Oops. Sorry bout that, people. Here's the last bit of the story, if you're interested:
-------------
"Remember what I told you," Eyes was saying to Chloe as he handed her a spare
note pad and pen from a pouch in his smock. "If you feel yourself starting to
freak at their appearance, just do the exercise we discussed and keep smiling."
"Right," Chloe said, setting her chin in a show of determination. Eyes found
the effect it had on her face to be understatedly charming on her middling-
attractive features.
"Go then, grasshopper," Eyes said in his best Kwai-Chang Kain. "And do your
master proud."
Chloe grinned, about facing smartly and heading for table three, where the
patrons face's were buried deep in their menues.
"Hey there!" Chloe greeted them, smiling pleasantly. "Welcome to the
Powerhouse! What can I get ya?"
The heroes at table three, almost as one, lowered their menues and glanced up
at her.
Wow, Chloe thought. I took Eye's advice to heart faster than I thought; I
didn't even have time to see what they really looked like before it kicked in.
There was four of them, three men and a woman, each of them wearing almost
identical suits of a businessmen cut with slacks, save the woman who wore a
short, just above the knee skirt. All of them were wearing hats - the men in
fedoras, the woman with a long-brimmed duster - and sunglasses; one man wearing
sleek-looking sports shades, another in opaque gray circle frames, the woman
and the last man in brown-tinted square frames. A heavy-looking spiked mace
and an assualt rifle were leaned against the table edge nearest their owners.
There was nothing truly exceptional about their appearance to warrent panic
that Chloe could see, though the really big guy next to the mace - his maybe? -
had skin the color of slate stone.
Of course, thanks to Eyes' advice, Chloe's imagination had colored each of
their suits and hats in shades pink with purple polka dots. And he'd been
right; seeing even the big guy with the mace in such a color scheme made her
relax exponentially.
Without batting an eye, she took down their orders quickly and efficiently,
then gave an estimation of the time on their order - despite having just met
Anri, she was confident that the redhead would have even this large order ready
by her guesstamation, if not before - and turned back towards the kitchen with
a light bounce in her step.
This won't be so bad, she thought.
---------------
"I -told- you we shoulda' hit up Pandora's Box before coming here," Agent Beige
grumbled.
"For once I agree with B-boy," Agent Jade said, plucking at her suit jacket.
"This is just undignified. I mean, I knew that sorcerer was nuts, but -this-?
We take him down, and his final spell before we can tag him isn't a flaming
bolt of death or a plague or anything you'd expect, but a -color change
spell??-"
"It ain't that bad," the guy with the sport shades said.
"Yea've always been a strange one, lad," Agent Steel rumbled, crossing his
beefy arms. "I dinna think yea'd let an insult like dis' go even -dis'- long."
"Being a telepath just to begin with makes him weird," Beige muttered, shaking
his head.
Thinking about the young waitress he'd inadvertantly scanned apon looking up
from the menu, Agent White (or would that make him Agent Pink-with-Purple-Dots,
at the moment?) just smiled.
End Part I
---------------------------
The Operative heroes depicted at the end are property of their creators/players, and used without permission. I wanted to end the story on a light note, and I was stuck for an idea when the Trimmer's "Sabotage" Music video came to mind. Sorry about that 
Please don't kill me 
Ok Folks. Before you get any further, I have to warn ya; This piece doesn't match to the CoH world on a one-to-one. Some artistic license was taken on my part; hopefully I didn't offend anyone in the process.
Also, I felt that the story deserved a Disclaimer: There's some mature language in this one - if it didn't get [bleeped] out, that is - and some suggestive themes. Please don't take it seriously. This was a fun little project that came to me outta the blue, one that I have every intention of continuing so long as the Muse is with me. I've already got several rough outlines planned for other stories, and - hopefully - if the feedback from this one is positive, you might even get to see them.
Laters,
db
Pocket D
11:24 p.m.
Since opening its doors in the late autumn of the previous year, the
Paragon Dance Party - also known as Pocket D - has been popular with both the
superhuman and mundane crowds in the beleaguered city. The heroes of the
city came to kick back, dance, talk, date, or whatever in their limited free
time; celebrities and normal folk in the city came to Pocket D (when they
could find it; it was an almost exclusively Heroes-Only place, with the only
way to actually -find- one of the doors in to be either by following a hero
or getting invited by the same) to be around their favorite heroes. But
whatever the reason, it was a happening place, almost always playing host to
dozens of people at any given time.
Like any given club in the city, it had tables and booths, and a
predominate dance floor that covered two different levels. There's a poolhall
for the clientele to play nine ball and the like, and a relaxation room with
lots of comfortable couches and low lighting. The walls there were heavily
soundproofed from the rest of the club, with music within being more subdued
and mellow, ideal for kicking back and chewing the fat with a few friends
without having to scream to be heard. The subsonic thrumming of trance music
on the main floor was the first thing a person noticed upon entering, though,
and the club's selling point, seeming to make your very bones vibrate on a
delicious frequency, one that simply -demanded- movement.
In one corner of the club, well away from the moving, gyrating throng
on the prolific dance floor, four people were slumped warily in a corner booth,
staring dispassionately at the drinks on the table before them, one or the
other occasionally shifting in place.
The one on the far left was a slim young woman, pale skinned with even
paler hair hitting her at the belt line, the edges of it either purple or red
depending on how the light struck it. She gripped her White Russian loosely in
one gloved fist, the fingers on the other drumming a staccato rhthym on the
table top at odds with the beat of the music. A frown creased her porcelain
brow just above the plain black mask around her exotic eyes - one a brilliant
silver, the other a shade of violet to shame the most vibrant blossom - which
stared into the middle distance. The skin-tight, sleeveless black leather top
clung to her curves, the knee-high folded top stilletto boots seeming to blend
with the leather pants she wore.
Next to her slumped a massive form, easily head and shoulders over her
and the other two at the table, his rough, stone-like skin seeming to drink in
the light where the woman in leather almost gleamed with it. The plain black
t-shirt was almost gray with age and wear, the canvas trousers on his tree-
trunk legs old and tough-looking. He glanced around at the other occupants of
the table from time to time, seeming always on the verge of saying something,
but not quite able too. He would open his mouth, blink eyes the the color of
pale slate stone, then shut it, running one hand the size of a serving platter
over his bald plate in a show of exasperation. The tumbler of Scotch sat
untouched next to his right hand.
Next to the stone man sat another, smaller man with skin the color of
coffee and a light mixing of cream. He too was bald - shaved according to
preference, it seemed, as he couldn't have been any more than twenty-five -
wearing black-glazed goggles despite the gloom of the club, his face traced
with esortic symbols whose meaning could only be guessed at. The blue jeans
jacket and loose black cargo pants were brand new, as were the black and white
Nikes. His drink - a Singapore Sling - was half gone, two overturned shot
glasses and a slice of lemon sitting next to it.
