Stark takes on her most dangerous prey . . . Grace de Messembry from fleurie's The Deception of Choice. As her plan unfolds, Stark finds she has her own choice to make -- or maybe there was really no choice at all, in the end.

Special thanks to fleurie (along with hugs, kisses, all my love, and a gratitude that cannot be measured) for her insights into Grace, her world, and her motivations. And thanks as well for reading my take on Grace's "comeuppance" and pronouncing it worthy.

Story:

Stark: The State of Grace
by Randalynn

“I do not at all understand the mystery of grace -- only that it meets us
where we are but does not leave us where it found us.” -- Anne Lamott

The town house in St. John's Wood was not far from Lords Cricket Ground, and for all of her world traveling, it was the one place Stark's quarry stayed most often.

'No surprise, really,' Jo Stark mused as she glided down the street, heels clicking smartly on the walk. 'Considering the woman's almost obsessive love of cricket, why would she choose any other place for her London home?'

When Stark needed a handle on her next target, she put Chesser and the hacker boys on the job. As they chased Grace de Messembry's ghost through the Internet, her initial efforts to get the Marlyebone Cricket Club to allow women as members burned like a virtual flare in an otherwise barren sea of information. Her protests were loud, direct, and to the point -- she considered their "obstinate" refusal to comply with her wishes as simply "scandalous." Her comments to the sporting press (and anyone else who would listen) lit up the web like a bonfire of anger and frustration -- a show of emotion quite out of character for the usually quite controlled (and controlling) head of the Venumar Foundation.

'Again, no surprise,' Stark thought, reaching the front of de Messembry's London home and pausing for a moment. 'For a woman who gets whatever she wants, usually through sheer force of will, having a bunch of men tell her 'no' on the basis of nothing more than institutional stubbornness must truly rankle.'

Then, without warning, Grace went quiet for months, and Chesser's team soon discovered why. They found evidence of her carefully working behind the scenes to achieve her goals. Suspicions of corporate blackmail, finding ways to withhold sponsorships and weaken the club. Some words possibly whispered in well-placed ears at Cabinet level, leading to some twisted arms high up in the club. Then finally, a series of brilliantly manufactured scandals, aimed at those decision-makers who stubbornly refused to bend.

In the end, of course, the MCC surrendered. They opened the doors to women as members, and even invited Grace to join.

She turned them down with a wintry smile, saying that she couldn't imagine anything less flattering to a well-dressed woman than the traditional "bacon and eggs" tie. And her final quote to the sporting pages? "What an appauling color combination!"

Stark's lip twitched. 'It's so like her to put all of her energies into a project . . . to fight so long and so hard for something,' she thought, 'only to throw it back at them with contempt when she finally wins the prize.'

Jo could almost admire Grace -- if she didn't know what de Messembry had done to bring her to Stark's attention, and why.

Grace's Venumar tenure was marked by a long string of newspaper and television stories. Most of them were society features, marking her attendance at some cultural event or an upper class get-together. None of the stories went any deeper than a sheet of rice paper. They certainly didn't reveal any of the things Chesser and his people had uncovered. As a former newspaper reporter, Jo felt a bit depressed at how little any of these so-called journalists did to earn the title. She had always gone the extra mile, dug a little deeper looking for the hidden truth.

Until her random abduction from a Baltimore street corner brought her former career to a sudden, unexpected end.

Stark paused for a moment and examined the place where she had finally cornered her prey. It was a terraced Georgian home, three stories tall, classical and solid. It fairly reeked of breeding and standing. Curiously, it was also totally in keeping with the surrounding homes, with no outward signs of ostentatious spending or pretentious self-aggrandizement. Jo nodded to herself. The Grace she'd come to know from the reports she had read would never be so crass as to set herself apart from the crowd with mere "things." She wanted to rise above the rest of humanity through her own accomplishments -- again, through force of will. To de Messembry, wealth was only a way of keeping score, albeit one that allowed her to live as she pleased.

When this situation first came to her attention, Jo was sure de Messembry was just like those rich bitches who had captured and transformed her. But as the research continued, she became more of a puzzle. The woman didn't seem to take any joy in the terrible things she had done. The closest Grace came to being happy about it all was an air of "job well done" -- a sort of satisfaction that her plans had moved forward successfully, and to her mind, rightfully so. Her casual cruelty and complete dismissal of the rights of others seemed to have totally escaped her notice.

Jo planned to bring it to her attention.

The front door opened noiselessly, and Stark stepped into the front hall. She had no qualms about walking into the house uninvited. The servants had all been distracted or delayed by spurious errands, supposedly sent by Grace but actually the work of Stark's talented band of hackers. Still, Jo walked softly. Sometimes, even human predators feel the need for quiet when they approach their prey.

