Sibling

Janice watched from the wall, waiting for the instructor to indicate what she was supposed to do during the sparring. Part of the understanding with her couselor was that she did not participate in combat with others, even mock fighting. What skills she had at close quarters came from years before, and there was a point at which you stopped practicing with anyone but the enemy.

Some people would joke around. play fake boxing or drop into a combat stance for play. She didn't play that way, couldn't. She remembered a conversation with the close combat instructor at Ft. Bragg, a tiny man from the Phillipines. One of the students had asked why, if he was so skilled, he never sparred with anyone using the rubber knives.

This wrinkled, ancient old man (he had actually served as a guide to US forces in WWII) had told them to sit. A moment later he wheeled out two bayonet-practice manequins, padded imitations of humans, and placed the several feet apart, as though two attackers faced him. Turning his back on them, he placed both hands on his thighs, the first position in his martial art. He asked for two of the wooden dummy knives, designed to leave welts but not make injuries.

"As you say," he had looked at the student asking the question, "I will respond to their attack." His phrasing was always odd, but it meant someone would give the go signal. The student gave it, and Janice had seen something unearthly.

This old man, older even than her grandfather, became a blur, accompanied by a sound like a flat tire at high speed. The dummies rocked, pieces of heavy canvas and leather flew everywhere. It seemed like a split second, but the instructor went on for almost a minute. When he stopped, there were two steel poles with tatters of cloth and padding where the dummies had been, nothing recognizable. The old man had turned, sweat on his brow.

"Even with rubber knife, I would kill you. When you fight, you never hurt the other, you kill them! Fighting is for enemies. When you ready to leave here, you will not spar again. When I spar, only death can match me, and she has not yet." Ma had heard he was still training recruits. Video they watched later had shown the instructor had landed 278 killing blows in 60 seconds, no misses. The man danced.

*Maybe I can do laps or something* she thought, looking at the others. She saw a set of heavy bags near the other end of the gym and started that direction.

((OOC: MaDeuce's flashback is based on a real person, who did instruct at Bragg for several years. The technique is called Pekiti-Tirsia Kali and the man is named Gaje. His speed is documented, so this is not a joke, and Ma is trained not to spar with anyone, only bags and dummies. She may be a blaster, but who says they can't hold their own in melee?))

“We are going to miss you GG,” Sibling pulled the other woman into a hug. The gathering had been arranged hastily, with only a few days notice, but that was as it would be. Some of the Sisters could not attend, having commitments that precluded even such a parting as this. Villains did not take vacation, and heroes had to be there.

GG had not been a Sister, but had been a great friend to them, and Sibling knew that the world would be worse for her absence. Standing here, on the beach of Avalon Island, Sibling had volunteered to escort her friend and sometimes partner to the Portal Co and the doorway to GG’s new assignment. GG had visited the island, even been invited to some of the festivals, and now came to say her goodbyes.

“Sib, it’s okay,” the taller woman patted the twin’s head, tears coming from her eyes as well. “I’m going to do good, and I won’t be gone forever.”

“Where are you going to, again?” D’ asked from a short distance away. She knew the strains of travel across the planes. The feeling of being completely new and alone in a world where everyone else was comfortable.

“They call it Worlds of War,” she smiled ruefully, “and from what the Oracle says, that is mostly what they do. The planet has never progressed from a mideval society. I have seen images, and it looks like a wild place with many races.”

She held Sibling at arms length, looking into their face. “Well, we should be off.” She turned to the small group of women, some in the capes and hoods of the Order, others still dressed from the streets of Paragon, coming or going to their work. “I want to thank you all, for your time and care.”

The Portal Co had been very specific, nothing could travel through the gates that could affect it. That meant no magic items, no special electronics. no weapons. The group of Sisters had a gift, a small medallion with the image of the Great Oak on one side and the imprint of GG’s name in Ogham on the other. They had presented it at the gathering earlier, and GG pulled it from her blouse, smiling.

“Like I could forget you all. I will be back, after I help this world.” She waved as she stepped into one of the Island’s skiffs. A Sister in blue armor stood near the back, steadying the shallow boat against the new weight with a pole. Some ancient traditions preserved through practice, though the boat was far from a simple wooden affair, the modifications were hidden from sight.

Sibling stepped in behind GG, and D’ added her weight next. The waterway would carry them all in relative safety to Peregrin Island, near the ferry docks, and a Portal employee would guide them from there.

There was silence for some time, only the sound of the waves against the boat and the birds. The Sister at the rear poled along, and they moved impossibly fast for such a craft, until one realized they rode a wave created by the armor-clad woman. Sibling knew the Sister, and could sense her joy at being able to go so far into the bay. Children waved and stared at the canoe easily outrunning the ferry when they passed.

“I heard you got your level 35 clearance today, Sib,” GG finally broke the silence. “Wanted to say congrats.”

Sibling turned in their seat, the wind blowing their pony-tail to the side. “Yes, we want to pick up some new things, maybe see the therapist about building some of our powers. Fighting the DE is tough, it would be better if we could put out more damage.

