Out of the Ashes by Misty Meenor A Comic RetCon Universe Story The Martian Manhunter and Miss Martian characters are the property of DC Comics. The moon had the night off; the few widely-separated streetlights in this part of town had to work extra hard tonight, just to keep each other in sight through the humid darkness. Lightning flashed over the city, making sudden shadows jump, the crash of thunder following quickly on its heels, rattling windows. Despite the imminence of the oncoming storm, it was largely ignored; anyone still trying to scrape a living off the dusty streets at this lonely hour wouldn't be put off by a few measly fireworks. They had more urgent things to be afraid of. Me, for instance. But tonight I was after bigger fish. I was pretty sure the bigger fish were after me, too.

---

The old meat-packing plant had been shutdown for more than a year, the gates padlocked, windows boarded, graveled lot gone to weeds. Which made the arrival of each of the large black cars particularly unusual.

Each car would stop at the gate, and the driver would exchange a few words with one of the men at the gatehouse, who would check the name on a list. Sometimes he would consult with someone by radio. Invariably after a few moments he would give the thumbs-up signal, and another man would open the formerly padlocked gate, and the car would rumble around to the back of the plant, out of sight of the road.

The basement room was a good size, but the single naked bulb over the long table left deep shadows around the edges . A dozen men in expensive suits sat making uncomfortable small talk; the air was dense with the smoke of expensive cigars.

Anthony "Tony Three Balls" Carpaci stood in his customary position at the head of the table and waited for the small talk to die down. Tony was a stocky man of medium height, his dark hair slicked back, professionally tailored, the best smuggled Cuban cigar between his fingers. The men at the long table quickly fell silent; it wasn't smart to keep Tony waiting for anything. He might find something to do while he's waiting. With your body parts.

Tony's eyes swept the room. "Gentlemen, I know you're curious. We haven't risked meeting in person like this in a long time, but I can assure you, this will be worth it."

He paused for a moment, savoring the attention. "I have been approached by a… person, making some pretty unbelievable claims, offering certain… services. Understandably, I was skeptical. But this person has backed up those claims with some impressive demonstrations -- including Hillary Carstairs -- and I find myself persuaded."

At this the men began to whisper excitedly amongst themselves. Hillary Carstairs had been scheduled to testify before the grand jury, a witness under airtight protection. Nobody was quite sure what happened, but according to the papers, she'd vanished under the noses of the cops assigned to protect her, much to the embarrassment of the District Attorney and the glee of the Carpaci famiglia.

The rumors were simply not credible. Grand Jury witnesses do not just spontaneously combust.

Tony held up his hand, and the room quickly fell silent. "This kind of help doesn't come cheap. It's gonna cost us all. But I feel certain I can say to you, our increased profits will be more than worth it.

"Now, I've arranged for a final demonstration, not just for your benefit, but for the benefit of the entire city. A demonstration that should show the new mayor and her pet District Attorney that the Crime Cartel is ALIVE and WELL, and OWNS… THESE... STREETS!" His fist pounded the table, emphasizing the words.

~o~O~o~

The moon had the night off; the few widely-separated streetlights in this part of town had to work extra hard tonight, just to keep each other in sight through the humid darkness.

Lightning flashed over the city, making sudden shadows jump, the crash of thunder following quickly on its heels, rattling windows. Despite the imminence of the oncoming storm, it was largely ignored; anyone still trying to scrape a living off the dusty streets at this lonely hour wouldn't be put off by a few measly fireworks. They had more urgent things to be afraid of.

Me, for instance.

But tonight I was after bigger fish. I was pretty sure the bigger fish were after me, too.

~o~O~o~

The Bone Fist gang had been doing cheap break-and-enters for years, strictly small time stuff, but lately they've been moving up in the world. Word on the street was, they were the muscle behind a recent series of robberies. The muscle, but not the brains; that was the worrying part. Word was, somebody was using the Fists, using them to move into the big leagues.

Word on the street. The word on the street talks too much.

I'd been working the streets for years. Even the greenest rookie can tell you, different people know different things, everybody only sees little pieces of the big picture. This cabbie knew which businessman took his secretary to lunch -- at the motel. The old blind guy working at the poolhall, nobody really sees him, but he hears things. That shopgirl knew the comings and goings of the dealer in the alley across the street. A junkie knows when the product is fresh -- and when it's been cut too much. Hookers -- the hookers know when it's payday, when the next payday's coming, and more about other people's business than you'd expect. They party with the big boys, and get treated like furniture -- but the furniture has eyes and ears.

Little, unrelated things. It's my job to put the little things together. Once in a while they make a Big Thing.

Lately, though, I'd been getting handed a Big Thing, ready-made. The same Big Thing, from all over. Everybody on the street seemed to know it: Bone Fist gang, Natural History Museum, tonight. If it was any more secret, it would have been on the front page of the Enquirer.

It stank. It stank worse than a fishmarket on a hot afternoon. That didn't mean I wasn't listening to the Word. It just meant I was holding my nose.

The night had brought no relief from the sticky heat, though it had finally started to rain, an unenthusiastic kind of drizzle that was neither cooling nor even particularly wet; not enough to wash away the grit from the back of my neck as I crossed the street to the surveillance truck. Inside the air was stifling, rife with the sweat of the operators, like living in a gym sock with four other people. At least one of whom apparently loved curry.

I nodded to the woman in front of a bank of flatscreen monitors. Her t-shirt was plastered to her back, and her hair tied into a ponytail to keep it off her neck. She was fanning herself with a folded paper fan. "Love your perfume, angel. Is it new?"

She grimaced at me. "You try spending a few hours in this sauna with these apes. I'm surprised I haven't melted yet." The apes protested good-naturedly.

"A couple more hours, and we can all go home to a cold shower." I wiggled my eyebrows suggestively. "I'll even wash your back."

The woman laughed sharply. "Ha! In your dreams, Detective. My dream involves a cold shower, alone. Followed by a nice long sleep, curled up in front of a roaring air conditioner." She pauses, considering. "And ice cream. My dream definitely has ice cream."

"Aw, now Dolores, don't be that way. It takes more than a cold shower to cool me off." I held up the 7-11 bag I'd been carrying. "I come bearing gifts." I passed around bottles of water, from the back of the cooler in the store, the coldest I could find.

Her eyes flashed as she twisted the cap off a bottle. She paused to take a long drink, then rolled the cool bottle across her forehead. "Ah, well. That changes everything." She pointed to a large hairy man, currently chugging his own bottle non-stop. "I'll let you wash Thomson's back," she grinned. Thomson played along, turning his back and lifting up his t-shirt obligingly, showing off more body hair than most orangutans.

"Sheesh. Do I need soap, or carpet shampoo?" I asked. I made a mournful face. "Come on, Dolores, you know it's only you I want."

She studied my face, a speculative look in her eyes, tapping the bottle against her chin. "One of these days, Detective Hunter, some poor girl just might believe you. Then you'll be in trouble." She blinked and cleared her throat. "Ahem. To business."

She spun in her seat to face the screens, suddenly businesslike. "The museum is sealed, Detective, we've got men inside every entrance. There's no way to get in without us knowing it." She tapped on a keyboard, and the displays cycled between exterior and interior views of the building, confirming her words.

"From below?"

She shook her head. "A service tunnel under the street, but there's no route into the building. We're covering the basement, just in case."

"The roof?"

She tapped her pen on a screen showing a computer-generated map. "The museum is taller than any of the neighboring buildings. No way to get up to the roof. The chopper patrol route is meant to look random, but it's never more than a few minutes away." As if to mark her words, I could hear the police helicopter fly overhead, the camera monitors showing the spotlight sweeping the rooftops with a cone of illuminated drizzle.

I nodded, grudgingly. "What about the jewels?"

"Five men in the gallery itself, another five covering hallways and staircases."

The jewels were part of a travelling display, on loan from the Smithsonian, displayed in the Rocks and Minerals gallery. They included some of the largest examples of cut precious stones in the world, including the Thorpe Diamond, and the emerald known as El Corazon. I figured if they’re big enough to have names, they have to be worth something.

The display case containing the jewels was remarkable in itself; sealed at the Smithsonian into a sphere of ultradense synthetic quartz, it couldn't be moved without a forklift, and was proof against any conventional tools. No-one would be able to open the case again until it returned to Washington at the end of the tour.

"Thanks, angel. If the Bone Fist is going to try, it'll have to be soon. Keep your eyes peeled." I moved to get out of the truck.

Dolores laid a hand on my arm. "Be careful, Dan. This isn't a simple heist. It makes no sense."

I met her eyes and we shared a look, then I nodded and climbed out of the truck.

The drizzle had changed from unenthusiastic to moderately enthused. I stood in the shadows across the street from the museum, smoking in the rain, turning the problem over in my head. The word on the street had been spread deliberately. So it followed that the Bone Fist would know we'd be boosting the security on the jewels, and didn't care. Nothing I knew of the Fists led me to believe they had the subtlety to break into a guarded building. And if they did break in, there was no way to get the jewels out. Not unless they brought heavy equipment. Which was far from subtle. So the jewel heist was a ruse, had to be.

Which meant, whoever was controlling the Fists specifically wanted a dozen or so police officers in the museum, tonight. Why? I ruled out the idea of a bomb, since we'd given the place a thorough inspection when we upped the security. A diversion? Bay City is no New York or Los Angeles, but it's not small, either; a dozen cops is still a drop in the bucket. It wasn't going to stretch us thin anywhere else. Which left, they weren't after the cops. They wanted a specific cop.

If word got out that there was going to be a robbery at the museum, there were only so many people who could get tasked with making sure it didn't happen, and the Bone Fists were my turf; I'd be at the top of the list.

I was the guy who'd built the case against the members of the Crime Cartel, including Tony Carpaci himself. I was the one who'd convinced Hillary Carstairs to testify. With her gone -- I wish I knew how they'd managed that -- the D.A. was relying on my testimony to the grand jury. With me gone, the whole thing fell apart.

I'd figured that much out weeks ago, which is why I'd made sure I was the one assigned to protect the jewels. I hadn't told anyone else my suspicions, or the D.A. would have me locked up in a secure facility someplace, until I could testify.

I grinned to myself as I flicked my cigarette into the gutter, and started across the street to the museum.

Like I said, tonight I was after bigger fish. I was pretty sure the bigger fish were after me, too.

~o~O~o~

"Dan -- something in the sky, incoming from the west." Dolores' voice sounded through my concealed earpiece. I glanced up, but the buildings blocked my view. There -- a yellow-red fireball, streaking across my narrow view of the sky, headed straight for the museum. Shooting star? Not with the storm -- that thing was flying under the clouds. I braced myself for an explosion, but it didn't come.

I toggled my throat mike. "Get the chopper back here, pronto. Something's on the roof. I'm going inside, tell them to open up for me." It's show time.

I dashed across the street as every security alarm in the museum seemed to go off at once. I pounded on the front doors, holding my badge to the glass, and making sure the uniformed cop inside could see my face. Dolores must have been in his ear, because he nodded and quickly let me in. I pushed past him and took the wide staircase two steps at a time, leading to the second floor Rocks and Minerals gallery, the way lit by rotating red alarm lights, the whoop-whoop of the alarm making it impossible to think.

"Chopper says it's just one person, in some kind of fire-suit; he just… burned a hole in the roof to get in." Dolores' voice betrayed her disbelief.

I nodded to myself. If it worked for the roof, it'd work for the intervening floors. "Warn them he's coming through the ceiling. Everybody else stays put; it might be some kind of diversion. I'm almost there. And kill the damned alarms."

The alarms stopped as I ran down the final hallway. In the sudden silence I could hear a hissing noise, like a blowtorch, only louder. Just outside the gallery, I passed a firehose station. I stopped, and pulled the hose to its maximum length, and spun the water on all the way; the hose bucked and twisted as it filled. There was a chemical extinguisher, too; I grabbed it with my free hand and brought it along.

The gallery for Rocks and Minerals was a large windowless room; high-ceilinged, carpeted, with exhibit cases laid out around the perimeter in wall cases. Additional exhibits were scattered around the open space in tall pedestal cases. In the center of the room was a raised stage containing the Smithsonian Jewels in their crystal sphere; the stage was large enough for several dozen people at a time to view the display from all sides. The ceiling was sprayed with echo-deadening foam and painted black; the large ventilation ducts ran along one side, painted fluorescent colors.

Currently, the room also contained five cops, weapons aimed at an impossibly bright spot at the leading edge of glowing arc in the ceiling, which had almost completed tracing a full circle maybe six feet across. Bits of glowing sound insulation fell to the floor, continuing to smolder. An acrid smell filled the room; the smell of things burning that were supposed to be fireproof. Like a concrete ceiling. The hiss was much louder here, coming from the thing making a hole in ceiling. Whatever it was, it was cutting through a foot of reinforced concrete like it was soft cheese.

The circle complete, the bright spot vanished. For a few moments, there was dead silence, then with an almighty crash, a disk of concrete six feet across and a foot thick dropped into the gallery, crushing several of the displays. Into the hole stepped… a human shape, his figure concealed in flame. Instead of falling, he floated down, landing gently on the shattered concrete, ignoring the weapons pointed at him. The air rippled with the heat he was giving off; even at the edge of the room it was like standing at the mouth of a blast furnace. The sound was like the flicker of a candle flame multiplied by a thousand; a flag rippling in a strong wind.

The nearest cop exchanged glances with the others nearby, then stepped forward, clearing his throat nervously. "Stay where you are! You're under arrest!"

The man-fire-thing laughed. "How are you gonna arrest me? You can't even get close enough to cuff me." He held his hands out obligingly, offering them for the handcuffs. The cop holstered his gun and took out his handcuffs, prepared to give it a try, but could only approach another step before he was forced to fall back, his hands and face turning a painful red and the cuffs of his uniform jacket beginning to smolder. He tossed the cuffs to the man's feet. "Put them on, then."

The fiery figure stooped to pick up the cuffs, holding them in his outstretched hand, as the tempered steel began to glow red and sag like soft butter on a hot day. "Ooops. Looks like you're outta luck." He tossed the mangled lumps to the cop's feet.

I'd seen enough; I hit him with the firehose. The effect was gratifying; it killed his flame and knocked him on his ass. I kept the hose on him, rolling him across the floor to the base of the stage before I cut the flow. I had no intention of giving him a chance to re-light, or whatever it was he did. "Cuff him and frisk him!" I shouted. Another of the cops was quick to comply, cuffing his hands behind his back, while I took a good look at our thief.

It was just a teenager, a scrawny kid. He was tall and lanky, like he'd just put on some height, and hadn't grown into it yet. He had a mass of carrot-orange hair with the pale skin and freckles to match, and as they dragged him to his feet he tossed his head to get the wet hair out of his eyes, in a curiously girlish way. There wasn't much for them to frisk; a bright yellow tank top over a pair of black chinos; sneakers on his feet. No piercings, no jewelry; not even a watch.

"Nothing in his pockets, Detective."

I frowned at that. What the hell lit him up, then? "What's your name, kid?"

The kid grinned breezily. "Tell you what, I'll trade ya. What's yours?" he asked.

I studied him suspiciously. Something didn't ring true. The kid wasn't acting like a kid. Even tough little punks should be nervous, caught in the act, cuffed and surrounded by cops like he was. He acted like he was still in control. String him along. "I'm Detective Hunter. And you are…?"

"You can call me Heatstroke. I got a message for you, Hunter."

I readied my grip on the nozzle, ready to soak him down again at the slightest provocation. "Oh, yeah? From who?"

"Tony Carpaci says hi. Oh, and he wants me to kill you."

My eyes narrowed. "Like you killed Hillary Carstairs for him."

The kid shrugged modestly. "That was quick. He wants yours to be slow."

I snorted. "Yeah, I get that a lot. And what's he paying you for this?"

"I get to keep the jewels." The kid's grin was getting on my nerves.

My eyes widened in mock surprise, "Wow, I'm worth that much? What did he pay you for the hit on Carstairs?"

He sighed. "That was a freebie, kind of a proof of concept. Tonight's heist should cover my fee for both you and Carstairs." He leaned towards me. "Tony doesn't really think I can steal the jewels, " he confided.

I chuckled. "Kid, I don't think you can, either." Time to wipe that smirk off his face. I reached for my radio and switched it to speaker. "You getting all this, angel?"

Dolores' voice crackled. "Loud and clear, Detective. Audio and video. Clear confession to the murder of a grand jury witness, conspiracy to grand theft for the jewel heist, implication of Tony Carpaci to both. Should be in the morning papers, if you hurry up in there."

The kid paled, but it looked to me like he was still figuring the odds. Too cocky. What am I missing? On a hunch, I spoke to Dolores. "Make sure that what you have is backed up to Police HQ."

"Already going out, as we speak."

That got to him. I could see the anger rise in his eyes, but he surprised me again. He laughed. "Oh, you're good. Carpaci warned me about you." He pulled himself up to his full height, and cocked his hip, sticking out his skinny chest at me, a bizarrely feminine pose. "I'll tell ya what, Detective Dan Hunter. If I can't steal the jewels, I won't kill you."

I ignored the threat, studying his face, his strange body language. "You're no kid. What are you?"

For the first time, the kid's attitude cracked. "I'm still figuring that part out, " he admitted.

I chuckled. "You'll have a lot of time for that."

Then he took a deep breath, and the crack in his attitude sealed shut. Smiling nastily, and with a foosh sound like a gas jet igniting, he burst into flame, molten handcuffs dropping to the floor behind him.

How does he do that? I twisted the nozzle on the firehose, but he was quicker; his arm shot out and a fireball erupted from his outstretched hand, severing the hose far behind me, where the escaping water made it flop and twist like a headless snake. I could feel my face and hands start to blister from his sudden heat, and I dove away, rolling behind one of the exhibit cases.

Shots rang out as the other cops opened fire, but the bullets just seemed to flare up and evaporate before they could get close enough bother him. He laughed and gestured with his arm, and a wall of fire appeared across the entrance to the gallery, trapping us in and keeping reinforcements out. The air was so hot it hurt to breathe it in, like we were standing in an oven. Everything was giving off acrid fumes as it began to burn or melt, filling the air with a noxious black smoke, making us cough and retch; I was sure I was sweating; but it was evaporating so quickly my skin felt parched.

Lifting gently into the air, the kid set down on the stage, next to the sphere. He placed his hands on the crystal, and his hands glowed even more brightly. Astonishingly, the sphere appeared to resist his attack. He seemed as surprised as anyone; but he braced himself, and bowed his head, redoubling his efforts. The wooden platform quickly charred and then burst into flame around him, but he paid it no attention, and this time, the crystal appeared to be softening.

The other cops and I were pressed into the corner by this time; as far from the searing heat as we could manage. Most of us were showing signs of pretty serious burns on our exposed skin; even our clothes were starting to singe, metal buckles and fasteners beginning to scorch anything they touched. I kept my eyes closed as much as I could, squinting when I had to see; they felt like they'd been dragged through ground glass.

One of the men screamed in pain as the ammunition in his gun began to detonate, and hurriedly we all divested ourselves of our guns and ammunition. I removed the ammunition clip from my gun and the spare from my shoulder holster. I looked thoughtfully at the clips for a second, weighing them in my hand, though they were already dangerously hot. "Take cover!" I shouted to the men, and flung both clips at the kid. The clips spun end over end through the air, and as they reached within a few feet of the blazing form, began to melt, just as the bullets had -- and then the cartridges began to explode, like deadly firecrackers, sending bullets and shrapnel in all directions.

The stunt was only partially successful; the kid cried out in pain and clutched his leg, his flame flickering briefly. He gestured angrily and another wall of flame flashed into existence between him and the cops, pinning them in the corner with its terrible searing fury, leaving them screaming and writhing in agony as their flesh began to sizzle and blacken and split. And oh, dear God, the smell...

I'd narrowly escaped being trapped with them; I was crawling through the smoke in search of something. My lower legs and feet were in agony, skin blistered and peeling. Finally, I came across what I had been searching for; the chemical fire extinguisher I'd brought in. It was much to hot to touch, the skin of my fingers wanted to stick to it. It would explode any second, I was sure, but somehow I climbed to my feet, howling in rage and desperation and defiance, and I managed to hurl the thing at the stage, before collapsing into a display case and onto the floor.

The heavy extinguisher exploded in a most gratifying way; some of the shrapnel managed to penetrate the heat shield to strike the kid -- but more importantly, coating everything in the area with a thick layer of fire-retardant foam.

The kid shrieked as a glowing-hot shard of metal punctured his side, and his flame died, smothered in foam. "Hunter, you son of a bitch! Where are you!" Wiping foam from his face, he scanned the room for me, but the display case was sufficient cover for the moment. The horrible screaming from the men in the corner had died away, finally. I was grateful that their suffering had ended, and expected to join them soon enough.

He probed tenderly at the metal in his side, wincing, and cursing impressively. I couldn't tell how deeply it had penetrated; with any luck, he'd bleed to death, but then luck wasn't my strong suit this hand. There was a growing red stain on his yellow shirt; I'd have to be content with that. He did his best to rid himself of the foam, even so, it seemed to take enormous effort before he could re-ignite. He turned back to the jewels, the crystal sphere clearly indented where it had softened under his hands, but the blazing form seemed to slump, recognizing he had neither the time nor the strength to finish the task. "You win, Hunter," he called to the room, turning in place, still looking for me. "But you lose, too. I'm going to kill you now."

He rose slowly into the air, one hand clasped to his wounded side, turning slowly to try and locate me. I lay as still as I could, struggling to get the poisonous air into my scorched lungs without coughing. The rock from the shattered display case lay next to my head. The card said,

ANTARCTIC METEORITE

Possible Martian Origin

The stone was giving off a greenish gas as it heated. Somehow the gas soothed my burnt face and throat. I breathed it deeply, trying to get air into my dying lungs.

Finally he stopped, facing my direction. "I seeeeee youuuuuu, " he called. He began to drift upwards to the hole he'd cut in the ceiling. Just as he was about to rise out of sight, his hand shot out towards me, and my universe ended in a fireball, screaming.

He kept his promise; it was slow. It took almost a minute to burn to death.

~o~O~o~

I don't know how long I'd been unconscious, but the room was still in flames. Somehow it seemed better lit than before, though the primary source of light seemed to be the burning stage, and even that wasn't burning with much vigor, now the kid was gone. The smoke was still thick, any electrical light fixtures had been destroyed by the heat -- the room should have been in almost total darkness despite the flames, but the darkness wasn't impenetrable anymore. It was more like a shadow on a sunny day. Even the smoke was transparent, like a wavering heat mirage.

The walls of flame cast by Heatstroke were gone; perhaps they could only last while he was nearby to feed them, however he did it. There were men in heavy fireproof suits and respirator masks, some spraying down the flames with hoses, while others searched the room with powerful flashlights. Firefighters. It made no sense to me why they'd need more light.

I climbed woozily to my feet, feeling dazed and lightheaded. At some point one of the heavy wall display cases had fallen on top of me, but it moved without effort as I pushed it away. I was about to call to the nearest fireman -- I don't know why he couldn't see me -- but stopped to brush something out of my face.

A lock of hair. Long hair. Long red hair. I have brown hair. Short hair. Whitewall ears kind of short. This was very long, and very red. I tugged on it. And very attached to my head.

And my hand wasn't my hand. It was too small, for one thing. For another thing, it was green. Green hand, connected to a green arm, connected to a green --

Remain calm. I have green tits. I made my little green hand grope one, experimentally. Yes, mine.

I have naked green tits. Just the two, as far as I could tell. I guess that was something.

