring any more detail from the thin report. Mostly I was just putting off something I should have done earlier. I sighed and did the mental equivalent of clearing my throat. *Earth to Jade...anybody home?*

There was hardly any delay. *Megan! How are you holding up?* In my head, her voice was warm, and full of concern.

I pulled my knees up to my chest, and closed my eyes. *I'm... managing. I wanted to thank you for your help. And apologize for not talking to you sooner. I know she's your friend, too. I just... thought it would be best... this way.*

I heard the telepathic equivalent of a frustrated growl. *Megan, I really wish I could say you were wrong, but we both know you're not. It's not even the Green Lantern rules that are the problem. But the world media is all over everything I do, and you do not want that spotlight shining on you, right now. I'm sorry. I want to help more.*

I nodded. *I know, people are on edge about the metas. You remind them that we can be a benefit to society.* I pressed my forehead to my knees. *I'm sorry. I'm not helping, much.*

Jades voice in my head grew stern. *Stop it! It's just the opposite, in fact. You've only been a hero for a month, but that YouTube video has already been seen all over the world. You saved a man's life and were almost killed fighting another metahuman -- that's heroism! We need people to see that. And then you and Dream this morning, priceless!*

I blinked in surprise and lifted my head. *Wait, what?*

She chuckled. *Seems one parent called another from the museum, and pretty soon all the parents knew about it. Then a local TV station got wind, and the girl scouts and Mrs. Gonzales were on the local news by lunchtime, and on CNN about an hour ago. With the pictures. They couldn't stop gushing about you two.*

I felt like crying again. *I'm going to get Dolores back, Jade. If Court has to take me in when I'm done, fine, I'll go. Even if the world hates me and you have to disown me as a rogue meta. I have to. She was taken because of me.*

*Did you know more about the situation that you didn't tell her? I don't think so. She knew the same things you did, and she made her own choices. She was a cop, going to talk shop with a colleague. Who could have forseen the risk? Neither of you could have known that the Cartel would take her. It's not your fault!*

I mumbled something unconvincing.

*Megan, anything my A.I. can find out is yours for the asking, but we both know if the answer was in a computer, you'd know it by now. The Cartel knows all about hiding their tracks, they've had lots of experience. The only way to find Dolores is through plain old detective work -- and there is not a person on the planet better suited to the job than you.*

I was crying now. *I'm scared, Jade! I'm scared about what I'll do to find her... and about what I'll do if I don't...*

The voice in my head was warm and comforting, almost as good as a hug. *I'm not. I'm not afraid of that at all. I'm not afraid, because you are. For rogues, fear is for other people. Remember when we met? I screwed up, and you were sure somebody was trying to kill you. To my great surprise -- and shock -- you wound up with your hand at my throat, ready to deck me. But what happened? You recognized me and you backed off. Then I'm ashamed to say I hit you with a cheap shot, because you'd scared the hell out of me. And you took it. You got up, dusted yourself off, and you were still prepared to make a friend. That's not the behavior of a rogue. Megan, my ring captures everything. I've watched that scene over and over again. You were convinced you were fighting for your life, you were furious -- and then the situation changed, and you reevaluated, and you just... turned it off. Your anger didn't control you. That's just not a rogue. On the other hand, Heatstroke is a rogue. You've been metas for about the same time, right? What's your body count? What's his? If this had happened to him, he'd have melted a few city blocks into slag by now. That's because his powers are bigger than he is. You are far more powerful than Heatstroke -- but even so, you are bigger than your metahuman powers.*

~o~O~o~

Still no messages. I had a few hours to kill before the Haldibane party, but I needed to keep active, or I'd spend the whole time moping in the dark. I shifted to Miss Mars and took to the air, hovering in the darkness over the city. I flew over to the hotel and scoped the area; the party was going to be on the top floor, which offered a large open social area with a half-dozen bedroom suites opening off of it. Panoramic windows offered a view of the city lights, and French doors provided access to a large rooftop deck, hosting not one but two large hot-tubs, steaming in the chill night air. From the deck a guest could descend into a garden area, lit only by the stars and the city, with tall shrubbery providing secluded spots for intimate encounters. In warmer weather, at least; tonight the autumn chill would likely keep most of the guests inside, or in the hot tubs, leaving the garden deserted. Perfect.