“Of course, with friends and teammates like you and D’, that isn’t a problem, but you can’t always wait, and others have things to do.” The twins looked at the construction along the shore. Those buildings never seemed to get any closer to completion, and there were always DE roaming about.

“We should meet Adam at the docks, he will have escorts for us to the facility.” It was a beautiful island, but travel was strictly in groups for heroes below clearance 45. Adam was one of their patients, a high level employee at the Portal Co, and expert on travel using the equipment.

They arrived, and D’ had some quick words for the Sister in the boat. She would stand off the shore and wait for a signal, then return to pick them up. Travel by water was far safer, almost anywhere in the city, than by land. Only the recent arrival of the Giant Squid posed danger, and then only near Terra Volta.

“GG, D’, please allow us to introduce Adavan,” as a medium-built man in an orange body-armor outfit approached. “In front of anyone else, or in his civilian guise, he’s Adam. Since we all need to be on the same page, he is also Adavan.”

D’ whistled when her better than human eyes picked out the writing on his Portal Entry Badge. It listed him as level 50.

“Hi Sibling, ladies,” he paused, “we should get off the pier, the Ferry is due any minute.” He led off towards a campus in the distance. “Nothing we’ll meet along here to worry about.”

After clearing the sensors and paperwork downstairs, the group rode elevators to a hallway that literally hummed. GG could feel the vibrations in the floor, and it seemed there was static everywhere.

“Room 18, they have your portal warm.” He said as they walked down the hallway, past several other doors. Sibling caught sight of an immense ring with crackling energy at it’s center as they passed one, several heroes lined up on a gantry to enter. “You understand that this portal is new, we only received a request for assistance last week. Three teams there now, and you will be part of the fourth.” He glanced over at GG during the walk, carrying several small bags and a pack, everything she would be allowed to travel with.

“Yes, but I was told they asked for Earth Controllers. Woobie called for me by name.”

“Right, here we are,” he led them into a large room, three levels high. To their left was a glass walled control room overlooking a steel-grid floor, at the end of which stood a great ring with scintillating lights at the center. Several mechanical rings circled around the ring, like rings within rings, and occasionally some image would coalesce in it’s center. Electricity sparked and shot in every direction, Sibling looked at the entire apparatus dubiously.

“You want GG to go into that?” They pointed and frowned.

“Perfectly safe, you could stand within ten feet and there is no danger.” He opened the control room’s door and motioned to GG, “Now, if you’ll speak with the Portal Master, he’ll get you ready to go. You ladies,” He smiled and amended, “and Gentleman can come this way and I’ll explain this thing to you. It is my specialty.”

A short time later, the three women and Adavan stood just outside the staging platform for the portal. The noise was barely deafening, so the three exchanged final hugs and GG took her place with the team. A signal light above the portal changed from red to green, and the group walked through the cloud of sparks. Adavan motioned to the two Sisters, pointing back towards the upper gantry, where conversation was possible.

D’ had just enough time to turn and glance towards the control room, when she noticed several of the technicians waving from the booth, frantic. There was an unholy noise, like steel being torn and then bright light.



D’ blinked twice, and realized she was no longer in the building. Blue sky, the smell of earth and water and the sounds of birds replaced what had been machinery. Levering herself up on one elbow, she caught sight of Sibling, lying in the grass nearby. They appeared to be in the middle of a meadow, trees ringing them except for a small break and the glimmer of open water beyond.

Nothing hurt and everything appeared to work, so she carefully stood, scanning the area for anything out of the ordinary. It could be Perez Park, she thought, but there’s no salt water near that. Bending down, she touched the twin’s shoulder, eliciting a moan from them.

“Sibling? Are you ok?” She could heal them, but didn’t see any injuries.

“Ouch, ow, ow, ow.” Angela’s voice came back, their eyelids fluttering. “D’ someone’s coming,” she was trying to get up, but their head pounded like a drum, making them swoon.

“I see them,” the normally calm giant’s voice had an edge, “and I do not believe it.”

Their vision clearing for a moment, Sibling caught sight of a group of Trolls, but not typical Paragon types. Fine linen, good shirts, dresses; definitely not Trolls from the Hollows. Even some smaller ones, children from the way they huddled near the taller ones.

“I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto.” Cliff’s bass voice signaled that Sibling was ready to fight, but they would let the Trolls make the first move. D’ stood, helping the smaller controller to their feet and steadying them.

Ma planted the Guidon in the base at the front of the room, then turned to see the assemblage of heroes...and other things. She couldn't help but grin, what a rag-tag bunch of misfits, herself included. Glow in the dark, furry, patched together freaks.

"You'll want to stand upwind and some ways off," she said as she caught Michael's eye, "especially if your friend has a nose to go with the outfit." She nodded to the smaller person following Michael.

"I sweat ammonia, and I sweat a lot."

((OOC: Part of the incident that turned Janice yellow and caused her to grow to her height, also chemically altered her anatomy. She sweats a light green ammonia-like substance, same as her saliva and tears. It's hard on clothes, and smells like ammonia as well.))