Holding down the other end of the booth opposite the leather-clad woman,
resting her chin on folded arms, was a compactly-built, olive skinned redhead
vision in very little red spandex, loose blousy sleeves, and thigh-high black
boots. A plain silver tiara graced her forehead, helping to check the
enroachment of her scarlet bangs, a black eye-mask like the other woman's
covering her gleaming golden eyes. A partially drained champaigne flute with
some pale fluid sat before her; she stared into its bubbling depths with the
focus of the heavily fatigued, seemingly trying to divine her fortune from it.
Just when the woman in leather had straightened from her slump,
slamming a fist onto the table (the action going unnoticed by her companions,
who were by turns distracted, inebrited, or exhausted) her face set with
determination, one of the smock-bedecked employees of Pocket D sauntered up to
their table and said something to her that was lost to the music. With a look
of surprise, the woman nodded and excused herself from the table, following the
young man to the bar lining one wall.
"Sup, El?" the bartender asked as the she approached, polishing a
glass.
"Terry said I got a call," El replied, looking distracted.
The bartender nodded, reaching under the bar and producing a small,
old fashioned rotary phone and setting it before her. This was another oddity
of Pocket D (and, by extension, DJ Zero himself); while separated from normal
space by the an incomprehensable distance that could be picometers or infinity
itself, the place still possessed a phone line that could be reached from the
outside - by cellular or radio or whatever. They even had satellite TV in some
of the private rooms in another part of the club. El tried not to think about
the logicistics of such things; even with her prestigious mental powers, be
they intellectual or psionic, it still gave her a headache.
"Tell me you got the *******," was her opening remark.
On the other end, Alex Bradshaw, Assistant District Attorney of Paragon
City, sighed. This was not a good sign, El noted.
Over the next ten minutes, the ADA wove a brief recounting of the
goings-on in the Paragon City court where one Rasputin Vahzilok, M.D., had been
on trial for a string of murders, mutilation, and terrorism in the form of the
Wasting Plague that El and her compatriots had just spent the better part of a
week cracking. He could have gone on for ten minutes more - easily, given his
frustration - had El not slammed the receiver back onto the cradle after
hearing the words "insubstantial evidence" followed by "not guilty".
Sighing clear down to her toes, the woman slumped onto a stool at the
bar, cursing the legal system up, down, and sideways under her breath. Raking
a hand through her hair, she was surprised when a massive granite hand decended
into her field of view, setting her White Russian from the booth before her
"Bad news, huh?" rumbled the owner of the hand as he settled onto a
stool next to her.
"'Not guilty'." El took a pull on the drink, failing to wince as the
liquid burned its way down to her stomach.
The behemoth sighed gustily, nearly displacing the phone from the
counter before the bartender could snatch it away. "Yeah, that's bad, I'd say."
"I just don't get it," she remarked, taking a another drink of the
concoction before her. "We had that sick [censored] right where we wanted him;
testimony from the patients we rescued, the bodies, the tools he'd used with
his finger prints all over them, confessions from a dozen of his lackies, the
[censored] -Zombie Power Armor-... And they pull the "insubstantial evidence"
card. And it -works-." She gave the drink a wary look - the irony of the
moment not lost on her - then took a strong pull from it, sighing.
"Makes a body wanna give up n' lay down, huh?" he rumbled.
"Don't get me started," El retorted. "I've been at this longer than
anyone on the team. I should be used to this crap, but the hell of it all is
that I'm -not-. Every -[censored]- time one of these psychotics gets away, it
makes me rethink what SHE tried to turn me into, and it appeals to me a little
more."
"El," the big man said, warning clear in his voice.
Sighing again, El shook her head. "Being tempted isn't the same thing
as doing it, Wubba. You know that as well as I do." She gave the large man a
sidelong glance.
"I do," he admitted. "But ya still gotta be careful wit thoughts like
that." Gulping some scotch, he continued with, "Sometimes people indulge in
thoughts like that, and thats all. Others entertain... -darker- things. Th'
acts themselves, or comp'ny from those that do. But people like you n' me,
well, we really can't 'ford too. Ain't fair, I know - people being things of
light n' darkness, and we being people - but we's gotta be responsible wit'
th' power we been given."
"'With great power comes great responsibility'," El quoted softly.
Unlike the previous times she'd said that famous phrase, it was without the
usual derision.
Resting a massive paw on her shoulder, he said, "Doc Vahz has great power,
maybe th' greatest a man can have; life n' death at his fingertips. All th'
heroes in th' City dun seen what that power's done ta 'em and those like 'em."
Giving her a small shake, he added, "Yer a good person El, no matter yer past.
I dun wanna cya become a monster like 'em."
"You'll take care of me if that happens," she whispered, knowing that
he'd hear despite the pounding music. "You promised me that."
"I did." Was a his reply.
The two were silent for a long moment, letting the music fill the space
bewteen them, each lost in contemplation.
"'Scuz me you two," the bartender interrupted, looking mildly
uncomfortable. "But you might want to get over to your table and keep your
friends from making a mess of the place."
As one, the two heroes turned back to the booth they had left not too
long ago, already knowing what they'd see:
The redhead had the young black man by the collar of his shirt, a
visible aura of red energy surrounding her that someone could pick out from
across the room - which several people had already done, as there was a
widening circle of clear space around the booth. The redhead's eyes were
glowing too - a bright golden color like sparks from a fire - and her free
hand, which was cocked back to strike, was sheathed in brilliant crimson light.
With a muttered curse, El slid off the stool and pushed through the
crowd, the massive tanker at her back, as she made her way towards her
soon-to-be-embattled teammates. But just before she could breach the edge of
the crowd, the situation was diffused for her in the form of a door opening.
The one that had suddenly appeared in mid-air beside the booth.
Most of crowd had recoiled in shock when the portal - a thoroughly
ordinary looking, white-washed wooden framed door, with a tarnished brass door
knob - appeared before them, but El failed to react to the phenomena; she'd
seen it's creator do that on more than one occasion in the past. She had to
admit, though, that it was quite the attention grabber.
And if there was anything that DJ Zero was good at, it was grabbing
attention.
Striding through the doorway, stooping over just enough to fit without
banging his head on the frame, the tall, gangly young man closed the door behind
him and turned back towards the crowd, then froze in place as realized that all
eyes were on him.
El's powerful talent heard his <oh crap> a second before his face split
in an easy, amiable grin, without a hint of the tulmut of embarrassment and
surprise she could hear bubbling below the surface.
"Heya folks!" he said in his usual mellow midwestern drawl, raising a
hand to wave. "Thought I'd drop in, see how the place was doin'. Y'all having
fun?"