Jade's words about Heatstroke were still fresh in my mind, and I realized I needed to face my fears and give him some thought. We were sure to meet again, and the idea still terrified me. My powers wouldn't protect me against fire, I knew that now. Although viscerally it was difficult to think about facing him, intellectually I knew he was still no match for me. It would be a lot easier to kill him than capture him; somehow I doubted his flame armor would protect him if I pulled up a streetlight and rammed it through his head, for example. The thought was comforting, as far as it went, but still unsatisfying. Brute force was a fine plan B, but having a fallback plan meant I could give some thought to a plan A.

But capturing Heatstroke had its own problems. I couldn't just drop him off at the nearest police station, he'd likely be burning his way out the back before I was leaving through the front. The M.I.B. seemed the best option; at least they had a better chance of being equipped to hold him, although how you'd keep someone with Heatstroke's powers contained for the duration of a prison term was beyond me. I could think of a few ways, none of them especially humane. Maybe death was the more merciful option.

I swung wide across the bay, and approached the city from the water. It was choppy tonight; I skimmed the wavetops in the darkness, occasionally letting my fingers splash through the whitecaps. On a whim, I shot under the surface, diving to the bottom. Hold on, there's an idea... I wonder if... I chewed on it a little, while I spent half an hour looking for a suitable location. This could be very cosy, with a little prep work... Well, I did have some time on my hands. I set about putting it to good use.

~o~O~o~

I got back home looking pretty grubby for my efforts; fortunately a quick run through the shower fixed that easily. I shifted into a new shape for the party, then added the killer dress, examining my reflection critically in the mirror, adding enough oomph! top and bottom to stretch the dress dangerously at the hips and bust. If I have to look like a hooker, I'm gonna be the hottest damn hooker at the party. My legs were long and sleek, adding several inches to my height. Slip on the heels, and I was up there in the five-ten range.

My face took the longest time, since I'd never really tried to sculpt my face for a particular look before. I enlarged and widened the eyes slightly, and arched the brows a little more. I made my cheekbones more pronounced, and altered the shape of my face to give it a more heart-shaped look. I narrowed the mouth, puffing the lips just a little, and enhancing the lower lip for a bit of a natural pout. That was the intent, anyway; to be honest, I started off looking like a surprised inflatable doll, but gradually I was able to tweak it back down into something more capable of a full range of expression, without sacrificing the initial impression.

I experimented with a number of hairstyles and colors, finally deciding on a sandy blonde short bob, framing my face, curving slightly inward at my jawline. Blue eyes, of course. Makeup was a no-brainer, smoky eyes, lots of mascara, some blush, and of course, lipstick in a nice deep red, with manicured fingers and toes to match. Nothing too fancy for jewelry, after all I was a streetwalker dressing up, rather than a fancy call girl. Although, in this dress... I settled for shifting something that looked like fake-diamond-chip stud earrings, and a satin choker to match the dress. A gold bangle bracelet on each wrist, one of Dolores' clutch purses I'd loaded with some useful things earlier, and I was ready to go.

~o~O~o~

"Subject 14 is continuing Reinforcement. She's resisting within parameters, but more than I expected."

"Understood... keep her lights on until she completes ten full cycles. The fatigue will help. When you do turn them off, compensate by leaving them off so she gets a good ten hours of sleep. The chip will keep her in REM and continue to train her in her dreams. The second day is always easier, anyway."