Ma's eyebrows lifted, and she smiled without teeth, holding out her right hand.

"Mar-ha-ba," ((have to do this phonetically, pardon)) "a-na sa-ii-da bi-ma rif-tak." She finished with an obvious aversion of her pupil-less eyes. ((This was the non-Muslim hello and Pleased to meet you.))

She noticed several other cadets coming into the area, heading out the door for PT, and needed to get the Guidon to the pad first.

"I look forward to talkin' to you more later, right now I have an appointment with sweat." She smiled again and headed out the door.

((OOC: Ma speaks fluent Arabic, several dialects, but is not Muslim. She will point this out at the first question, she won't mislead someone. However, she is familiar with the Koran and the faith.))

Janice opened the door, ducking low to get throught the frame. She was dressed in the school uniform for PT, except by agreement with the Corporal, she wore longer shorts than issue, that came past her knees.

She snapped to a rigid posture just inside the door, noticing the recruit with fur but not paying attention. After a moment, she relaxed her posture slightly, placing her feet shoulder-width apart and folding her hands at her back.

"Recruit Sartain requests permission to carry the Guidon to the drill field for PT!" Her voice was loud in the room, and she noticed the new recruit cringe. Her head was straight forward, not looking at Punishment or anything in particular, but her eyes took in the room.

((OOC: I am hoping that Corporal will allow the request, she likes to run with the unit colors. If not ignore the next little bit. Time moved a little faster than I had hoped, so the meeting between Michael and Janice will have to be past tense.))

Janice was hoping to meet up with the soldier from yesterday, maybe get him as a partner for the range. Once she got behind weaponry, she was all business, no room for messing around, and she liked her team to be the same.

Carrying the unit flag, called a Guidon, through the office and reception area of the school, she felt the hair on her neck rise. Someone was in the sprawling reception facility, someone very quiet and intending not to be seen. Then she could see, a dark spot amongst the shadows near the main desk and Duty Station.

Going to PT, surrounded by the facility and plenty of heroes, Ma would not carry a weapon. No weapon that wasn't part of her, anyway. She shifted the flag and it's six foot long pole into the crook of one arm, casually moving, holding the pole like a staff. Comfortable with the arrangement, she ventured toward the shadow, careful not to look directly at it.

She could see that the shadow was a woman, or more like a girl, seated in one of the chairs. As she came close, a nagging feeling started in her mind, she stopped several paces away, facing the woman.

"Have we met?" There was something very familiar in the way she sat, the dark hair and her skin.

((OOC: Tag A. That's you in the chair, and I wouldn't blame you for being grumpy this early without some coffee. Ma is about 8 feet tall, solid yellow and has a malicious sense of humor.))

"Well, at least you got something to go with your looks," she glanced over one shoulder towards the ground floor, half a flight of stairs below, "all I got was clothes that don't fit and dirty looks from everyone else.

"Would be nice having a combat medic as a friend," a frown drew across her face, momentarily and was gone, "again." She paused a moment before she spoke again, seeming to lose her verbal stride, some of the cockiness fading away.

"Weight room, yeah, they got one. Haven't tried to use it myself, it looks like it was set up for Meta's and Powered types. You know, Mag-Resist tables and Gravity Well machines that start at Tons and work up to small planets. Nothing I can do for that, I'm just a big body, no strength or resistances." She noticed his attention to her eyes and face.

"Don't worry, the yellow don't rub off and the eyes work fine, even if you can't see where they are. Maybe a little better than before, closer to nightvision too. Not so bad, having PVS-sixes on all the time."

A faint smile started coming back to her features.

"You spent more than two years in, got an honorable and know which riser to pull on, you don't need any lecture on being a hero. C'mon, I can show you to the weight room, maybe catch chow with you later if you don't mind."

"Gunner, huh? Well, at least you were real Airborne before you went for repelling outt'a Helo's" She pronounced that 'Heelo's' and carried a smile when she said it. In her time, trading good natured insults was part and parcel of being a soldier.

"You'll see enough of the Civvies soon, if they aren't trying to impress ya with their poor aim or lack of finesse they are lecturing you about being a hero." She shook her head, subconsciously rubbing a spot on her shirt under which a mass of dogtags lay. They didn't make any sound, taped together, but provided comfort.

When she spoke to him, she met his eyes, not shying away. Nice knowing someone else had spooky looks, it was tough being the only off-colored giant with solid eyes. She took in his stance, guessing he was probably heavy weapons from the 18D comment and lloked like he could get on down the road if need be. You didn't get heavy and still keep jump status.

"The DI wants to be a toughie, but he's got girls for trainees. Must suck to go to the NCO club and be harrassed, if they got one here. He does ok, for his crew, and they have a sweet range over there," she motioned with her hand out the window. "Spent some time earlier out there, but was hoping for a partner or someone knows what combat shooting is about. Need a spotter for some moving target stuff, if you are interested, nothing fancy, just get my Solothurn in sight."