I have long red hair and small green hands and naked green tits. And long green legs that went all the way down to little green toes. And between my legs…

Nothing. Well, not the thing I used to have there, anyway. At least it wasn't green. What I did have down there seemed to go well with the tits. Whatever color it might be just didn't seem important at the moment. But it was naked, too.

Situation report, Hunter!

Sir! I seem to be a guh… A g-guh…

My mind wanted to shy away from the thought, but I forced myself to face it head on.

I seem to be a guh-- green person, sir! Of the naked female persuasion!

I decided I really didn't want to be seen just yet, and dropped to my knees. My eyes fell on the rock sample, the meteor from Mars. I recalled breathing the gas. Could it have caused this? There was no doubt in my mind I was dead; the memories of my fiery death were far too vivid; it simply wasn't possible I could have survived it.

Who ever heard of an after-death hallucination?

Duh, who ever would hear of an after-death hallucination?

So… the gas from Mars rock made me dream I'm a little green man -- err, woman? I didn't feel like I was that small, not cartoon alien small. I placed my hand on the rock, then picked up the half-melted label card that had gone with it. I measured my little green hand against it, spreading my new slim fingers. It was maybe a foot wide. My fingers still reached more than halfway across; I judged I was still person-sized at least, though certainly smaller than I had been.

If I'm dead, where's my body?

I had no problem at all finding where it should have been, I was kneeling on the spot. I found charred scraps of my clothing; my belt buckle, warped and discolored by the heat with a bit of leather still attached. Pieces of shoe leather, scorched and brittle. Assorted bits from my shoulder holster, half-melted coins from my pockets, my car keys, now fused together into a jagged mass. My police badge, now a barely recognizable blob. My wallet, credit cards melted and maybe fifty bucks in cash half-burned.

I'd investigated fires before. I knew what should be here. But there wasn't. No burnt teeth, no bits of bone shattered by the heat -- I knew what had happened, I'd lived it -- hell, I'd died it. Anything hot enough to leave no trace of my body, wouldn't have left fabric and leather behind.

Hypothesis 1: You're dying and somebody else's life is flashing before your eyes. Somebody green, female, and naked. In which case let's string this out as long as we can, because as interesting as this looks, I'm really not gonna like how it ends.

Hypothesis 2: You're dead, and you're green, female, and naked. Would that put me in heaven, or hell? I would assume heaven would have a better Welcome Wagon. Best to play it safe until I knew more.

Hypothesis 3: You're not dead, and it's not a dream. You're green, female, and naked. And in the middle of a mass murder scene, all of them cops, ordered by the Cartel boss, no less, with a completely ludicrous story for which I have not a shred of evidence. There was no way I'd be allowed to just stroll out of here. Best to play it safe until I knew more.

So, a plan. Get out. Get dressed. Get home.

Getting out wasn't nearly as hard as I expected. I slid around the edge of the room towards the door, dodging the firemen -- I began to realize that the room really was dark to them. As long as I stayed out of their way, I was pretty safe. Besides, who's going to admit to catching a glimpse of a naked green woman in the shadows, while on duty?

Getting out the doorway and into the hall was trickier, as they were bringing in more lights, and it was busier there. It took a few moments, but eventually I made it, dashing across the hall for the stairwell. The stairwell door must have been weakened by the heat -- it came off of the hinges as I shoved it open, making a huge clamor as it slid down the stairs. I had no choice but to rush up the stairs to the third floor, but that worked out for the best; the cops assigned to guard duty had been recalled, and it was easy to make my way across to a stairwell on the opposite side of the building.

Back down the stairs to the first floor, I smiled in satisfaction as I stuck my head out and confirmed my navigation. I was in the back part of the museum, a kind of warehouse area, near the loading dock. The back door to the gift shop was right across the hall. Locked, of course. I rummaged around the loading bay looking for something I could use to open the door, and eventually discovered a screwdriver in the toolkit of a forklift truck.

Which was of exactly zero use, as all the hinges to these kind of doors are on the inside. Frustrated, I slammed my hand against the door.

It buckled. The steel door buckled. My little green hand felt fine. The door buckled.

What are you? I'm still figuring that part out.

This isn't the time to think about it. Get dressed. Get home. I hit the door again.

Inside the shop, I quickly sorted through the t-shirts and settled on a man's large size, which covered me almost to my knees. It had an outline of a fossilized Tyrannosaurus head and the words 'Bite Me', which somehow seemed to suit my mood.

I covered the otherwise tent-like fit with a hooded jacket, which would cover my hair and help to hide my face. I had a lot of hair, I realized as I slipped the t-shirt on over my head and pulled my hair out through the collar. And pulled. And pulled. Eventually I got it out and it swung free, hanging down to the top of my ass. I have a green butt.

It was lousy couture, but it was less obvious than a naked green woman on the street, and it would have to do. I slunk out the back by the loading docks, relieved that the storm had finally arrived in force, bringing some heavy rain. It was pitch black, on a moonless night, pouring rain -- and I could see as well as at high noon on a sunny day. Better, even. I discovered that if I wanted to, I could focus on details there was no way I should be able to see. Like the recommended inflation pressure off a tire on a car two blocks away. A moving car. Thirty-five P.S.I. Do not overinflate.

Keep moving. Figure it out when you get home.

The rest was easy. Walk two blocks in the pouring rain to my car, keeping to the shadows when I could. I kept a spare key under the dash -- yeah, I know, but in my line of work I'm always losing keys, besides the car looked like crap, nobody was going to want to steal it -- drive home, park in the garage. I'd put in a set of numeric entry code locks -- always losing keys -- so I was inside in a jiffy.

Now what?

I'd been thinking about this on the way home. I needed help, of course. A woman's help, which narrowed it down somewhat. I needed Dolores, and she needed to know I probably wasn't dead. At a minimum, we'd find out if my hallucination was shared, or not.

I called her cell number, and let it ring. I doubted she'd answer it -- even if she wasn’t on duty, five cops had died tonight, with mothers and wives and children, and nobody was going off-duty just because their shift was over.

So I was surprised when it stopped ringing. "Parker, hello?"

I'd thought about what I needed to say. "I have a message from Steptoe. He's alive, but it's best to let them think he's dead for now. It's… it's complicated. He needs to meet ASAP, his place." At the last moment, I added, "Keep an open mind."

'Steptoe' was an inside joke, a nickname related to my dancing prowess. Lack of it, actually. Hopefully it would authenticate the message.

The sound of my voice distracted me briefly, it was definitely feminine, a gentle soprano.

"I-I understand." I thought I detected a note of relief in her voice, before she hung up.

With that out of the way, I needed to stop thinking for awhile. I staggered to the bedroom, shrugged off my wet clothes -- strange how I hadn't felt chilled at all, in the air-conditioned house -- and collapsed on the bed. I think I was asleep before I hit the pillow.

I awoke to the sound of somebody coming in the front door. The sun was up, but still low in the sky; I'd slept maybe two hours, but I felt energized and refreshed. Oh, God. It's not enough that I have to be green. I'm a morning person, too?

I sat up -- or tried to, I was tangled in hair. I ended up falling out of bed, with a squeal and a loud thump. I did not just squeal. It just gets better and better.

"Dan?" Dolores called. I could hear her footsteps approaching the bedroom.

In a panic, I called, "Wait! Don't come in here --" but she was already in the doorway, gaping at my clumsy efforts to roll off of my damn hair and stand up. I sighed, "Never mind."

Dolores' mouth worked for a few moments, but no sound came out. For a few moments after that, the sounds were pretty incoherent.

"Who are --"

"But you're gree -- "

"Where's -- "

But when she finally put it together, it was worth it.

"Dan?"

It was my turn to gape. "How did you know? I couldn't figure out how I could explai -- how did you know?"

She giggled at my expression. "Well, I didn't know, it was more of an educated guess, really." She began to count on her fingers. "One. Your message. Dan's not dead but let them think he is." She sighed unhappily. "Trust me. They think you are. It's all on tape, up until that fireball hit. That was… very hard… to watch." She wrapped her arms around herself, fighting off tears for a moment. She straightened. "You definitely should be dead. But you weren't. The message had to be real, it was from 'Steptoe'. And I have caller ID, of course. The call came from your phone. So you weren't.

"Two. You said 'It's complicated'. One look at you, and yeah, 'complicated' was one word that occurred to me." She gave me a pained smile.

"Three. You're filthy. Have you even noticed? You're covered in soot. You stink of… of that place. We could smell the fire from the street. You were there, you had to be."

"Four. Have you seen a mirror? C'mere." She took my hand and led me to the bathroom. There was a full length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. She closed the door and I stood in front of her, looking at our reflections. I shorter than Dolores by a few inches; she could peek over my head into the mirror.

"Hoooh, boy…" I gasped. I saw what she meant -- if I'd had a stunningly beautiful little sister, and she was green, she'd have looked like that girl in the mirror. Streaks of black soot covered my cheeks and forehead, but somehow I could see the family resemblance to my old face, but not in any one feature. The nose was smaller, with a slight upturn, the eyes were still brown -- not green! -- but a little larger in proportion. The chin was similar, but much less pronounced, and the new me had cheekbones the old me never saw. The mouth managed to capture the shape and expression of the old me, although the lips were much fuller and softer. I opened my mouth, and ran my tongue along them experimentally. My tongue was as pink, and my teeth as white as any toothpaste model's.

Then, there was the hair. It was as red as the rest of me was green. Not an auburn, not orange. Red. Long, with a wave to it that made it seem to ripple in the light. It was a filthy as the rest of me -- Dolores was right, I was really grubby -- but somehow it didn't seem matted or tangled. I combed it with my fingers, and they ran through it as smooth as flowing water.

The rest of me was every bit as feminine as the face. Overall, the new me looked slim and athletic, muscular without being bulky. My breasts were high and firm, with areolae and nipples a darker green. A flat stomach and narrow waist, curving into generous hips and backside. Legs that were lean and sleek, and went on forever.

I raised a hand to my face, wonderingly. "I-I'm just a kid…" My eyes met Dolores' in the mirror. "How old do I look to you?"

She studied me appraisingly for a few moments. "As-is, I'd say maybe sixteen. With the right outfit, you could pass for eighteen or twenty."

Thirty years. I've lost thirty years.

I sat on the edge of the tub. "Great. I'm a minor. I'm not even old enough to live by myself. What am I gonna do?"

Dolores tugged me to my feet, and turned me around to face the tub. "First, you're going to get clean. Then we'll get you some clothes. In between, we'll think." She drew the shower curtain and began running the water for me.

It seemed like my new body came with a non-stick coating. No sooner had I stepped under the shower -- I didn't have to duck my head under anymore, I could just stand under the shower -- than the water began running black down the drain; the soot just refused to stick. The same thing happened with my hair, one rinse -- although that was far from a trivial thing, there was so much of it -- and it felt squeaky clean. I washed and shampooed just in case, but I didn't notice any particular improvement. I didn't own any conditioner, but I was pretty sure I'd never need it. Even wet, my hair just refused to tangle.

In the privacy of the shower I had the opportunity to explore my new body to its fullest -- and chickened out. I did spend a little more time washing certain areas than strictly necessary, and judging from my body's responses I was sure that further attention to those areas would be warmly received. But no way was I ready yet.

I thought about some of the things I'd taken for granted since I'd changed; and out of curiosity began adjusting the shower so that it became increasingly hot. Finally it was as hot as it could go, filling the bathroom with thick clouds of steam. I stood there, scalding water running down my upturned face -- and though I could recognize the temperature as scalding hot, it caused me no pain. After a minute, I flipped the lever the other way, all the way to the opposite, full-on cold water. Again, I could recognize the water was cold, but it didn't so much as raise a goosebump.

Finally, I turned the water off, and got another surprise. Water didn't stick to me either. By the time I drew the shower curtain back and stepped out onto the mat, I was almost completely dry, even my hair. I wiped fog off the mirror, and gazed at my reflection. Get used to what you see, kid. I've got a feeling you'll be stuck with it a while. If only you weren't so damned green!

I sighed and tried to imagine how I might have looked with a more passable skin tone. I think I'd have been an outdoorsy kind of girl. I'd have a slight tan, a healthy color, not too dark…a few freckles dusted across my nose…some color in my cheeks… I nodded in satisfaction as the girl in the mirror obligingly assumed a more reasonable skin color, then I yelped at what I was seeing. "Doloreeeeeees!"

I met her in the hall. "Please tell me I'm not imagining things..."

She goggled at me. "You're not green anymore!"

I grinned and flung my arms around her, giving her a bear hug. "Thank goodne--"

Dolores screamed.

I let her go and she collapsed to the ground. "What's the matter? What's wrong?"

She gave me a glare and climbed slowly to her feet. "Y-you squeeze pretty hard, for a little brat."

The enormity of what had just happened finally hit me. "Oh! Dolores, oh, angel, I'm so sorry. I could have killed you."

She tenderly drew a deep breath, one hand feeling carefully along her rib cage. "Just bruises, I think. By the way, you're green again. What other surprises have you got? Maybe you'd better tell me everything."

"I kinda lost hold of my skin color when you screamed." I helped her to the couch and we sat while I told her everything I could remember, up to my experience in the shower.

"So… you don't hurt easily, your vision is better than good. You're incredibly strong, and you can change your skin color. Plus, you're perma-press and stain resistant. That cover it?"

I nodded. "So far, anyway. Well, that plus the whole green teenaged girl thing." I added. "Can you help me, doc?" I grinned.

She laughed. "Help you? Hell, I'd trade places with you, in a second."

I stiffened, and shook my head. "Really? Angel, I'm dead. Remember? That wasn't faked -- I burned to death a few hours ago. I felt every second of it. You'd think I'd get some time off, but noooo, here I am. Why? I own nothing, not even a stitch of clothing. I have no identity, I don't exist, no birth certificate, no education I can prove, no money. No chance at a job, unless you count circus freak. Have you really thought about it? Because that all I've been thinking about and I can't live here for long, and I have no place to go, and I'm in the wrong body, and I c-can't get used to this goddamn hair an-and I-I'm j-just so f-fucking g-green…"

She pulled me to her chest as I broke down, wrapping her arms around me and rocking as I just cried it out. "Shush baby, I'm here, you're not alone. I'm sorry, I can't imagine what you've been through… we'll figure it out…"

I hadn't cried and been comforted like since I was maybe six years old. I discovered I missed it. Eventually I straightened up, wiping my eyes with the backs of my hands, and sniffling. I gave her an apologetic smile. "I-I'm sorry. I don't know where that came from… but it helped."

She looked at me fondly, and stroked my cheek. "One of the benefits of being a girl, kiddo. Welcome to the sorority. Now, how about you make us some breakfast, I have an idea I want to check out on that obsolete lump you call a computer."

I went and got one of my old dress shirts and rolled up the sleeves; it covered me to my knees and would do for cooking duty. I felt like a child doing fingerpainting in one of daddy's old shirts. I closed my eyes for a moment, and changed my skin to a more normal tone again, just to see how long I could make it last.

I scared up some scrambled eggs and toast while Dolores disappeared into the spare bedroom where I kept the computer. I poured the last of the orange juice and set the whole thing on a tray and carried it in to her.

"Oh, excellent timing. I think I can help with the whole ID thing. Love the skin, by the way." I set the tray on a TV table and pulled up a chair to watch her work her magic. "I'm looking at the coroner's records; recent unclaimed female bodies between the ages of sixteen and nineteen. Not Jane Does, these girls all have perfectly valid records. One too many valid records, unfortunately, the last one being a death certificate. Unclaimed means, no family. "

We traded seats and she spooned some scrambled egg on toast while I browsed. "How do you get away with this?" I asked in amazement. She smiled smugly and spoke around a mouthful of food. "Hey, I'm a cop. People trust us for some reason. You'd be surprised how many useful passwords I come across. I just… preserve them." She glanced meaningfully at a memory stick sitting on the table.

I just shook my head and went back to shopping for a new identity. Finally I'd narrowed it down. "This one."

We traded seats again and she inspected my selection. "Ah, good choice. Seventeen, that'll work. Not a high school grad, but you can say you were homeschooled, and take the Equivalency exam. In and out of foster homes, runaway at fifteen." She tsked sadly. "Poor thing was working the streets, but no arrests. Died of a heroin overdose."

She worked for another hour, erasing all trace of the unfortunate girl's death, stopping only for bites of egg on toast. I realized I hadn't touched any food, and didn't especially feel the need. It wasn't that I lost my appetite, more like I had no appetite to lose. I tried some egg, and a sip of juice, experimentally. They tasted fine, but I felt no inclination to eat anything more. What are you? I'm still figuring that part out.

Dolores sat back, and hit the enter key with a flourish. "It's done. The death cert's been issued to another name, and the records of the poor girl's burial are under that same name." She said briskly. "Replacement birth certificate and Social Security card should be in the mail shortly." She grinned. "Pleased to meet you, Megan Morse."

"Megan Morse…" I tried the name on for size, and decided it fit. Then I blinked. "In the mail? To where? Did you set up a post office box?"

She gave me an exasperated look. "Where do you think? You're a minor, you can't be out there all alone. It's dangerous. You live with your Aunt Dolores now."

That was enough to make me tear up again. "Oh, angel, I can't ask that of you, now that… I'm not… Dan anymore." I couldn't imagine how hard it had been to watch me die, then to have false hope that I was alive, only to have this whole confusing mess tossed into her lap. She'd lost a lover and gained a niece. It didn't seem like a fair exchange, but I was kind of biased.

She was tearing up, too. She opened her arms for a hug, and I let her enfold me. "Sweetie, I'm not saying it won't be easy… I don't know how it will work out… but you're still my Dan, I won't leave you." The hug was comfortable; we just enjoyed it for a while, a lessening of shared pain.

Finally she sniffled and let out a little laugh. "I guess we can get a fold-out couch for you, till we can move to a larger apartment."

I coughed. "Ah… actually. I'd been meaning to tell you for a while. You're going to inherit this place. My will leaves everything to you."

She grabbed my shoulders and held me at arm's length. "Say what?"

I shrugged uncomfortably. "After my mom died last year, I had to re-do my will. I kind of named you… I thought it made sense, since…" Too late, my brain kicked into gear, and I shut the hell up.

Dolores looked at me dangerously. "Since…?"

I drew a deep breath, and finished it. "Since I was going to ask you to marry me anyway."

Her expression was unreadable. "You were… how long were you planning to wait?"

I shook my head. "I wasn't planning to wait… I was just.. waiting for the right time." I winced, knowing how incredibly stupid that sounded, now that the right time was gone forever. "I had the ring and everything." I sighed, and admitted my craven cowardice. "I wasn't… sure you wanted marriage... I was afraid I'd mess things up."

Dolores' expression hadn't changed, her eyes were still searching my face. "You had a ring… I will see this ring."

I scrambled to my bedroom to fetch the box from my dresser, and back again. I had a feeling I knew where this was going. I got down on one knee, and presented the opened box to her. "Dolores, I love you with all my heart. I-I wish I'd asked you when this made sense, but… I want you to have this."

She took the ring with shaking hands, and slipped it on to her ring finger. Tears were running down her cheeks. Her words weren't meant for the new me, but for the ghost of the old me. "Oh, D-Dan… I w-would have m-married you any time you asked… you big stu-stupid b-bastard…"

She wrapped her arms around her pain, hunched over, her face contorted with grief, her sobs coming in silent gasps. I'd lost my life, but somehow I was still here; but Dolores had lost a lover, and now a fiance, and a dream of a husband, kids, and a white picket fence, and they were gone forever. Helpless, I tried to comfort her, but she would have none of it; she pushed me away and staggered to the bed, where she curled up in a ball and sobbed inconsolably.

I left her, angry at whatever had done this to us, and frustrated at my inability to offer her any comfort. I glared at my little hands, now decently flesh-toned, at least. Why did I turn into a girl? What kind of joke was this? I imagined them how they used to be, large, boney, with knuckles scarred from brawling, coarse hair starting just below the wrists, and spreading up the arms.

And they changed.

Startled, I waved them around a bit, I must have looked a bit like Popeye with his incongruously large fists. I closed my eyes and imagined my whole body as it had been just yesterday; taller, broader, muscular. My nose, broken long ago in college football. The scar along my ribs, my big hairy feet, the wrinkles around my eyes. Short brown hair, refusing to lie flat. And the parts that made me male.

I could feel that it was working, but I felt stretched to the limit, like a balloon skin about to pop. This shape was too much larger than my normal shape to hold for long, but I resolved to make it last as long as I could. The shirt that covered my Megan-shape to her knees now fitted as it should, and I undid the buttons as I knocked on the door frame, and I sat awkwardly on the bed. Was I doing the right thing?

"Um… I, uh… I can't keep this shape for very long, but I thought…"

She eyed me warily, her eyes puffy and red. "Dan?"

"Uh, yeah?"

"Shut up."

And she pulled me down and kissed me, and I kissed her, and we kissed each other. And for awhile we just held each other and said our unspoken goodbyes, and then we made love for the last time, and I held her as she cried herself to sleep, and for some time after that.

Dolores had been up all night, and been on an exhausting emotional ride, so I let her sleep. I passed the time experimenting with my abilities. I discovered I could imagine myself clothed, and somehow my body would produce clothing that looked and felt like fabric. The problem was, it wouldn't come off -- I couldn't remove a jacket, or kick off my shoes, for example, so it had its limitations.

I found that I could maintain minor shape changes like skin or clothing almost indefinitely; although I did have to focus a small corner of my mind on holding it. The larger the change, the more I had to concentrate. A male shape tended to be harder than a female shape of the same size. I could shrink to about three feet tall, and my Dan shape was about as tall as I could get, a few inches over six feet. Being Dan for any length of time was actively uncomfortable. Not actually painful -- nothing was actively painful -- just requiring more concentration, like balancing on a rope. If I lost focus for even a second I'd revert. I suspected this was a muscle that would improve with exercise, and I intended to exercise it.

I entertained myself by designing an outfit for my green form, something suitable for the public appearances I had in mind. Bay City, meet the Martian Manhunter. Okay, it was a stupid name, but it fit the bill and would do until I could think of a better one. It's not like I was getting business cards printed up, or anything.

I knew about comic book heroes and secret identities; if anyone needed one it would be me. I tweaked my Megan shape a bit, making her a little taller and a bit slimmer, and giving her shorter hair, in a light brown shade. I didn't want anyone looking at Megan and being reminded of my other form. Then I practiced switching between Megan and my default shape in her outfit, until I knew each form well enough that could do it without having to focus on every detail.

Then I did the same thing with my Dan shape. I'd spare Dolores as much as I could, but Detective Dan Hunter had a fearsome reputation on the street that could only be improved by being dead. It was too good an option to pass up.

Then I watched TV, because she was still asleep and I was bored as hell. That was when I saw the news clip on this woman named Jade talking about metahumans.

Now you tell us.

---

Out of the Ashes, Part 2

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. Dolores studied me for a moment. "You're going out there, aren't you? That's what this is about," she asked quietly. I nodded slowly, wanting her approval. "How can I not?" I asked. "Heatstroke is another metahuman, has to be. There's only a few of us in the whole world, can we really assume somebody else will just show up to take him on? He killed five cops, Dolores. He's going to own this city. And he works for the Cartel. You can be sure he won't be the only metahuman to go bad." "And what will you do after that?" "I'll go after the Carpaci family. With me dead, the D.A.'s whole case falls apart. They'll be rubbing his nose in it."

---

The large room was dimly lit. The sole occupant stood at one end of the boardroom table, his perspiring features illuminated by a small spot lamp. A bank of video monitors covered the entire wall opposite; configured to form an single enormous display.