~o~O~o~

I stepped out of the relative darkness of the roof garden, and onto the deck. The hot tubs burbled merrily, but they were empty at the moment. I was able to step in through the French doors without drawing undue attention -- although, in this shape and outfit, it was impossible to even breathe without attracting some attention. The party was in full swing, about fifty people, mostly divided between the Haldibane scientists and the working girls. For the most part the girls were still doing duty as eye candy, mixing with the guests, dancing and enjoying the food and drinks, while the Haldibane guests of honor enjoyed the food and drinks, and eyed the women. The elevator doors opened directly into the party area, attended by a pair of goons obviously working security. They were well-dressed, a step up from the Bone Fist gangers, but they stood out in this crowd of hookers and pencil pushers. Surprisingly, these were the only two. I spotted Tina across the room, smiling and nodding to some middle-aged skinny guy with a receding hairline and baggy corduroy pants as he spoke earnestly, probably pouring out his life story.

I headed towards the bar but didn't get far before there was a touch on my arm. "Um, hey gorgeous, how's about getting us a drink?" The line sounded over-rehearsed and rushed, more of a plea than a confident request. I pasted on a smile and turned to face a short man with a middle-aged spare tire and a ruddy complexion, thin hair pasted across his bald head. He was standing alone, so 'us' must have meant, well, us. His eyes were fixated on my breasts. I kicked myself for spending so much time working on my face; in this crowd, I could have had slitted pupils, sharpened teeth and a snake for a tongue, and only the other women would notice.

"Sure thing, honey. Or, maybe we could take a walk over there together..." I offered suggestively, clinging to his arm, and incidentally pressing it into my breast, beaming at him expectantly.

He coughed. "Hmm. Ah. Yes. Yes, that would be fine." He escorted me to the bar, taking slight detours along the way so he could walk past groups of his co-workers who hadn't worked up the nerve to approach one of the girls yet, leaving gaping expressions and a flurry of frantic pickup lines in our wake.

"I'll have a champagne. I just love champagne." I gushed, lifting my shoulders so that my chest did wondrous things not easily reduced to a system of linear equations. I looked at him patiently until he stopped trying, and eventually he lifted his eyes and took the hint, and turned to the bartender.

"Ah. Hmm. A champagne for the lady. And, ahmm, just a ginger ale for me." He leaned toward me and whispered diffidently, "I, ah, I took a pill."

I flashed him an ever-so-grateful smile as he accepted the drinks from the bartender, and handed me a champagne flute. Leaning forward precariously, I breathed into his ear. "And... is it working?"

He took a hasty drink, before nodding fervently. "Ooooh, yes. Yes, it is."

I smiled brightly and linked my arm in his, and sipped at my champagne. "I'm so glad!" I giggled. "But some things, a girl just needs to see for herself," I suggested throatily. "Have you got a room in the hotel?"

He cleared his throat shyly, and spent a little longer than strictly necessary fishing a keycard out of his pants. "I have one of the penthouse suites," he bragged.

I squealed, and wriggled just enough to make his eyes bulge. "A penthouse suite! You must be very important. I've never seen a penthouse suite before."

He blushed all the way up his face and across his bald head. "Ah. Well. I'm not that important. Production manager," he modestly explained to my breasts. Bingo. "W-would you like to see the suite?"

I grinned suggestively and snuggled his arm even closer. "Oh, honey, I want you to show me everything."

The suite itself wasn't all that special, decorated in Hotel Modern, but it was spacious. It had a dining area with a small dining room table, a full living room with a big-screen TV, and a separate bedroom. I made a show of hanging out the 'Do Not Disturb' card, and locking the door behind us. "You must be uncomfortable," I offered, with a meaningful glance at his tented crotch. "Why don't we go into the bedroom and look after that?"

I followed him into the bedroom, surreptitiously locking the bedroom door as well, although I didn't do it with my boobs, so I doubt he would have noticed anyway. One entire wall was windows, framing a spectacular view of the city. Sliding glass doors opened onto a tiny balcony. Oh, that'll be handy. I sat on the bed and watched him try to pull his pants off over his shoes. "Have you got a name, honey?"

"Dav -- Brad."

I smiled warmly. "Pleased to meet you, Brad, I'm Candy. Leave the undies on for now. That's my job. I just love a man in tighty-whiteys." I patted the bed beside me. "Come on over here." He sat beside me in his underwear and socks, nervously, his pasty body flabby and sagging, although I had to give him points for that erection; that was a hell of a pill. I turned to face him, so he'd have a clearer view of my cleavage.