The reception rooms were entirely furnished with Queen Anne furniture, mostly walnut. It was all very elegant but tasteful, to avoid any suggestion of excess. A priceless John Knibbs long-case clock, also in inlaid walnut, stood in one corner of the drawing room. The artwork was similarly impressive, with a Turner on one wall and a Bonnard on the other.

Jo shook her head, thinking about the Internet research she had done when the house inventory dropped on her desk. Turner she knew, but Knibbs? And Bonnard? She had to fight a rare feeling that she was way out of her league, but pushed it aside when she remembered how easily her machete had sliced off the head of a woman who prided herself on her cultural acumen -- an egotistical bitch who enjoyed forcing former men to wear six-inch stiletto heels while balancing trays of champagne and canapés. Her net worth had rivaled that of a medium-sized South American country. Now it belong to Stark and her people, and they used it to try and rescue other men from the fate they themselves had been forced to endure.

'Sometimes,' she thought with a bitter smile, 'it's not what you have or what you know. It's what you earn, and how you earn it. And what you do with it when the day is through.'

Still, the image of that woman's head flying across the room caused a vague uneasiness in her soul, and Jo wondered for the first time if what she was planning today was the right choice.

The door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar, and Stark pushed it gently with her fingertips. It swung open silently, revealing a sitting room that was definitely furnished more for comfort than appearance. This was de Messembry's study, her inner sanctum. Although there was another, smaller, Bonnard hanging on the wall, it was obviously chosen for affection, not for effect. Jo nodded. This was a private place, for Grace alone.

The furniture was a comfortable mixture of styles. A comfortable Edwardian sofa and non-matching chair were positioned for easy conversation, with a low long mahogany table set between the two. A Victorian leather-topped desk seemed almost masculine, and sat in front of a window overlooking a surprisingly large and rather secret garden.

Stark drifted deeper into the room, cataloging things as she passed them. A bronze statuette of a racehorse. A few Art Deco ornaments. Another long case clock, this time by Thomas Tompion. The few rugs on the hardwood floors were rich in color and worn into an even richer patina. None of Grace's possessions here were modern, but all seemed to blend into a perfect lived-in harmony, despite their vastly different origins, styles, and periods.

"Do you like what you see?"

The voice came from behind her, and Stark successfully fought the need to spin around and face its owner. Instead, she took a step towards the window facing the garden.

"Very much," she replied, her tone polite and mannerly. "Especially the garden. I would never have imagined, seeing your home from the front, that such a beautiful oasis was hidden here."

"I suppose that's why they call it a secret garden, dear." Stark turned to face the older woman and found a slight smirk on her face. Jo nodded.

"Quite right," she said.

"I am somewhat surprised to find you here, in my sanctum sanctorum, taking inventory of my most prized possessions and nattering on about my small slice of heaven out there." Grace moved past Stark and perched herself daintily on the desk chair. She was wearing a white blouse buttoned nearly to her neck, under a gray wool suit with a matching skirt that fell nearly to her ankles. Her feet were wrapped in a pair of soft leather boots with modest heels that appeared as comfortable as they were stylish. Her hair was perfect, her make-up understated, and the expression on her face suggested that it would be a cold day in Hell before she would stoop to asking this "interloper" what the hell she was doing in her home uninvited.

"The garden is an appropriate metaphor for the topic I came to discuss, actually." Jo looked her in the eye as she spoke, allowing a hint of her anger to slip out and catch the older woman by surprise. "Bare branches and broken men, to be precise. And the unfortunate fate of a man named David."

A range of emotions rushed across Grace's face, from confusion to understanding, before settling on a self-satisfied smile. The smile lasted a few seconds before a look of abject surprise replaced it, and she rose to her feet, her hand covering her mouth.

"Good Lord," she exclaimed, with just a hint of wonder in her voice. "I can't believe it's true. It's you, isn't it?" It was Stark's turn to look confused. "You're . . .You were Bambi, weren't you? The Society's masterpiece, if their self-serving praise was to be believed."

Jo hesitated, then nodded.

"I'm Stark now," she said simply. "Jo Stark."

Grace nodded back. "Of course you are. If I had the bad luck to be named after an animated deer, and a male one at that, I should change my name as soon as possible. A good choice, by the way, dear. A delightful combination of blunt force and elegant simplicity."

Stark shrugged. "It was mine before they took it away, when they kidnapped me. I just took it back."