The crowd conceded that they were with a wave of hooting and hollering
easily louder than the music.
Zero's grin widened. "Well, keep it up! You've earned it!"
As he turned away from the cheering crowd, he caught sight of El near
the front, an amused smirk on her face. Again, she caught a flicker of
consternation when he recognized her, though this time without the expletive;
he knew that, among other things, El was a telepath.
The smirk firmly in place, El moved towards him, putting just the right
combination of strut and glide into it to raise his blood pressure. She looked
good in leather and knew it; moreover, she knew -he- knew she looked good, and
she never wasted an opportunity to remind him of it whenever their paths
crossed. Not out of some malicious impulse to punish him for rejecting her in
the past (they'd cleared that out of the air a long time ago), but because she
never failed to find his reactions to her flirtation amusing.
She pulled her smoldering gaze away from his brown eyes for a moment to
flick to the booth behind him; unsurprisingly, Anri had calmed almost
immediately upon spotting Zero, releasing Eyes to slump back into the booth
like a discarded piece of floatsom. If the fiery redhead had noticed El's
provocative manner aimed at the young DJ, she didn't indicate it with either
thought or action; she was apparently focused on trying to make herself as
presentable as possible in her filth-stained red spandex costume. An
impossible feat without the aide of a laundry machine and a good shower, but El
gave the girl points for trying.
Ah, to be young an smitten again, El thought.
Then, focusing on Zero again, she stood close enough so only he could
hear her, purring, "Nice entrance, Jeremy. You're timing's never been
better."
Zero gulped for her, fighting down a blush as he said shakily, "Nice to
know some things haven't changed."
El's smile went from "smoldering" to "instant combustion" as she
reached behind him and gave his posterior a gentle squeeze. He failed to jump
as she'd hoped he would, but was secretly pleased at the same time. He wasn't
the naive little boy he'd been when they'd first met years ago; there was hope
for him yet.
"Yes," she breathed into his ear, "it is." He shuddered, but gave no
other reaction.
Withdrawing her hand, she took a step back to normal converstational
range and toned down the smile, saying, "I thought you were in Europe this
weekend."
Wrestling his hormones back into order (a flailing, maddly screeching
order, but order nonetheless), Zero nodded, straightening the collar of his
shirt self-consciously. He looked like he'd just come from a rather chic
gathering; blue silk long sleeved shirt with intricate embrodiery around the
cuffs and collar, overlaid by a vest of some silver material, probably satin
from the way it shimmered in the club's lights, she guessed. His black
trousers were pressed with a knife-edged crease and cuffed above the shiny
black dress shoes. His usually disarrayed, short black hair was even more
mussed than normal, but El's practiced eye knew it was more of a hairdresser's
artifice than the usual lack of care Zero gave to his appearance. And, this
close to him, she could smell a hint of the aftershave he'd used eariler in
the evening, even over the scent of the sweat and alcohol from the crush of
bodies in the club.
"I, uh, just got back," he said. Looking slightly abashed, he added,
"I was aiming for my apartment."
El shook her head with a mix of amusement and exasperation. "If I
didn't think you could actually use it when you travel your way, I'd have
gotten you a compass years ago and stapled it to your wrist."
Few people knew the how or why as to DJ Zero's method of interspatial
travel, or that of other teleporters; the phenomena was still being studied
and debated all across the globe, every expert from physicists to philosophers
trying in vain to understand it. While the medical centers in Paragon and
other cities employed emergency teleportation becons for their heroes to use,
and Portal Corp had the money and equipment to explore with it, no one really
understood the principle of the power to move from Point A to Point B without
crossing the interveining space between the two. Well, the Rikti -might- know,
being accomplished interdimensional alien raiders and the enemies of all
humanity and beyond, but they weren't really the forthcoming type.
Such as it was, there were 'porters that were powerful enough to either
travel huge distances themselves, or teleport others. Ones that could jaunt
themselves -and- other people or items at the same time were rare, the
equivalent of black belts in a given martial art.
And if that were the case, then Zero would be a Grand Master; able to
do all that a normal teleport could, he also possessed the ability to open
portals between two places - either by linking them to an anchor (such as a
door) or simply creating one instantaneously. And, with a little bit of
effort, he could make that portal permanent. What took Portal Corp years of
effort and uncountable billions of dollars to create, one man could do with a
thought and some concentration; Portal Corp's Board of Directors had been
suitably chagrined when they had learned this.
The only handicap that Zero had, and that few were aware of, was his
terrible sense of direction; his form of teleporting was more direction
oriented than memory driven - if he knew generally where he wanted to go, he'd
just select a nearby doorway (which was always somehow unlocked, a coincedence
that mystified El to this day), link it, and step through to his destination,
if it had a door he could utilize. He could create a portal to those that
didn't, or just pop there himself if he was in a hurry.
Anri chose that moment to step up to Zero and smile at him, giving El a
small disapproving glare for her proximity to him. Deciding to relinquish the
young man into the tender mercies of her teammate, she gave the two of them a
winning smile and excused herself, walking around them towards the table.
<Jeremy?> she sent to him, hoping to be unobtrusive.
<Yes?> was his wordless reply.
<If you can spare the time, I'd like to talk to you later.> A series
of x-rated mental images flashed across her link with him before he could
supress them, and El transmitted the mental equivalent of a wolfish grin before
continuing.
<Maybe later, tiger. I don't want to keep you from your little fox too
long.>
A spurt of confusion flowed back to her at the remark. <My little fox?
El, what are you talking about?>
She squelched the sigh in her throat before it carried over the link.
As usual, he was clueless when it came to women; Anri wanted him the way a
staving man wanted a good steak, and even while she was all but flinging
herself at him right at this moment, he -still- didn't see her. Not really,
not in the way she wanted him to see her.
As Anri latched onto the befuddled young man and started dragging him
away towards the bar, she sent him a mental pat - a telpathic message
containing a feeling of ease and affection - before sliding into the booth once
more with Wubba and Eyes.
"She -soh- wants me," Eyes was muttering drunkenly as she sat. Wubba
was tucked into the back of the booth next to him, holding the smaller man
upright with one massive arm around his shoulders.
"Sure, bud," Wubba conceded. "Just so's she can put a fist-shaped hole
n' yer head."
"Yer jush jealoush," was the slurry retort.
El watched as the two went back and forth, the normally serious,
taciturn Wubba actually supplying the bulk of the witticism as Eyes' usual
rapier tongue was dulled by his intoxication. As amusing as Eyes could be,
he'd never known when to give up on a battle of wits, even when he was unarmed.
["Makes a body wanna give up n' lay down, huh?"]