She sized him up again, making it obvious. "You up for some big bore practice later?" She had a sly smile, letting the question hang. "After evening drill, of course."

((OOC The Solothurn is a 20mm man portable anti-tank rifle from WWI, it weighs about 120lbs and can hit targets out past 500m like a hammer. Further than that, Ma will bring her Barrett and Topper, which also uses a hyper-sonic 6mm with a ridiculous range, but that's not for fast targets. She is not making a pass at Michael, but he might construe it that way. She just wants some company, that understands what fighting and loss are about.))

"No liquor on the grounds, for starts," Ma crossed her arms and watched as the man approached. He had a confident walk, purposeful, like he knew where he was going. He was a little shorter than her 8 feet, but that didn't mean anything, the toughest knife fighter she had ever seen was a tiny, old Phillipino man.

"Not much to impress anybody, unless you lived in Lawton or Rolla," she chuckled, God how she had missed military to talk to. "You Airborne? Got that walk that says one too many PLF's."

"Oh, and what's shakin' around here is a bunch of Civvies act more like No-Go's than Troops. Don't mean to offend, but they got trigger happy and bullet proof on tap." She held out a hand, half gloved, and smiled wide enough for him to see her teeth were the same color as the rest of her, sulphur yellow.

"Name's Janice Sartain, 82nd, Third of Three-Two-Five, Fifth Group, and now Private Sartain," she pronounced it 'Pri-yat', "but friends call me MaDeuce."

((OOC: Ma will get along great with any prior service or military. She has some problems with flashbacks, but the military is the only life she ever fit into. If Michael wants to get something to drink, she will happily go along, but will order beer, she's had her liquor for the day, and her metabolism will keep her stone sober on beer.))

Ma saw the man square a corner down the hall, and looked twice before she was sure the bearing was military. Arm swing, heel-toe and all in the lower body; definitely military or ex-military. That was a welcome change from civilians wearing BDU's.

Looking for a like soul, she saw him heading up to the men's floors. That was off-limits, and she had no wish to do more extra training.

"Ho, Troop!" she bellowed down the hall, hoping not to draw too much attention. "Sound off!"

((OOC, in case you haven't followed, MaDeuce is military through and through, has very few taboos concerning what should and should not be said and prefers to be a troop and not a woman. Everyone's the same in BDU's. She also has several demons in her closet, and a bad case of Combat Stress Syndrome which she needs meds to treat.))

((Sorry, was away for the weekend. Why exactly is Ma shooting up the bar? Especially with innocents inside?))

"Evil?" Ma dropped her voice enough that she could be heard, but wasn't shouting. Her rifle, named Topper, dropped from the other man's vicinity and she made it apparent she no longer targeted him.

"Brother, I could tell you about evil." She let the rifle rest against the sling and her hip, watching the feral, man-sized Vampire slayer from the corner of one eye. She held both hands at shoulder height, palms out, not meeting Wolf's eyes. She had been around dogs and animals enough to know eye contact was a challenge.

"Not here to cause trouble, just making things fair," she spoke towards the man with blood on his hands.

To the other man, apparently someone after her own mind with the bottle, "You want to debate evil and killing, there's a bar a couple blocks from here. We stand out here much longer, you might see some more."

She kept her eyes focussed between the two men, either of which could still be a threat.

"Furry!" MaDeuce shouted from the alley, "Shooter at your back!"

She hoped the feral creature would understand her, but wasn't at all certain. The bloody-snouted being stood a good 20 yards away, and between her and the other weapon-wielding man. That put the now-dead undead Vampire between them as well, and she was fine with that.

The reticle of her Zeiss 2100 intersected the weaponeer's torso, cutting him into four perfect parts, and two fingers applied minor pressure to the trigger of the Solothurn, nothing to set it off, but enough to get there fast. He hadn't made the move she watched for, the pulling of the rifle that would signal a fraction before his shot. She might not stop him, but he wouldn't get a follow up.

"Weapon to your weak side!" she shouted at him. "I won't allow heroes to go down, not here, not like that." She didn't know the canine like creature from Adam, but the military had a saying: The enemy of your enemy is your friend. Wolf-man had just whacked a Vampire, and enemies didn't come more evil than the undead.

"No need for more dyin' here, just sight off the Wolf!"

The weapon did not waver in her hands, counter sniper was a cool business, and Ma was ice.

((Ma will not shoot first, she just doesn't want to see someone obviously heroic to be misundertood. If the wolf charges her, she will pull up and hit the fire escape, she understands rages and that attacking would be the wolf's instinct. She will come off target if Gunner does.))

She paused at a landing, near the door to the grounds, one hand on the release bar. Her back was still to him, but the glass front of the fire extinguisher panel gave her a phantom view of the man. He wore two pistols, and now his hand hovered over the hilt of a knife.

"Wow, and I thought Politicians were cowards," her posture did not change. "You stand behind an unarmed woman, one you have already insulted, with two guns and a knife, and continue to hack at her. And no, I don't work for the Army anymore, not after they ordered me to murder a bunch of innocent mothers and children to cover up a mess."