"I can report that Crime Cartel will be resuming shipments well ahead of schedule, Director," Anthony Carpaci mopped his brow.

The perspiration was in large part due to the stern visage displayed on the screen at the other end of the room. The voice was unimpressed. "And the backlog?"

"Ah. Well, there were unexpected developments, but we are working to resolve them as soon as --"

"Do so. I'm keeping your file on my desk, Mr. Carpaci. I'm disappointed. You would be well advised to have some progress to report next time. If you are unable to meet your commitments, you will be replaced with someone who can. Intergang has no patience with failures. I trust I am making myself sufficiently clear?"

"Ah, erm, perfectly clear, Director."

"Good. We're done here." The screen went dark.

~o~O~o~

Dolores found me in the basement, lifting weights. "Oh, here you are." She stood at the top of the stairs, and flipped on the lights before coming down.

I'd not even noticed the room had been dark. "Hey, sleepyhead."

She came over and enfolded me in her arms. I returned the hug. It was still a little disorienting; yesterday, I'd been a guy. That was before I died, and woke up as a teenage girl. The green kind. With powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men.

That sort of thing takes a lot of getting used to. Plus, I was short.

I hadn't been the shorter participant in a hug since I took DeeDee Sommers to the eighth grade prom. It felt nice to be able to rest my head against her shoulder. Then and now.

She kissed the top of my head. "Thank you for.. what you did. I'll miss Dan -- I miss him so much already -- but I know it's for the best that we let him die. I know you're still him, and can be him, but… I don't need a shrink to see that can't be healthy. For either of us." She sighed heavily. "You were so right, it's complicated… This… is going to take a lot of sorting out, for both of us. It won't happen overnight. I want you to know I still love you."

I nodded, still hugging her close. "I know, angel -- Auntie. I love you too. And I know how much I need your help. Thank you for being here for me."

She squeezed me one more time, and gave me another affectionate kiss before releasing me. "Now, what have you been doing down here, green girl? Besides dressing up in fetish wear."

I grinned abashedly down at the outfit I'd come up with. A teal one-piece garment, cut high at the hips, and rising up to my neck, kind of like a racing swimsuit done in leather, and fitting so closely, well, it fit like it was a part of my skin. Because it was, of course. Thigh-high leather boots, in a shade of red to match my long hair, with heels that I was still a little wobbly on. A belt encircled my waist, and crossed between my breasts, to reach over my shoulders, crossing again at the small of my back to join with the belt again. In red, to match the boots. "Well, I got tired of being naked…"

She nodded skeptically. "Uh-huh. We'll come back to that. Not exactly Edna Mode, but nice colors for you. What were you doing when I came down?"

"I was just figuring something out. Watch this." I leaned over and picked up my weights with one hand. Not some weights. I just grabbed the rack and picked up the whole set, holding it out at arm's length. "This is the heaviest thing I could find in the house, it's a five-hundred pound set. It's nowhere close to my limit, as far as I can tell. What's wrong with this picture?"

Dolores gaped. "Ummm, well, besides the fact that you're small and green, and lifting those weights like they were balloons, I'm not sure what you're getting at…"

I grinned. "How much should I weigh, maybe a hundred ten, hundred twenty pounds? I don't know what I do weigh, but it's sure not as much as the weights, or we'd have noticed by now. So… why don't I fall over?"

She blinked. "Ahhhh, good point. Why don't you fall over?"

"I've got a theory, but there's more. Why isn't the rack bending? It's sturdy, but it was meant to support all that weight on a solid floor. Lifting it up by one end should make it collapse like a house of cards, but it's not."

Dolores nodded slowly. "I see what you mean. Your theory?"

I carefully set the rack down, and flexed my arm. "I'm not lifting it with this, I'm lifting it with this." I pointed to my head. "Oh, I'm pretty sure my new muscles are stronger than they look, but I'm not sure how much stronger. Because most of the force is coming from my mind."

Part of what I loved about her, she catches on quick. "So… if that was true… why can't you lift stuff from across the room?" She'd already deduced that I couldn't. Because if I could, I would have shown her already.

I shrugged. "I don't know. As far as I can tell, I need to be trying to lift it, and it lifts. I've tried touching something, and willing it to lift, but that doesn't work either." I shook my head. "I need to think about it some more. One thing I can lift, though, once I'd figured it out…" I waited for her to bite.

Dolores raised an eyebrow. "Okay, I give. What."

I grinned in triumph. "Me." I lifted myself up, hovering about a foot off the ground. "Now check this out." I picked up the rack again. "See what I mean? No way is it just muscles lifting this." I settled back to the floor, and set the rack down.

I looked up at her awestruck expression, and gave her a moment. "I think I know what I am now." I continued softly.

I explained what I'd seen on the news, about Jade, and metahumans. "I'm guessing the metagene thing popped just before I died. It's supposed to transform you, but I guess by then I was so badly burned there was nothing to work with. Somehow, it was able to use that gas from the Mars rock, and rebuild me -- this me, anyway -- and here I am. Some of my abilities are inherent in my Martian body -- the shapeshifting, of course, and a lot of the damage resistance, maybe the ability to see so well -- and something in my head enhances those and adds to them."

Dolores studied me for a moment. "You're going out there, aren't you? That's what this is about," she asked quietly.

I nodded slowly, wanting her approval. "How can I not?" I asked. "Heatstroke is another metahuman, has to be. There's only a few of us in the whole world, can we really assume somebody else will just show up to take him on? He killed five cops, Dolores. He's going to own this city. And he works for the Cartel. You can be sure he won't be the only metahuman to go bad."

"And what will you do after that?"

"I'll go after the Carpaci family. With me dead, the D.A.'s whole case falls apart. They'll be rubbing his nose in it."

"Go after them how -- kill them?"

I blinked. "No, of course not. Gather evidence, lay charges."

She sighed. "And what, waltz downtown in your sexy little fetish outfit, and toss a file folder onto the D.A.'s desk? Sweetie, you're not a detective anymore. You didn't even exist before last night. You are not an officer of the law, and you are not entitled to gather evidence. You're an unknown mysterious green-skinned alien kid with unknown mysterious powers, and only your word for what they are. Maybe you can control minds, or cast illusions -- why should anyone trust your say-so? Just being seen near a crime scene is enough for the defense to introduce reasonable doubt. You look like the Jolly Green Giant's baby sister, you are not a credible witness for this stuff, the defense lawyers would rip you apart and then start on the D.A. You are the last person on Earth the D.A. would want near any Carpaci case. Honey, you know this."

I dropped my eyes, and scuffed my toe into the cement floor, careful not to leave a hole. I muttered something that sounded like assent.

Her expression softened. "Answer me this. How much of your plans have involved just being a teenaged girl? What is Megan going to do with her life?"

I stopped, and thought about it. "I… I tried to make her some clothes…" I offered weakly.

Dolores sighed and nodded. "I thought so." She looked around the basement. "Let's go upstairs. We need to talk and there's no place comfortable down here."

I followed her meekly upstairs and we sat facing each other on the couch. It was much roomier now that I'd been fun-sized. "Can you please change out of that silly outfit? You look like an underage extra for a space-porn movie," she teased.

I mock-glared at her, but obliged by switching my form to Megan, a little taller and slimmer, just different enough in the face so nobody would see a resemblance between my green self and her. Much healthier skin tone, light brown shoulder-length hair, a t-shirt and shorts, and I was done. It sounds harder than it really was, I'd been practicing, so it only took a second.

I drew my legs up beside me on the couch, mildly surprised that it was a comfortable pose.

She was still wearing the engagement ring I had given her, twisting it nervously around her finger as she searched for a place to start. She noticed me noticing. "Did you mean it? When you gave this to me. You got down on one knee. You didn't have to do it that way."

I nodded earnestly, but didn't interrupt.

Her eyes were on the ring as she twisted it. "I really thought about taking it off, and putting it away. The last memento I'd have of Dan… it would sit in a box someplace, grow dusty, and eventually… be forgotten." She shook her head and wiped away a tear. "I will not cry!

"I would have married you in a heartbeat… We missed our chance, because we got our signals crossed -- I was waiting for you to ask, you didn't know how I'd react. I don't want that to happen again. I-I want to tell you what this ring means to me, why I'm still wearing it. A-and if that's not how you feel, well that's the risk, isn't it?

"This isn't about Dan. I know he's gone. But you, the new you, gave me the ring, you got down on one knee, and -- oh, damn, I'm messing this up." She sniffled and wiped her eyes again.

"Look, I know we can't be married. It's not about being husband and wife anymore. Not even about sleeping together, I don't know, we can sort that part out… But we can be together, can't we? Is that what you meant, when you gave it to me? Be a family? I don't want to lose you again." Her eyes pleaded with mine.

I scooted across the couch to put my head on her shoulder and hug her close, and she put her arm around me. Now that she was the taller one, it seemed the natural way of things, and I wasn't complaining. I was silent for a moment, trying to choose the words to make sure I said exactly what I meant.

"Angel, I said I love you, and I do. I will say it every day for you as often as you'd like to hear it. I wish I could be your husband. I... I think I could be your lover, if you'll have me that way. You will always be my closest friend. I want you to be happy. I will gladly be your girlfriend, roommate, niece, cousin, long-lost sister, or adopted daughter. B-but I'll need you to show me how." I was crying now, too, but not out of sadness, it was more like a surplus of emotion. I couldn't seem to make it stop.

I held up my left hand next to hers, and shapeshifted a simple gold band onto my ring finger. "I don't know a thing about jewelry, but I'd be proud to wear any kind of ring you want to pick out for me. I would be honored and delighted if we could be a family." I looked up at her face and gave her a half-smile through the tears. "And that's the strangest damn wedding vow you'll ever hear, but I guess that's what it is."

Her face lit up and she gave me a kiss that made me pretty sure that I could be her lover and she would have me that way, when the time was right, and this time our tears were happy ones.

I snuggled into her side. "Hey, this isn't so bad, being the smaller one."

She grinned and gave me a squeeze. "Get used to it, short stuff… I guess being your Auntie wouldn't be the best idea, huh."

I nodded, considering. "That could get pretty creepy, if we ever got found out. Cousin? No, wait. Dan's cousin? Second or third cousin, once or twice removed. My mom has relatives out east, I'm pretty sure nobody would notice one more. And passing as a member of my own family would be easier than trying to pass as one of yours. There's the resemblance to Dan, after all. Not that I'd be likely to meet any of my own relatives, I haven't seen any of them in years."

"Hmmm, could work. Remind me, why is Dan's cousin Megan in town, again?"

"Rebellious teen, left a difficult home situation. Parents were born-again Frisbeetarians. Unorthodox Evangelicals, the very worst kind. She just arrived on the bus this weekend. Dan was letting her stay with him. You met her, remember? You two really hit it off. She's come to the big city so she can go to college next year. That Dan really was a sweetheart."

She snorted. "Maybe, but he wasn't as bright with the ladies as he thought. So. What does the poor girl want to study in college?"

I thought about that. "Maybe… forensics?"

Dolores chuckled approvingly. "Mmmmm, now there's a girl after my own heart. Difficult course load, though. Lots of science. Maybe a chance to intern as a police tech, if she studied hard."

I shrugged. "She'll study. I doubt she sleeps much."

"So. Poor Megan comes to town, lives with Dan a few days. Dan gets killed, I come over to break the news, and decide to keep her. Can she cook?"

I was not walking into that. I grinned, "Not as well as you."

She giggled at that. "Well played, missy."

She grew more thoughtful. "Okay. The next few days are going to be rough. The funerals will be soon, and five cops really did die, and their families really do deserve our condolences and support. I'm the grieving fiancée of the sixth, so there's no way I can avoid the spotlight. I can get away with being out of touch today, but tomorrow it's going to start. I know I already have a ton of sympathetic voicemails, I checked. And as Dan's only known relative, you'll need to be visible too. Which means you'll need clothes. Which means we need to go shopping. Fortunately, you won't need much, since you fell off the turnip truck with just the one suitcase."

I protested, "But… I can shapeshift my own clothes…"

That got a skeptical look. "Sweetie, I know you have the ability, but what do you know about women's clothing? Specifically, teenaged girl clothing?" She nudged me off the couch and to my feet. "Show me what you'd wear to the funeral."

I thought for a moment, and obligingly created a white blouse and a black skirt and jacket, with plain black shoes. Dolores got up and inspected me with a critical eye, running her fingers over my 'clothes'.

"Sweetie, your jacket is cut like a man's jacket. It needs to be tailored more closely. You have curves now, your clothes need to show them off. Your shirt feels like a man's shirt. The fabric shouldn't be heavy cotton, it should be silk, or at least something a lot softer. The style could be more feminine. And the buttons are on the wrong side. Women's buttons are opposite."

She tugged at the skirt. "Your skirt doesn't have a zipper, or even a waistband. It's like a placeholder for a skirt. Your shoes… well, the style might have been popular in East Germany, I suppose. In grandma's day. You've got no makeup, no jewelry, and your hair -- that shoulder-length style is cute for everyday, but for something like this, you could wear it up. And you'll need to get a purse, at least -- girls don't use pockets."

She sat back on the couch. "Do you see what I mean? You have the ability, but you don't have enough information to use the ability yet. That will come, I'm sure -- but for now, you need some experience with real clothes."

I nodded, reluctantly. She was right, she usually was. "I guess."

Dolores gave me a sympathetic look. "It's not just pretending and playing dress-up, sweetie. You can't hide, or be a superhero all the time, that's just denial. You can't shut yourself away from the world. You are a girl, a very pretty one. You need to be able to mix with other girls, talk about things girls grow up knowing about."

She scowled at my unsettled expression. "It's not just makeup and menstrual cramps. Walking alone after dark. Not being able to reach the top shelf. Getting stared at on the bus. Flirting your way out of a traffic ticket. Having your ass groped. Everyday strategies for getting along in a world where you are smaller and weaker than the men who think they run things."

She lightened up a bit. "And hey, sometimes we even talk about what's in the paper, and whether the car needs a new transmission and even who won the game last night."

She paused to let it sink in, then grinned wickedly. "You'll need to learn how to deal with guys, too. Because they are so going to home in on you, toots."

I collapsed on the couch, and drew my knees up to my chest, and rested my head on them. "I know, I know, you're right. But… it's all so overwhelming…"

She made a rude noise. "Oh, yeah. Going out and dealing with the same things that I do -- that half the human beings on the planet do -- every single day, that's way scarier than putting on a frisky costume and fighting crime. I bet you even had a name picked out. Did you?"

I picked at an imaginary spot on the sofa cushion, and mumbled, "Well… I dunno… since I was a detective 'n all… 'n since I'm green… I thought maybe… the Martian Manhunter…"

Dolores burst out laughing. "Honey, you do know that being a 'manhunter' has a different connotation for a woman? I could see the tabloids calling you that, especially with your skimpy outfit, but let's not do their job for them…" How about… oh, I don't know… the Green Gumshoe? Martian Miss? Meteor Maid? Hey, that one's even a pun… Ha! On two levels, actually."

I could see she was having way too much fun with this. I crossed my arms and sulked. "Fine. Never mind. Forget it." I tried a pout on for size.

"Oh, now, don't be that way. Nice pout, though. Let's see… 'Miss Mars'; there, how about that one? Short, simple, and to the point."

I mulled it over. It really wasn't half bad. "Well, maybe. Sounds like I won a beauty contest," I grumped.

She grinned. "If that's the worst thing people think of, sweetheart, you're way ahead of the game. Besides, you look like you won a beauty contest." She patted my knee. "Come on, let's go shopping."

~o~O~o~

It was strange riding passenger when I was so used to driving myself; I sagged a little when I remembered I didn't even have a driver's license any more, let alone a car. Or even any way to pay for gas.

Our first stop was a big box department store; Dolores marched me around the lady's intimates section, picking out a selection of cotton panties in various styles, and a simple cotton bra. "You need something to go shopping in."

"Can't we just get everything here?"

She rolled her eyes. "Not if you want to come home with me."

I shrugged and let her pick out a pair of denim shorts and a shortie top, and a simple pair of flat sandals. Then she thought it was important to pick out a handbag, and a wallet to put into it. At least I had some money for the wallet; I'd grabbed a few hundred dollars out of my emergency cash, before we left home. I was stuck with the picture of the pretend family that came with it, though.

As soon as everything was paid for, she sent me into the washroom to change from my shapeshifted pretend outfit into the real thing.

I changed in a stall; when I came out, I studied myself in the mirror. Damn, girl, if I were my sister, I'd be guarding me with a shotgun. I blinked. If that makes sense.

The bra fit snugly, and was actually kind of comfortable. The top bared my bellybutton to the world, and left me feeling a little exposed. Which was a little weird, considering that for the last hour I'd been walking around the store naked in nothing but my own shapeshifted skin. I'd had to squirm to get into the shorts -- I'd almost decided they were too small -- but they did fit, albeit very closely. I think I could sit on a dime and call heads or tails.

I'm not playing dressup anymore. I'm wearing actual girl's clothes in public.

My stomach felt jittery, like I'd committed to something, and it was out of my hands, and the only thing to do was ride it and see where it went.

Stepping into the sandals, I took a deep breath, stole one final look at myself, and was out the door.

I had to run back to grab my purse.

Dolores was all smiles as I approached her from the washrooms, purse slung onto my shoulder. "Lookin' good, toots. How does it feel?"

I thought about it. "A little scary. But scary-good. You were right, the clothes make a big difference." I did a little wiggle. "I like them. I like how they feel, and how they make me feel. I like how I look. That's kinda the scary part. It's too easy -- no, it's not easy, exactly, but it's easier than it should be. I should be freaking out, and I'm not."

Dolores led the way out to the car. "Maybe that's part of the change? Or maybe you're just more adaptable than you thought."

"Could be… or maybe it just hasn't hit me yet, and I'm going to break down and have a screaming conniption in the mall." I offered glumly, then grinned at the look she gave me, to show I was teasing.

"The fact is, I'm kinda having fun. Doing this in my old body, that would be creepy. But… I'm in this body, now. I guess I've decided to just roll with it."

The next stop was a secondhand store. If I was just arrived in the big city, it would hardly make sense if all of my clothes were brand new. Hey, we're cops. We know about alibis. If we were going to create a backstory for Megan, it made sense to at least put some effort into it.

Dolores practically locked me in the changing room, and handed in a constant supply of tops and pants and skirts and even dresses, and wouldn't let me out except to decide if something fit, or the color was right, or apply one of several other indecipherable criterion that I just hadn't managed to pick up on yet.

I relaxed and went with the flow, and discovered that I was enjoying myself, and the pile of clothes that passed Dolores' scrutiny grew steadily.

We finished by finding an old trunk that had clearly seen better days, but was big enough to contain my new wardrobe. I could have carried it out myself, but would have attracted a lot of unwelcome attention. Instead the cashier paged one of the kids in the back room to bring a wheeled dolly out, and push the trunk out to the car for us.

I thought of him as a kid, but in reality he was my apparent age; this was my first experience with the effect my new body had on the teenaged male of the species. When he appeared out of the back room, I smiled brightly, apologized for putting him to so much trouble, and thanked him for being so nice.

The effect was devastating. If I'd asked him to carry the trunk out balanced on his nose while yodeling Gilbert and Sullivan I think he would have done it. I doubt the poor guy would have two brain cells firing together for half an hour after we'd gone. In truth, I felt a little sorry for him. I'd been a teenaged boy, once.

As he followed me out to the car I could feel his eyes on my ass, and I shortened my steps so as not to outpace him as he pushed the heavy trunk. Plus, it made my butt wiggle more. Dolores knew exactly what I was doing; I kept getting amused glances from her anytime I looked her way. I couldn't meet her eyes for fear we'd both break out laughing.

Finally, we hit the mall.

As a man, I'd never cared for the mall. I knew where to find the bookstore, and the electronics place, and the two or three places that sold clothes that I liked. A couple of guy-tolerant places where I might buy a gift for Dolores. And the food court.

I could name maybe a dozen stores. All the intervening stores were just kind of fuzzed out in my head, I knew they were there but they were just spaces with nothing I'd ever need, so they just blurred together. Shopping trips were hunting expeditions. Get in, get what I came for, get out, get on with my day. Malls were a pain, wasted space.

A realization hit me, and I just had to stop, and turn in place, and soak it all in. Two huge levels -- probably a couple of hundred stores -- devoted to the celebration of commercialism, of advertising, of consumerism.

And almost every single unit in this giant retail Mecca existed for the sole purpose of selling something to me, now. Suddenly malls made more sense.

I hurried to catch up to Dolores, who was making a beeline for the lingerie shop -- yes, that was one of the dozen shops I could name, what guy doesn't notice a lingerie store? But I'd never have dared to set foot in it, until now. Dolores had to tug me across the threshold.

"We'd like to get this young lady properly fitted, please. She's been growing, again." Dolores grinned at my embarrassment. The young saleswoman gave me a knowing smile. "Of course. Come on back to the change rooms, let me grab a tape."

I followed her into the change room, and pulled off my shirt, so she could take my measurements. She tsk'd at the sight of my cheap cotton bra. "Those things give you no support at all. It may feel fine now, but trust me, if you don't start supporting 'em now, they'll be drooping way too soon… Thirty-four C, looks like. What sort of bra did you have in mind?"

I stammered, "I, umm, well I… -- what would you recommend?"

Dolores had obviously been listening through the curtain. She popped her head in. "This is my treat. The poor girl was raised by her father. She hasn't had a lot of feminine guidance. Some everyday bra and panty sets, and maybe one for special occasions." She gave me a secret grin, enjoying my predicament.

The woman made a sympathetic face. "Awww, poor dear. Let me take your other measurements, just so we have them, and then I'll bring you a few samples to try on… twenty-two -- I'm jealous! -- and… thirty-four." She draped the tape across her shoulders, and smiled. "Take that thing off, and I'll be right back."

I tugged off the cotton 'thing' and crossed my arms over my bare breasts, waiting for the woman to return.

Dolores slipped into the booth with me. "How you holding up?" she whispered.

I shrugged, and gave her a shy grin. "So far, so good. I'd sorta assumed that these things were always just going to… jiggle. It was… distracting for a while." I giggled. "The bra helped some, though."

Dolores chuckled. "Oh, they'll still jiggle in a bra, just less. You may get used to it, but trust me, men never do. Bras are a public service. Without them, men would never get anything done. Did you think that kid was looking at your smile?"

The saleswoman returned with a selection of bras for me to try on, and helped adjust them to ensure a good fit. Dolores insisted on buying several of something called a t-shirt bra, with two more that were similar but push-up -- I knew what a push-up bra was, I just didn't know why I had to have some. Finally, a very lacy demicup. All with matching panties, because apparently stuff should match, under there.

I left the store wearing one of the t-shirt bras, in order to prevent the saleswoman from trying to tear that cotton 'thing' from my body. The sensation was difficult to describe; it was comfortable, and it definitely was more supportive. But I felt hyper-aware of my chest. It was… different.

As soon as we were out of the shop, we were off to the makeup counter at the department store, where Dolores spun the same story about me being raised by wolves, male ones, and the nice lady help me to find some colors that worked for me, and patiently explained about daytime and nighttime makeup, and showed me how to apply the various products. I have to admit, she knew her stuff, the results were amazing -- but once I saw the end result, I knew I could recreate it any time. I left the counter trying not to lick at the coat of awful-tasting stuff slicking my lips and getting used to the sensation of mascara on my lashes.

I hefted the shopping bag full of various makeup products. "I don't know why I need all this." I grumbled.