I took a deep breath to deepen his spell. "Brad, sometimes when I've been really, really bad, what I deserve more than anything, is to be... tied up." I whispered. "And punished," I added, my big blue eyes wide and earnest. I put my hand on his. "Do you know what I mean?"

Judging by his unsuccesful effort to keep the smirk off his face, and the twitch in his undies, he thought he had a pretty good idea. "Oh, yes, Candy." he nodded sincerely. "I know exactly what you mean."

I smiled brightly at him as I opened my purse and drew out the zip ties. "Oh, Brad, I'm so glad you understand," I breathed. "Because you've been very bad."

~o~O~o~

The facility was in an unremarkable industrial park, south of town, off the freeway. There was no signage, no indication who owned the facility; in all likelihood it was owned by an anonymous holding company with no connection to Haldibane. DavBrad believed he was working at a secret Haldibane facility, but his salary was deposited directly into his account, and although his paystubs showed the Haldibane logo, they were printed on a laser printer in the facility's Human Resources office, so they were hardly conclusive proof of anything.

The place was locked up tight, but getting in was no problem; I tore off the front door. The weekend night guard was at the front desk, looking like he'd just woken up and wet himself, which he probably had, at the sight of a green-skinned teenage girl tearing the entranceway off the front of the building and tossing it into the parking lot like a frisbee. He stood up, knocking his chair over, and backed away, fumbling for his gun. "Wha? -- uhh -- s-stop!"

I tossed the desk across the lobby, then took his gun away before he hurt himself, squeezing it like a lump of clay then dropping it at his feet. "Don't get up. I can manage. Oh -- you're probably going to need to call for some help." Somehow I doubted it was the cops he'd be calling. I was counting on it.

I gave a smile and a little finger wave to the guard, and headed through the doors into the plant. The manufacturing area was a huge open space. It was pitch dark, which didn't bother me at all, and provided some assurance that there was nobody else around. I made sure the doors were closed, then bent the door frame slightly, enough to ensure that Mr. Security wouldn't be following be back here.

The biometal was where DavBrad had said it would be; a large steel mesh cage at one end of the plant. Locked, of course. Hah. I found a large recycling bin and dumped it out. The bin held all the silvery-gray cylinders of biometal easily, and I set it out of the way, near the loading bay.

Behavioral Reprogramming Bioware, he'd called it. BRB, or the Barbie chip for short. That was a telling name. The idea had started off as something much simpler -- digital drugs. Fit a client with a chip, and juice up the pleasure centers of their brain directly. A higher high than any mere chemical, and instantly, devastatingly addictive. Clients would be locked in for life; and all they'd need for the next hit was a credit card and internet connection. Nothing illegal about that. That was the idea that had excited the Cartel enough to invest, originally.

Then somebody got the bright idea that if they could zap the pleasure centers, they could also zap the pain centers. Punishment and reward. Behavior modification. And so the Barbie chip project was born. DavBrad had no idea where the final chip design had come from, he assumed there was another division working on the R&D. One day, the design landed on his desk, and he was told to figure out how to start building it.

The plant had been set up before the D.E.O. had shut off the biometal supply. It was a prototyping facility, only intended to manufacture the chips in very small quantities, almost literally building them by hand, in order to figure out the best way to mass produce them. Biometal was finicky stuff; integrating biometal with a computer chip was no simple task. The engineering was still in its infancy, and these chips were orders of magnitude more sophisticated than the primitive prosthetic controllers Haldibane had started with.

For six months they'd been sitting idle, working with miniscule quantities of biometal they'd had on hand before the supply dried up, tuning procedures, correcting problems, but unable to produce a single functioning chip.

As soon as the biometal from Terberon had arrived, they'd started a batch production run. Fabrication took several days, and less than a hundred chips could be produced in each run. Of those, only a handful turned out to be functional chips. Those chips were picked up on Friday, by a man known only as Vincent, who had left with a small box in his briefcase, and that was all DavBrad knew. The chips left the factory unprogrammed; there was some other location where the programming was being developed, to be downloaded into the chips and implanted into test subjects.