"I said I wasn't interested, I only fight to kill. There is no other reason to ever fight, physically anyway. So, hero, you gonna knife a lone woman, in sweats, with no weapons, in the back? I have other things to do."

With that, she pushed the door open, keeping one eye on the reflection, and left the building. Ten years ago, she thought, I might have had some fun. It's his issue, not mine, and pushing someone to fight is only for cowards and children.

((OOC: MaDeuce has no interest in bigots or people itching to fight. Her training has been very specific, she does not spar with the living using weapons, does not play war games. Pointing a weapon at another living thing is only to kill it, and fighting with her is the same result. I hope that a hero would not stab another in the back, especially after such an evident wish not to fight. Also, an Army Brat is not someone in the Army, it is the child of a military person.))

Janice paused on her way down the stairs, hearing the man's tone and word. He was much shorter, so she needed to turn slightly and look down, resting her solid yellow eyes on him. A slow smile crossed her face.

"You know, I don't know you from Adam, but I'll give you some free advice." She did not turn fully, staying slightly aside. "If you want to insult me, you'll have to do way better than that. Say maybe: Half-breed, camel-jockey, kin-slayer, Army brat, split-tail [censored]." She placed a hand on her chin, in a thoughtful pose.

"Yeah, that might do it." She let out a small laugh and shook her head at the man, "And I'm not a Meta, just altered." She adjusted her shirt where the impact had twisted it slightly, ignoring him further, then disappeared down the stairs.

-Edited-
The bleeped word refers to women who enjoy other women's company, and it would offend MaDeuce because it is not true.

Janice closed the door to her room, still feeling a little of the whiskey, and threw her gear on the bed. The bed was covered by a green wool blanket, imprinted with a large “US” near the bottom, tucked in at all four corners and was much longer than an average bed to fit her frame. The room was spartan, only two wall chests for clothes and equipment, a small chest next to the bed for toiletries and some personal mementos and a larger chest that held her T-shirts and unmentionables. It was what she had, and all she really felt she needed.

She checked each piece of gear as she laid it in it’s place, locking a heavy bar across her personal weapons chest, then sat down on the bed. It groaned slightly, being much larger than an ordinary woman, but that hadn’t always been so. She pulled open one of the chest’s drawers and laid several photos on the green wool, some with frames and some simple glossy pictures. Her hands flipped through the images: a small girl with olive skin and black hair riding on a tricycle, a traditional Mosque with a stream of robe covered visitors, an overhead-shot postcard of Mecca, four people standing in front of a small house, a family portrait-type picture in a frame showing her Lebanese father, Midwestern mother, brother and her as a child (the resemblance to the photo with the house was unmistakable). Some other photos showed a woman, very like the little girl, wearing US Army dress greens, her graduation from Basic, or field shots of her digging a foxhole, jumping from a plane and the like. The name tab on all the uniforms was “Sartain”, but this woman wasn’t even six feet tall.

She carefully placed all the photos back in the drawer, leaving the framed image of her in Dress Greens receiving a Bronze Star, on the night table. Undressing quickly, she put on shorts and a large sweatshirt, planning to take a couple turns around the school. She stretched her right leg, watching as the rebuilt muscle in her thigh worked. A thick, dark purple scar traced a ragged path from her knee to her hip, but it didn’t hurt any more.

“Nice, long, run,” she spoke to the empty room. Apparently her room mate was out, but they didn’t speak much anyway, Janice didn’t like getting too close to people any more.

((OOC: Janice is heading down the hall to take a run, but anyone wanting to catch her could be in a stairwell and see her. I imagine that this barracks would be similar to a military one, with stairwells at each end and a long hall with rooms on either side.))

The phone rings.

"Hello, I understand you are open for business?" When the female voice received an affirmative, she continued in a somewhat difficult-to-place accent. "I am looking for back issues of several comics, some collectible and some simply to fill out holes in my collection."

"Wizard seems to deal mainly in new titles, and I prefer to deal with small stores, not chains. Would it be possible to stop by later and speak to the owner?"

She listens to the voice at the other end of the line, smiling slightly. "No, no, not mainstream titles. I refuse to purchase anything from Marv-Hel since they fired their best creative talent and then tried to sue that software company. In fact, I auctioned several of their first-edition titles for legal funds to help fight them. I am interested in some more off-beat titles, sentimental."

"Very good, I will come by on the way to the office. Maybe an hour?"

Janice slid into the booth, cheap pleather and smoke stained wood, the yellowish lamp barely casting enough light to see the table in front of her. Somewhere in the back she could hear pool balls smacking together, a tired looking waitress had ferried several trays of Coorsweiser longnecks to the back. It was one of hundreds of bars in the city, nothing special, and a place no one would care or remember that she had come.

The bottle hadn't been as cheap as it would be at a Class Six, but you couldn't drink it there. She wasn't going to carry it back to the barracks, rules were against it. That wouldn't have stopped her, but there was no one to share it with, and drinking alone in a bare room was not her taste either. At least here there were other sounds than her heartbeat.