Dolores shrugged. "Girls help each other with their makeup all the time. You might be able to walk around looking perfect, but if you do, you can bet your friends will want your expert advice. So you need to be able to walk the walk, toots."

I blinked. "My friends. My. Girl. Friends." Erk. Let's shelve that thought for a while.

Dolores smirked, but wisely said nothing.

We stopped in the jewelry department, where Dolores picked out some inexpensive bracelets, and a necklace on a fine gold chain. "Can you pierce your ears?" she whispered.

I closed my eyes and pictured it, little pinholes in the lobe of each ear. "How's that?"

She studied my ears for a second, then nodded. "Perfect. What do you think of the earrings over here?" I picked out a pair of simple small hoops, and she tutted me and added a pair of larger dangly hoops, and a pair of fake-diamond studs.

As we left the store to head back into the mall, we were set upon by a pack of fragrance-wielding salespersons. Dolores looked at me questioningly, and I shrugged meekly. "Why not?…" I grinned.

"You'll want to try something light, for everyday, something that works for you. You don't want to smell like you stole your mother's perfume," she advised.

"But I like your perfume, mom!" I teased.

We eventually found something citrus-y that I liked, and she agreed was suitable for a teenager, and not too expensive, so we added that to our growing collection of shopping bags.

Heading back through the mall on the way to the car, we passed a jeweler's. Dolores got a look in her eye, and asked me to wait outside. I found a bench and sat, surrounded by our accumulated treasures. I had a pretty good idea what she was up to, so I didn't peek. Instead, I passed the time people-watching.

My eyes narrowed. What are the Bone Fists doing here?

---

Out of the Ashes, Part 3

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. "Okay, let's see. Two Glock 19's? Oh, please, that's a purse gun -- two submachine guns, H&K MP5's, nice choice -- where are you guys getting these things? Assorted ammo. No explosives -- good boys -- and a bunch of zip tie handcuffs. No masks, though. Why is that?" I looked up at the men, expectantly. I had their heads seriously messed up. It was obvious they couldn't decide whether to run, or stick it out. Bald Guy produced a nasty-looking knife. "That's no business of yours, girlie. Don't ya know who we are?" I pulled a few of the zip cuffs from out of the bundle. "Oh, I know you. You're a couple of the Cartel's disposable soldiers…" Then I gave him a feral grin. "But -- you don't know who I am."

---

My eyes narrowed. What are the Bone Fists doing here?

Two big guys in Fist gang colors were loitering at the nearest exit. At their feet was a large black duffel bag. I looked around. Two more Fists in the center court, another black duffel bag. I stood up, and pretended to stretch my legs, walking a few steps to where I could get a glimpse of one of the other mall exits. Two more guys, one more bag.

The place was practically crawling with big rough-looking dudes in gang colors acting suspiciously. A high-end mall has security cameras on their security cameras; somebody should have seen these guys plastered across a dozen monitors by now. Where were the rent-a-cops? Probably hiding, if they were smart. But they should have called the real cops, at least. Unless they were bought off, or prevented from doing so.

How much manpower do you need to lock down a mall?

The Bone Fists could probably manage to cover the main exits, but I knew they didn't have the manpower to cover all the employee back ways, the loading docks and such. What could they be up to?

It was half an hour to closing time, so assume that whatever they have planned is set to start then. Mall closes. People leave. Stores close... And empty their tills? That's a lot of tills.

How could they possibly manage to rob all those stores?

I thought about it, and cursed. They don't have to rob every store. This isn't a robbery, it's extortion.

The Fists worked for the Cartel. They weren't here to rob, although they would; that was icing. They were here to make an ugly scene. The kind that made customers think twice about shopping in this mall, and made store owners think about relocating.

Then the Cartel would have a quiet word with the mall owners, in a boardroom somewhere: Tsk. Such a shame what happened. Be a terrible thing if it happened again, eh? What you need is a better security company. We can help you with that.

But… a robbery after closing time wasn't ugly enough. What was I missing?

A chill ran down my back. Oh, crap. They want hostages. It's not just extortion, it's publicity: let everyone know the Crime Cartel is back.

I gathered up the shopping bags and my purse and took them into the jeweler's, where Dolores was being served by an older gentleman. I set them down at her feet. "Can you watch these? I'm feeling a little green…" That got me a startled look. I whispered in her ear. "Bone Fist is watching the mall exits. They're planning something nasty. Mall security might be compromised. Better call it in." I left her scrambling to find her phone in her purse.

Security cameras. The Fists might not care if they were seen, but I did. I needed to get changed, and not be obvious about it. It would take too long to get rid of these clothes, but maybe I could shapeshift something to cover them up.

Strolling casually towards the nearest exit, I stepped inside the first clothing store I came across. Moving behind a rack of clothing, I envisioned a pair of worn baggy camouflage pants, hiding my shorts. That seemed to work, so I crouched down out of sight for a second and finished the job. The twenty-something woman who left the store was several inches taller, with weathered skin, short spiky black hair, and ring piercings in her lip and one eyebrow. She was wearing a canvas army-surplus vest over a shapeless faded t-shirt, and her camo pants were tucked into heavy boots.

As I neared the exit, I gave the gangers a friendly smile. The taller of the two had his head shaved and tattooed with some kind of dragon thing, the other wasn't exactly short, but built stockier, a muscle builder type.

"Sorry I'm late, guys. What's the signal?" I took advantage of their confusion to simply pick up their duffel bag and head outside, leaving them no choice but to follow.

"Hey!" Bald Guy managed to get his hand on my shoulder, but I scarcely noticed; I simply kept walking. Outside, I took a few steps away from the doors, and squatted down to unzip the bag.

"Don't stick your nose where it don't belong, bitch!"

I glared at him. "Oh, shut up. Let's see whatcha brought me."

Shorty tried to snatch the bag from me, but I slapped his hand away. He grunted in pain and held his arm against his chest.

"Okay, let's see. Two Glock 19's? Oh, please, that's a purse gun -- two submachine guns, H&K MP5's, nice choice -- where are you guys getting these things? Assorted ammo. No explosives -- good boys -- and a bunch of zip tie handcuffs. No masks, though. Why is that?"

I looked up at the men, expectantly. I had their heads seriously messed up. It was obvious they couldn't decide whether to run, or stick it out.

Bald Guy produced a nasty-looking knife. "That's no business of yours, girlie. Don't ya know who we are?"

I pulled a few of the zip cuffs from out of the bundle. "Oh, I know you. You're a couple of the Cartel's disposable soldiers…"

Then I gave him a feral grin. "But -- you don't know who I am."

I was out of the crouch and on them in a flash, snatching the knife from Shorty's hand before he could even move. I don't know which one of us was more surprised. I was fast.

These guys each had several inches in reach and a hundred pounds on little ol' me, most of it muscle. Both were experienced brawlers. As Dan, I had been in my share of fights; I might have been a match for either one of them, but trying both of them together would get my ass kicked every time.

This time around, I had to really work at not killing them. It wasn't easy; I could have turned their insides to mush with a single punch, broken their necks with a slap. The degree of control necessary to twist an arm without twisting it off didn't come easily.

In the end, it was like dealing with recalcitrant toddlers; they didn't want to be cuffed with their arms around the post of a No Parking sign -- yeah, don't ask me to babysit -- but it happened anyway.

"No masks. You weren't trying to hide your faces. You expected to be caught."

Neither of them would make eye contact. I sighed, and tapped my lower lip thoughtfully. "Well… you could get found like this… or, I could pose you." I pulled down Shorty's pants, to make my point. "Your call, gents. Tell me the signal you were waiting for." I pulled out a zip, and forced Bald Guy to his knees. I held him there with one hand on his shoulder.

Going to jail would enhance these guy's reputations. Going to jail after being found tied into a homoerotic pose, that would introduce them to a whole new social circle.

It only took a second for them to think it through. Baldy spoke up. "It's the closin' chimes. Most of the people will be gone, we were supposed to herd the rest of 'em into groups, an' then steal whatever cash we could from the stores."

"How were you going to get the cash out? The cops'd be swarming the place."

Bald Guy hesitated, until I gave Shorty's jockey shorts an experimental tug.

"Okay! Okay. Some of the hostages're ringers. Cash gets distributed among them. Hostage scene is long and drawn out, groups get mixed together, big scene for th'eleven o'clock news. Eventually we give up and hostages get released."

Something clicked. "And no masks, because you have no getaway plans. You intend to go to jail. Only to get broken out, later. In another big scene, staged for the news. That was Heatstroke's job, wasn't it?"

They answered by not answering.

"Could be a while. Heatstroke was in pretty rough shape. He might not make it." I offered experimentally.

"Nah, the doc said it'd be a few days, is all…" Bald Guy bragged, before a glare and a kick from Shorty shut him up.

Shorty had to get his two cents in. "Anyways, we're not goin' to jail, bitch! We ain't done nothin' wrong! That's not our bag, we never seen it before," he sneered.

I stopped short. He had me. I'd kept them from doing anything illegal, destroyed the chain of custody for the evidence, and I sure couldn't arrest them or press charges.

I sighed. "Ya got a point." I snapped Baldy's zip tie cuffs, and used another tie to wrap his arms tightly around Shorty's legs, with the post still between them. He was stuck on his knees, now. Then I snatched off Shorty's undies like a magician doing the tablecloth trick. Except it probably hurt more, judging by the squeak.

"Tsk. Tsk. Public indecency and lewd behavior. Is that the cops I hear?" Sure enough, there were sirens in the distance. Which would only provoke the Fists to trigger their plan early, if they heard them.

Move, move!

The best way to foil their publicity stunt was to keep the crime from happening. The easiest way to keep the crime from happening, was to take away their toys and get them out of the mall.

There wasn't a lot of time for sophistication. Four remaining exits, plus that pair in center court. My plan of attack was simple: come into the mall from outside, separate the Fists from their guns before they knew what was happening. Lather, rinse, repeat.

~o~O~o~

Have you ever tried to get in to a mall, just as everyone was going out? Or rush through a revolving door? There's no way to do it, when you're in a hurry. I hate malls.

Change in plan. Forget being stealthy. Make your own door.

~o~O~o~

The two Fists were lounging just inside the mall, leaning against the wall, the bag at their feet. I came in fast through the plate glass window, in an explosion of glass, making a noise they'd hear through the whole mall. The nice thing about plate glass, when it shatters, it's just gone. I picked up the gangers before they knew what was happening and threw them out onto the sidewalk through the new doorway I'd made, not too gently. Picked up the gun bag, and I was out.

I flew up, dropped the bag on the roof, and came in again on the opposite side of the mall. Four exits, four very loud crashes, three bags on the roof and one in my hand. With the exits clear, I hit the fire alarm, just to make sure people got the message and got the hell out.

Which left the pair in the center court. Who definitely knew somebody was coming for them, even if they didn't know who.

One of them was tall and skinny, crouched over the open duffel bag, slamming a clip into a submachine gun, glancing warily around. The other was enormous, leaning casually against a column, tapping a knife the size of a machete against his leg. The sides of his head were shaved, leaving a mohawk stripe down the middle of his skull. He must have been close to seven feet tall. One of the pistols from the bag was shoved into his belt. It looked like a child's toy.

Shoppers were streaming past us, hurrying out of the mall. A few noticed the weapons and changed direction to steer clear, hurrying faster.

I jogged up to them, the last duffle bag over my shoulder. I had to raise my voice to be heard over the alarm. "Thank God I'm in time!" I panted. "Boss wants everyone out, it's gone sour. Plans have changed."

Beanpole gave me a suspicious look. "That's not very likely darlin', is it? Considerin' I'm the boss 'n all." Mohawk guy stopped supporting the mall and came over to inspect me. It was like being ogled by a mountain.

I rolled my eyes. "I didn't mean you. I meant the boss boss. Tony's pissed about something. He wants everybody out." I glanced around, then whispered conspiratorially. "He's sending Heatstroke."

Beanpole blinked and looked to be wavering, but Mohawk interrupted, in a voice that sounded like a disgusted avalanche. "She's lyin'. Heatstroke ain't goin' noplace for a while."

I looked way up at him and nodded earnestly. "I know, right, big guy? I'd a thought so, too. That thing in his side, man, he's lucky t' be alive." I winced sympathetically. "But when Tony said, 'Get out there and tell 'em Heatstroke is coming', well, what was I supposed t' do?" I looked to Beanpole. "Would you cross Tony Three-Balls? I'm just askin', 'cause it looks that way t' me, an' I need t' know what to tell 'im. Me, I'm headin' out."

I moved to run past them and the giant moved to block my path, still tapping the knife and looking at me speculatively. I stamped my foot impatiently. "What?"

The flow of shoppers past us had slowed to a trickle. The longer I could drag this out, the more potential hostages would be out of the mall and safe. The cops should be here any moment.

I hoped.

Don't get caught with evidence when they do.

I unslung the duffel bag from my shoulder and dropped it at Beanpole's feet with a sigh. "Okay, tell ya what. You hold on to the guns. We all go to outside. You tell Manzilla here t' keep a close eye on me." I looked up at Mohawk and gave him a wink. "If it doesn't check out, you can let him have his way with me." I grinned. "But if it does check out, I get to have my way with him."

My God, female for not even 24 hours and I'm flirting?

A low rumbling came from Mohawk, like the precursor to an earthquake. "Heh, heh, Manzilla…"

I crossed my arms and looked at Beanpole expectantly. "Management decision time."

Beanpole seemed in actual discomfort. "Why didn't Tony call me, t' let me know, huh?" he asked petulantly.

I rolled my eyes. "I don't know, how many bars ya got, genius? Malls're full of dead zones, everybody knows that, it's all th' steel. Maybe he tried. Why'ncha call him and ask?" I actually had no idea how the reception was. I was worried one the few shoppers left would walk past with a cellphone to their ear.

I threw my hands up in exasperation. "Look, it's too late to do it your way, anyway. Where's the rest of yer team, huh? Somebody's got 'em, that's what. You heard it happen! The closing chimes have come 'n gone, pal, and this fire alarm isn't in the plan, neither." I turned away from him slowly. "This is me, getting to where I'm s'posed t' be, too. You wanna stop me, now's the time." I took a few deliberate steps away.

Beanpole sighed, and kicked the remaining duffel bag in disgust. "Bring those -- and keep her close." He gestured with his gun for me to move. Mohawk snatched up the bags, then caught up with me and clamped a meaty hand on my shoulder, and the three of us marched towards the exit. I noticed with some relief that the mall was finally empty.

At that moment alarm died, the doors slammed open, and members of the SWAT team came pouring in, guns at the ready. "YOU ARE UNDER ARREST! GET DOWN AND PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!"

"You lying bitch!" Beanpole's submachine gun was suddenly pointed at my head. Mohawk's hand was squeezing my shoulder, hard enough to break any normal person's, I think, so I assume he wasn't happy, either. "We have a hostage! I swear I'll kill her!" he called out.

I hurriedly called out, "Don't shoot!" and gave Beanpole an annoyed look. "You idiot, you're surrounded. Where are you gonna go?" I slapped the gun out of his hand, sending it flying down the mall. It let off a burst of gunfire when it landed, shattering a store window and grievously wounding a mannequin. Mohawk attempted to pick me up as a shield, but I wasn't budging. Instead I tossed him at Beanpole, sending them both sprawling at the feet of the cops.

In the tussle, a shot rang out, and something hit me in the chest. I stopped dead, and looked down in puzzlement, pressing my fingers to the spot, then up at the cops. I was stunned. "Y-you shot me…"

"You goddamn boneheads!" I raged. "You just shot the freakin' hostage! Don't you practice this shit?" I put my hands on my head. "Look! I'm unarmed. I'm going outside now." Without giving them a chance to seize the initiative, I stormed through them, hands on my head, and out the doors.

The minute I was outside, of course, I was in the air and back on the roof. I tossed the duffle bags back to the ground, where they landed in front of one of the SWAT trucks, loud enough to make the nearby cops jump. Then I was in the darkness above the mall, and circling around to Dolores' car, switching back to Megan on the ground.

~o~O~o~

On the way home I slouched and stared morosely out the window.

I'd been a cop almost twenty-five years. I'd worked my way up to Detective, and I'd been good at it -- good enough to get me killed. I knew how the law worked, in theory, at least -- gather evidence, build a case, fair trial by judge and jury, punishment for the guilty. It didn't always work the way it was supposed to, it was bumbling and inefficient and slow, it was a pain in the ass more often than not, but for all its warts, by and large I believed in it. I knew the rules, knew where I fit in the system, how everything was supposed to work. And if everybody did their job, the right people went to jail.

With a flip of a metagene, all that went out the window.

Now, I wasn't a cop anymore, maybe never would be again. I had powers that boggled the mind. Strength. Speed. Stamina. I'd just stopped a bullet for crissakes. And I could fly!

Useless. All of these powers were useless for upholding the law.

Mind you, if I wanted to be judge, jury, and executioner, they'd be great powers. I couldn't ask for better. I could dispense justice. I could kill Tony Carpaci tonight.

But I couldn't put him in jail.

I shifted in my seat. "Well, go ahead and say it."

Dolores gave me a puzzled glance. "Say what?"

"That you told me so. That I couldn't be a cop anymore."

"What? Honey, why would I say that? You did a wonderful job, you prevented a very ugly situation, and almost certainly saved some lives tonight. Nobody else could have done that."

I sighed unhappily. "I broke the law to do it. Assault. Forcible confinement. Property damage. I'm no different than they are, not really. Most of those guys will be back on the street by tomorrow, because there's no evidence to convict them of anything. My word against theirs -- and I can't even testify."

Dolores pulled the car over and turned to glare at me. "Stop that right now! You prevented a violent robbery at the very least. Somebody might easily have been shot tonight! There'll be fingerprints on the guns, the weapons had to come from somewhere, they can be traced. And you handed the Cartel a black eye tonight, don't forget that."

I shook my head. "You don't get it. If beating those goons up is okay, what if I'd accidentally killed one of them? It could have happened so easily, you have no idea. Would it still be okay, then? If one is okay, what if I'd killed two? Where is the line? What if I'd killed all of them?"

I kept my gaze straight ahead. "I could get out of this car right now, and find Tony Carpaci, and put an end to him tonight. You and I both know he deserves it. It would almost certainly save lives. Why shouldn't I do it? 'Cause I'm not coming up with any answers, here."

She blinked, and just looked at me for a moment. Finally she started the car, and we drove home in silence. But she had a look in her eye. I swear she looked… pleased?

"Sweetheart, I don't know what the answers are. But it means a lot to me that you're asking the questions."

~o~O~o~

We stopped briefly at her apartment so Dolores could run in and pack an overnight bag, then we headed back to the house and unloaded the evidence of my new life from the car. After unpacking everything into the spare bedroom -- I was the guest now, after all -- Dolores came up behind me and wrapped her arms around my shoulders, kissing me tenderly on the side of the neck. My eyes nearly bugged at the unexpected erotic thrill.

She took my left hand, and slid a ring onto my third finger, whispering in my ear. "It's called a promise ring, it's perfectly common for a teenaged girl to have one. If you wear it like this, it means you're taken. You can use it to keep the boys away, 'cause baby, you are so taken."

"Oh, Angel, it's perfect!" I took a moment to admire the ring on my finger, a simple gold band with a single inset emerald, before turning in her embrace and throwing my arms around her neck.

"I figured green was your color," she smiled.

We were too busy to talk a lot after that.

~o~O~o~

The nightmares started that night.

"Megan! sweetie, wake up!" Dolores was shaking me. I woke up gasping for breath, with my heart hammering in my chest.

My eyes shot open and finally I was able to draw a deep breath, and gradually my pulse slowed. "Night… nightmare. Nasty one. What was I doing?"

Dolores' eyes were on me, worried. "You were thrashing and choking, it was horrible."

I sat up, alarmed. "Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head. "No," Her eyes widened in realization. "That could have been ugly."

"Thank goodness for that," I breathed in relief. I noticed belatedly that I'd reverted to my original green form, and changed back to Megan.

"Want to talk about it?"

I shook my head slowly. "I don't remember much, it's gone now. Just… a sense of helplessness, being trapped. And a lot of pain."

We settled back down and I snuggled into her -- I did like being the cuddlee, rather than the cuddler -- and eventually she fell back asleep. I didn't need to sleep much these days, so I lay awake, listening to her soft breathing, and thinking.

~o~O~o~

The rest of the week was as difficult as Dolores had feared. The police department was making the funeral arrangements, so she was spared that much -- but they were planning a full military-style service for all six fallen officers, with an interfaith service at the Cathedral, speeches from the mayor and assorted community leaders and a military procession with an honor guard escorting the six flag-draped caskets to the cemetery. With full media coverage of course, although fortunately the grieving families were afforded some privacy.

Dolores did her share of grieving, too. After all, Dan was gone forever, with him a chance of a husband and kids and a normal happily-ever-after. I'd see a look in her eyes, and I know she was missing Dan and feeling guilty about missing him when I was standing right there. And about having me at all, when the other families had lost so much. All I could do was hug her, and tell her that I missed him too, and the life we might have had together. Neither of us could help the grief, but there was enough guilt to go around without having it come between us.

So it was rough. In public, Dolores was a grieving fiancée, sharing the spotlight with the other families. In private, we could comfort each other, but our own relationship wasn't a simple one either; to the rest of the world, I was literally half Dolores' age, and a minor to boot; we had to be very careful. In the short term, we were grateful we had each other. In the long run, I wasn't sure what the healthiest path would be for either of us.

I loved her, and I meant what I told her; I would always be with her, we would be a family. But we were both feeling our way, and it was too soon to say what shape that family would take.

~o~O~o~

And that's how it went. We got through the week, finally, and the week after that. The funeral was difficult, but we managed. It got ugly when Tony Carpaci showed up for the service, in his public role as successful businessman and pillar of the community. Surrounded by the press, of course. He stood on the steps of the Cathedral and made some statements about the "fine men, whose lives were needlessly spent", by a mayor and District Attorney bent on "schemes of self-aggrandizement", and the "unfortunate divisions in our community", and the need for "moral and political leadership", and then agreed to leave. Since he'd never really intended to stay, anyway.

Dolores spoke to the lawyer about the will, and he agreed we could continue to live there, since she was inheriting it, anyway. The legal details would take a while to settle out, but there were no complications.

The nightmares would come back when I slept. Fortunately, I didn't sleep every night. Most nights, I'd snuggle with Dolores until she fell asleep, then have the rest of the night to myself. About every other night, I'd climb into my own bed for a couple of hours. I'd always wake in a tangle of sheets, reverted to my original green form, gasping for breath, in a blind panic. I don't think Dolores knew about the dreams, and I never mentioned them.

I spent a lot of time 'learning' the fit and feel of my new wardrobe, so that I could shapeshift a duplicate of each item, matching the detail and texture of the fabric. Then I started to improvise, changing the pattern on a blouse or the style of a dress. Delores had been right, of course; there was a lot I needed to learn, but with actual clothes to try on, I was getting the hang of it pretty quickly. Before too long I could shapeshift most of my clothes so well Delores couldn't tell the difference. I did my makeup the same way, although Dolores warned me that I'd eventually need to practice doing it for real.

~o~O~o~

Dolores' compassionate leave had run out, and she'd been back at work for a few days now, easing back into an everyday routine. During the day, I was at loose ends, so I busied myself with the usual household chores. Not surprisingly, Dolores wasn't about to let that slide into a habit.

"So," she stole a taste of the spaghetti sauce I was stirring. "I made some calls today. When school starts next week, you're a high school senior."

I almost sprayed my own taste of sauce across the kitchen. "I'm a what?"