The stone-skinned tanker's words floated up to her out of nowhere,
prodding a corner of her mind that had, in the years since she'd started
wearing a mask and fighting the good fight, considered doing just that - giving
it up, shelving the tights, tossing the mask aside and getting on with her
life. Gods knew, there were enough reasons as it was, with more being added to
the que on an almost daily basis: Not having to bother with insane meglomaniacs
and street scum day-to-day; not hunting down clues and villans to bust; not
wandering the streets at Gods-forsaken hours of the night anymore; not
wondering if today would be her last breathing day, or if it was tomorrow or
the day after; not earning the ire of deadly, vicious psychotics and bigots
because she didn't believe in their cause, or fitted into their cookie-cutter
reality.
Yes, it would be so easy to give up.
But the other end of the equation always made itself known when she
doubted herself and her mission: Like not saving the lives and ways of life of
strangers anymore; not seeing the look of gratitude and awe on their faces, nor
hearing the genuine words of praise; not hearing the joyous laughter of
children that played in the park, unafraid, because she would keep the bad men
away; not feeling that warmth in her heart that had been absent for oh, so long,
when a child hugged her and told her unconditionally that she was their
"mostest favorite hero in the whole world", and wants to be just like her when
they grow up; not laughing and joking and swapping embarrassing stories with
her fellows anymore; not feeling the deep sense of satisfaction that came when
she saw a new young hero beat incredible odds, just because of something she
had said to or taught them.
Yes, it would be so easy to give up.
"El? You okay?"
Snapping up straight from the slump she'd unknowingly fallen into, El
looked up to see Anri (with Zero still on her arm), Wubba and even Eyes looking
at her, faces written with concern. She can only imagine what the expression
on her face must have looked like to them: her, the unshakable, unmoveable El -
one of the most powerful mentalists in the world, able to face down Rikti Psi
Masters without blinking, powerful enough to snap armored tanks in two with her
telekinsis or stop Carrier missile salvos with a thought. Her, El of the
Adamantine Expression (as Eyes sometimes called her), bothered by something?
"I was just thinking," she said. Truth, those words, but not all of
it; they might have been the closest things she had to friends, to -family-, in
this world, but they didn't need to know the path her thoughts had taken.
"What 'bout, darlin'?" Eyes said, sounding considerably more sober than
he had moments before. "I ain't seen a look like that on your face since just
before we went after that Aphrodite chick and the Carnival."
A small sliver of icy panic stabbed her through the heart at his
words. He couldn't know - none of them could. She hadn't told anyone. Not
Zero, who had been her lover for nearly a year. Not Wubba, despite all the
near-fatal scrapes the two had been through; nor that she'd come closer to
telling him the truth than anyone, before giving him the edited version of the
truth. Anri and Eyes hadn't been with them long enough at the time to really
know her all that well.
Yet Eyes seemed to know. Or at least suspect. At their first meeting, she'd
written the illusionist off as just another power-drunk [censored] slacker that
wanted to get girls and glory by using a few token spells to fight crime. But
there was a mind in there, hidden behind the dark visor he habitually wore; no
amount of wisecracks or cheap tricks would let anyone top even -one- Carnival
of Shadows Master Illusionist at her own game, to say nothing of the -dozen- or
more that they had faced during that mission.
A very sharp mind indeed. Maybe -too- sharp.
Keeping her face and tone neutral/friendly, she said, "I'm
contemplating semi-retirement."
"'Semi-retirement'?" Anri repeated, confusion playing across her golden
eyes. "There's no such thing, El. You said so yourself when I joined you
guys; being almost-retired from this scene is like being almost pregnant."
"I'm rethinking my options," El replied, snatching Eyes' drink and
taking a gulp, despite it's owners protesting squawk.
"Like what?" Wubba wanted to know.
Looking around the club, El skimmed the small sea of faces she could
see from her vantage point in the booth; every single face she could see was
dominated by either a smile, wild grin, or other expression of ease that one
rarely saw on the faces of heroes in this post-Rikti War city. The kick-back
from her psychic talents told her that those faces were genuine, the feelings
of non-battle-triggered excitement and elation from being here, dancing and
talking and just -living-, like the sun's warmth in the cold corners of her
heart.
Then she had it.
"Zero," she said, raising her voice to be heard. "How many
hero-oriented clubs or bars are there in the city?"
"Dozens," the DJ replied, looking thoughtful. "Most of them are run by
mundane humans though, and very few of those are successful at it. I think the
Emerald over in Founders Falls and Black Tidings in Skyway are the only ones
that have stayed open long enough to be considered "established". The only two
that are both hero-owned and hero-focused are the Hero's Haven over in
Brickstown," he waved his free arm at the profusion of tights- and/or
armor-wearing - and in some cases, she could see, cape baring - heroes, "and
Pocket D."
"Ya weren't a hero last I checked, kiddo," Wubba rumbled. "Deejay and
trouble-maker, maybe, but not hero. When was th' last time ya stopped a
muggin'?"
Anri looked for a moment like she was about to fly over the table and
deck the huge tanker, No Fighting Rule of the Dance Party be damned, when Zero
smirked, his brown eyes glinting.
"I battle the forces of ennui and stress there, slate-face. A heroic
undertaking in itself, I assure you."
Wubba stared at the DJ for a moment; in fact, they all did (except
maybe Eyes - with thse damned goggles of his, you could never tell where his
eyes were pointing).
Then his head fell back, and he let loose with a rafter-rattling gawf
of pure merriment. Zero's smirk upgraded to a grin of the feces-devouring
variety as Anri and Eyes smiled, relaxing. El shook her head, but smiled as
well.
Once Wubba's titanic gawfs subsided, El said, "I was thinking that
maybe we could do something about that little problem,"
"Sorry, sugar," Eyes interjected, leaning onto the table with an elbow.
"But I can't see Pretty-boy here in tights."
Knowing that he was being deliberately obtuse, El ignored the remark.
"I was thinking that I'd open my own bar, a place kind of like the Haven, but
better. Different. Able to offer the city's heroes more than just a place to
drink or dance."
"And cleaner," Anri added. "The Haven is a great place, but it hasn't
seen a thorough cleaning since the Depression, I'll bet."
"By yourself though?" Zero asked. "Its damn near impossible, you know.
Even for a hero like you, El."
"Not alone," El said. "I'll hire some help and -"
"Ask," Wubba said. El turned to look at him.
"What?"
"Jus' ask us, darlin'," the tank said. "Yer not normally this dense,"
he noted, reaching over to pluck the drink that was still clutched in her hand
away.
"No more drinkin' fer ya, girlie."
"But I couldn't just -ask- the three of you to -" El began.
"-We- wouldn't be there on this semi-retirment business," Eye pointed
out. "We'd just be there to support you, help run the place and the like.
That doesn't mean we can't still go out and bash heads when there's a need."
He had a point. She saw that. But still...