She poured two fingers into her glass, and two into a glass across the table from her. Her rifle and helmet were stored in a locker at the Tram station, she kept three side-by-side rented for that purpose, and several late night sessions had rendered them as sturdy as any gun locker. Now she wore the "civilians" she kept in one of the other lockers, trying to stay as low profile as possible for her size. Only the widebody Springfield Armory 1911 copy as backup, tucked into a pancake holster at her back.

She pulled a beaded necklace from her throat, a glob of shining metal dangling at the end. She pushed the glob and necklace around for a good half hour on the table, lost in thought, slowly draining the bottle. Toward the end of the liquor, she raised her glass toward the empty seat across, nodding at the still filled glass sitting there.

"Not today," she spoke quietly, "but keep a seat warm for me, team." She downed the glass and sat back, kicking sideways in the booth to stretch her legs. The necklace, seven individual stamped aluminum tags taped into one mass, she draped back around her neck.

"Ice cream? Alan, you can go ahead, tell anyone that cares I'll get back to the Academy myself. Maybe that babysitter Punishment sent, if you like." She squared her helmet and threw the weapon across her back, muzzle down, holding one hand through the heavy strap.

"I'm going to find a dark corner, in a dark bar and drink a fifth of Jack." She pulled up her left sleeve, exposing a plain-faced watch marked in 12 and 24 hour sweeps. "I'm off duty, and I don't feel like making nice with anybody. You go get your ice cream, see you at the school."

With that she walked to the security officers standing watch at the gate. Flashing her ID, she disappeared into the shadows beyond on the way to Atlas City.

She waited until the others were out of earshot.

"A team man, that's all I'm saying." She placed one hand on her hip, the other balancing Topper by the carry handle. "Being solo is one thing, been there and done that. Just give the team, or at least me, some warning next time. When I'm laying fire, I need to know what's happening. I try hard not to hit friendlies."

She stared at him, or at least faced him, her eyes had no pupils to tell what she looked at. "You got powers, some can heal, some make your brain go mushy. Me? I got Topper and no matter what those two over-zealous boys say, this ain't no game. I stop nasties as I can, and rubber bullets don't even slow Vamps or Tankers. They got no problem dropping one of us, feel the same back."

She held the coin out again, in an open palm the size of a dinner plate. "The coin is yours to take, if you do," she cautioned, "it means I can trust you, and you me. Not mad you used your powers, 's what heroes do. Just asking you to call it next time."

"I hope," Janice said through gritted teeth, climbing one step at a time down the fire escape and holding on with her left hand, "that whatever that was, it did not come from our team."

Her expression was either pain or anger, but she was looking directly at Alan when she spoke.

"I understand some people biting off more than they can chew, I understand getting scared and running," as she reached the ground, her steps became more steady, "I even understand being made bait." She fished inside one of the cargo pockets in her pants, pulling out a small metal disc.

"I do NOT understand if someone calls in fire and does NOT warn his team!" She was definitely angry, jabbing her index finger towards the man. "A team does not leave it's members on the field, and they DO NOT call fire without a WARNING!" She was shouting, but keeping her distance, worried that getting any closer would lead to something physical.

She tossed the coin in the dirt at Alan's feet. It was larger than any form of money, stamped and painted on one side with a military insignia like a castle tower with an arm holding lightning bolts floating above it. The other side, just visible before the token struck the ground, was of two men, back to back and weapon's at the ready. Known as a Unit Coin, soldiers would present them to each other as a token of friendship or, in this case, a challenge to pick it up and bear the responsibility of being a team.

Janice rammed a quick-feed tube into the shotgun, chancing a quick look over the edge of the roof. She saw three stories of windows between the ground and the ledge where she stood, some dumpsters and rubbish to make the fall all the more dangerous. With an open space, she might be able to PLF without breaking something, but down there was only broken bones.

The smiling guy had some kind of dark shadow around him, she hit another troll and watched him fall on his face. There was a flyer, but she looked friendly, dodging down after Raymond. She had wanted to go over and cover the small Englishman, but a dead soldier helped no one and staying alive was her priority right now.

Her stomach lurched, hard training kicking in, telling her something wasn't right. With enough practice and determination, a human can operate on almost no sleep and with severe wounds for days, the will to succeed driving out any possibility of failure. She had seen some of the hardest training and schools the military could come up with, learning to regress to that reptile center of the brain that could push through otherwise impossible odds.

As Alan's powers washed over the group, her eyes played tricks. She could see the blue sky, the KC-135 HALO drop aircraft slowly moving to the horizon. This high, above the clouds, the earth seemed peaceful and small. Her wrist altimeter sped along, counting down her drop from 32,000 feet, the bitter cold and lack of oxygen held at bay by the thermal suit and rebreather. She lazily watched two other troopers dropping just above her, signaling the thumbs up.

At less than 700 feet she yanked the ripcord, waiting for the hard pull of the chute. The altimeter counted to 500, then 300, too low for the chute to slow her. The pull never came.