She turned to set the table. "You heard me. You said you wanted to get into college, so you need to finish high school, first, right? Of course, it won't be easy, with all the high school you've missed. I told them you were home-schooled, by illiterate badgers or something. Male ones, naturally."

I hated it when she was right. "You know, I just hate it when you're right."

She took pity on my dazed expression. "Oh, now, we both know the academics are just a small part of it. There's plenty of time to go to college, or anything else you want to do."

She gave me a quick hug, then turned to toss the salad. "Sweetie, you need to be out in the world, and the only way you can do it, is as a girl now. You have so much you need to experience. The whole rest of your life will be spent as a woman, and the sooner you get started living, the better. Admit it, you were going to keep putting it off, and hide in the house."

I sighed. "Maybe."

She caught my chin and turned me to face her, meeting my eyes intently. "Sweetie, you have to decide which of you is going to be the everyday you, Miss Mars, or Megan Morse, and which face you put on for emergencies. I love you baby, but I have to tell you, your choice is important to me. I need to know which one of you gave me this ring."

Put that way, the answer didn't take any thought at all. "We both did", I started impishly, then put a finger to her lips before she could retort. "But, there's only one answer, and I'm stupid for not seeing it as clearly as you have. Megan is the real me now, and you're right, it's time she got on with her life."

I bounced up on my toes to kiss her lightly on the lips, then turned away to drain the spaghetti. "But it doesn't mean I have to thank you for rubbing my nose in it," I pretended to grouse.

She laughed and smacked my butt. I hope it hurt.

~o~O~o~

The building appeared old and decrepit, fitting in well with the seedy industrial neighborhood. The sign I had been looking for was not large, or illuminated; hard to spot on the poorly lit street. It wasn't obvious, but the door was metal, with a solid frame, strong hinges and a very modern lock. Nobody would be getting in easily, if the owner chose to lock them out. Tonight it swung open easily and silently, as I stepped inside and let it close behind me.

I found myself in a small reception area. The floor was tiled in old cracked linoleum, a black and white checkerboard. A counter divided the room, with a few stackable chairs lined against the walls on the customer side. On the far side of the counter, a door with a beaded curtain led into a hallway.

The light-colored walls were sparsely decorated in an Asian theme; a bamboo fan, a Chinese calendar. The wall behind me featured a large oriental tiger, painted in red and black, detailed in gold leaf. On closer inspection, I realized all of the decorations contained a tiger theme of some sort. In contrast to the exterior facade, everything was well maintained and immaculately clean.

There was a bell, on the counter; I moved to tap it, once.

"That won't be necessary." The sudden voice made me jump; I hadn't heard anyone approach. A large, very well-muscled man had suddenly appeared in the doorway, stepping through the beaded curtain. He was wearing a loose white shirt and dark slacks, the shirt contrasting with his dark skin. His wiry hair was trimmed close to his head, showing a little salt-and-pepper around the edges.

He offered me a polite smile. "Can I help you, miss?"

"If you're Ben Turner, and this is the Tiger Dojo, then I hope you can."

---

Out of the Ashes, Part 4

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 took a deep breath. "I'm metahuman." He shrugged at that. "I expected something of the sort, or I wouldn't have invited you in. You are... unbalanced. In here." He pointed at his chest. "What is inside you does not match the outside. Why do you think I can help?" Just a trace of impatience, a hint of master dealing with a dull student. Executed to perfection. I lowered my eyes, studying the fine wisps of steam rising out of my cup. "I have new abilities, that I am still getting used to. Strength. Speed. I am very difficult to hurt." I raised my eyes to his. "I'm a blunt instrument. It would be very easy for me to kill a person with a single blow. I don't need anyone's help for that. It is very hard for me to not kill a person with a single blow, and that's where I hope you can help." Ben Turner offered a half-smile. "I believe I can help. Do not strike anyone. Thank you for coming."

---

The deadliest master of the martial arts in all the world poured the tea. Oh sure, I know he was maybe just in the top three, according to the reports we used to get from the feds back when I was a cop. But trust me, if you ever have to choose which assassin to fear most, the deadliest one is the one pouring your tea.

"What do you hope I can do for you, miss…?"

I shifted uncomfortably. "Umm, if you don't mind, I'd rather not use my real name. I don't want to lie to you, but some things I would prefer not to disclose."

Ben Turner studied me over the steaming rim of his cup. I added milk and a little sugar to mine, and studied him back. What? It wasn't some fancy oriental ceremony in some incense-smoked candlelit pavilion at the center of a Zen garden. It was Orange Pekoe. In his kitchen.

Ben Turner was a tall black man, possibly on the late side of forty, with close-cropped hair that was just starting to grey at the temples. He wore dark slacks and an open-necked loose white shirt that hinted at a broad, well-muscled chest. He had a smooth, flowing economy of movement about him, as if everything he did was rehearsed and polished a thousand times. Perhaps it was. A walking-down-the-hall kata. A studying-strangers-in-your-kitchen kata.

For this meeting, I had relaxed into my Miss Mars shape, but with a normal skintone and light blonde hair, cut short and pixyish, a little like Tinkerbell's, with a ponytail. Okay, fine. I go with what comes to mind and I hadn't built up much experience with hairstyles just yet. I wanted it short, and blonde, and that's what I had. The main thing was, I didn't look like Megan, and if he accepted me as a student, I would be using the form that would be most like Miss Mars. If that was important; I didn't really know.

He executed a perfect raise-an-intrigued-eyebrow kata. "Let's come back to that, then. Why are you here?"

I took a deep breath. "I'm metahuman."

He shrugged at that. "I expected something of the sort, or I wouldn't have invited you in. You are... unbalanced. In here." He pointed at his chest. "What is inside you does not match the outside. Why do you think I can help?" Just a trace of impatience, a hint of master dealing with a dull student. Executed to perfection.

I lowered my eyes, studying the fine wisps of steam rising out of my cup. "I have new abilities, that I am still getting used to. Strength. Speed. I am very difficult to hurt." I raised my eyes to his. "I'm a blunt instrument. It would be very easy for me to kill a person with a single blow. I don't need anyone's help for that. It is very hard for me to not kill a person with a single blow, and that's where I hope you can help."

Ben Turner offered a half-smile. "I believe I can help. Do not strike anyone. Thank you for coming."

I gave him a pained look. "If that was an option, I wouldn't have wasted your time, Cap'n Obvious. Do people really buy this act?"

He chuckled, genuinely amused. "More often than you'd think. Anyway. You wish to be able to strike people but not kill them. Tell me why."

I sighed. "About three weeks ago, do you remember there was an incident at a shopping mall…" I proceeded to recount the events at the mall, and the moral issues that had been bothering me ever since.

"So, you see yourself as above the law?"

I shook my head. "No. I don't want to be a vigilante, a replacement for the law. But, I can't hide and not help when there is a need. Outside the law, perhaps. Not above it."

"But not answerable to it."

I shook my head. "I won't be at the beck and call of the politicians. But I believe that most of the time the law should be left to follow its course, and that I should do my best not to interfere. There are many people I could kill, and leave the world a better place -- but my list would be different than the next person's. What makes mine more valid? If I ever started down that path, I'm not sure I'd know when to stop."

I met his gaze. "I'm no idealist, Mr. Turner. I know there may be times when I have to kill, I'm not squeamish about it. But there will certainly be times when I do not have to kill, and I would like to have that choice."

He studied me without expression. "Interesting philosophy coming from a -- what, sixteen-year-old girl?"

I sipped my tea, and gave him a sardonic smile. "Your words, Mr. Turner. What is inside does not match the outside. And, seventeen."

His eyes crinkled, and he raised his cup to me. "Touché." He took a final sip and set his cup down precisely in its saucer. Then, "Come. Show me."

He stood and I followed him deeper into the building to a large open space at the back, one the seemed more suitable for a warehouse than a gymnasium. A metal staircase ran up to a second floor catwalk. The floor was concrete, although there were mats hung on the wall. A rack of various bladed implements stood in one corner. Spread around the edge of the room were an assortment of devices obviously meant for punching and kicking.

He stood in the middle of the room, watching me take it all in. "Spar with me. I want to see you move. You don't know what I can do, I don't know what you can do, so we'll keep it light. Just touch me for now."

I nodded and without warning moved to touch him on the shoulder. Except he wasn't there. I felt a light tap on my face, and I turned to face him, crouching to slap his leg, but it wasn't there anymore, either. Inertia overcame me and I lost my balance and fell, quickly climbing to my feet and feeling a slap on my backside in the process.

For the next fifteen minutes I chased him around the room, never once laying a hand on him. Every time I attempt a touch, he wasn't there -- and where he was, was always a place I couldn't reach him without getting tangled in my own limbs and tripping over myself. I spent a lot of time just rolling to my feet. And my butt got slapped a lot. Also arms, legs, and face.

Moving at my top speed was actually counterproductive; I'd overshoot the point I was aiming for, or overbalance and wind up sprawled on the ground and butt-slapped.

Finally, he called a halt. "I've seen enough." He led me back to the kitchen, where he produced a pad of paper and scribbled something, before tearing it off and handing it to me.

"That's the name of a good aikido instructor. Aikido is a good skill set for what you want. I'm going to suggest to her some things I want you to learn, but to start, you'll need to learn the same base skills as any newcomer. I want you to see her three times a week. At least."

He held up a hand as I started to protest. "I believe you can trust her, but you must decide for yourself. But don’t lie to her, she'll know. She doesn't need to know who you are, except that you're a student I've referred. And you need to learn without using any of your special abilities. This is important."

I nodded, slowly.

He pointed at my stomach, then at the center of my chest. "You move like a man, your center is all wrong. Not just your center of balance, although that's off, too. Your whole center. That's part of why your inside and your outside don't match. You're still trying to fight the way a man would.

"You need to learn to move like a woman, get comfortable in your body, not just use it to lug around your man-self. I want you to take a dance class, I don't much care what, just spend a couple of hours a week focused on how your body moves."

My heart sunk, and his lips quirked at my expression. "See? You resist the idea, even now. That is your greatest obstacle."

He walked me to the door. "Your aikido instructor will know when you are ready to see me again. Perhaps six months, if you are diligent. I must admit you pose an interesting challenge for me."

His eyes sparkled. "In fact, since you don't have a name, I believe I shall call you Eliza Doolittle."

~o~O~o~

Dolores had been asleep for awhile, now. I enjoyed the sound of her soft breathing for a little longer before I slipped out of bed and padded through the dark house -- not dark to me, of course -- and stepped outside into the back yard.

The moon was in its waning phase, a slivered Cheshire-cat grin suspended in the sky. I gazed up at it and smiled back, enjoying the night sky and the still air, and for the first time I really looked at the moon.

I wonder if I could go there.

I turned the idea over in my head. I hadn't really flown much, the farthest had been across the city. How high could I go? How fast?

I shapeshifted to Miss Mars in her 'fetish outfit', as Dolores teasingly called it, a shiny leather-looking sleeveless bodysuit, cut high at the hips, in a shade of teal blue that went well against my green skin. Thigh-high boots in red leather, with a matching red harness. She never complained too much, or suggested anything better, so I guess she didn't have too great a problem with it.

I shot up into the night, fast enough that hopefully I wouldn't be seen. Once I could see the city spread out below me, I put some oomph! into it and shot up until I could see the entire disk of the night side of the Earth below me. Dark as it was, the shape of North America was clearly visible to my eyes, looking a lot like it did on the maps, which was pretty impressive when you consider the originals were drawn without the benefit of my current perspective.

To the east, the sun was coming up over the mid-Atlantic, but wouldn't reach the coast for a few hours yet. The whole continent glittered like it had been dusted with fluorescent diamonds; I could pick out a few major cities by their massed lights, joined together by delicate spiderwebs made up of smaller communities. Chicago was easy to spot, at the tip of Lake Michigan, and Miami, near the tip of Florida; Houston on the Gulf, with Dallas above it.

On the west coast, I think I picked out Los Angeles, with a smaller dot that must have been Las Vegas just to the east. On the east coast, the splotches of light formed a nearly solid border from Boston down to Washington. I guessed the centermost splotch would be New York City.

I just hung there, for a few minutes, awed by the spectacle. So that's what a planet looks like. Just one, out of an entire universe.

It came to me suddenly that I shouldn't be able to do this. My breathing had stopped, but I hadn't particularly noticed any discomfort. My skin told me it was cold up here, but that was intellectual fact, it wasn't painful or debilitating. I just felt… normal. And exhilarated.

Okay, time to see what I can do.

I looked to the west and let 'er rip. I stayed well above the atmosphere, passing into daylight over the Pacific, streaking across central Asia and Europe in moments, and back into darkness as I crossed the westernmost tip of Africa below me to the left, followed shortly by the lights of the eastern seaboard of North America.

I was still accelerating when I passed Los Angeles the second time.

I need some room to open up.

On a whim, I slingshotted around the day side of the planet again and headed straight for the Moon. I thought I'd circle it once or twice, and then maybe look for the Apollo landing sites. I could bring home a moon rock, at least. I suppose the lunar buggy should probably stay where they left it.

As I grew closer, the cratered face of the Moon quickly dominated my view of the stars, and I changed course, aiming for the edge of the disk, so I could orbit as close to the surface as I could manage, just high enough to skim the tops of the mountains. The Earth quickly disappeared as I rounded towards the mysterious back side of the moon, the side that only a handful of Apollo astronauts have ever directly seen. It looked even more desolate than the front to me, as I blazed across the stark terrain, faster than the proverbial speeding bullet; a flash of green and red against a monochrome of light and dark, about as far from the Earth as any human being had ever travelled.

So when a giant green octagonal STOP sign suddenly blinked into existence directly in front of me, I was understandably surprised. I tore through it like tissue and lost control, plowing into the surface of the Moon at unbelievable speed, skipping and tumbling and gouging a trench across the plain for several miles, before a mountainous ridge thoughtfully brought me to a rather abrupt halt in a pile of rubble.

What the HELL was that?

Climbing quickly to my feet, I reflexively grabbed the nearest rock with one hand -- a boulder about ten feet across -- and flung it sidearm back the way I came, at the ominous green glow that was rapidly approaching.

If I run, they'll follow. Hide.

I crouched in the shadow of the nearest boulder and shapeshifted to match the terrain; I took on a mottled gray color, looking pitted and aged to match my shelter. My body became more angular and sharp-edged, to blend in with the harsh lines of the smashed rock surrounding me.

From my hiding place I could see a green beam of light sweep the landscape, like a giant searchlight. It swept over my spot but I remained in shadow, and it moved on. I counted to ten, slowly, shifting back to my normal self before leaping up and hurling the huge rock directly at the back of the glowing green form, only a half a mile away. At the last second she spun, and the rock was smashed aside by a giant green baseball bat, but I was right behind it, and before she could react, I caught my attacker by the throat, fist drawn back, ready to punch her lights out.

She? Her?

For the first time I got a good look at the startled face of my opponent.

That woman on TV.

Well, shit. I've just picked a fight with Jade. Way to make a first impression.

I let her go and raised my hands, in surrender.

I'm not sure what she hit me with but there was a sudden flash of green and then I was skidding backwards on my ass across the lunar surface.

I stood up, thoroughly annoyed at the cheap hit. A shimmering green cage slammed down over me, as Jade settled gently to the lunar surface just outside, crossing her arms across her chest.

"Who ARE you?" Her voice sounded in my head, seeming as annoyed as I felt. I assumed her ring was facilitating our conversation.

I glared at her as I stepped up to the bars of the cage. They may have looked nebulous, but they felt solid enough. I took a firm grip and began to pull them apart.

Jade's eyes widened as the bars actually began to budge, then frowned, and a look of concentration settled on her face. The bars suddenly became much harder to force, but I bent my head, and strained with all my might; and slowly but surely the bars began to spread, until at last I could squeeze through them and step out of the cage.

I clenched my fists at my sides and raged. "Why? WHY ARE YOU ATTACKING ME?"

She looked momentarily confused, then returned my scowl, with interest. "I never attacked you. YOU threw the rocks!"

"Only because you put a wall in my face at a bajillion miles an hour!"

"That wasn't a wall, it was just a sign!

"Oh! Well, that's okay, then. How was I supposed to know that? I tried to dodge it and wound up scraping my tits across half the frickin' moon!"

Jade had the grace to look abashed.

"Ummm. Okay, I see your point. My Starcruiser spotted you zipping around the Earth; I've been trying to catch up with you ever since. I got here as quickly as I could, but damn! you're fast. At that point, we didn't know what you might be, or what your intentions were.

"I was catching up, but you could have bolted in any direction. I had to think of something quick; the sign was as far ahead of you as I could reach, but I misjudged, it wasn't far enough. I'm sorry."

I studied her face, and began to relax. I unclenched my fists and nodded slowly, making a show of inspecting myself for injury. "Well, no harm done, I guess. Although I've stopped being surprised about that, lately," I admitted wryly.

I stuck out my hand. "I'm, uh, I guess I'm Miss Mars these days. Pleased to meet you, Jade."

She took my hand in a firm grip. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Mars." Her lips quirked. "You've got to admit, that was a pretty spectacular faceplant."

I grinned ruefully. "Lady, you shoulda seen it from MY end!"

~o~O~o~

I sat out on the patio, basking in the early sunshine and enjoying the quiet of the morning. I'd shifted back to Megan as soon as I had arrived home, dressed in a simple t-shirt nightdress. I could hear Dolores stumbling around in the kitchen, scrounging some breakfast before heading off to work.

"Meg? You outside? What's this stuff on the table?" she called out through the screen.

"Just my driver's license, and school transcripts for grades 9 through 11. I met Jade last night, she fixed me up. They're legit, computer records back them up. I'm as real as anyone else in the system, now."

"Oh, you met Jade? What's she like? I want to hear all about it, I'll be right out." I heard the fridge open and close as she poured herself some orange juice.

"What's this rock doing here?"

"It's a moon rock."

"Oh? Where'd you find that?"

Wait for it… She took a sip of juice.

"The Moon."

I grinned at the sound of orange juice being sprayed across the kitchen. Timing is everything.

~o~O~o~

With my newly acquired driver's license, I was hot to roll out my old wheels and get mobile again; but Dolores insisted on getting rid of 'that piece of junk' and trading it in for something more suitable for the new me. Sigh.

The car was junky on the outside, but that was on purpose. As a detective, I needed to be able to park in some crummy parts of town, and not have to worry that my ride would get stolen.

Under the dirt and rust primer and unnecessary smears of body filler purred a twenty-year-old Camaro I'd kept in excellent mechanical condition. Rather than just trade it in, I told her where she could find a buyer; she sold that piece of junk for more than she paid for the ten-year-old VW Beetle cutemobile we bought to replace it.

The cutemobile wasn't so bad, really. At least it was a convertible. And it sure beat taking the bus to school.

"Ummm, hi, I'm Megan Morse. I'm new, I was told to report here for my class schedule?"

The harried grey-haired lady behind the counter flashed me a friendly smile. "Of course dear. Morse, you said?" She flipped through a file folder and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

"Here we go. Your locker is 1432, that's in the east wing, but don't put anything in there till you have a lock for it. There's a bunch of forms here, emergency contacts, health information, and so on. We need those back this week. This is your schedule, home room is English, with Ms. Kranz." She pulled a map of the school from the papers and marked the room. "Upstairs, and down the left hall. Welcome to Joe Shuster Collegiate. It's always crazy the first day, but if you need anything, come back and see us." A final smile and she turned her attention to the next kid in line.

I smiled my thanks and headed back into the crowded halls to find my locker.

Only to find someone else using it. "Oh, hey, excuse me? I think that's my locker. 1432, says so right here." I held out the paper from the office.

The kid currently jamming his backpack into my locker didn't bother turning around. "Yeah, well, it's just a number, honey, find another one."

My eyes narrowed. "You got a name, tough guy?"

He slammed the locker shut and slapped his lock on it before turning to give me a victorious smirk. He was a husky guy, probably football team. Not quite six feet, but that still gave him almost a foot over my height. His face sported a few irritated blotches where he'd had to shave over his acne. I remember doing that. Acne sucked.

His smirk widened as his eyes took me in, although against Dolores' urging I'd deliberately dressed down for my first day. Jeans and a soft pink scoop-neck tee shirt, denim jacket over top. Sneakers. Hair in a ponytail. Nothing special. Okay, the tee was a little snug. And the jeans, but that's just how they fit.

I snapped my fingers up at him. "Hello? Name? You got a name, tough guy?"

His expression darkened. "Mike. Mike Thornton. What's it to ya?"

"Not a thing, Mikey. You win, big guy. You stole a locker from the new girl. You can run along now. Go tell all your friends."

By this time we'd attracted a crowd. He looked around uncomfortably, at a loss for how to recover the situation. I wasn't too worried. I may have been smaller and looked weaker, but I'd had twenty-five years as a cop, dealing with punks like him every day.

His brow furrowed, searching for a parting retort. Finally he pointed farther down the bank of lockers. "There's spare lockers down there."

I let him get halfway down the hall before I called him back. "Hey Mikey!"

He turned to see his backpack in the middle of the busy hall and his open lock dangling from my fingers. I slammed the locker shut and snapped my own lock closed, flashing him my sweetest smile. "You got a broken lock."

I arrived at home room in plenty of time, so I chose a seat in the back half of the room. Not all the way back, because that row winds up getting as much attention as the front, if high school today was anything like I remembered it. Besides, back row kids can be territorial. So I wound up about two-thirds of the way back, a little to one side. I wish I knew if the teacher was right or left-handed. I chose the right side, to be on her left. Assuming she was right-handed.

Okay, perhaps you're overanalyzing.

I sat slouched at my desk, tapping with my pen on the desk as kids started to trickle into the room. I shuffled through the multitude of forms I got from the office. I cringed when I saw a space for 'Parent or Guardian'. Fabulous. I'd have to ask Dolores to sign some of these.

Somebody slid into the seat next to mine. "Ummm… hey. I probably should be mad at what you did to Mike, but I wanted to say thanks."

I blinked at the girl, startled back into the moment. "I'm sorry? Oh, I didn't do anything, except notice his lock was broken," I chuckled. She was about my height, wavy black hair. Pretty.

She grinned. "Well, he's my boyfriend, so I should be on his side. But he was being a jerk. He took your locker so he could be next to mine. He gets possessive, y'know? And just between us, it was creeping me out. I like the guy, but I could use a little space, " she confided. "So I'm glad we're neighbors. I'm Deb."

"Hey neighbor," I smiled shyly. "I'm Megan. He's going to be pissed at me for awhile, isn't he."

She giggled. "Nah. He's not a bad guy, he's just… such a guy. He'll get over it. He'll take some ribbing, but he'll laugh about it, too." She gave me a look of admiration. "I love how you stood up to him, though. That was awesome."

I shrugged, embarrassed, and slouched a little more, toying with my pen. "I, uh, well, it just kinda happened."

She shook her head. "Nah, you've done it before. Brothers, am I right?"

Fortunately, the start of the class saved me having to respond.

~o~O~o~

"S'up Ben? Still pretty?"

The big man had stepped out back of the bar for a smoke. He was getting on in years, his thick arms scarred from many a knife, or broken bottle, or razor. He took pride in the fact that he'd never taken a scar on his face.

His grizzled face lit up, showing a row of crooked, stained teeth. "You betcha," he grinned. "You're lookin' pretty good yerself, fer a dead guy."

I gave him a mournful look. "It's not all it's cracked up to be, Benny. The cable TV sucks. The pay channels got no porn on 'em at all."

Benny the Bouncer winced sympathetically. "Them's the breaks, man. Sucks to be in Heaven."