"I could be bouncer fer th' place," Wubba said, tossing back the
remands of her drink. "I can tend bar too, if'n ya need me to. Ya still got
yer license, right?" El nodded.
"I could help with waitering," Eyes said. "With my phantom decoys, we
could keep the need for employees down, keep more of the profits."
"I could cook, if you're going to serve food," Anri pipped up. "My
family in Italy has a restaurant, and I've learned most of the popular recipes
here in the states over the last year." Grinning, she added, "I make a mean
double-decker cheeseburger, if I do say so myself."
"I can help too," Zero said. "If you need advice or help with
something, or to nudge some cilentele your way, I can do that." With a smile,
he added, "Just don't think you'll be able to drive me outta business."
El was speechless for a long moment, looking from face to face around
the table. She'd expected them to try to talk her out of it, or just give some
advice on how to go about it; she hadn't expected them to practically drop
everything and join her!
In that moment, as she saw the support and trust in their faces, was
the closest she been moved to tears in too long. But by reflex she supressed
the urge, keeping even the smallest hint of moisture from her eyes with her
usual iron discipline.
"Thank you. All of you," she said, feeling unusually subdued. But
the gratitude in her tone was genuine; for a moment, if only just, she believed
that this was what all those hapless citizens had felt, when she or another
hero had saved them from a mugging or worse on the streets of the city.
A bright flash of light caused her to start. Glancing up at the
source, she saw Eyes tuck a small digital camera into a pocket of his jean
jacket, grinning wolfishly.
"I think I'll make another painting, with this," he tapped the pocket
where the camera rested, "as a guide. I haven't done a Real Life Interpretation
in a -long- time." Looking at the others, he said, "What should I call it?
Contrite El? How about Sad Girl in Leather?"
"You'll be calling yourself an ambulence in about a second," El growled,
levering herself up onto the table to lean menacingly over him. They all knew
she didn't like people taking pictures of her for personal reasons, though
she'd always coldly refused to explain as to why.
"Camera. Now." she said, holding out a hand. Her tone made it plain
that it wasn't a request.
"You know, when you're standing there like that," Eyes noted slyly, not
hiding his lecherous grin, "I can see -right- down your top?"
So that's how he wanted to play it, huh? she thought. If he'd expected
her to be embarrassed, he was in for a surprise. El was far from being an
exhibitionist, but neither was she a prude. She was comfortable with her body
and its charms - thus her provocative mode of dress. Plus, it provided good
destraction value in the heat of battle, under the right circumstances. What
surprised her was that many of the scantly-clad female heroes on the streets
weren't; it was a confidence booster, usually in combination with a mask of one
type or another. She wasn't immune to it herself; dressing and acting
outrageously, while keeping her identity a secret, was almost a drug for some
women. If she had had an identity worth protecting, she was sure she would've
been on the bandwagon with all the rest.
Eyes' face morphed from lecherous to shocked when she climbed up onto
the table, all felar grace like a cat ready to pounce, while one of her arms
cradled her breasts, fluffing them like pillows of creamy flesh.
"Eyes..." she purred, his name like a dark promise on her tongue. For
an extra kick, she flicked that tongue out to moisten her lips suggestively.
She felt his arousal lance the cloud of alcohol his brain had been
floating through, watching as his mouth slipped open just enough to let his own
tongue moisten suddenly dry lips.
Distracted as he was, it wasn't any effort at all to let her chest fall
back into its natural state and reach forward, slipping the camera from his
pocket. Settling languidly back onto the table, in a pose that should have
been reserved for either a Playboy cover shot or the bedroom, El turned the
miniture camera on, finding and erasing the incriminating picture.
"There," she husked, tucking the camera back into his jacket. "That
wasn't so bad, now was it?"
"nuh-no," Eyes whispered, his face - what she could see of it - slack
with need.
<Is that what -I- look like when she does something like that to me?>
she heard Zero muse to himself. He'd been thinking "loudly" enough for her to
pick it up, without her trying to do so.
<No, you look something like this,> she told him, attaching a mental
picture that pushed all his needles into the red. He flushed bright crimson,
enough to be seen even through the club's lighting.
With a slow, lazy kind of smile, El slid off the table back into her
seat, taking note of the discomfort level the other four were broadcasting.
Eyes, she knew, would not be able to stand from his seat for a while without
hurting himself. Anri was blushing and scowling at her at the same time. It
was a shame that such a beautiful girl like her was unable to use her charms to
maximum effect, El thought. She was wearing a barly-there mini-skirt and
abbreviated top that looked like it was spray-painted on, with long boots of a
medium heel to do any dominatrix proud; and yet she got embarrassed when El,
who was wearing more material, turned up the sex appeal.
Ah, contradictions.
At first glance, Wubba looked to have been unaffected by her little
show; his stony face was given to limited expression, being less flexible than
flesh in return for the ability to shrug off cannon fire. But her long
friendship with the tanker told her that - from the set of his shoulders to the
slight, almost nervous twitch of his hands - that he wasn't any better off
than Eyes was.
Rock can melt if heated enough; which proved that under that impervious
hide, Wubba was still a man.
Clearing his throat twice around the lump in his throat, Eyes said,
roughly, "Have I told you lately what an incredible [censored] tease you are?"
"The best," she said with a smile, unrepentant. Then, looking at the
group as a whole, she said, "We should discuss the business of my bar somewhere
a little more... quiet, I think." She aimed a smokey look at Eyes, watching as
he swallowed painfully. Turning those eyes on Wubba - she didn't want him to
feel left out, afterall, now that she was in the mood to play a little - she
slid out of the booth and glided a few paces away, glancing over at the group.
"Coming?" she husked, before sauntering her way through the crowd. Not
a inconsiderable number of heads, male -and- female, turned to follow her as
she slid through the crush of humanity like a tigress on the prowl.
Back at the table, Eyes opened his mouth with, "I -"
"Shut UP, Eyes," Anri growled. Grabbing DJ Zero around the arm again,
who was being afflicted by a powerful sense of deja vu, she dragged the tall
young man through the crowd, following El's path.
Back at the table, Eyes ran his hand over his bald plate.
"I need a cold shower," he opined.
"You n' me both, brutha'," Wubba agreed.
And, after a few minutes, they gathered their scattered selves together
and followed.
---------------
Three Months later
Steel Canyon, Copper District
9:36 p.m.
She was lost.
Having finally admitted that simple fact to herself, after many hours
of fruitless searching, didn't make her any less lost, nor did it make her feel
better. In fact, now that she thought about it, she didn't know what exactly
she'd been trying to accomplish by admitting that fact.
Now, in addition to being lost in a strange city, she was depressed to
boot. Which could probably excuse her for not seeing the five armed gang
members bearing down on her.
"Hey there, missy," one of them said, leveling his shotgun on her head.