They don't have Dolores. It was time to make some noise. I started with the simple expedient of working from one end of the building, picking everything up and throwing it down to the other end. If it looked expensive, I broke it into pieces, then threw it.

They. I tore a heavy steel work table off its bolts, and flung it blindly. It careened off a roof support pillar, and smashed through a flimsy wall partition, wiping out an office.

Don't Some kind of industrial oven. Lots of sheet metal ductwork. It made a pleasing cacophony as it tumbled across the factory to crash against the back wall.

Have. A rack full of electronics, some of it looking custom-built and hopefully irreplaceable, split open as it crashed into the base of a robotic assembly unit, scattering broken parts, and toppling the unit with a satisfying thud.

DOLORES! I swung the robotic unit by its arm, like an Olympic hammer, using it to smash racks of product in various stages of completion, and then everything within reach, before flinging into the pile, hard enough to splash junk.

I gave in to my frustration and anger, screaming, venting it on anything worth smashing. Work tables, benches, expensive electronics, machinery I had no name for, even the microwave oven from the lunch area, all flung through the air into a growing pile at the end of the building, leaving bare floor in my wake. The computer room got special attention, expensive servers and specialized laboratory data collection equipment, flattened like thin cardboard into just so much scrap metal. I worked as quickly and as violently as I could, because time was limited.

I tore out one of the roof support pillars and began pounding it into the scrap like a pestle, grinding the junkpile into smaller and smaller bits for a while, then used it to tear gaping holes in the roof. I'd been careful not to damage a pair of firehoses, mounted on pillars at opposite sides of the building, and now I unrolled them, turning on the water at the base but leaving the nozzles off. The hoses bucked and twisted as they filled; the first I hung in the rafters, and with second one I opened the nozzle part way, and let it loose to thrash noisily amongst the junk.

I shifted my color to be a black shadow, and then I sat in the rafters with my firehose, and waited in the dark for Heatstroke to arrive. I was sure he'd come -- if a metahuman attacked the Cartel, they'd almost certainly respond with their own -- but part of me prayed that I was wrong. My mouth was dry, and I clutched at the hose to keep my hands from shaking uncontrollably. I was terrified. Intellectually, I knew I was in control of the situation, but the fear from my dreams had never been a rational one.

It took longer than I expected, but eventually there was a glow in the sky, quickly becoming brighter. He hovered above the factory for a minute, surveying the scene, and I trembled, biting my lip to keep from making some sound. The roar from his flame was like a blast furnace, and even at his distance I could feel the heat on my skin. The flickering light through the newly-vented roof did little to banish the darkness inside the building, in fact it cast a myriad living shadows that would have camoflaged an army of intruders. I knew he had no special ability to see into the dark, but still I struggled to remain still and silent, and not to bolt in terror. I realized I was making a keening sound at the back of my throat, and couldn't stop.

After an eternity, he descended cautiously through a hole in the roof, facing the thrashing noises coming from the junkpile. The instant I had a clear shot, I blindsided him with the hose.

The effect wasn't spectacular, but it did the job. His fire went out and he dropped twenty feet to lay stunned on the floor, like a puppet with his strings cut. Without the flames, my terror began to relinquish its grip; now he was just one more teenaged punk. I closed the nozzle about halfway, keeping him well-soaked as I approached, and he slowly struggled to his hands and knees, shaking his head dazedly.

"Stay down." I commanded, and applied my foot to his butt, causing him to collapse onto his face.

Lying flat, he tried to look around, to identify his attacker, but for him it was pitch black, and the spray of the hose made it impossible to keep his eyes open. "Wh-who are you?"

I debated shifting to Dan, but somehow that felt like hiding. I needed to confront him as I was now. "You'll see. The important thing for you to remember, is that I could kill you right now." I tapped him with a boot tip in the ribs, hard enough to knock his breath out. "Try not to give me a reason." Inside my head I cursed my new youthful form; even at my most intimidating, I still sounded like a very angry babysitter. Tucking the hose nozzle under one arm, I quickly bound his feet and hands, then dragged him over to the bin and tossed him inside with the biometal cylinders. "Lights out." I said, and clipped him across the chin.