The older woman cocked her head, tapping her chin with her fingertip and scrutinizing Jo with a penetrating eye. "Well, it does suit you. And you are quite lovely, in a buxom, Barbie-esque sort of way. They called you their masterpiece, did you know that? Of course, if the tales of the bloody massacre on the night of your unveiling are to be believed, perhaps you should be considered their Frankenstein's monster. I do hate to invoke literary allusions, but honestly, I would think the fear they must have felt the night of their annual ball warrants a reference or two to Mary Shelley's creation."

"I'm sure they were horrified when I decided on 'better living through cutlery' as the theme for my 'coming out' party," Stark replied with a tight smile. "Although I'm sure their feelings of terror were short-lived . . . just as they turned out to be." She turned and ran a finger over the neck of the horse statue. "I'm not sure whether I should be surprised that you know about the Society, or surprised you weren't there the night I killed them all."

Grace shook her head and laughed. "Me? Goodness, no! I knew about them, of course, but I would never be a part of such a misguided mission. Their games were always too sick for me -- nothing but cruelty for the sake of cruelty, and in pursuit of an ultimately meaningless goal. Punishing men for being men . . . by turning them into twisted mockeries of womanhood? Honestly, what a dreadful waste."

Jo let her voice grow very still and empty. "From what I've learned, you aren't one to shy away from being cruel."

"Only to a purpose, Ms. Stark." She gave her head a tilt and pinned Stark in place with a stern eye. "Unlike the Society, whatever I've done that others deem cruel was done specifically to advance an agenda -- to either create a profit for Venumar or success for myself. The actions of the Society, on the other hand, were done purely for their own amusement. A monumental waste of resources that could have been put to better use -- such as the use you are putting them to now."

Jo turned, almost shocked. "You know of my work?"

Grace laughed. "Dear child, how could I not? When the Society fell, you moved into their mansion as if it was your own. You consolidated their resources and made them yours, then started wielding them with an authority and sureness of purpose no mere 'ink-stained wretch' from Baltimore would ever have been able to match, let alone improve upon. I admire your ruthlessness in pursuit of your goals, just as I admire your organization for its purity of purpose. I do, however, question the ultimate profitability of seeking revenge. Eventually, you know, even you will run out of funds -- and what will become of your crusade then?"

"Life isn't always a question of dollars and cents," Jo replied, "or pounds and pence, if you prefer. Sometimes, profit becomes something other than numbers on a balance sheet. It's not just about punishment. It's about taking people out of circulation who don't understand quite what it means to be human. I feel I'm balancing out the innate perversity of the universe by adding justice to what is essentially an immoral world." She smiled. "Besides, I am pursuing other avenues of financing my 'crusade,' even as we speak."

There was a long silence, broken only by the ticking of the long case clock. Eventally, Grace spoke. "So what brings you to my study uninvited, with all of my servants off doing God knows what? Vengeance, I suppose?"

"Of course." Stark smiled. "It's what I do, when rescue is impossible."

"Given the nature of your past . . . successes, it is Helgarren and its sister sites you have an issue with, unless I am much mistaken." The younger woman said nothing. Grace sniffed. "Someone has told you about all of the poor unfortunate men we've turned into butterflies over the years, and you feel you need to get involved? Why, exactly?"

"I'm not concerned with the ones who volunteered for your . . . potentially lucrative social experiment," Jo said, the edge in her voice becoming sharper with each word. "If they want what you're offering, more power to them. I'm just here on behalf of the ones you kidnapped, imprisoned for months without human contact, and then pushed through a sadistic reprogramming regime with threats and intimidation. You forced dozens, maybe even hundreds to become women against their will -- all for the sake of meeting the requirements of a government contract, meant to explore a solution even you don't believe will work."

"You're very well informed." The older woman didn't seem particularly concerned with Stark's anger.

Jo nodded. "I have to be. In my business, it's best to be sure. Besides, I used to be an 'ink-stained wretch,' remember? There's nothing we enjoy more than piecing together a good story."

"I don't suppose you'd reveal your sources."

"If I were still a reporter, I wouldn't say a thing. But I'm not. And since the truth will shock the hell out of you, I'll tell you. You told me most of what I needed to know."

Grace looked shocked for an instant, then her face settled into a small smile. "You placed a listening device in our box at the opera, didn't you? You cheeky minx! How on Earth did you find out about our little program in the first place?"