She jumped as if struck, looking up into the 12-gauge barrel.
"You're new in town, ain't you?"
"Y-yes," she said demurely, mentally cursing herself for her lack
awareness. A quick glance around the street corner where they were confirmed
her suspecion; save for her and her assailants, they were alone.
"Well, being new, we're gonna hafta ask for your toll payment before we
can let you go," another of the punks said, grinning around an unlit cigarette.
As she watched, he raised an empty hand to the end; a small flame leapt into
being from the end of his outstretched thumb, lighting the tobacco.
Uh-oh, she thought. These guys must be those Outcast mutants she'd
heard about from her father's friends. The one with the flashy lighter must be
one of those whaddayacallem, a Torch. Mutant with fire-type elemental powers.
She couldn't guess at what powers the other four might have from their
appearance, but beside the one holding down on her with the shotgun, one had a
baseball bat he was twirling idly in one hand, sending it into an end-over-end
flip as she watched, trying to intimidate her with the casual why in which he
handled the weapon. The other two had a wickedly sharp looking knife tucked
into the belt and a ten pound sledgehammer between them. The three with melee
weapons had pistols in addition; flexibility was key for these punks,
apparently. The guy with the flame didn't have any visible weapons, but she
guessed that with his powers he didn't need one. That was bad.
"Sorry boys," a female voice said from behind the Outcasts. "No taxing
the peds on my watch."
They all turned to see the source of the voice standing less than ten feet
away: standing barely four-and-half feet tall with olive skin, her long
flame-red hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, a few stray strands
hanging loose over the silver tiara on her forehead. Large, reflective liquid
gold eyes were narrowed in challenge from within a simple black face mask, her
pointed jaw set. Her costume - what there was of it - consisted of a red halter
and like colored spandex short-shorts that looked more like a layer of thin
paint than cloth. Her legs were dominated by a pair of thigh-high, medium-heeled
black leather boots, the toes on both sporting studded plates of shiny metal
that ran from the instep all the way around on both sides, and were at least an
inch tall. Simple red-dyed fingerless driving gloves adorned her small, slim
hands where they were clenched into loose fists at her hips.
Flamboyantly as she was dressed, she didn't look like much; just a
delicate little slip of a girl in fun-time clothing, though every inch of her
flesh visible looked toned and strong.
Hopefully strong enough to run like the dickens while I do the same,
she thought, stealing herself for the right moment.
"Ah HELL," the Torch growled. Bringing his fists up, a shimmering aura
of heat - hot enough to make her think of the bonfires her uncle had liked to
light back home during the annual family get together - curled around his
muscled frame for a moment. Then, with a pop and sizzle of suddenly spent
oxygen, the air around him ignited, wreathing the punk in flame.
"The Red Chick," the Torch finished.
"Il Rosso Vergine to you, punk-wad," the redhead shot back, taking a
ready stance; she guessed that it was some kind of martial art kung-fu-ie
thing, but she didn't know enough about that kind of stuff to identify the
style.
"Don't just stand there! GET HER!!" the Torch roared, lobbing a
fireball at the redhead. With a graceful, dance-like motion, the woman in red
dodged the attack, then charged. The thug with the bat met her, roaring as he
brought the weapon around in a hissing arc.
His mistake.
She wouldn't be sure until later what had actually happened; the
redhead had uttered an ear-spliting cry of focused rage as one of her small
fists flashed up, which had been immediately followed by the explosive sound
of wood shattering.
For one horrorified moment, she'd entertained that the girl had failed
to either dodge or block the weapon, the thug having swung hard enough to
shatter the hard core of the bat across her head where he'd been aiming.
The thug staggered back a step as he was showered with wooden shards
from his own weapon. The redhead, somehow still on her feet after such a
punishing blow, took a short hop and spun, landing a vicious roundhouse kick to
the side of his head. Then the thug -flew- away from her, his body continuing
off in the same trajectory where her kick had left off to land in a heap, limp
as a discarded ragdoll, almost twenty feet away.
Looking closer, she saw that the unconscious thugs' weapon now ended
just above his limp hand. His face and shirt were peppered with cuts and bits
of wood, blood running from the visible cuts to stain his white t-shirt red.
Of the rest of weapon there was no sign.
Save the scattering of splinters at the feet of the redhead. She gaped
at the heroine. The heroine grinned back, tossing her a saucy wink before
turning her attention on the remaining punks.
"Well?" the redhead said. With a wild cry, the four remaining thugs
charged the smaller woman.
The fight went baddly for the Outcasts, that much was apparent to her;
within a minute of the second charge, the three other weapon-wielding thugs
were down, unconscious and disarmed, and the Torch was dogging the redhead with
alternating attacks that mixed fireballs launched from near point-blank range,
to fiery punches and kicks. It was obvious that the Torch was more than his
fellows had been; his attacks and blocks showed actual skill, which were backed
by that sizzling aura of flame. For her part, the redhead kept him at bay with
well timed blocks and the occasional uncanny dodge, calmly waiting for her
opponent to tire and slip up, providing her with an opening.
Which came a moment sooner than she'd thought; as the thug whiffed on
one particularly nasty punch - had it connected - the redhead stepped inside
his reach. With a hair-raising whine, her arms from the shoulders down
-blurred-, moving so fast that her hair and the Torch's shirt flickered and
moved, caught in a miniture zephyr as the air was displaced from between their
bodies. The thug's torso seemed to vibrate like he was suffering from a nasty
coughing fit, all the air leaving his lungs in one explosive *whumph!*.
The redheads' arms stopped blurring then (for which she was profoundly
greatful; it was seriously weirding her out, watching a person move that fast.
And it was nauseating to boot), and, coiling in on herself, she launched one
pointed heel into the thug's mid-section.
He folded in on himself like a cheap plastic lawn chair, making gagging
noises as something in his guts slithered up his throat to strangle off his air
flow. The redhead followed up with a haymaker across the thugs' shoulders that
slammed him butter side down (as her aunt would have said) into the sidewalk.
He coughed once, twice, then curled onto his side and moaned, showing no signs
of wanting to continue the fight.
The redhead sniffed derisively down at her defeated foes, then turned
to her.
"You okay girlie?" she asked.
For a moment, she didn't think to respond. Then, realizing she really should
say something here, she smiled wanly, saying, "Thank you so much, Miss Rosser.
I don't know what I would have done without you."
"'Twernt nuthin'," the redhead replied, thumbing her nose at the punks
on the ground. Then she looked confused a moment as something she'd heard
finally registered.
"Wait. 'Miss Rosser'?" the heroine asked.
"Ain't that what you said to the punk-wad?" she returned, gesturing to
said punk-wad on the ground.
Waving her hands in a dispelling manner, the hero in red quickly said,
"Nononono! -Il Rosso Vergine-. In english it means 'The Red Maiden'."