I snorted. "Who said anything about Heaven? No porn? That's Hell for sure, pal."

We shared a chuckle and lit up a smoke. "So, Benny, whatcha hear?"

~o~O~o~

The young whore working the corner was barely older than my new self. Her makeup was heavy and garish, to show up in the dim light of the street. Her fishnet stockings and too-tight dress left nobody in doubt of the business she was in, and the assets she could bring to bear.

"Hey Tina, how's tricks?"

The girl turned in surprise, tottering on ridiculous heels, and held out her arms for a hug. "Danneeeeee!" she squealed.

I gave her a brotherly hug, and checked her arms for track marks. "Girl, you're using again. You promised."

Tina pouted and one crimson-nailed finger toyed with the buttons on my shirt. "Awww c'mon, Danny, don't be that way. You died! I was sad." She giggled and squirmed her body against mine. Whatever she was on, she was flying high. "You don't feel dead to me, Danny-boy."

I pried her arms from around my neck and took a step back, shaking my head. "Not tonight, kid. Save it for the paying customers." I held up a couple of twenties. "You know what I like. Talk to me, babe."

~o~O~o~

Eddie the Face ran a news stand down in the business district; he got the name from an incident in his early childhood. His mother caught a face full of lye from her angry pimp when she answered the door one day. She was holding little Eddie at the time.

At this early hour, he was waiting for the bundles of morning papers to be dropped off. I crossed the empty street in the dim grey light, stepping around the puddles from the previous night's rain.

Eddie looked up at the sound of my footsteps. "Dan? That you?"

"Mornin' Eddie. Got my back issues of Homely Midget Weekly?"

He grinned at our running joke. "Sure thing. I been savin' 'em for ya."

"I won't pay for the sticky ones."

He chuckled as we finished our little ritual. "Nah. You know I get the Braille edition. I only read 'em for the staples. Damn, boy! I heard you was dead!"

I took his hand and gave it a firm shake, clasping his shoulder briefly as I passed him the cash. "I am, Eddie. I am. So what's the word?"

~o~O~o~

Turns out the word was, the Cartel was hurting. They were falling behind in shipments of something, but Eddie had no idea of what, or to whom. The bosses were worried, though. You'd think that would be good news, but the reality was, the Cartel had a habit of passing the pain around.

The Bone Fists had vanished off the streets; Bennie said they weren't showing up at the bar, and the working girls hadn't seen them either. Tina said the girls were expecting them back in a couple of weeks, with enough cash for a serious party.

Tina had another puzzle piece, as well. It seems last week, some of the girls had been hired for a party at one of the better hotels, to entertain some egghead types from out of town. A few bucks to the night clerk turned up a name: Haldibane Labs booked a block of rooms, corporate rate.

Over breakfast, I filled Dolores in on my investigations. "You ever come across an outfit named Haldibane Labs? The working girls say there was a party last week for these guys. One of Tony's boys picked up the tab."

She looked thoughtful. "I don't know…seems I saw something about them, in the paper. I'll check them out when I get downtown."

I frowned. "It's might be a coincidence, but see if they're in any financial difficulty, or if there are any links to the Cartel. Something's up, but I don't know what it is, yet."

She nodded. "One of the guys over in Forensic Accounting owes me a favor. I'll drop the name on him. He's up to his elbows in Cartel corporate records already." She grinned. "If he can link another company to the Cartel, he'll owe me two favors."

I frowned. "I can't find a trace of this Heatstroke kid anywhere, nobody's seen him. I hoped maybe he'd been seen hanging with the Fists. The Fists at the mall knew about him, though. He's probably wherever they are."

"Well, the docs said, judging from the location of the injury, and the amount of blood he lost, he's lucky to be alive. If he even is, in fact, alive. So he could just be hiding out, someplace."

I risked a slapped hand and stole a bite of her toast, then shook my head. "That's too easy. He's a meta, I have to assume he's a fast healer. Find the Fists, and we'll find Heatstroke, I can feel it."

---

Out of the Ashes, Part 5

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

---

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

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

I was starting to remember my dreams.

~o~O~o~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded, swallowing. "I understand."

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

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

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

I nodded. "He suggested a dance class."

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

I answered cautiously. "Of course."

"High heels."

~o~O~o~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I'd been avoiding the whole mess.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~o~O~o~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I think you should date him."

"Dolores! …seriously?"

"Seriously."

~o~O~o~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

Out of the Ashes, Part 6

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. Heatstroke nodded in satisfaction as he stepped back and extinguished the bright flame that had covered his form. A thin, finger-width scorched black line outlined the edges of the huge vault door on three sides, pitted and scarred by rivulets of melted steel. Part of the bottom edge still glowed cherry-red, slowly dimming as it cooled. The room was filled with an acrid smoke, uncomfortably warm. Fifteen minutes, right on schedule. His associate spoke. "Phase two complete. Beginning phase three. Five minutes."

---

None of Dan’s usual contacts could shed any light on where the Bone Fists might have gone. I was waiting in the alley behind the bar for Benny the Bouncer to come out for a smoke break, when a voice spoke in my head.
*There is unusual activity on police communication channels in your vicinity. Jade suggested I contact you. Are you able to investigate?*
Jade had given me a replacement for Dolores's friendship ring, but normally I only thought about it when I shapeshifted. When I was Megan it looked identical to the original I kept safe at home, when I became Miss Mars it resembled Jade's ring. Most other times it was easiest just to make it invisible.
This was the first time it had spoken to me. I tried thinking at it as I stepped into deeper shadow and shifted from Dan to Miss Mars.
*Yes, of course. What's happening?*
*A security alarm has been triggered at a research laboratory. Local authorities were alerted from the company headquarters when a security alarm was triggered and then canceled. Normal protocol requires a telephone confirmation in case of false alarm, but this did not occur. On-site security is unresponsive, but I have intercepted one cellular phone call for assistance, claiming an attack by a paramilitary force, estimated size twenty. Objective unknown. Multiple casualties. Police and SWAT are onsite, but taking fire and unable to approach.*
I was in the air before I realized I didn't know where I was going.
*Ah… I'm going to need directions.*
*I can do better than that. Hold the hand with the ring out in front of you.*
I held my hand at arm's length, and a green beacon appeared in the distance, on the outskirts of the city, like an emerald spotlight pointing straight up into the sky.
*This is a low-powered projection directly onto your retinas. Nobody else will see it.*
*Very impressive. Kind of like Google Earth, with the real Earth.* I took off for the beacon, and damned if the smartass thing didn't start labeling the streets for me as I went.
Less than a minute later, I had a bird's-eye view of the scene. Light and dark made no difference to my new eyes, and I could see with a clarity of detail that would give a hawk eyestrain.
A long, well-lit road cut through manicured corporate parkland; at one end was the gatehouse; at the other end, garishly lit by their red and blue emergency lights, a pair of SWAT trucks and an assortment of squad cars and other emergency vehicles. The cops were taking cover behind their vehicles, unable to approach because of the gunfire coming from the gatehouse.
Skewed across the road, blocking it halfway between the two ends, was a squad car, obviously the first on the scene. It was in pretty bad shape; pockmarked with bullet holes, and the windows shattered. Two officers lay behind it, both bleeding badly, one lying prostrate, the other applying pressure to a hole in his partner's chest, heedless of his own wound.
The SWAT guys had sent a pair of men into the darkness on each side of the road, attempting to approach the gatehouse from the sides, but there was little cover, and their approach was slow. Judging from the occasional gunshot from the side doors, the gunmen knew they were being flanked; possibly they had a night vision scope.
*Can you put me in contact with the SWAT team?*
*Speak into the ring*
"This is Miss Mars, I'm a -- an associate of Jade's. Get the medics ready to move. I'm going to take out the gatehouse."
I landed in front of the gatehouse. It was bigger than it seemed from above, one of those places with a small office area and a service counter where visitors could go inside and register. Inside, five men braced their weapons on the counter, pointed at me; they thought they were hiding inside in the dark, but to me they might as well have been standing on main street at noon.
I wished I had a commanding pose to strike; but I was uncomfortably aware of my appearance: a girl, a kid really, very green, in more than one sense. Wearing a very skimpy, [very] form-fitting costume, with kinky thigh-high leather boots. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but I was becoming uncomfortably aware that I was probably the next centerfold of Pedophile Monthly.
At least the football team can't see me now. 9 out of 10, easy.
"Ditch the weapons and come out of there. If I have to take them away from you, you’ll regret it!" I tried to say it with as much authority as I could muster, but it still came out sounding more like a babysitter than a superhero.
Yeah, I probably would have laughed at me, too. But it still hurt. Then they opened fire.
The bullets pinged harmlessly off me as I came in through the window they'd smashed, and tore the counter out of my way. The men moved like they were stuck in molasses as I blew threw them, tearing the guns out of their hands, crushing the barrels, and tossing the guns into one pile and the men into another.
The dead guard gaped at me, still in his chair, with half the back of his skull missing. I didn't worry so much about being gentle after that. I tossed everything loose I could find onto the pile of men, starting with the counter, two desks, and a row of filing cabinets. Hopefully that would hold them till the cops arrived.
I spoke into the ring. "Gatehouse is clear. Get moving."
I picked up the squad car and tossed it off the road, clearing it for the SWAT trucks. The cop on the ground was unconscious and pale, breathing shallowly with kind of gurgling noise. The other one was doing his best to stem the flow of blood from his partner's chest, despite losing a fair bit of his own blood, from a wound in his thigh.
He looked up at me, a kid barely out of the academy, tears streaking his face, too intent on his task to show any surprise at the flying girl. "He's not going to make it."
The paramedics must have started sprinting as soon as I provided a distraction to the gunmen, because they arrived a moment later and immediately set to work treating their patients.
The SWAT trucks were finally moving, roaring past us into the facility, followed by several black-and-whites, with full sirens and lights. The men who were attempting to flank the gatehouse rushed out of the darkness, and burst in through the side doors, weapons at the ready, intent upon on doing it by the numbers. I couldn't really blame them for not taking the weird green girl's word for it, but I did smirk to myself when I heard them trying to lift the filing cabinets.
I was about to lift off to follow the SWAT team when the paramedic sighed and shook her head. "I've stopped the bleeding, but he's twenty minutes away from a hospital. I don't think he has five."
I glanced towards the facility, but I didn’t have to make any choice at all, there was only one possible decision. "I can get him there. Which hospital would be best?"
The woman looked startled, she'd been so focused she'd managed to forget I was even there. "Ah, um, the Trauma Center. At the University."
I pointed to the radio clipped to the woman's vest. "Contact the trauma center, tell them I'm coming in the door, right now." *I'll need a beacon.*
I picked up the wounded cop as gently as I could -- I had to cheat and stretch my arms, a five-foot two-inch girl just doesn't have the reach to pick up a full grown man -- and took off after the beacon.
I met the ER team just inside the doors of the hospital.

~o~O~o~
Heatstroke nodded in satisfaction as he stepped back and extinguished the bright flame that had covered his form. A thin, finger-width scorched black line outlined the edges of the huge vault door on three sides, pitted and scarred by rivulets of melted steel. Part of the bottom edge still glowed cherry-red, slowly dimming as it cooled. The room was filled with an acrid smoke, uncomfortably warm.
Fifteen minutes, right on schedule.
His associate spoke. "Phase two complete. Beginning phase three. Five minutes."
As the two men rigged a forklift to pull the heavy steel door open, two more descended in one of the freight elevators, carrying a number of empty backpacks between them. They slipped into the vault as soon as the opening was sufficiently wide, careful to avoid the hot edges.
After a short time, one of the men ran out to set a pair of much heavier, much fuller backpacks into the freight elevator, then ran back into the vault. A moment later he’d repeat the trip, one man filling the packs, the other carrying them to the elevator.
There was a brief crackle of static over the radio. "SWATs are arriving. No response from gate team."
The leader cursed. "Pull half the men inside, put the rest under cover, but keep them moving, keep the cops uncertain about how many of us there are. They’ll need to sweep the area, they can’t be sure we’re all in one place. Wait for them to open communications. Do NOT let them inside the fence." The leader nodded to Heatstroke and jerked his thumb to the second elevator. "Get up there. Be ready, in case we need you early. And stick to the plan."
After a few more trips, the two men left the vault, laden with the last of the packs. "That’s that last of it."
The leader followed them to the elevator. "When we get up top, empty five of the packs and distribute the stuff between the others. Looks like the gate team won’t make it. As soon as you’re done, start passing them out."
"Phase three complete. Phase four starting. Every man inside gets a pack. Once you get a pack, trade places with a man outside. One at a time, keep it casual, we’ve got an audience. Don’t spoil the surprise."
~o~O~o~
By the time I got back to Terberon Research, the cops had settled around a building at the back of the campus, isolated from the rest by a tall chainlink fence. It was pretty easy to spot all the flashing lights from the air; the vehicles had been parked behind other buildings, out of direct line of fire. The SWAT team had posted snipers on nearby rooftops, and they were observing the activity inside the fence, reporting it to the command center down below. Other men had spread out to secure the gate, using whatever cover they could find. Red flashing alarm lights over the doors on every building made the shadows dance eerily.
Inside the fence, two parcel delivery box trucks were parked haphazardly, with a number of commando types guarding the area. The men were making use of available cover, wherever possible, but they weren’t staying put -- instead, they seemed to be rotating from positions on the perimeter into the building. Each man came out wearing a backpack strapped to his shoulders. All the men were dressed identically in black, even their heads and faces covered; it was impossible to tell if the building held two men, or twenty.
I hovered invisibly in the darkness overhead, trying to figure the gang’s plan, and failing. There was no way those trucks would get past the cops. I tried to figure how I might help the situation: I could disable the trucks, but so could the snipers. I was pretty sure I could disarm the men outside the building, but I had no clue how many more were inside, or if they might have taken hostages. Anything I might do could conceivably make the situation worse. At the moment, it seemed the cops had the upper hand, so I waited.
One of the men stepped out of the warehouse and burst into a brilliant flame, illuminating the whole area. My heart stopped for a moment. I shouted at the ring, "That’s Heatstroke! He killed the cops at the museum! SWAT Team, take cover! Get your men off the roof! He’s going to blast their way out! Normal bullets won’t get through his flame..." I realized I was starting to babble, and with an effort, shut up.
What was happening to me?
My pulse was racing, I was breathing fast and shallow, out of control. My mouth was dry, and the bottom had dropped out of my stomach. I was trembling all over; my hands would not stop shaking. A full blown panic attack.
I was afraid. More than afraid, I was terrified. I wanted nothing more than to get as far away from the scene as I could, yet I was immobilized, afraid he might see me, like a mouse in the shadow of a hawk.
Why am I feeling this way?
Heatstroke lifted into the air and blasted out a section of the fence at the side of the compound, away from the cops. Inside the fence, the commandos swarmed around their trucks, lowering the back gates and setting down ramps, but I couldn’t tear my gaze from the fiery form of the man who had killed me. As he turned slowly to face the SWAT team, I knew what was coming next.
Those men are going to die.
There was no thought, no hesitation; no matter how afraid I was, I could not remain paralyzed and let those cops be killed. I dove at the blazing form from above, blindsiding him in a -- literally-- flying tackle that would have brought tears of joy to my old football coach, driving my shoulder into the flames and wrapping my arms around him, slamming us onto the roof of the materials warehouse. The impact forced us apart, and we tumbled like ragdolls across the roof, stunned.
Red flames. I can’t breathe. Pain. For a few moments my dream overlay my vision, fire washing across the roof, before it resolved into the red flashing alarm lights, but the smell of burning flesh remained.
And the pain. The pain from my dreams, only this part was very real. I climbed slowly to my feet, staggering as the agony crashed over me, threatening to drag me down into unconsciousness. I looked at my hands and arms; my green alien flesh had become dark, hardened and cracked, like abused leather. I suspected my face and shoulder looked the same way, and I realized I was only seeing through one eye. My fingers and arms were stiff, almost immobile; I had no sense of touch. I could will them to bend slightly but the effort was excruciating, and I had to stop trying and wait for my vision to clear. I tried to envision healthy skin, and shapeshift it into being, but nothing happened.
Do something, or he’ll kill you again.
On the other end of the roof, I could see Heatstroke, his flame extinguished, beginning to stir. I tried to lift into the air, to gain some distance, but I could only lift a foot or so into the air before dropping back to the roof. I staggered, fortunately recovering my balance before I fell onto my burnt hands. I hid behind an air conditioning unit, panting with the effort, leaning my back against it for support. What was wrong with me?
I closed my eyes -- my eye, and tried to calm my breathing, to force the pain into the background. I thought maybe I could feel my strength returning, slowly, unless it was just wishful thinking. Nearby there was pole sticking up from the roof, some kind of antenna, maybe 10 feet tall. Breaking it off without using my hands required some creative thinking; finally I was able to prop myself against the air conditioning unit and push at it with one foot until it bent and snapped. It took more effort than I would have imagined, but I doubted any normal girl would have been able to do it, so I must have some residual strength left.
Picking the pole up was much harder. I slipped my right hand under the pole, and used the left as kind of a paddle to bend bend my fingers around it, then pressed them tight. I bit my lip and whimpered with the effort. Before I could change my mind, I pushed my left hand against the roof to curl the fingers into a loose claw, with which I could grasp the pole. Thus armed, I peered around the air conditioning unit to try and spot Heatstroke.
He had regained his feet, although he looked somewhat unsteady. He spun in a slow circle, scanning the dark roof. The only illumination was below, at ground level, and from the sliver of the moon. The ventilation units and other rooftop devices cast long shadows across the roof, deeper than the surrounding darkness. For a second he looked right at me, as I peered out at him, and my fear rose in my throat, before he turned away, still looking.
He can’t see in the dark the way I can. That was something, anyway.
It had all happened pretty fast, I wondered if he even realized what had hit him. For all he knew, somebody was still out there someplace, getting ready to smash him again. He’d ignite as soon as he could manage it, it was his only protection. Seconds after that, he’d be in the air -- and he’d light up the whole area, I’d have nowhere to hide at all when that happened. I had to hit him before he got off the roof.
He was facing away from me, looking out into the darkness; it was now or never. Gritting my teeth to stifle the scream at the pain, I rushed across the roof as quietly as I could, clutching my weapon like a club.
He ignited before I was halfway there, which was very bad, but in the short term the sudden roar of flame probably kept him from hearing my approach. I screamed as I forced my tortured arms to swing the pole as hard as I could. The sudden shriek from behind startled him, and he turned, in time for the pole to catch him across the face with a solid thud, but his flame cushioned the impact, although it knocked him off the building.
It wasn’t nearly enough. I’d only pissed him off. I pried the pole from my crippled hands. My only chance of escape was to jump off the building, and hope that what power of flight I might have left would cushion the fall so I could find a place to hide. My feet had barely left the roof when he caught me; intense flame erupted around me, eating at my flesh. My back arched as my muscled convulsed, and my last breath came out in an agonized scream, my nightmare come to life.
I didn’t know I was falling until I hit the ground, and then I knew nothing at all.
~o~O~o~
Tony Carpaci stood nervously at the end of the boardroom table, facing the wall of video monitors. The room was large, but in darkness; the sole illumination coming from a small spot lamp that shone straight down, dividing his face into contrasting regions of overbright and deep shadow. He dabbed at his perspiring forehead with an already damp handkerchief.
The video displays flickered to life, revealing a single huge face, stern and unforgiving. "What is it, Mr. Carpaci?"
"Director, you asked to be kept informed. We have acquired a new supply of the raw material, and will resume shipments within the week. We expect to make up the backlog within 90 days."
The face nodded, once. "Make up the backlog in forty-five days, and you’ll be back in my good books, Mr. Carpaci. How long will this new supply last?"
Tony Carpaci coughed. "Ah, well, if shipments continue at current levels, possibly six months. We are trying to find alternative sources, but as you know, the material is highly regulated --"
"Do not presume to tell me what I already know, Mr. Carpaci. I will forward you what intelligence we have on foreign sources. Do what you have to. What is the status of your tame metahuman?"
Tony Carpaci stiffened at the sudden change of subject. "Ah. Well, he was injured slightly during the acquisition operation, but he heals quickly. There was another meta, but she has been eliminated."
"We are watching this with interest. Metahumans could prove very useful, but ultimately control is a serious concern. If he turns on you, the consequences will affect Intergang. That will not be allowed to happen. Consider chipping him."
Tony mopped his brow. "Certainly, Director, but not until the chances of success are higher. Otherwise we risk damaging him, or provoking the very change of allegiance we are trying to prevent. His ability to heal elevates the risk --"
"Make sure you can control him, that’s all." The screen went dark.