~o~O~o~

Heatstroke muttered something and rubbed his jaw, then ran his hand across his eyes. Before he could panic and hurt himself, I spoke softly. "You're not blind, it's just dark. No sudden moves, or you're liable to hurt yourself. Listen to what I have to say first. Your life depends on it."

He stiffened. My voice echoed metallically, and from very close by, water lapped wetly. "I'm listening."

"First things first, smell the air. That's propane. There's a considerable amount of it in here, but it's heavier than air, so it tends to collect at the bottom of this air pocket. But if you give off so much as the tiniest spark, it will explode. It might kill you. If it doesn't, the flash fire will use up all the oxygen in this place, and you will suffocate. Do you understand?"

He slumped back and closed his useless eyes. "I understand."

"Carefully feel a few inches above your face. That's the ceiling, There's no room for you to sit up. You're on a narrow ledge. A few inches beneath you is water. If you fall in, you might have a hard time getting back onto the ledge in the dark. And the water's very cold, down here."

Tentatively he explored his prison. Every surface he touched was cold metal, wet and heavily scaled with rust. "Wh-where am I?"

I smiled grimly, but it was wasted in the dark. "You're at the bottom of the bay, in a shipwreck. This baby went down about thirty years ago, sometime in the eighties. I chose it because it's the deepest one I could find. Fresh air is about two hundred feet straight up. Doesn't seem like much, but it's a long way to hold your breath, even if you could find your way out of the ship, swimming underwater, feeling your way in the dark. Even if you managed not to ignite the propane, trying to cut your way through would just let the air out and flood this little compartment long before you could make a hole big enough for you to escape. As you can tell, this is a very small space. An air bubble, basically. And... there's not a lot of air."

Instinctively, his breathing increased. "What do you want?"

"I want you motivated to answer some questions. So I'm going to leave you here awhile. I'll probably be back before your air runs out."

I left him alone in the cold, wet darkness, screaming.

~o~O~o~

It took me almost an hour to put the bin with the biometal someplace where I was sure it wouldn't be found. I didn't exactly hide it; it was sitting out in plain sight, a stone's throw from two famous landmarks: an American flag, and the base of a lunar lander.

~o~O~o~

I shifted back to Candy before landing on the balcony, and let myself into the room. I patted DavBrad on the cheek, sitting beside him on the bed. "Hang in there, honey. It's almost over."

His eyes bulged and he twisted at his bonds, shouting something that quickly turned to whimpers, but I couldn't make it out through the duct tape. I didn't try very hard.

Glancing around for DavBrad's cellphone, I found it on the nightstand and dialed the number Court had given me. "Agent on Duty, please... Yes, I have a message from Richard Swinger... that's the one. Penthouse floor of the Sheridan, there's a couple dozen geeks here that know a lot about what the Cartel is doing with the biometal stolen from Terberon. Yes, two dozen, give or take. Don't worry about security." I gave DavBrad a bright grin. "Make sure you check the hotel rooms assigned to these guys, too."

The party was still going strong, most of the guys having managed to consume enough liquid courage to link up with a working girl. The girls, in turn, were more interested in free drinks and food in exchange for not working, so they were doing their best to string the guys along as far as they could before they had to earn their money. One or two were running around topless, another was dancing on a table in her underwear. I noticed Tina pressed tightly to her Mr. Corduroy-pants guy, trying desperately to protect her toes as they slowdanced to a hyperactive pop tune.

I sashayed over to the elevators and smiled brightly at the goons. "Evening boys." I'm pretty sure my boobs were the last thing they saw before their lights went out. I doubt they'd have wanted it any other way.