"'Red Maiden'?" she repeated. "So he basically got it right the first
time?"
"No. 'Red Maiden' has a dignified ring to it." Folding her arms under
her modest chest, she added, "'Red Chick' is just plain disrespectful."
"...Whatever you say," she replied.
Muttering to herself in some foreign language, the redhead pulled a
small pouch out of seemingly no where (where did she -hide- something even that
small on an outfit like that? she wondered), and pulled a handful of poker
chips out of it. Going up to each thug, she slapped one of the chips onto a
shoulder or chest. As she did so, the given thug faded from exsistance with a
small flash of light and pop of displaced air.
Teleporter beacons, she realized with amazement. Boy, science has really come
a long, -long- way in the last decade, she mused.
"So," the Red Maiden said, looking at her. "If you really -are- new to the
Canyon, I can escort you to wherever it is that you're going if you'd like,
miss...?"
She started out of her reverie, looking back at the smaller woman, saying,
"Chloe. Chloe Marie Little."
Nodding, the Maiden - as Chloe thought of her - said, "Miss Little, if you'd
like, I can give you an escort to wherever it is you seem to think you have to
be at this hour of the night."
"I -am- new to the city, I'm afraid. And where I'm going is a place called the
Powerhouse." Chloe explained.
To her surprised delight, the Maiden grinned; it looked exceedingly good on the
olive-skinned vixen, all even white teeth and dimples, her red-painted lips
curving enticingly.
"Well, you're in luck tonight, Miss Little; I'm headed that way myself."
Smiling in return, Chloe opened her purse, looking for her wallet.
"I guess I could I could call a cab for the both of us... Its the least I
could do for you after you helped me..."
"Oh, there's no need for that," the Maiden replied, sounding much closer than a
moment ago. When Chloe looked up, the red-sheathed heroine was standing right
at her elbow, her smile more disarming than before.
Then, with an ubruptness that made her sqwuak, Chloe was swept into the
Maiden's arms.
She's stronger than she looks, Chloe thought dizzily. Then, realizing a woman
almost half her size was cradling her with the same ease a groom held his new
bride, it occured to her to protest.
"Hey, what are you -?"
"Whatever you do," the Maiden said, grinning at her, "Don't let go of me, ok?"
Then Il Rosso Vergine took three running steps and launched herself into the
air with ridiculous ease, despite her burden and what every physical law said
otherwise.
Latching onto her transportation with white-knuckled desperation, Chloe
reassessed her earlier thought.
The Maiden was much, -much- stronger than she appeared. At the initial launch,
she'd thought her savior was going to fly them to their destination; but after
the ground surged up to meet them, only to be forced away again with a light
scrap of boot heel on stone and a gentle "hup!" from the Maiden, Chloe realized
that they were actually -arcing- through the night sky over the city, one
immense leap at a time. The Maiden was covering whole -city blocks- in one hop.
"Is this a bad time to mention that I'm afraid of heights?!" Chloe bawled over
the roar of the passing wind.
The Red Maiden just grinned at her and kept jumping.
---------------
It was another crowded night in the House, with heroes of all descriptions
filling the booths and tables and ringing the long, mahogany topped strip of
the wet bar. On the small area of flooring just beyond the bar and close to
the stage, a pack of heroes almost equal in size to the red and black checkered
square of dancing space moved and gyrated to the sounds of Metallica, which
blared from the classic-styling jukebox in the corner. Running parallel to the
six-person-per-booth seating area, two different lines stood: one waiting on
the pair of bathrooms to one side, the other waiting, it seemed, for the door
marked "broom closet" on the other.
Standing by the main door into the bar clad in his usual dark t-shirt and
canvas trouser combo, arms folded over his Buick-width torso in the fashion of
bouncers everywhere, Wubba stared impassively over the throng of heroes. While
his face betrayed no outward clue to what he was thinking, inside he was almost
as giddie as a school boy again. El's gamble on this bar-[censored]-sports club had
paid off big time, he could see. And it was only partially thanks to the
location, up here along Silver Lake near the Independence Port gate; it was
close enough, convenient enough, so that both new heroes as well as more
established ones could get here to enjoy themselves. It was almost exactely at
the halfway point between the Green and Yellow railway lines.
The door chose that moment to open, the small sting of silver bells next to the
spring arm jingling merrily.
Wubba glanced over at the door out of habit, and was pleasantly surprised to
see Anri stride in, clad in her Red Maiden get-up, another girl in toe.
As they walked passed him, Wubba took a moment to realize that the other girl
was following Anri into the bar as he sized her up.
About average height, build and complextion, he surmised. Nothing to really
distinguish her from someone on the street. Long hair-colored hair (that
midway point between blonde and brown) drawn into a ponytail, with fresh-looking
brown eyes a shade darker than the hair to provide contrast. Small nose,
slightly upturned, with a scattershot of fading freckles over the bridge of it
and the cheeks. Even her clothing - blue collage-letter sweater over a brown
knee-length skirt and brown flats - was unassuming. The girl could probably go
unnoticed by -blood relatives- in a crowd, if she didn't already.
Got the whole "girl next door" thing going for her, he concluded, smiling to
himself.
"Hey Anri," he greeted the redhead, giving her an absent wave.
Anri waved back, turning the gesture into a slap-five as she passed and giving
him an absent "yo" as she went.
"Eyes was wondering if you'd be showin' t'day." the tanker said.
"And let -him- have a run of -my- kitchen? In his dreams."
Wubba chuckled before turning to the ordinary-looking girl - who was staring up
at him like he was an approaching land-slide, a unique blend of surprise,
consternation and faint fear on her face.
"Hey there lil' missy," he rumbled.
"um... hi...?" she squeaked.
If he could have quirked an eyebrow still, he'd have done it now. As it was,
he settled for turning to regard Anri, as the small redhead gently peeled the
eye mask off and folded it into a small black square, which she then tucked
into a concealed pocket in the waistband of her shorts.
"And this is...?" Wubba began, gesturing to the trembling young girl with one
massive paw, who looked on the verge of passing out if she had to stand this
close to him for much longer.
"Chloe Marie Little, meet Wubba, the bouncer for the Powerhouse Bar and Grill,"
Anri said, gesturing from the former to the latter. "Wubba, meet Chloe, whom
you seem to be about to enduce cardiac arrest in just by being in her field of
view."
Taking the startled girl by the shoulders, she gently turned her away from
Wubba, though the girl's head tracked around to keep the hulking man in sight
almost on its own.
"She'll be starting here today, if you can keep from intimidating her," Anri
added glibbly.
Looking abashed - neat trick that, Anri noted, for a guy who doesn't really
have a face - Wubba nodded and moved away.