~o~O~o~
The darkness spat me out again.
I woke to the familiar comfort of my own bed, and the familiar comfort of a warm body next to mine, softly snoring. The curtains were open to the early morning sunshine, and wafted gently in the cool morning breeze.
There was no sign of the pain, in fact I felt wonderful, like I’d had the most perfect night’s sleep. Had I been medicated? I lay still, half afraid to move in case the pain came back. My memory seemed pretty complete, up to the fall off the roof; more precisely, the end of the fall. After that, nothing at all that would explain waking up in my own room with Dolores trying to steal all the covers.
Tentatively, I wiggled my toes. They felt like they moved, and there was no pain. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. So far, so good. Finally I slipped my hand out from under the sheets, and examined it, flexing my fingers. My skin was covered in a dark ash, flaking off in places to show my usual green skin underneath. I covered one eye, then the other. Both seemed fine.
I shifted slightly, so I could turn my head and watch Dolores sleep. She was on her side, her hands pulled up to her chest, just touching my arm, with her top leg entangled with mine, as if for reassurance that I was there. Her hair had fallen over her face, but I let it lie; she was perfect as she was. It came to me that this was the second time I’d done this to her. I was glad at least she’d been spared seeing it happen, this time. She didn’t deserve any of this; she deserved happiness and children and a husband who didn’t keep putting her through the wringer.
Her eyelids fluttered and opened. We spent a timeless moment just looking into each other’s eyes. "Morning," she whispered.
I smiled sadly. "Morning, baby. I guess I did it again. I’m sorry."
She brushed the hair from her face, and gave me a reproachful look. "Well, I admit it was rough at first, but Jade promised me you were healing. Once you started breathing again, it was just a matter of when you’d wake up."
I rolled over on my side to face her directly. "Hold on. Jade was here? I wasn’t breathing?"
She grinned, taking pleasure in my confusion, although with what I’d put her through, I couldn’t begrudge her whatever enjoyment she could find. I just never suspected she had such a vindictive streak. "Well, first she had to get you away from the feds, they wanted to dissect you. Of course, they thought you were dead. Not that it would have mattered, I suspect. She had to promise to give you back if you didn’t revive. And since you did revive, a different set of feds want you. Just to talk. Jade says these ones are okay, I think she used the one set to pry you loose from the other set. Of course, the YouTube videos helped. I don’t know if Jade had anything to do with that or not."
She wanted me to suffer; the least I could do was suffer for her. "Two sets of feds. YouTube. I-I was dead?"
Dolores gave me a fragile smile, her eyes taking in my face intently, relishing my confused state. Then she closed her eyes and nodded, "Oh, yeah. You were very d-dead," she whispered shakily.
Eventually, after a long shower together -- we were both covered in flakes of my charred skin -- and cleaning up -- ditto for the sheets -- I managed to weasel the story from her in some kind of coherent form. Some of this she got from Jade, some from the news, some from friends in the police department.
I’d fallen from the roof, blazing. Heatstroke put up a wall of flame along the fence, incidentally melting the fence, but making it opaque and impassible, driving the SWAT team back.
In the meantime, the purpose of the cube vans was revealed: each of the commandos entered a truck, and rode out on a motorcycle, an off-road bike, which they drove through the hole in the fence Heatstroke had opened originally, escaping cross-country in the dark with the aid of nightvision goggles. The bikes were later recovered all over town, no two in the same place.
Heatstroke then incinerated one of the SWAT trucks, resulting in an explosion that injured several cops, two of them critically, but was driven off when he was hit by one of the snipers, who had loaded armor-piercing rounds. That made sense, AP rounds had tungsten alloy cores, which made them very hard, with the additional benefit of making them much more difficult to melt. Unfortunately, Heatstroke’s wound was in the leg, and wasn’t thought to be serious.
That was about the time the Feds finally arrived, nobody was quite sure what department they were from, but there was no doubt they were legit; their credentials checked out all the way back to Washington. They shut down the whole scene, and sent the cops packing.
Shortly after that Jade showed up, looking for me; apparently in the commotion everyone had forgotten about the Crispy Kid. Apparently my ring had notified her that I was down but was insisting there was some residual brainwave activity. The Feds gave her a hard time, first accusing her of trying to remove evidence from a crime scene, and later, when they realized what I was, trying to lay claim to my remains, the logic being that if I was still alive, I couldn’t have been human. Since only humans can be citizens I couldn’t have been a citizen and so was not entitled to any rights. Not that citizenship ever kept the Feds from something they wanted badly enough.
Well, it seemed Jade is on speaking terms with a different group of Feds. Those Feds were also interested in the heist, and were already en-route, but, being located in Houston, they were still in the air. She managed to get her Feds to make the other ones back off. After the fact, since by that time she’d already whisked me away to the medical bay of her Starcruiser.
Which verified what my ring had been detecting. Apparently my cells were spontaneously regenerating, slowly at first, but accelerating exponentially; one healthy cell split into two, two cells made four, then eight, then sixteen. Before long it was obvious to the naked eye, from one hour to the next. According to the ship, the healing would have happened on its own, but it was able to devise a nutrient formula that provided exactly what the cells needed, for an optimum rate of regeneration. For forty-eight hours I was suspended in a vat of the stuff. Finally I started breathing again, and my brainwaves lifted from not-quite-flatline to normal deep sleep, and Jade thought it was safe to bring me home.
"There’s some of the nutrient stuff in the fridge, made for drinking. Apparently you should have some every few hours till it’s gone," Dolores finished, as she was folding an omelette over some diced ham and cheese.
I finished setting the table, and opened the refrigerator to find a generic plastic jug. I opened it and sniffed at it experimentally, then chuckled and poured some into a glass. I took an experimental sip, and smacked my lips. It was oddly satisfying, easing a craving I didn’t even know I had. "I think Jade’s ship has a sense of humor, this stuff tastes like Tang, the astronaut’s drink. So, what’s this about YouTube?"
"Apparently some photographer was riding with the cops when the alarm went off at the facility. He grabbed some stills of you at the gatehouse, and a video of you going in and coming out. The video’s kind of Blair Witch stuff, jerky and not much to actually see, but there’s a few frames where the muzzle flashes of their guns kind light up the inside. You can see there’s five of them, and they’re shooting at you. But the stills, they’re hot, babe. There’s one with you holding that squad car over your head, and another of you carrying that cop to the hospital, just as you were lifting off. Movie poster stuff. He probably sold those to every news outlet in the world." She shudders. "There’s some stills from your fight with Heatstroke, too. Video of you tackling him that’s just hard for anyone to watch, it’s clear you were burning. God, the pain you must have been in! And one... just l-lying there, all burnt, not even a sheet over you...
"Anyway, he was there when the first feds were arguing with Jade about jurisdiction. He had the stuff up on YouTube almost immediately, with a note about how the Feds wanted to d-desecrate your corpse. The outrage was unbelievable."
She was growing upset talking about it and I wrapped her in a hug for a few moments, just holding her. "I hope that’s not how you found out."
She shook her head. "No. Jade called in the middle of the night and said you’d been hurt, but you were safe. You were right about her, she’s really nice. Of course I was frantic, and couldn’t sleep a wink; but in the morning, once she was sure you were improving, she came and got me." Her eyes went wide as she recalled. "That was... surreal. I mean, damn! I’ve been to the moon!
"I sat next to your tank for a little while, keeping you company. Oh, hon, you looked awful -- but I could see you slowly healing, right in front of my eyes! I felt better, just being there. Jade and I chatted for a bit, I get the impression she’s kind of lonely. After a few hours, she brought me home. That’s when I saw you on the news." She counted back on her fingers. "The heist was Monday night, so it was Tuesday when I saw you. Yesterday afternoon Jade called and said you were breathing on your own, and ready to come home. So she brought you home."
I had a mouthful of omelette when the date clicked. "Mmmph. Today is Thursday?"
Dolores nodded, "Yes, why?"
I slumped in my chair and slapped my forehead. "Oh, crap. I missed the algebra quiz yesterday. I’m going to need a note."

~o~O~o~
We were cleaning up the breakfast dishes when I heard a cheery voice in my head.
"Your ring tells me you’re awake, how are you feeling?"
I spoke out loud, hoping my ring would get the hint. It was connected to the ship’s A.I., after all. "Jade! I feel a hundred percent! I recommend your spa highly." I shared a fond look with Dolores, who was looking at me like I was some fool talking to voices in my head. "I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done. For both of us. "
Jade’s voice erupted from thin air, and I grinned as understanding came to Dolore’s eyes. "I’m just glad I was able to help." Her voice grew introspective. "One of these days I won’t be able to help, and I’ll lose one of you. I just want to put that day off as long as I can."
My heart went out to her, it was an awful responsibility. Some of Jade’s heroes were just kids. Dolores’ arm went around me as she spoke up. "Jade... I can’t imagine doing what you have to do. It must be a terrible burden to have to bear alone. I just want you to know, if you ever want to talk, or if there’s any way we can help, we’ll be there. I hope you’ll count us among your friends."
I nodded emphatically, and entwined my fingers with Dolores’, holding her arm around me. "Absolutely."
Jade was silent a few moments. "Dolores... Megan... Your offer means a great deal to me. Thank you. And I would be honored to count you as my friends." She hesitated. "Ah, there was one tiny thing you could do..."
I chuckled. "Name it."

---

Out of the Ashes, Part 7

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. "Hey! Wait! You said you wanted to talk!" I sighed and settled back to the roof. "We have been talking. We’ve been talking about what a bunch of fuckups you are. How you’ve been infiltrated, and you knew it, and you dragged me into this anyway." My voice was rising. "I am not interested in your games. I’m just trying to cope with the shit that’s been dumped on me, live my life, and help out where I can. As far as I can tell, the only thing that keeps me out of your hands is that you don’t know who I am." I folded my arms across my chest. "I don’t know why you asked Jade to set up this meeting. I don’t know anything about your group. I don’t know what your intentions are, or if I should trust you even if you told me. I’m not feeling a lot of government love out there for metas. Some of you guys have already tried to cart me off and dissect me, alive or not. I was lucky -- lucky! -- Jade was there for me. Nobody else was. Okay, so maybe that wasn’t you. Or maybe you’re just plan B."

---

~o~O~o~
I got off the bus and crossed the street to the Starbuck’s, trying to figure out how many of the busy patrons were actually Federal agents. I’d been past the place several times in the last two hours, wearing a different shape each time. I was no stranger to stakeouts, and when you knew what to expect, some things were just obvious.

I’d actually been inside sipping a coffee, posing as a businessman, when the agent I was supposed to meet walked in. She was early, of course. That was par for the course, but something wasn’t right.

For this meeting I’d decided to give them as little information about my shapeshifting abilities as possible; I remained in my Miss Mars shape, although with a more passable skin tone. I left my hair mostly alone, just tying it back at the nape of my neck with a teal scarf that complimented the red nicely, leaving it to hang down past the small of my back. No schoolgirl look for me today, I was going for something a little more mature; designer jeans over calf-length heeled boots, a faded cotton collared shirt, and a suede jacket. A little makeup, some modest jewelry, sunglasses and a shoulder purse completed the look. I caught the bus a couple of blocks away, and rode it back to the Starbuck’s, and staged my entrance.

I ordered a small iced peppermint white chocolate mocha that I had no intention of drinking. I figured my Starbucks preferences would wind up in a database someplace and be analyzed by the  ‘experts’, so I was just messing with them, and it gave me a chance to case the joint one more time. Something was still off.

I carried my drink over to the table where the agent was waiting, and she rose to greet me. Young-looking, despite dressing like a grownup, a little taller than me. Athletic. Very attractive, though she tried to tone it down. She was dressed in typical agent wear; dark suit, nicely tailored. Trousers, not a skirt. White blouse, feminine, but not too frilly. Modest shoes, no heel. No visible jewelry at all, although I expected she was probably wearing a watch. Subtle makeup, competently applied. Long blonde hair, in a soft braid down her back; I wasn’t completely familiar with the dress code for female agents, but that was almost certainly non-regulation. Understandable, under the circumstances. I smiled and extended my hand, she shook it automatically. "Agent Carter, a pleasure. Mind if we take a walk?"

Her lips pursed, and her eyes narrowed slightly. I could see she was reassessing me. Another agent might have tried to regain control of the situation, stay on script, but she’d decided to go with the flow. "No, not at all."

We stepped out into the street, turning the corner and strolling casually down the block. About halfway down, we passed a large van, ostensibly belonging to a plumbing supply shop. I smacked it with the flat of my hand, hopefully loud enough to make the men inside jump. "This one yours?"

I peered at her over my sunglasses; her lips quirked as she struggled to maintain her composure. "Ah, yeah."

I tsk’d. "It’s in a no-parking zone. Cops have been by twice, but no ticket. Sloppy." I crooked my finger and led her a little farther on, pointing across the road and down a side street to another van. Carpet cleaners, this time. "If that one’s yours, then whose is that?"

That one startled her. "I... ummm... I don’t know."

I nodded, then led her a short ways farther down the block, to an alleyway between two buildings. I pointed to the fire escape running a zigzag up the side of the taller one, maybe ten stories high. I’d picked it because it was the tallest in the immediate vicinity. "I really do want to talk. But I’d prefer some privacy. Check in with your team and I’ll meet you on the roof?"

She grinned. "Gimme five, I’ll be there."

~o~O~o~
I stood near the edge of the roof, watching the street for a few minutes, then turned as Agent Courtney Carter, American Dream, stepped off the fire escape. She came up fast, but there was no way she’d sneak up that thing, the metal creaked with every step she took. She must weigh a lot. "Turns out, that van was just a van," she said reproachfully. Ten flights at a dead run, and she wasn’t even breathing hard.

I shrugged, and grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, I know. But you sent five agents to check it out."

She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. Then she realized where I was standing, at the edge of the roof with a full view of the carpet van. Finally, she shook her head and burst into laughter. "Oh, you bitch. you’re good."

I chuckled, relieved she was able to see the humour. I sent a mental query to the ring, to make sure it was still keeping our conversation private. "Look, I’m sorry about that, but I needed to know something. How many agents did you have at the restaurant? I counted two inside, one out. Was the barista one of yours?"

She shook her head. "The barista wasn’t one of ours. No comment on the agents."

I chewed my lip. "She’ll be gone by now, anyway. There was a brunette in a blue sweater with a big shoulder bag at the bus stop, and a balding guy in jeans and a grey sports coat at a table by the window, were they yours?"

Agent Carter shook her head. "No, damn it. I remember seeing that guy. You sure?"

I nodded. "The two of them were there before you guys showed. They swapped positions about every twenty minutes. I wasn’t positive about the barista, but I thought I caught her making eye contact with the man while she was making my coffee. If they had their own comms van, though, I never spotted it. I’m kind of thinking they didn’t."

She raised an eyebrow. "What do you think?" She didn’t seem overly surprised at my news.

I twisted a stray lock of hair absently around my finger, trying put my thoughts in order. "Another organization exists, with the ability to put trained agents in the field on short notice. You have a leak to this group; you set the time and place for the meeting, and they were here before you. They were rushed, though, hence the lack of backup. You know about the group, and that there’s a leak; you had agents around that van maybe thirty seconds after I pointed it out to you, and they were ready for trouble. You guys had way more agents in the area than this meeting called for; you sure don’t need their protection, and if you were after me, you wouldn’t have chosen to meet at such a busy location." Plus, you’d need an army.

I held up my hand, wiggling my ring finger. "I assume this is still blocking your comms?"

She nodded glumly. "Yeah. Every time we think we have a handle on it, it changes again. I think Jade’s A.I. is playing games with us."

I frowned, trying to wring the facts out as tightly as I could. "If they didn’t know about my ring’s ability to mess with your comms, the cafe might be wired for sound. You might find something you can trace if you look. If they did know, I’d bet the other agents were lip readers, or more likely capturing video for analysis by somebody who was. So it might be bugged anyway, but with video rather than audio bugs. If you find anything, what you find might tell you what they know about the ring."

I held up the drink I’d bought, studying it. "If the barista was one of them, then this cup is suspect. Maybe they were planning on recovering it and trying to pick off my DNA, or trying to ID me by my fingerprints. Or it has radioactive tracers, or poison, or something." I set it down out of the way, glad I hadn’t ordered something I actually wanted to drink.

That was pretty much all I had. "If they went to the trouble and risk of scrambling their own people to collect data, they probably can’t steal your data yet. Which might indicate the leak isn’t in your computers or your radio transmissions. That’s just me guessing, I doubt you could afford to exclude any possibility. That’s for your security people to decide."

She looked impressed. "You are good. We’d come to the same conclusion on the leak, by the way. Mind if I talk to my team? I want to follow up on those others. And sweep the cafe for bugs."

I nodded and she stepped away, out of the range of the ring. After a few minutes she came back. "The barista’s long gone, the manager says somebody waved a badge in his face and sent the real one home. We found nothing in the cafe, but that doesn’t mean anything; they could have been wearing a hidden camera, or something. We do have the three of them on our own surveillance footage, so we’ll try to work an ID from there."

"Glad to help." I flipped her a salute, and rose into the air. "I’ll be going now."

She looked suddenly worried, and moved closer, like she might try to hold me back. "Hey! Wait! You said you wanted to talk!"

I sighed and settled back to the roof. "We have been talking. We’ve been talking about what a bunch of fuckups you are. How you’ve been infiltrated, and you knew it, and you dragged me into this anyway." My voice was rising. "I am not interested in your games. I’m just trying to cope with the shit that’s been dumped on me, live my life, and help out where I can. As far as I can tell, the only thing that keeps me out of your hands is that you don’t know who I am."

I folded my arms across my chest. "I don’t know why you asked Jade to set up this meeting. I don’t know anything about your group. I don’t know what your intentions are, or if I should trust you even if you told me. I’m not feeling a lot of government love out there for metas. Some of you guys have already tried to cart me off and dissect me, alive or not. I was lucky -- lucky! -- Jade was there for me. Nobody else was. Okay, so maybe that wasn’t you. Or maybe you’re just plan B.

"I risked a lot to come here for this meeting. I’ve already given you more than I’m comfortable with, maybe enough for you to deduce my identity. And you guys screwed up by the numbers. If I’d been dumb enough to trust you guys, we’d be sitting in that cafe and somebody else would know everything we talked about. Game fucking over. The more contact we have, the greater the risk to me."

I sighed, and stuffed my hands into my jacket pockets. "Agent Carter, I don’t want to be your enemy. But I can’t afford to be your friend."

Agent Carter just looked at me for a minute, fuming, her arms crossed under her breasts. "You done?"

I nodded mutely.

"We’re pretty sure your name is Megan Morse, you live on Hillside Crescent and you’re a senior at Joe Shuster Collegiate. Your teachers like you, by the way. you’re shy and don’t mix with the other kids much. We started looking for you when we got the report of a metahuman incident at a mall here. That was you, wasn’t it?"

I slumped and sat down on a ventilation duct. "Yeah. That was me," I whispered, defeated. Oh, shit.

She smirked, "You want to know how long it took to get a short list of suspects? About ten seconds. Anytime a new meta pops up? Look for new teenagers. Piece of cake. The ID bit was clever, that probably would have slipped past us. But when you asked for a new birth cert and SSN card, you might as well have taken out an ad in the paper."

I set my head in my hands, studying the gravel on the rooftop, and nodded. "Yeah, that worried me, after it was too late. I could have had forgeries made with the real data..." I laughed sharply. "...but I wasn’t exactly myself at the time."

She sighed, watching me. "Look. We’ve known about you for a little over a month. What have we done about it? Not one damn thing. On the evidence, we have a powerful meta, who shows up for the first time and saves lives. Even the bad guys knew it. You could have ripped off an arm and beat them to death with it. But you didn’t. What happened after that? You disappeared. You didn’t seek the spotlight, didn’t follow the cops around and stick your nose into normal police business. you’re not a vigilante. You didn’t show up again until the cops were in real trouble. And you did it again. Saved that cop’s life, avoided killing those bastards at the gatehouse. I’m not sure I would have been so generous. You damn near died to protect the SWAT team. Believe me, they noticed."

Rather than stand over me, she sat down next to me, on the gravel, heedless of her suit, wrapping her hands around her knees. "Megan, you’re the metahuman problem we’d like to have. Your file was stamped  ‘Low Risk To Society’ and shoved to the bottom of the pile. I promise, you have nothing to fear from my department."

What she said made sense. Reluctantly, I asked, "What is your department, exactly?"

Agent Carter looked uncomfortable. "Metahuman Information Bureau, MIB. Somebody started calling us the Men In Black, and we’re stuck with it. Under Homeland Security."

I snickered. "That explains the suit, then."

She looked down at her dark suit, fingering the jacket, and chuckling sourly. "Yeah, well, I used to be Army. Then FBI, Hostage Rescue. Now this. It’s just another uniform, you know? Saves having to think about what to wear every day. Besides, it’s hard enough getting the guys to take me seriously without dressing like a kid. Shit, anytime I wear my Dream uniform on a mission, they’re afraid to look at me." She over at me with a grin. "I’ve seen those pics on YouTube. You must have the same problem."

I shook my head ruefully. "Half the time I still can’t even look at myself without feeling like a pedophile. No way do I need a team for that." She was easy to like, despite my initial distrust. And Jade had recommended her. I decided to go out on a limb. "How much time do you have, Agent?"

She shrugged. "All afternoon, if that’s what it takes. We really do need to talk. And it’s Courtney. Call me Court. If you ever call me Dream, I swear I’ll call you Missy."

I grinned. "Give me a couple minutes, Court. Check in with your team, I’ll be right back."

Several minutes later I was back, with a plastic grocery bag. She held up a finger to me, pacing at the edge of the roof, deep in conversation. I whistled sharply to get her attention, and pulled a can of beer out of the bag. I lobbed it to her overhand, football-style. She snatched it out of the air easily with one hand, and I pretended not to notice when she realized what it was and squealed, well, like a girl. I found a comfortable spot on the gravel with my back to a ventilation duct, and pulled another out for myself, popping the top with a loud "Fsssht!" and taking a long drink.

She sat down cross-legged across from me a moment later, opening her own beer and drinking deeply. "I told them I might need the whole afternoon. Damn, I was beginning to forget what these tasted like. All my ID says 21, but nobody believes it," she mourned. "Most places they take one look at me and just laugh." She sighed.

I chuckled. "My old drinking buddies think I’m dead. I figured we could each use a new drinking buddy."

She grinned and tapped her can against mine, then grew more serious. "Must be rough, having to start over."

I tried to figure out how to explain. "It’s hard to say, it kind of is and it isn’t. I miss my old life, a lot. But I don’t think I could have just announced, ’ ‘Hey, I used to be Dan Hunter’ -- ’" I glanced at her nervously. "If you found me, you must have figured out I was Dan, right?"

She nodded wryly. "It didn’t take much work with a calendar to figure you probably used to be Dan Hunter, and you pretty much sealed it today, detective."

I looked sheepish at that. " -- anyway, it’s not like I could just shown up for work the next day like this. I sure couldn’t be a cop. I doubt most of my old life would have survived the change, and it would have been a painful and lengthy demise. This way, it’s a clean start. I’m gonna be a girl forever, I might as well get started." I chuckled, "Believe me, it was nowhere near as easy as it sounds. I don’t know if I could have worked up the nerve by myself. But I think it’s for the best. Somehow, I still have Dolores, so I count myself ahead of the game, all told. Her life has been seriously messed up by this, too, and she doesn’t get super powers to compensate."

I took a sip of my beer. "What about you? It must be tough around those military types, without a dick to swing."

Court’s face lit up and she pointed her beer at me. "Ha! You totally get it. That’s exactly how it is. It doesn’t matter that I could kick any of their asses when I was a guy, and all of them together, now. It doesn’t matter that I had three tours of duty as a Ranger, field experience in Hostage Rescue. Most of them just aren’t wired to take a woman seriously. Worse, a girl. I should keep a big fucking cock dildo in my desk, just to wave at them when they start looking for a dick fight."

I almost snorted beer through my nose at that image, and she grinned for a moment, then studied her beer can, turning it around in her hands. "Most of my old team asked to transfer out, they knew it was the old me, and they really tried, but it was just too much. Not to mention the pity, I couldn’t stand it after a while. It’s actually worked out for the best. The new team has only ever known me as Courtney, and there’s a few women, now, so it’s easier. But they still think they’re taking orders from a kid. Off-duty, the men treat me like I’m jailbait. The women are better about it, but it’s not like we have a lot in common. There was one..." She smiled sadly, then shrugged.

She drained her beer and I passed her another, opening one for myself. "At first, I had a shrink looking over my shoulder almost every day, she hated the idea that I could change into a girl and still be functional. But I could, as long as I had a job to do. I could acknowledge the change, you know? Even if I hadn’t really absorbed it. You know what would have happened if I’d done what you did, and just dove in? They wouldn’t trust me. The dick-swingers’d stamp my file  ‘Unfit for duty’. I’d be back in the lab, a guinea pig while they analyzed their  ‘failure’. No fucking way is that happening. As long as they think I’m still a soldier in a girl costume, I’m an asset, a weapon. I can be trusted. So, I adapt as fast as the shrinks think I should, but no faster."

We spent a few moments in silent commiseration, sipping our beer. "So why did you want to talk to me? You already seem to know everything there is to know."

Court smiled wickedly. "Why does it always have to be about you?" she teased. "It’s about your robbery."

I arched an eyebrow. "My robbery?"

She shrugged good-naturedly. "Whatever. The reason my group has taken an interest is that there were two metahumans involved, powerful ones. You, we can account for. It’s the other guy we want. That part’s pretty straightforward. Here’s what’s not: we don’t know what was stolen. In fact Terberon is denying they are missing anything. And as far as we can tell, our leak didn’t start till we took an interest in this robbery."

My eyes widened. "Ahh. Interesting. What does that have to do with me?"

"Our people will open a file on Heatstroke, and we’ll head home, leaving the local office to follow up. If there’s a leak, that’s all they’ll know. I was hoping you might do us a favor. Look into what was stolen, and why the coverup. Your background as a detective makes you a perfect choice."

"Who were the first Feds on the scene?" I frowned, considering. "They have to be the prime suspects. Why look any farther?"

Court nodded darkly. "They’re almost certainly the ones behind this. What we don’t know is why. They’re the Department of Extranormal Operations, they are extremely well funded, and extremely secret. We don’t know who’s in charge, or even who’s paying the bills. Our best guess is that the various military and intelligence branches are all contributing a share of their secret budgets for this. Terberon receives a number of very lucrative research contracts from the D.E.O., so they’ll jump through hoops to stay on their good side, especially since they’re in the doghouse after letting themselves get robbed."