The M-60 went quiet, the last of the steel links from the belt springing out and forward and the bolt locking back on empty air. Like an automaton, Ma's hands cleared the receiver and loaded another belt, slamming the loading cover down and charging the weapon. While her mind worked on the nightmare caused by Alan's power her trained body kept fighting, no longer feeling the effects of the bullets or hurled stones.

It was only a matter of time. That survival center would go on as long as her health lasted...

Janice was poise and calm, turning off everything except what she aimed at. Her mind was counting the rounds, subconsciously. When the BAR locked open, indicating an empty magazine, she calmly rolled the mags over, one protruded from the other's bottom, jungle-clipped together to speed changing.

She was trying to keep several of the trolls off the roof using the shotgun and BAR. The knockback would throw one or another over the edge, keeping the mass down. Being overwhelmed was not high on her list of fun, and even scrappers and tanks need a breath now and then. The Spas dropped on an empty chamber, she racked it once more and heard the same, that let the troll get right up to her.

Her close combat skill was good, but ranged was her specialty, and she did not like getting this close. No time to fill the twelve gauge, she opened up with the fresh BAR, but that pulled firepower from the mob around Raymond and Alan. She low kicked the green villain and connected with the rifle, blowing him over the fire escape and picked up two more Gaardvords.

The barrel of Topper was red, and she was switching hands to keep the burn from her skin. Six to Nine round bursts, she heard her firearms instructor from years ago, losing a barrel meant you screwed up. Range was short for the M-30, but she chanced it.

The grenade didn't have range to spin arm and hit an Ogre like a huge slug. He staggered, knocking another troll from the roof.

"If we don't clear these guys soon, you're gonna need a stretcher for the Gun Bunny!" She shouted over the clashing of weapons. The end of a belt came out of the M-60's ammo can, she was almost dry, and little time or space to reload. In over our heads, she was thinking.

Ma sighted on the Troll nearest The English Lord. Through her telecopic sight, it looked like a Gaardvord, and she wasn't sure, but it looked like the small hero might need a break. Her vantage from the building's roof left her unobstructed view of the street, but gave her some time should one of them decide to take the fight to her.

Pulling the rifle hard into her shoulder, she let out half a breath, squeezing the Barrett's trigger with her middle finger. At seventeen pounds of pressure (set by her favorite gunsmith to match her strength) the sear broke, sending a projectile almost the size of her thumb downrange where it brought the Caliban tumbling, and finally to rest, face down.

The flash from the muzzle brake was minimal, the recoil also minimized by the ports, only pushing her back a fraction. As the weapon came down, back onto it's integrated bipod, she was smoothly working the bolt and loading another round. This was the only weapon she had that could hit at this range, and that crowd was way too big for her to wade in.

As the optics brought the Trolls and Raymond back into view, she noticed a couple of them peeling away, apparently having seen the flash or heard the report. She gave them about twenty seconds before they could be on the fire escape for this building. That was two more shots to keep the rest off Raymond's back, but she had been seen, so it didn't matter about stealth now.

"Hey, Raymond!" she bellowed while drawing a bead on one of the Ogres. "You need to get out of that dogpile! Get here if you can, double-time it man!" The fifty-caliber roared again, knocking the huge troll down, but he would get up, ogres are just that tough.

She armed one of her trip-mines and slid the black disc over to the stairs. One of the trolls would set it off when they came up. Then she checked the tube in her shotgun and tapped the magazine for the 7.62, seating it and preventing feed problems. The fifty was great, but tended to knock magazines for her other rifles loose.

Sighting again, she looked to see if Raymond would head this way.

"Don't misunderstand, I have no prob's breaking down gangbangers," she massaged the bridge of her nose, wiping a stream of sweat off her forehead. "I don't go for shaking down people based on their clothes or flag. You wouldn't be the first to think that's bolo, but I don't change that for anyone. I'm down for arresting anyone that's for sure OPFOR."

"Topper, he deals judgement one way, and that's forever. I prefer to keep the innocent casualties to the pile already on my soul. St. Peter has my tab." A prescription bottle came from one pouch and her canteen from another. She regarded the pills for a moment, pulling a sad smile she swallowed two.

"Interferons," she said to the two men, "keeps things at a distance, to prevent..."she cast a thumb over her shoulder, towards the range. "Some things I wish I could do again, make sure I was closer to the tanks and my team wasn't."

She shrugged and pulled a crinkled leather pouch from her chest pocket. Pulling a mass of brown, stringy material from inside, she quickly stuffed it into her cheek and chewed for a moment. Her tongue worked inside her mouth, getting the long-cut chew in the right place.

"Sorry," she said as they looked on, "nasty habit, but The Forces make you pick up one or two. I play poker and like Jack, too, but the radiation and chem's in my body won't let me get drunk." She thought for a moment, glancing down at the pouch, a gift from a friend. She held the open mouth out towards them.

"Either of you want?"

One would think, what with all he media attention and front page covers about paranormal happenings, a hero was always saving the world. Magazines, news stories, television, all filled with tales of derring-do. What most civilians did not realize was that heroes are more like average people than they want to realize.