"C'mon sweetheart," Anri said, leading the dazed girl into the back. "Lets get
some water into you to improve you're coloring. Then we can talk work."
Walking behind the bar where El was holding court with her usual aplomb, Anri
took a moment to admire, if only for a moment, how it was that the white-haired
woman could look so damn -good- no matter what she wore: today it was a black
and white checked flannel shirt over leg-hugging blue jeans, the flannel's
sleeves rolled back to her elbows and the bottoms tied together, leaving her
flat stomach visible thanks to the cropped blood-red tank top she wore under
it. Her blue-frosted white hair was pulled back into a one thick braid, tied
together at the end with a slip of blue silk ribbon, and hung over her left
shoulder. As she approached the bar, Anri could make out some of the
conversation that she was having with one of the guys at the stools, one slim
eyebrow cocked with wary amusement as she fingered the braid absently.
"Truly?" El asked.
"Yeah," the guy in question - decked out in metallic blue midevel armor with a
broadsword slung in a scabbard on his back - said, taking another pull on his
beer mug.
"And you've no idea where he might be?"
"I'd say if I knew, El," the armored guy replied, looking contrite. "You'd
probably be the first to know, next to Freedom Corps HQ."
"I apologize, Melabrout," she said. "I didn't mean to come off as not
appreciative of the info - because I am, make no mistake - but I just wish you
had been able to find out more."
"You and me both," Melabrout sighed. "If I knew where that ******* was, I'd be
mustering a team to hunt his sorry carcas down right this minute. I wouldn't
object to having you along if that were the case, either."
El gave the armored man a gentle smile. "I'll cherish that as a complement to
my skills, for always," she said solmnely, the smile not matching the words.
Melabrout grinned. "You do that," Then, snapping his fingers, an ornately
etched helmet appeared in his hands, and he fitted it onto the mountings of his
armor, leaving the face shield up.
"Well, fun-time's over, I'm afraid. Time to smite some more evil-doers."
"Good luck, sir knight," El said, waving to him as he went for the door.
Anri cleared her throat then, drawing the white-haired woman's attention to her
and Chloe. When El turned to survey them, Anri could have sworn that she
almost felt the girl at her side swoon when El's mismatched eyes met her plain
browns. But Chloe found a small reserve of strength somewhere, and remained
standing under her own power.
Lord and Lady, Anri thought, exasperated. First Wubba, now El; is this girl
going to do that every time someone looks at her? Because if thats the case,
we might wanna get a blindfold for her or something. She also felt faintly
insulted at the notion; Chloe hadn't reacted like -this- when -she- met her.
What, wasn't she pretty enough?
"Anri," El acknowledged with her usual throaty murmur. Turning her gaze on
Chloe, she said, "Ah, you must be Miss Little."
Extending a hand to the girl, she said, "I am El, owner of the Powerhouse. I
can assume you already know Anri?"
Nodding dazedly at her, Chloe shook the preoffered hand with both of hers.
"Very good. Chloe - may I call you Chloe? - we run a fairly informal place
here, so please do not think you must be totally differential to me; I own the
building, but in the actual -running- of the bar itself we all equally
important. Your input on how to make it better is valued."
"Y-yes ma'am," Chloe said gently. Anri cocked an eyebrow; Chloe was already
looking a bit steadier on her feet, and her color had improved almost as the
conversation had progressed. Maybe El was doing some of her psychic stuff to
calm the girl?
But, no, that couldn't be it; El had told them - repeatedly and, at times,
vehemently - that she never coerced innocent people in such a manner. While
she'd cited that it was blantant abuse of her psionic talents, Anri had
suspected that it had more to do with her own ego than any moral code. El was
an incredibly sensual woman, and Anri thought that maybe she would be insulted
if people believed she couldn't charm the skin off a snake without using her
powers.
Smiling, El raised one of the girl's hands, brushing the knuckles with her
lips. Chloe blushed prettily; Anri rolled her eyes.
<How do you -do- that?> Anri thought crossly.
<Years of practice, my dear. I would be delighted to show you ->
"No thanks, Ice Queen," Anri said aloud, giving El a warning look. Chloe
didn't seem to have noticed that Anri was answering an unspoken question.
"As you wish, little spitfire," El said smoothly.
Taking Chloe by the arm, Anri squired the girl into the kitchen, where the
industrious sounds of cooking and pots banging could already be heard.
"Still want that water?" Anri asked.
"Yes, please."
Anri produced the drink in question and offered it to the girl, who killed it
in four long, deep gulps.
"Another casuality of the Bosslady?" a deep voice behind some steel-lined
cabinents asked, sounding amused.
"'Sup Eyes," Anri greeted. Chloe looked up from her glass in time to see a
tall, young-looking black man wearing black-glazed goggles, street clothing,
and a black apron appear from behind the row of shelves. He was fairly
unassuming in build, but from the looks of her muscled forearms, Chloe guessed
that he kept in shape.
"Eyes, Chloe. Chloe, Eyes." Anri said.
"Nice to meetcha," Eyes said, shaking her hand.
"Chloe's here for the waitressing job," Anri explained, moving around the two
of them towards a door in the back. "Now, you two make nice and get
acquainted; I'm gonna change for work."
She returned a few minutes later, clad in wine-red shorts, tank top, and
well-worn tennis shoes. She was wrapping her hair into a large white kerchief
as she came back into the room, tying it all together with a length of red
ribbon, when she heard a laugh she took a moment to identify as Chloe's.
"-- should've -seen- the look on her face," Eyes was saying as she came within
conversationaly range. Anri, knowing Eyes and his propensity for telling
embarrassing stories, concluded that the illusionist must have been telling a
story about -her-, and smiled nastily.
"It wasn't that bad," Anri noted casually as she breezed passed them to the
range, flicking knobs and grabbing a sauce pan from the wall hook. "What about
that time you flubbed that invisibility spell, Eyes? I've never seen -"
"C'mon kiddo," Eyes blurted too quickly, snatching the Chloe's arm with one
hand and steering her for the door. "Got customers waiting. Later Anri!"
Anri grinned to herself, hearing Chloe's confused, "Spell? What was she -"
before Eyes thrust the door open, drowning out the rest of the girl's question
in the buzz of conversation on the floor.
----------------
"Remember what I told you," Eyes was saying to Chloe as he handed her a spare
note pad and pen from a pouch in his smock. "If you feel yourself starting to
freak at their appearance, just do the exercise we discussed and keep smiling."
"Right," Chloe said, setting her chin in a show of determination. Eyes found
the effect it had on her face to be understatedly charming on her middling-
attractive features.
"Go then, grasshopper," Eyes said in his best Kwai-Chang Kain. "And do your
master proud."
Chloe grinned, about facing smartly and heading for table three, where the
patrons face's were buried deep in their menues.
"Hey there!" Chloe g