"So... you want me to figure out what was stolen." I was thinking out loud. "And if I know that, I might know why it was so important to deny that it was. And why it was stolen."

Court nodded. "Plus, who the hell took the stuff, whatever it was."

"Oh, I already know that." I grinned at her stunned expression. "What, a guy has to retire, just because he’s dead? Heatstroke is connected to the Bone Fist Gang. Who work for the Crime Cartel. The Fists have been off the street for a couple of weeks, word was that they were getting ready for a big job. I’m willing to bet they’re back now." I frowned. "I might know where the stuff went, too..." I drifted off in thought for a moment, then shook myself back to reality. "Anyway, what do you know about Heatstroke? Got an ID for him yet?"

She shook her head. "Guys like him can be a challenge. He’s probably getting by with fake ID, no computer trace of him."

"Pffft, you kids these days, think it’s all in the computer," I teased. She tossed her empty at me, I picked it out of the air. "Well, you can maybe narrow it down." I pulled my knees up to my chest and thought about it. "His first job for the Cartel was to kill Hillary Carstairs, she was a grand jury witness. Work back from there, look for any unexplained fires; he had to learn about his powers somehow. I doubt you’ll have to go back far, when I first met him, he definitely had some feminine mannerisms, so I bet he used to be a woman, and recently. If his first gig was working directly for Tony Carpaci, I bet there was some prior connection to the Cartel, as a she. Somebody’s girlfriend, maybe? Otherwise, he’d need to get some street cred first. You don’t just walk in and ask to meet the boss. You have seen the video from the museum?"

"We’ve requested it, but haven’t received anything." Court looked disgusted. "Cops say they can’t find it. The Carstairs killing is news to us, that’ll help."

"Seriously?" That worried me. "Damn, that’s not good. The tape was a video confession implicating Carpaci. I know there was a backup made at the time. That bastard moves fast..." I sighed. "So I’m probably the only witness who’s seen Heatstroke up close and lived to tell about it. Well, except I didn’t. Live. But I can tell about it." I closed my eyes, trying to picture the kid at the museum. "Okay. About six feet tall, scrawny. Maybe seventeen. Pale complexion, freckles, shaggy orange-red hair. Probably looks like a lit match. When he’s on fire, somehow his flame acts as some kind of armor. Normal bullets melt before they can penetrate, although projectiles can get through if fired from close enough. I hear AP rounds seemed to get through. I’ve extinguished him with water, a-and with f-foam from an ex-extinguisher..." I realized I was shaking, and it was hard to catch my breath. "A-and for some re-reason, just thinking about him scares the sh-shit out of m-me..."

I closed my eyes, clenched my hands into fists, and rested my forehead on my knees, and gradually the panic faded.

Courtney looked concerned. "Nightmares, too?"

I nodded. Quietly, she asked, "Have you spoken to anyone about this?"

I rolled my eyes at her. "My health benefits suck." I smiled wanly. "The closest hospital on my plan is on the other side of the moon. I’ll cope, thanks." I realized I’d turned green again, and hastily restored my skin tone.

Her eyes widened at my color change, but she just smiled briefly at my feeble joke, remaining unconvinced. "You really should talk to somebody. Don’t take my word for it. Talk to your Dolores, at least? See what she thinks. If you do decide to see somebody, pick whoever you want, keep it as private as you want. Nobody has to know. I’ll make sure it’s on the government’s nickel."

"I know, I know, the last thing the world needs is a meta with  ‘’issues’," I agreed reluctantly.

"Hey," Courtney leaned forward and put her hand on mine. "Seriously. This isn’t about the world. This is for you. I won’t tell a soul, you have my word. But I’m gonna bug you about it. It’s important. Talk to Dolores, promise?"

I nodded reluctantly, and gave her a shaky smile, then drew a deep breath, and hurried to change the subject. "At the museum, I threw the extinguisher at him. It exploded, and a piece of the shrapnel went into his side. If he’d been normal, that might have killed him. As it is, I bet he needed a doctor, which means there might be records somewhere..."

~o~O~o~

"So, then we just talked for awhile. Just... venting, I guess. Sharing our frustrations. De-stressing. Sometimes you just have to sit down and laugh at the absurdity of it all." I chuckled. "I haven’t laughed so hard in a long time." I was filling Dolores in on the day’s events, over dinner. "She’s based out of Houston, for me that’s as good as next door, so I told her to call me if she wanted to just hang out."

Dolores’ eyes twinkled. "I think it’s wonderful you’re making friends with all the other little superheroes, darling. I simply must call her mother. Perhaps we could have coffee, while you girls run off and save the world."

I stuck my tongue out at her. "Seriously, I really like her, but I do feel a little sorry for her. She’s had to go through all this under a government microscope." I placed my hand over hers, squeezing it gently, and meeting her eyes. "It made me appreciate even more how incredibly lucky I’ve been, to have you."

"Awww, that’s sweet." Dolores blushed and squeezed my hand back, and we looked into each other’s eyes for a moment. "But it’s still your night to wash the dishes."

I pouted and tossed my napkin at her, and we giggled. "I think it did you good. You seem... lighter."

I thought about it. "I do feel better, but that government agency has me worried. If Court’s group could figure us out, they will, too... So, how was your day?"

She accepted the change of subject with good grace, in part because she had some news. "The forensic accountant got back to me. It seems there is a connection between the Cartel and Haldibane Labs. It’s owned by a shell of a shell of a shell, lots of sleight of hand. It seems it was a lot easier find the link by starting at Haldibane and working backwards. I’m meeting with him tomorrow afternoon to get the details."

I sipped at the last of my nutrient space-juice as I ran with that information. "Any idea what Haldibane does?"

"Only that it’s medical research of some kind. Prosthetics, I think."

~o~O~o~
"Megan? Megan! Wake up, baby, you’re scaring me!"

Gradually I made sense of my surroundings. I was lying in Dolores’ bed, tangled in the sheets, I’d been thrashing frantically. Dolores was kneeling on the bed beside me, her hands on my shoulders. I drew a deep breath, and another, I couldn’t get enough, like I’d been suffocating. My pulse was hammering, but beginning to subside. I unclenched my fists and looked at my hands, they were green again, and shaking. "Was I screaming?"

Dolores shifted to sit cross-legged on the bed, stroking my head gently. She shook her head, looking worried. "It was worse, you were... whimpering, like you were terrified of something, like you were hiding and it was going to find you. Honey, these dreams aren’t going away. What’s going on?"

I forced myself to relax, listening to my breathing, looking up at the ceiling. You promised Courtney. "It’s more than the dreams. I’ve been getting panic attacks, too. The first time was the fight with Heatstroke. I was t-terrified when I saw him, so f-frantic I could barely move..." It was coming back just talking about it.

I took a few moments, closing my eyes and trying to visualize something calming, picturing a clear blue sky. Dolores waited patiently, making soothing noises and caressing my cheek. I let my eyes remain closed, trying to hold the image as I went on. "I’d probably never have budged, if I didn’t have to do something to protect the cops...." I clenched my fists. "Then I did about the stupidest thing possible, I hit him straight on. That was when I discovered the hard way, I wasn’t invulnerable any more. My powers were gone."

I explained how I’d been lucky to push over the pole I’d used, and how I’d had to force my hands to hold it, everything up to jumping off the roof and hoping for the best. "That was the first panic attack. Now they come just thinking about it."

Dolores went quiet for a moment, and I opened my eyes to see her watching me. "Sweetie, you know what’s happening. You’ve had enough traumatic experiences for a dozen lifetimes. If it didn’t affect you, I’d wonder why. Most people wouldn’t be able to stop twitching, if they’d been through what you have. You can’t let this fester. It’ll get worse. It is getting worse. you’ve seen it happen to other cops. Jake Calder, last year, you saw what it did to him, he wound up killing himself. You need to see somebody."

"Maybe. But who?" I asked reluctantly. "I’d have to tell them everything. Who I am, who I used to be... who could we trust?"

She lay down next to me and snuggled close, her voice low and breathy in my ear. "Those people deal in patient’s secrets every day. Are yours any worse than the guy who wants to sleep with his mother? The department has a list of specialists they can refer for these things. Let me set something up."

I sighed. "I guess."

"Good." She smooched my ear. "Now pretend to go back to sleep. I need my rest."


~o~O~o~
I arrived at my locker just as Deb was stowing her books away. "Morning!"

Deb gave me an exasperated look. "Where have you been for the last three days? I was worried I’d scared you right out of school!"

I winced. "I’m sooo sorry. I was sick for a couple of days. I meant to send you a text, but I didn’t get out of the hospital till Wednesday night, and yesterday I just... forgot."

Deb was instantly contrite. I hated playing that card, but a mysterious illness would explain a lot of absences. "The hospital? Are you okay? What happened?"

"I’m fine now," I smiled, trying to look brave and somehow frail at the same time. "I just kind of... collapsed... on Monday night. Next thing I knew I was waking up Thursday morning. It’s this thing I have. It doesn’t happen very often. It’s not a big deal." I resisted the urge to twitch or maybe foam at the mouth. "So, we’re still on for the dance, right?"

She looked uncomfortable. "Oh, yeah. Hey, about that... We’re all still going, but... Susan’s saying Kyn asked her to the dance." She winced, waiting for my reaction.

"Ah." I paused for a beat. "I see. Well, that’s fair I guess. I mean, I wasn’t here, she was. Good for her." I forced an artificial smile. Bitch. I should be relieved, but I was astonished to find I was pissed. Susan hadn’t done anything wrong, had she? Kyn and I had barely even looked at each other. Hell, she was even almost cute, in a butch jock dyke-y kind of way.

Deb interrupted my uncharitable thoughts. "But you’re still coming, right? Please?"

"I don’t know. Maybe." I knew full well Dolores wouldn’t let me back out.

"Come on," she coaxed. "You can show Kyn he settled for second best."

I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t repress a smile. "Yeah, right. Okay, okay, I’m still coming." She opened her mouth but I beat her to it. "And the football game, too."

Lunchtime found me in the library again, unwilling to face the prospect of dealing with a smug Susan. Well, in my imagination she was smug, anyway. I didn’t know what was wrong with me -- if I was honest, I didn’t even want the guy, except as a prize to deny Susan. I resolved to just stay out of it, let them gain the experience. I had nothing to prove.

Surprisingly, Kyn was at his usual table. I gave him a smile and a finger-wave, but kept moving, settling at my usual spot, a large table out of site of the doors. I opened my books and started sorting out my homework assignments, when I heard a small cough from across the table.

"Umm. Hi. M-Mind if I work here?" I looked up to see Kyn, standing nervously, a hopeful look on his face.

"Oh! Yes! I mean, no!" I caught myself before I got any stupider. "I mean, no, I don’t mind, and yes, please, sit down, " I grinned. I moved some of my books to make room.

He set his books on the table and sat. "Thanks." There was an awkward silence, then, "I, uh, I haven’t seen you in here this week. O-or at lunch with the guys."

Oh, how sweet, he was looking for me! I gave him an embarrassed smile. "Yeah, I was off sick for a few days. I’m fine now, though." I added hastily.

"Oh, that’s too bad -- I mean, I’m glad you’re fine. Sorry you were sick." he explained. There was another awkward silence as the conversational ball just rolled around on the floor between us.

How does Dolores do it so easily? I swear she can make a statue chatty. "So, ready for the game?"

He clutched at the conversational bait like a drowning man to a life ring. "I think so. It’s the first game of the season, so it’s pretty hard to tell. They run a 4-4 defence, so we’ll need to be ready for the blitz. Coach has had us running screens and buttonhooks, all week. We’ve been trying a shotgun, too, for a change up."

Woah. I pitied any normal girl caught unprepared by this verbal torrent, fortunately I’d played some ball myself. "You’ll be running sweeps, and pitch outs too, I imagine. Mix it up, make them think twice about the pass rush."

He nodded earnestly. "Yes! We --"

"There you are, I’ve been looking all over for you. What are you guys talking about?" Susan appeared at Kyn’s shoulder. Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Kyn and plucked at his sleeve. "Come have lunch with us?" she asked, batting her eyes at him. It was pretty clear I was not invited.

"Ah, but I was -- I mean, Megan and I were -- " Kyn was being steamrolled, but that was something he’d have to deal with.

"Nah, you guys go." I waved them off. Susan was getting on my nerves, but I wasn’t going to compete with her. "I’ll be cheering for you at the game!"

With an apologetic look, Kyn gathered up his books and left, with Susan clinging to his arm.

I sighed and went back to my homework. A few minutes before the period ended my phone buzzed with a text message. "Got u appt with Dr Marston, week Mon. Shes vry good. Will be late 2nite, have fun @ dance!!! XOXOX"

I just had time to text back, "WHO R U?" That got me a ":p :p :p :p !!!" and a giggle.

The football game was right after school, the team was excused from their last classes of the day to get ready. I wandered out to the field and found Deb and her friends already in the bleachers, right behind the team bench. I managed to squeeze in beside Deb, at the opposite end of the group from Susan. Our team was the Spartans, in blue and red. The helmets were blue, with a stylized red  ‘S’ on them, drawn inside an inverted yellow pentagon. Today the bad guys were the Warriors from Ed Burroughs Secondary, wearing green and yellow.

The weather was a little chill, but it was sunny, and we were warmly dressed, so a good day for football. The game was pretty good, tightly contested. Both teams had strong defenses, and neither offensive team had really gelled so early in the season, so there were a few miscues and fumbles on either side, which helped make the other team’s defense look even better. The Warriors scored early with a long pass down the sidelines. Mike and Scott were defensive linemen, and were having a great game, recording a number of sacks between them; near the end of the first half Mike recovered a backfield fumble on their 10 and ran it in for a touchdown to tie the game. Naturally, his cheering section went wild.

Kyn was having a pretty good game. As a receiver, his job was to catch the ball no matter how many defenders were about to pound him, and he did a good job, despite taking some pretty physical abuse. He managed to get some good yards rushing, too; in the third quarter he just missed making the end zone on a reverse play, getting knocked out of bounds on the five yard line. The defense held, and our guys had to settle for a field goal, making it 10-7 for us. It was looking pretty good for a while, but in the final minutes one of our passes was intercepted, and run deep into our own end of the field; unfortunately the Warriors managed to drive it into the end zone a few plays later. The convert failed when the snap went wide, and that was the game, a 13-10 loss.

I’d actually really enjoyed being in the stands, cheering with the other girls for all of the boyfriends. The game was fun to watch -- it was just high school ball, nothing spectacular, just a good game. When the other girls ran out of the stands to console their guys, I was a little jealous, not so much of Susan in particular, just that I’d been caught up in being part of a teenaged girl pack, and suddenly I wasn’t anymore. I filed out to the parking lot with the other spectators.


~o~O~o~
I’d been worried about my outfit tonight, not having had a chance to discuss it with Deb first, to see if it was too dressy, not dressy enough, or somehow otherwise unsuitable. I was wearing the outfit I’d shown Dolores on Monday -- it seemed like a month ago -- a short floral print miniskirt, and a black sleeveless top, cut low enough to show some cleavage. I’d added dark pantyhose, and a chrome-studded belt. A bright multistrand necklace and some hoopy earrings added some sparkle. I’d decided the four-inch stilettos screamed "prostitute", I went with three-inch ankle boots, instead. It was a fine line. I’d done my makeup the hard way, using actual makeup, and my hair was pinned back behind my ears with a pair of plastic tortoiseshell combs, soft chestnut curls falling down my back. I wished Dolores had been there to help me get ready, she would have enjoyed it, and I could have used her advice.

The worrying turned out to be needless; when I arrived, the outfits were all over the spectrum, from normal street clothes to glamorous; the glams definitely seemed overdressed. My own outfit was comfortably between the two extremes.

School dances hadn’t changed all that much from thirty years ago -- well, except for the identity check, metal detectors, off-duty cops patrolling the grounds and parking lot, and the patdowns and handbag checks. And the music. If I ever needed a reminder that I was an oldster pretending to fit in, the music was it. I had to admit, some of it was okay, but some just set my teeth on edge.

Once inside, though, it pretty much sorted itself out to a scene I remembered. Those folks lucky enough to already be couples were on the dance floor. There were clusters of giggling girls dancing in packs, eyed furtively by clusters of guys grouped along the walls, pretending to be too cool for the dancing thing. Once in a while a guy would work up the nerve to approach a girl, and sometimes they’d dance, and sometimes he’d slink back to his buddies, quick to pretend he’d never been serious about dancing, anyway. Something new, though: sometimes there were packs of guys dancing with the girl-packs, careful never to pair off, but each still able to claim they were dancing with the opposite sex. Progress, I guess.

I found an unoccupied space along the wall, trying to locate familiar faces amongst the crowd, but I was spotted first. "Megan, hi!"

I turned at the familiar voice, smiling. "Jimmy, hey. How’s it going?" Jimmy sat across the aisle from me in algebra, we chatted a little before class, sometimes. He was about medium height, still a little taller than me even in my heels, with a quick smile and sandy blonde hair that always seemed to need brushing out of one eye.

Jimmy nodded earnestly. "Good! Good. And you?" I think we both winced on the inside.

"I’m great!" I smiled, then tried to forestall an awkward silence. "Umm, how’s the DJ doing, has the music been good? I just got here."

"It’s been okay. He’s only been playing for ten minutes." Ack. Okay, back to square one.

"Cool." I nodded seriously as if that was an important datum. I didn’t seem to know what to do with my hands, I clasped them together behind my back to keep them from compulsively smoothing my skirt. "So...did you see the game?"

"No, did we win?"

"No, 13-10. But it was a good game."

"Oh? Good. I mean, not good that we lost. But I’m glad it wasn’t a blowout. Or... anything."

This was becoming excruciating. Finally I spotted Jimmy’s posse, the guys I’d seen him in the halls with. "Martin and Ken over there are watching us." I gave them a little finger wave. "Is that Ivan too? Wow, I’ve never seen him without his scruffy jacket." He was still pretty scruffy, but it looked like he’d at least made some effort. I tried a shy smile on Jimmy. "Do you think they’re expecting us to dance?"

"Oh! Well, yeah. Sure. I mean, only if, you know, you wanna."

I took his hand and tugged him out onto the dance floor. Anything to stop this conversation. Dancing wasn’t my strong point, even as a guy, but there were lots of girls to emulate, and I tried not to flail too much. Jimmy, well, he danced like I used to, poor guy. We stayed up for a few songs, and I found that I was enjoying myself, gradually loosening up and growing a little more adventurous with my dance moves. The music still wasn’t my favorite, but it was danceable, and that was the main thing.

I finally spotted Deb and Mike on the dance floor, and waved. She saw Jimmy and gave me a grin and the thumbs-up. I shook my head at her. Nooo, it’s not like that. She nodded emphatically. Yes it is.

After a few songs, Jimmy escorted me off the dance floor, back to his friends. "Can I get you a drink?"

I hestitated. "Thanks for the dances, but I want to catch up with Deb for a bit, okay? I kinda promised to hang with those guys. But maybe we can dance again later? Besides, there’s lots of girls that would like to dance with you."

He accepted my letdown with good grace. "Oh, okay, sure. I hope so." Then he looked surprised. "Uhh, there are?"

I grinned and patted his cheek. "You just have to ask them."

Deb and Mike were still out on the floor, but Kyn was sitting, holding a bottle of soda, with Susan nowhere in sight. He didn’t look especially comfortable. I flopped down on the seat next to him. "Hey, good game today. You almost had that touchdown."

Kyn glanced at me in surprise. "Megan, hi! You look really pretty. I thought you were dancing with Jimmy, over there. And thanks," he grinned.

He noticed! "Aww, thank you!" I smiled shyly. "Well, Jimmy asked me." Hint, hint. "Where’s Susan?"

He pointed with his bottle to a cluster of girls, dancing together. "With her friends."

I studied the girls for a moment. Their dancing was just a little too loose. "They’ve been drinking."

He nodded glumly.

"So... How about that Deb and Mike. They sure do look like they’re having fun out there. Dancing, and all..." I observed, wistfully. "Oh, look! there’s Scott. He seems... vigorous. Poor Trisha."

A smile crossed his face briefly, at that. "I-I’m not really much of a dancer."

"Oh, please," I scolded him. "It’s easy. Just watch Scott. And don’t do anything he does."

That got me a grin. "S-Susan won’t be happy."

Enough. I grabbed his hand and tugged him onto the floor. "I’m not dancing with Susan. I’m dancing with you. Besides, if you booze, you lose."

It turned out he was wrong. He wasn’t a bad dancer at all. And it turned out he was right. Susan wasn’t happy.

I’d been keeping an eye on her, of course. I even gave her a smile and a little wave. All right, all right, the wave was very little. Only one finger.

So when I saw Kyn get an alarmed look on his face, it wasn’t a surprise when she came up on me from behind and attempted to give me a shove. Only, I didn’t budge. I turned to face her; she was standing too close, and I could smell the gin on her breath. I looked up at her. "Oh, hello, Susan."

She looked a little confused about why I wasn’t sprawled on the ground. Her eyes narrowed. "I’m cutting in."

I shook my head. "No, I don’t think so. Go and dance with your friends, I’m having fun."

Kyn attempted to be peacemaker, I think he was worried Susan would hurt me, the sweetheart. "Umm, Megan, it’s all right. I’ll dance with Susan."

"There, see? He’ll dance with me," she sneered, and attempted to shove me again.

I hadn’t had a lot of aikido training, but then I didn’t need a lot for this. I helped her to fall on the ground. Just with the falling part, for the actual landing, she was on her own. Turns out, she wasn’t very good at landing, and she wound up splayed awkwardly on the floor. "Susan, don’t push this. Go and dance with your friends."

By this point, the couples around us had stopped dancing to watch the commotion. Susan climbed to her feet, not entirely sure what had happened. I was guessing only one or two people had seen what I had done, to everyone else she’d just look drunk. She screeched as she came at me again, both hands extended. This time she wound up on the floor, with her hand twisted and locked painfully behind her shoulder, with me kneeling on on her back, and whispering in her ear. "If you ever touch me again, I will break your arm."

"Girls! Break it up! Both of you, come with me, now!" I sighed. Just peachy, tossed out of my first dance, for brawling. The principal led us back through the quiet halls to his office, escorted by one of the women teachers. We slumped in the seats at the front of his desk. I didn’t bother explaining. If they cared about facts, there were enough witnesses.

The principal looked stern. "Ladies, you know the policy on violence at these events. you’re finished for tonight. Your parents can come and pick you up. Monday, we’ll want to discuss this further." He turned to his computer, and called up our records, then dialed a number. We waited in sullen silence, listening to the faint sound of the ringing tone in the earpiece. "Megan, there’s no answer at your house. Does Ms. Parker have a cellphone?"

No answer? But we have a machine. "That’s odd...the work number is her cellphone. She was working late." He dialed the second number. I knew something was wrong the second it was answered. "Oh, I’m sorry, I was trying to reach a Ms. Parker..." His eyes flashed to me. "This is David Spencer, I’m the Principal at Joe Schuster Collegiate... No, this is about Megan... yes, she’s right here, but -- yes, I’ll tell her." He hung up the phone, an odd expression on his face. His eyes never left me. "Mrs. Hazleton, would you take Susan into one of the other offices and call her parents?"

We waited while Mrs. Hazleton escorted Susan out, and shut the door behind her. "What? What’s going on?"

His tone was sympathetic. "They’ve been looking for you. They’re sending a detective."

Oh, God. Dolores.

---

[[ Comics Retcon Universe ]]