I took the gun from one of them and fired it into the ceiling, the loud report provoking a number of startled screams, some of them from the girls. "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. WE'RE GOING TO PLAY A PARTY GAME. PARTNER UP, ONE GIRL AND ONE GUY. DO IT NOW, OR I WILL SHOOT YOU." Perhaps I should have shifted to Dan for this, but I did my best to look like a crazed bimbo. I guess it must have been convincing.

"GIRLS, HELP YOUR GUY TO UNDRESS. ALL THE WAY, NOTHING BUT SKIN." There were a few protests, but I faced them down easily enough. I got a couple of the girls to undress the goons, as well.

"GENTLEMEN, I WILL COUNT TO THREE. WHEN I GET TO THREE, I WILL SHOOT ANY GUY NOT IN A HOT TUB. ONE..."

There was a scramble for the French doors and I dragged the naked goons out and tossed them into one of the tubs, as well. The night was getting chilly, maybe enough for an early frost, but the hot tubs should keep the men plenty warm enough, and discourage them from wandering too far.

I locked the doors to the patio then jammed them shut, for good measure. I turned to the women, who were looking anxious, wondering what was coming next. I grinned, and tossed the gun down. "Ladies, you'd better go. Cops'll be here soon."

I stepped out of the elevator and strode out through the lobby just as the M.I.B. agents were starting to pour in.

~o~O~o~

When I got back, Heatstroke shivering uncontrollably. He flinched blindly at the splash as I pulled myself out of the water. "I -is that you?"

"It's me. Hold still." I opened a waterproof bag and pulled out a blanket and wrapped him in it. "This will help." I activated a couple of chemical heat packs, and gave them to him to hold inside his thin cocoon. "Now cover your eyes, I'm going to make some light." Soon the tiny space was dimly lit with the green light of a glowstick. There wasn't much to see; a tiny air pocket of scaled, rusted hull metal. Heatstroke lay on a narrow shelf, while I was hunched over, perched on the edge of a steel beam. A foot above us was the curved ceiling, while a few inches below us the black water reflected the light to cast shimmering ripples over our heads.

His eyes widened as he finally saw me. "You! B-but I killed you."

I smiled thinly. "I got better. Okay. Here's the deal. I ask some questions. Some answers I know, some I don't. Maybe I'll catch you in a lie. If I think you're lying to me, eventually I'll get pissed and I'll leave. I'll take the light with me. You can keep the blanket, it will keep you from freezing to death while you suffocate in the dark.

"On the other hand, if you can convince me you're telling the truth, you keep the light, and a few more glowsticks besides, and I'll even freshen the air in here. I'll tell them where to find you, and you'll be topside in time to see the sunrise and feel the breeze. Are you in?"

He lay back and stared up at the ceiling just above his head. "Like I have a choice. Like I've ever had a choice, since this fucking thing ruined my life. Yeah, I'm in."

"What's your name?"

He grimaced. "Patrick. Patrick Donnelly. I know, I know, red hair, pale skin, freckles, I look like a freakin' mick, so the name fits, right? I hate it."

"You used to be a woman? What was your name before you changed?"

There was a lengthy pause, then: "Patricia. Patricia Carpaci." He laughed sharply. "Ha! Bet you didn't see that one coming."

Heatstroke is Tony Carpaci's daughter. I whistled softly. "No, I didn't. So the car crash didn't kill you, then. It triggered your metahuman change."

He nodded glumly. "One minute I was Daddy's girl, a little drunk, driving home too fast from a party. The next thing I know, the car's in the ditch on it's side, I can't get my seatbelt off, and I smell gasoline. Then I'm standing in the field watching the car burn, and I'm on fire. But I'm not burning. And I've got this... thing between my legs."

She turned to look at me. "You musta been a guy, right? I don't know how you can live with these things."

I shrugged. "My questions. How did Daddy take the news?"

Patrick laughed bitterly. "He wishes I'd died in the crash, what else? He made sure the police reports said my remains had been identified, and had a huge funeral to say a tearful goodbye to his loving daughter Patricia -- and I was told to stay away. What kind of a father doesn't invite his daughter to her own funeral?" He drew a shaky breath, while I tried to figure out if being invited would have been a better thing. Strange family.