"We were running a standard comparison model on government and commercial databases in the U.K. We discovered a disturbingly familiar pattern. For all of his life, David was firmly enmeshed in the system. Schooling, then job records, paychecks, credit cards. Then suddenly, without warning, he disappeared completely for almost a year. No withdrawals from his bank account. No charges on his credit cards. No earnings reported to the state revenue. Then suddenly, up pops a request for gender reassignment, new documentation, etc. and so on." Stark's eyes flashed. "The papers were sent care of Venumar. Then we checked the rent on David's flat, tracing it back through holding companies and financial blind alleys until we found the truth. It had been paid in full . . . also by Venumar."

The older woman pursed her lips and gave Stark a disapproving glare. "How disturbingly thorough of you."

Stark spared her a tight-lipped smile in return and continued. "It took a while, but an exhaustive investigation uncovered David's connection with the area he ran to after 'escaping' from Helgarren. Once we tracked him down and heard his story, we began investigating Venumar and this 'Bare Branches' program. Since you figured so prominently in David's tale of his imprisonment and escape, you became a 'person of interest.' Especially since you are the public face of the Venumar Foundation."

"And like the villain in a badly presented melodrama, I gave you far more that you could have expected from such an obvious stratagem." Grace sighed and shook her head. "I have only myself to blame, of course. The price for being smug and feeling somewhat invincible, I imagine. With the champagne taking some of the blame, perhaps."

"You may have thought you were invincible, but now you know you are not." Stark perched on the arm of a sofa that was probably more expensive than a late model Lexus. "My presence here is proof of that. After all, I did just walk in, alarms switched off from the inside, your servants diverted. All of your elaborate security precautions, laid low by an ex-journalist with delusions of standing."

Grace smiled. "I did say you were good. However, you are not as good as you think. My dear, you may think yourself invincible, but I assure you, you are not. If I were to make a single phone call, you would be in chains within an hour, and tied down 'working' in a Beirut brothel in less than a day."

"Of that I have no doubt -- if you were to make that call." Jo smiled back. At last, the end game was here. "But that will never happen."

Grace stared at the intruder.

"Such disrespect is unbecoming in a young woman of quality," she said, her voice betraying a hint of irritation from not cowing the newcomer. "What makes you so sure you are safe?"

"Because if anything happens to me," Stark replied, "you will wind up living out the rest of your days . . . like this."

Jo snapped her fingers --

-- and a gentle hand gripped Grace's shoulder and shook her, just a bit.

"Gertie?" A woman's voice, with some sort of American accent. "Gertie, time to get up, dear."

Grace opened her eyes to see a cracked and peeling ceiling, framed by walls painted an institutional green. Hovering over her in the center of her field of vision, an overweight woman with mousy brown hair and oversized glasses peered down at her.

"Gertie, you need to wake up now or you'll miss breakfast. It's your favorite, cream of wheat!"

Grace shook her head and tried to sit up, but the sheer weight of her limbs surprised her. The woman standing over her motioned to an orderly by the door. Together, they slipped their arms behind her shoulders and helped to pull her upright. Grace was surprised to find herself so weak, until she looked down at herself and nearly screamed.

She was fat -- aggressively so. Her breasts were huge, and hung from her chest with a weight that made her shoulders sag. Bags of skin drooped from her arms, and under her nightgown she could feel flaps of fat resting on massive thighs. Her whole top half balanced on hips so big they took up half the width of the bed. Even her fingers were chubby and difficult to manipulate.

There was a window across the room, and the room behind it was dark, creating a pale mirror. Grace saw her face crudely distorted, apple cheeks and triple chins, unkempt eyebrows and pasty skin.

"Whuh the maddah wit muh?" she mouthed, her mouth and lips not responding to her thoughts. "Whuh happin?"

"You're just having trouble waking up, dear. Probably your new meds making you feel all sleepy."

"I um Grayyss duh Messs ... duh Messuhhhh beeeee." She shook all over with frustration, her body jiggling uncontrollably. 'Why can't I talk?'

The woman shook her head. "Oh, that's so sad. Backsliding so soon." She leaned over and looked Grace in the eyes. "Dear, your name is Gertie Mutz, remember? You used to wash dishes in a diner over in Weeping Willow, on Route 6? The Dew Drop Inn?" Grace's mouth dropped open, and in the window she could see missing teeth. A lot of missing teeth. Her chin began to tremble.

"You came here three months ago, after a breakdown in the kitchen. You started crying uncontrollably, throwing dishes and screaming at everyone. You insisted you were British, and rich, and didn't belong there. Your brother Gus called the state, and they brought you here. It's all in your file."

Grace pushed herself to her feet and waddled over to the glass. Her whole body heaved and rolled, and her bottom swiveled and quivered violently with each step. Her once perfect hair was matted and curly, a washed-out blonde color with inches of dark roots.