Cliff leaned back in the office chair, rolling his shoulders to relieve the stiffness that hours at the PC could cause. It was his day, the one out of fourteen that the body was his, and he was stuck working on an article for The Times. Being in the body full time, but only really being part of the world on these days made work a little difficult. Oh, Angela was polite and accommodating, but she despised computers and typing was not one of her strong skills. So, he wrote when there was time and saved the tedious things for his days.

“Cliff, I made you some lunch,” he hadn’t heard Gal come into the office, one of the smaller rooms in the loft. For a big woman she could be surprisingly quiet. He pivoted the chair to look at her over one shoulder.

“Thanks, Gal. This article is taking longer than I thought it would,” he was turning back to the machine, but noticed her lingering. They had been bitter enemies once, not so long ago, and he knew it hurt her. Then, he had been part of her mate, and her love for Angela had to endure her hate for him. That had changed since the Vahzilok incident, all for the better.

“Don’t forget your date this afternoon,” Gal spoke quietly, not looking straight at him. She had trouble with knowing how to handle him, and the change in his behavior was more a surprise to her than anything else. Having a man in the house, that was different too. At least he put the seat up and down.

“Of course I do,” he smiled, much wider than Angela would, “Habits die hard.”

“Hey! No fair!” She was miffed that he would be reading her thoughts, but her anger died quickly, Angela did it all the time and no matter what the body looked like, they were both still in there.

“Sorry, it’s just natural. I’m not spying.” He ducked his head in a gesture pure Sibling. Gal smiled again. “And there is no way I’d forget Bubbles. I guess I should just drop this for now and get ready. You think she’ll enjoy it?” He saved his work and shut down the PC, following his towering roommate into the dining room.

“You kiddin’? Bubbles likes clothes like fish like water,” she carried the steaming ceramic bowl out from the kitchen, a potato auf-lauf filling the room with the smells of her cooking, wholesome and delicious. “I still don’ know how you could come up with tickets to tha’ show. Musta’ been luck.” She grinned as his stomach growled, proving he was hungry.

“Excuse me,” he blushed, but her food was that good. “I thought Angela told you, one of her clients is pretty high up the food chain and connected with the main corporate sponsor, Portal Co. Call him ‘Adam’, she mentioned it to him a few weeks back, that the show was coming up and he brought tickets to her office last week.”

Gal was blowing on her lunch, the food still too hot to eat. “Fashion show, that your idea?”

“Wish I could say so, no, it was Angela. Another advantage of being twins, I don’t make all the mistakes most men do.” He raised his voice slightly when Gal started to say something, “I still make some, but she keeps me pretty straight!”

“On another note, how much would you say is fair to spend on clothes? Bubbles is going to want a few things, no doubt.” The bank was on the way, he liked cash.

“For this? With Bubbles? There’s a limit on ATM’s,” she laughed, catching him in it as well.



“I can’t believe it!” Bubbles was racing around the apartment, close to making D’ nauseous. “The Icon Fashion Show! This is going to be great, and I never would have thought that he could get tickets, let alone tickets at the Designer Row! Did I tell you that they serve champagne? I looked it all up on their website, even printed out schedules and designer label information, and everyone will be there…”

D’ had come over from the Spa, knowing that if Bubbles was left alone, she would still be deciding on an outfit tomorrow morning. Slowly, she had crowded her apprentice into a corner without Bubbles knowing it, and the green woman blocked her in.

“Bubbles, you need to get started if you want to get there on time. Cliff will be here in less than an hour, do you even know what you want to wear?” Clothes were not the problem for her partner, it was one of the few indulgences Shock Bubble had. Deciding on them would be.

“Well,” said the pink-haired girl, “ I have it narrowed to what’s in here.” She slid open a pocket door and stepped into her largest closet, she had three. “But I haven’t picked out anything.” D’ shook her head. She loved the little-girl side of her friend.




“No, Gal, everything is fine.” Dark Vegas was being mostly truthful, and over the phone, her boss wouldn’t know any different. She stretched the truth only because it was Gal’s first full day off in weeks, and Narshawn had called, somehow knowing the restaurant needed some help.

Two of the staff had called in sick, which would have been catastrophic if Narshawn and Gypsy hadn’t been free to come over. The Slavic woman was surprisingly talented with cooking, but Vegas noticed a decidedly spicier flavor to the food. Narshawn was working hard at the bar, keeping a crib sheet for drinks. Vegas only hoped this would not be the day Liquor Control stopped by to check licenses.

“Enjoy your day off, girl. We have it all in hand, the place will still be standing tomorrow. Now, gotta go, the reservation line is flashing like Christmas.”




“Can you help me with this stupid thing?” Cliff had his head out of the guest bathroom, the main being off-limits by his own desire. He heard Gal coming up the hall and held out the black bow-tie. “I hate these things.”

Gal wore her best matronly smile, pulling and tugging the tie into place for his tuxedo. Not every day was a world crisis, and it was the small battles that sometimes meant the most.