"Anyway, he set me up with some ID, and a crummy apartment, and some cash, and made up a cover story about how he was doing a favor for a friend of a friend on the coast, and hiding me here. He told me never to tell anyone who I used to be. And that would have been the last he ever spoke to me -- until he figured out I could do him a favor, with that Carstairs woman, the witness for the grand jury." He snorted. "That job was the only one to go right. The museum nearly killed me. The Terberon thing got my face broken -- I'm glad I killed you, by the way, that fucking hurt -- and then shot. And now this. So, fine, whatever. Take me away. I'm sick of working for Daddy."

I refrained from pointing out that it wasn't all one-sided, that he'd managed to kill a lot of people, most of them cops. "Tell me about the Terberon robbery."

He shrugged. "Not much to say. I got told to drive out to this old warehouse, report to this guy Vincent. A bunch of the Fist had been camping out there. I show up on the last day, they tell me what to do. We run through it a couple of times, then get in the vans and drive out to Terberon, and we do it. I cut the vault open for them and took out the fence. There weren't supposed to be any cops, the guardhouse team was supposed to keep them at a distance. You ruined that."

"The factory, tonight. What do you know about it?"

He shook his head. "Nothing, except it was important. I got a call from Daddy, he never calls me in person anymore. He was just screaming, I mean really foaming at the mouth. I've never heard him so mad... and scared, too, I think. He gave me an address, told me to get out there right away. You know what it's like, right? I'm a thousand feet in the air, what the hell use is a freakin' address? I had to stop and make sure I had the streets right, they all look the same from up there, especially at night. He was sending some muscle, too, but he figured I'd get there fastest. He told me to stop whatever was happening." He sighed. "But of course I wasn't fast enough. Guess I messed up again."

"A cop was killed last night --" I corrected myself, realizing it was now early Sunday morning, "-- Friday night. A woman was taken. What do you know about it?"

Another head shake. "Heard about it on the news."

Well, what fucking good are you? I sighed in irritation. "You don't really know much, do you?"

That provoked a response. "Well what the hell did you expect?" he snarled. "Up until I changed, I only knew my father was a crime boss from reading the newspapers! I was sheltered from all that. He never talked business where I could hear it. Boarding schools, vacations at the house in Switzerland, college out east -- I hardly ever saw my father, let alone overhear any of his plans to rule the world. I was a beautiful woman, I had money, and any guy I wanted. Now I'm a fucking guy, not even a good looking one, no money, bottom rung, lowest of the low. And I still like guys, thanks for asking, so they all think I'm a queer. But I'm useful, so they have to tolerate me. Nobody talks to me till they want me to go and get hurt." He rubbed at his bruised ribs, glaring at me.

"Vincent." I continued, unimpressed. "Where do I find him?"

Another shrug. "Don't know. Wait! Wait!" he screamed as I moved to get off the ledge and take the light with me. "Let me finish! I can guess!" He quieted as I sat back on the ledge. "I don't know where he lives -- I'm not saying it's secret or anything, but some nobody like me wouldn't get invited to his parties, know what I mean? But I know this Terberon thing was part of something bigger, something that he's responsible to Daddy for, the whole project. So if this factory is connected with that, he's gonna need to be in two places tomorrow: first, he'll need to see the damage for himself, probably in daylight. Second, he'll need to come out to the house to give the bad news to Daddy. In person."

I left him with a handful of glowsticks and threw in a full scuba tank.

~o~O~o~

I dialed the number Court had given me, for the second time that night. "This is Miss Mars. Let me speak to the agent on duty, please... I have Heatstroke for you, I hope you're ready for him. Your guys are going to get wet, I'm afraid... He's at MarineWorld... yes, it's closed for the season. There's a Shipwreck Reef exhibit, he's in the wreck, at the bow, there's an air pocket about ten feet underwater. He's got about an hour, maybe two. You'll definitely need to get there before daylight, or he'll figure out he's not at the bottom of the bay. And this is important -- he says he used to be Tony Carpaci's daughter."

---