"We've been trying everything to bring you back to yourself, but you keep holding on to this fantasy. Not to worry, though. In just a few months, this . . ." she consulted a clipboard she had held under her arm " . . . Grace de Messembry will be less than a memory. We've got all sorts of exciting new techniques to try, and restful activities like board games and television. Oh, it'll be just like a vacation for you, Gertie."

She just stared at her reflection, shaking her head in disbelief and seeing her whole life -- everything she had worked so hard to build -- disappearing in the face of the fantasy that was Gertie Mutz.

"I'm your therapist, dear. Tammy Jo, remember? We've been working together, you and I. I think you must have heard something about this British woman's mysterious disappearance, and just incorporated it into your breakdown." The earnest young woman watched her eagerly. Grace could see her face reflected in the window glass, anxious to erase Gertie's "delusion" and give her back her "real" existence. She came up and placed a hand on Grace's shoulder.

"Not to worry, Gertie," she said softly, her concern evident. "With the progress we've been making, I'm sure we can make you well soon. And you'll be having so much fun here, the time will fly by, just like THAT."

She snapped her fingers --

-- and Grace found herself back in her own sitting room. Stark stood before her, her hand in the air and a smile on her lips. Suddenly, Grace found it hard to breathe, and everything around her took on an air of unreality as the world twisted, and all that she knew wavered around the edges.

"What did you do to me?" she hissed, her fear coming out as fury. "What just happened?"

"A dream," Stark replied evenly. "A nightmare, really. Your nightmare, custom-made and ready for occupancy. The thing you dread most -- having everything you've achieved stolen from you, and you transformed into a poor fat crazy woman, trapped in an asylum full of well-meaning people all anxious to 'cure' you."

"How . . . how could you possibly . . . ?"

"It's a form of reprogramming I discovered in the course of my . . . work." Jo stood up and walked over to the fire. "Infiltrating Venumar's computer and communications systems was only the beginning. I have very talented associates. Once we were in, the rest was simple. Every time you looked at a computer screen . . . every time you listened to music or the news, bits of subliminal programming slipped into your mind along with it. These bits joined with others that had come before, and still others that came afterward. This went on for months. In the end, we managed to make you into a life-sized human puppet, to be controlled and directed -- by me."

Grace was stunned. Her freedoms curtailed, her mind and body no longer her own? From mistress of her empire to powerless pawn in an instant? Impossible!

"I refuse to accept it." Her tone was direct and peremptory.

"You've seen the evidence yourself. Felt it. To deny it would be both illogical and counter-productive." Jo smiled. "I know you well enough to say that to be the former is impossible for you, and even the thought of the latter offends your sensibilities, so just accept what I say as fact. You are mine. And this fantasy . . . this nightmare . . . won't be confined to your head. We have everything we need to make you into Gertie Mutz and drop you in a facility where you will never be heard from again -- just as fat and powerless as you were in your nightmare."

Grace's mind reeled with the possibilities. 'Could this really be true?' she wondered. 'Could I really be nothing more than a puppet on this faux girl's strings?'

She took a deep breath. "If, as you say, I am yours," she said, her voice remarkably calm given the circumstances, "How come I'm not already in some publicly funded bedlam somewhere in eastern Nebraska, wallowing in a sea of cellulite and choking down cream of wheat? I know your reputation, Ms. Stark. Why are we even having this conversation?"

The other woman grinned, a cold empty smile that barely touched her eyes.

"Because for all of your ruthless and quite sociopathic tendencies," Stark said, "you are remarkably good at getting things done. And my 'crusade' needs someone like you . . . sufficiently motivated, of course, and kept on the side of the angels."

"You want me to work for you?" Grace's voice rose so high she squeaked.

"No, I want you to work for you," Jo replied. "Because if you don't do what I say, you will wind up trapped as Gertie Mutz. Without you, Venumar will fall and be forgotten, and Grace de Messembry will be nothing but a memory."

Another long silence as Grace considered her situation. Stark gave her all the time she needed, and finally, the older woman spoke. "What must I do?"

"First, everyone kidnapped or coerced into your program goes free. You give them their lives back, as much as you can after the damage you've done. If they don't want to go back, or if there's no way for them to become what they were, you need to give them some kind of compensation for the harm you caused." Jo's eyes twinkled. "That's the easy part."

Stark slid gracefully off of the arm of the sofa. "Now the other shoe drops."

Grace felt her blood run cold.

"You took the lives of these men under false pretenses," Jo said. "Your forced feminization programs won't do anything to truly solve the 'bare branches' problem. There's no way any country, even China, could physically change enough men into women to take the testosterone edge off of every unattached man in Asia. So I want you to do what you should have done in the first place."

"Which is?"

Jo's eyes twinkled. "Solve the problem."

Grace's jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"

Stark grinned. "I want you to use your impressive abilities and the resources of the Venumar Foundation to keep an entire continent from turning into a cesspit of war, violence, and bloodshed when the 'bare branches' fail to bear fruit." The older woman stared at Jo as if she'd suddenly starting speaking Swahili. Stark shrugged.

"You seem to believe you're better than everyone else in the world," she continued, her tone measured and rational. "As a result, you think the moral and ethical restrictions of lesser beings don't apply to you. Well, now you get the chance to prove it."

"You're mad!"

"Stark raving," Jo said, smiling at her own pun. "But that doesn't change what I want. You do the impossible, and you'll prove, to me and everyone else, that you truly are superhuman."

There was a long silence as Grace considered the situation. Then she spoke, slowly and deliberately.

"And then you'll let me go? Free me from this mind control?"

The other woman laughed out loud. "Oh, please," Stark said, her laughter tapering off into a grin. "Don't be ridiculous. By pushing you into this particular trap, all I've managed to do is cage a tiger. I would be seven different kinds of fool if I ever set you free. You're too dangerous an enemy to ever let loose. No, Grace, you will stayed leashed and collared -- figuratively speaking -- for the rest of your life."

Grace turned to face her captor, her eyes hard as steel. "If I have no hope of release, why should I cooperate?"

"Because if you do as I say, you stay you," Jo replied, meeting her gaze. "Grace de Messembry. Under my thumb, of course, but still Grace."

Grace nodded. "And if I refuse, I will find myself consigned to a small corner of Hell in Weeping Water, Nebraska, waddling into the TV room after dinner every night to watch Wheel of Fortune -- for the rest of my life."

It was Stark's turn to nod. After a time, Grace sighed. "It appears I have no choice."

"Oh, you have a choice," came a voice from the hall. "It's just not a very good one."

Jo turned and smiled, and held out her arm. "Grace, this is your new protégé, Paula. Paula, this is Grace."

The blonde woman in the doorway was young and beautiful, well-dressed in professional business attire but with a saucy grin that made it seem as if she saw the world as her personal play toy, or a source of infinite amusement.

"Protégé?" Grace sniffed. She looked down her nose at the newcomer. "I suppose you mean my keeper, don't you?"

"A little of both, actually," Paula replied, taking a step forward. "I want to learn as much as I can from you . . . while I'm keeping you honest, of course."

Grace's eyes narrowed. She turned to Stark with a question half-formed on her lips.

Jo shrugged. "Your determination, your drive, and your ability to succeed are worth a closer look. Ruthlessness alone is not enough to explain how you always achieve your goals while others fall behind. As I said before, you're a resource, and I hate waste. And having someone like Paula learn what you do -- and use your techniques to get good things done out in the world -- could go a long way towards mitigating the harm you've already done."

"You have a lot to offer," Paula said, drifting further into the study. Her fingers drifted across the artifacts that made Grace's personal space ... personal. "Figuring out how to do what you do -- without becoming a heartless mega bitch myself -- well, it's going to be a lot more interesting than hanging out on the beach sipping frou frou drinks and watching guys in Speedos trying hard not to let me catch them watching me."

Grace looked at Paula for a second, clearly confused. She shifted her gaze back to Stark. "Why her?"

"A number of reasons. First, she's worth several million dollars, so the chances you could actually bribe her into allowing you to do things your old way are so slim as to be virtually impossible."

"I have more than I could ever spend," Paula slipped in. "So getting more of it from you to let you hurt others would be stupid. And sort of cheating, since I'm really working for Jo, not you."

"Also," Stark continued, "she's been through a version of what you put David and the others through. She knows exactly what you've done and what you're capable of, so there's no chance of her taking pity on you and letting you run wild."

Paula flashed a smug grin at Jo's captive. "I promise not to jerk the leash too much . . . Grace." The older woman's lip twitched in irritation. "Interfering with how you do business would make learning how you do what you do that much more difficult. But that doesn't mean I'm going to let you get away with much. After all, the idea is to get you to consider being human as a lifestyle choice."

Grace's face reddened with anger. "What cheek! I am human, you impudent girl!"

Paula looked her straight in the eye, and any playfulness she had exhibited disappeared completely. "You're going to have to prove it to me, bitch. I know how it feels to have your life turned upside down. And I've met David, and some of the other unwilling graduates of your 'fun factory.' As far as I'm concerned, you're only hanging onto the title because no one has come up with a separate species classification for Nazis, cannibals, serial killers -- and people like you."

Grace was stunned speechless by the raw hatred that suddenly poured out of the girl in front of her. Jo reached forward and gently touched Paula's sleeve. Paula turned to look at her.

"That's no way to begin a professional working relationship," Stark said softly. "Is it, Paula?"

"I just wanted her to know where she stands, that's all." The younger woman looked at Jo with a mix of pain and anger, tempered with disbelief. "I mean, look at her! She's like my parents were! She's totally oblivious to the horror . . . the wrongness of what she's done. How can she not know what she did was wrong? How could she not know?"

Jo could see Paula was still trembling, and reached up to put her hand on the younger woman's shoulder. "She's so totally self- centered, anything that advances her agenda must by definition be right," Stark replied, a little sadly. "Teaching her to be human may be too much to hope for. Maybe it's impossible. Maybe all we can do is make it more personally painful for her to choose to be bad. With some people, that's all you have to work with -- their own self-interest."

"Excuse me!" Grace said hotly, growing angry. "I am right here!" Both Jo and Paula ignored her.

Stark looked deep into Paula's eyes. "But if you use your power over her to hurt her, just because you can, that's only going to make you as bad as she is. Or as bad as your parents were to you. Is that what you want?" Paula shook her head no, and Jo smiled. "Good girl. So the best thing to do is . . . ?"

The younger woman took a deep breath. "Let it go," she said, her voice shaking slightly. Paula took another breath, and shook herself. Then she turned back to Grace.

"Just so we understand each other," she said in an even tone, "I want to be perfectly clear on what I mean when I say I won't jerk on the leash too much. The Gertie Mutz fantasy is only one of the 'collars' we put in your head. If you give me a reason, I can make you do all sorts of things out here in the real world without sending you off to Hell in Nebraska -- things you really wouldn't like at all. Anything I want, in fact."

Grace felt the blood drain from her face, and Paula smiled. "Let me give you a demonstration."

The older woman raised her hand and started to speak, but the young blonde opened her mouth and time jumped --

-- and Grace found herself outside, in the secret garden, on all fours. She raised her head to see Paula standing above her, holding an actual leash that trailed down to a leather collar strapped firmly around her neck. She tried to rise, but her body would not obey her.

Paula bent down and whispered in Grace's ear. "I could have taken you for a walk through the center of London, naked and collared, and you would have enjoyed it. I could get you to tart yourself up like a cheap whore and pick up some greasy nobody in some low dive, and have you wake up tomorrow morning in his bed. In fact, I can do anything I want to you. Anything. And the only thing that's stopping me . . . is the fact that I don't want to be like you. So you do what I say, stay on my good side, and you won't wind up besmirching the de Messembry name giving blow jobs in some biker bar in East Croydon. Understand?"

Totally humiliated, Grace nodded. Paula removed the collar, and Grace stumbled to her feet.

"If you try to hurt me, or Jo, or make any attempt to get out of the cage we put you in, Gertie Mutz becomes your world. And I'll make sure everyone knows what a slut Grace de Messembry truly is before she disappears forever."

As Grace made her way back to the study, Stark avoided looking at her. Instead, she spoke to the sculpture of the race horse in the center of the room.

"Venumar is going to be spending a lot of R&D money in a cooperative effort with the Stark Initative," she said to the statue. "You're going to be working with us to stop more abuses around the world. Think of it as community service."

Stark's lip quirked, and she turned to Grace.

"Remember, you'll be under constant surveillance, one way or another," she said, her voice almost playful. "By hook or by crook, we will be watching. So even though you'll be out in the world, doing whatever you do, you'll still be a prisoner." Grace said nothing, so Jo looked up at her, made a circle with her thumb and forefinger, and looked through it for an instant before turning it into an almost casual salute.

"Be seeing you, Number Six."

Grace looked at her blankly. Stark was frankly shocked.

"You know, 'The Prisoner?' Patrick McGoohan? Killer weather balloons?" Grace shook her head, still confused. Jo sighed. "Never mind. Honestly, you British have lost all appreciation for your unique contributions to pop culture. Next thing you know, you'll be telling me you don't even know who the Doctor is."

"The Doctor?" Grace cocked her head. "Doctor who?"

"Exactly!"

Then Jo turned quickly, and walked as fast as she could out of the room, the house, and the situation -- trying very hard not to laugh and cry at the same time.

###

As Stark stepped onto the sidewalk, she saw Jeff, her best friend and second-in-command, approaching from across the street. She paused a moment to let him catch up, and when he reached her side, they began walking together.

There were a few moments of companionable silence, eventually broken by Jeff.

"God knows I'm not one to argue for you to be more ruthless than you want to be," he said casually, "but I have to admit I'm curious. Why isn't she in Weeping Water, Nebraska, experiencing the joys of Cream of Wheat, daytime soaps, and meds three times a day?"

"A few reasons," Jo replied, her head turning to meet an oncoming breeze. She felt the wind on her skin, and shook her head slightly to let it blow her long blonde hair away from her face. It was a very feminine gesture, and one that took Jeff quite by surprise. It sort of surprised Jo as well.

"First, turning her into Gertie Mutz would take a powerful piece off the board," she continued. "Sufficiently motivated, I honestly believe that if anyone can find a solution to the 'Bare Branches' problem, it's Grace. And if she can do that, there's no shortage of problems in the world for her to work on. If I have to keep a tigress in a cage, the least I can do is give her something worthy of her skills to keep her busy. Over time, she might learn to be human as well. And having Paula as her apprentice will give us a far more reliable problem solver in the years to come than Grace will ever be. For all of our precautions, I know she is . . . unbroken. She won't stop thinking of ways to escape. Submitting to anyone is not in her nature."

Another moment of silence, broken again by Jeff.

"But there's more to this, isn't there?" She turned to look at him, while he carefully avoided meeting her eyes. "You've never let practicality come before vengeance before. Not since you started this . . . crusade. So why now? Why with her?"

Stark looked away, and they continued to walk for a while. Then she replied, in a voice so soft Jeff almost didn't hear her answer.

"Because maybe I'm tired of being a vindictive bitch, every minute of every day. I'm tired of doing unspeakable things in the name of justice, or vengeance, or just to avoid having that damned programming turn me into some kind of sex toy. Maybe, once in a while, I'd like to be driven by more than anger and hate."

She stopped and turned her face to him, and he saw the tears pouring from her eyes. "The truth is, I'm reaching a point where it's hard to find a reason to get out of bed in the morning. I'm tired of hurting people, even if they deserve it. But that's all I do. I'm not living, Jeff. I'm existing. I don't have a life anymore, just a purpose. It's like all I am is some kind of dark angel of rage, a fury unleashed. The pain I've caused . . . the things I've done. They haunt me. And I can't keep on this way much longer. I won't. Because I'm starting to hate the person I'm becoming -- more than I hate the people I hunt. I'm afraid if I keep on like this, there won't be anything left of me except the rage. And I couldn't go on, not like that."

Jo started crying in earnest, great wrenching sobs that rose up inside her and shook her entire body. "I won't go on," she repeated, over and over. "I won't."

Jeff didn't think, he just stepped forward and took her into his arms. She stiffened for a moment, then just melted into him and kept on crying. People on the sidewalk looked away as they passed, as if honest emotion in public was something to be avoided at all costs. Jeff returned the favor by ignoring them all and focusing all his energies on the woman in his arms.

He held her until the crying had lessened to a trembling, and still she clung to him. Then he bent his head down and whispered in her ear.

"You're not just a vengeance machine. You proved it just now, by giving Grace a chance to do some good instead of sending her to Purgatory." Jeff smiled suddenly, and Jo felt it and looked up into his eyes.

"Do you know what grace means?" She shook her head. "In Christianity, it's a gift from God. It's that part of the nature of God that loves us and forgives us, no matter what we've done. In giving Grace a chance to be more than what she is, you've shown you're more than just hate and anger. So you're worthy of grace, too, Jo. If God can forgive you with no strings attached, maybe you can forgive yourself, in time."

She rested her head on his shoulder, and felt him holding her. And didn't mind a bit.

"You're not alone, Jo," he whispered. "I'm not going anywhere. I will always be here for you. And we'll work this out, together. Because that's what friends do, right?" She nodded without raising her head, and Jeff smiled. "So lets find some lunch, and then we'll do what we should have done long ago -- figure out a way to finally set you free."

Jo smiled, her face still red and puffy from crying. Jeff put his arm around her shoulders. She put her arm around his waist.

Together they walked away from Grace ... and maybe towards salvation.

© 2008 as part of a work in progress, all rights reserved. Posted with permission of the author.

Sorry for the long wait, everyone. As John Lennon sang, "life is what happens to you while you're making other plans," and this girl wound up ambushed by circumstance and committed to another full-time job as a Marketing Director for a small software company, to keep food on the table and my family connected to the Internet. It has taken much of my creativity to hit the ground running there, but I think I can finally write again, just for me. And, of course, for you. *grins* Hope you liked! -- Randalynn