24: Sapphire Grounded

Noel paused, hand on the ignition, suspended in mid-thought, watching care-free teens come and go from the QuickMart.

I wonder what Ricky's doing.

Thoughts of the Black Widow nee Avenging Angel case evaporated at the realization that he was losing his son. Over a girl.

He needed to reconnect soon before it was too late. Talk -- not about Angela; the less he was forced to think about her, the better -- just about life. Tonight, maybe.

But first he had to get back on his game. If he didn't start paying attention to his work, Rubio would manipulate him right out of a job.

I wonder if Angela shops at this QuickMart. She probably does; it's not far from her house...

"Stop!" The sudden violence of his own shout pierced the hot silence of the car's interior. A couple of the teens hanging out in front of his car looked at him. What?

Detective Aquino hopped out of the car, motivated to cover his jarring outburst as a legitimate request. "Can I ask you a couple of questions?"

"What'd we do?" One looked nervous, the other defiant.

"Nothing. I just want to know if either of you were here around the time of the robbery."
"Which one?" "Dude, the Angel..." "Ohyeahh... Nah, I wasn't here that night."
"So you know about it."
"Yeah." "Who doesn't?"
"How about before? Either of you see anything or anyone unusual in the couple days before?"
They looked at each other and shrugged. "Nah, not really." "Huh-uh."
"You hear of anybody who *was* around that night?"
"I dunno, maybe Dirk. He's always dealin- I mean, he's always hangin' around here."
"Dirk...?"
"Um, Hurley."
"The quarterback?"
"Yeah, that's him." The nervous one looked at Noel plaintively. "You won't tell him we mentioned his name, will you?"
Noel recognized the request. A bully. "Of course not. You wouldn't happen to know where he is, would you?"
They shook their heads.
"All right. Thanks. If you guys see anything... weird, you give me a call." He handed the nervous one his card.

Dirk waited until the car was around the corner before he returned to the register. "Okay, ring me up."
"One pack of gum. Nothing else?"
"Naw, I'm tryin' to cut back."

He stopped outside the store, giving the two younger boys a mean stare. "What'd he want?"
"He was asking about the Angel."
"No shit." So the police really were taking it seriously. He had mixed feelings about that; a part of him still wanted to get another shot at her. "Did you say anything?"
"N-no, of course not." "Fuck no, man."
Dirk was satisfied with the respect in their response. "Good. I've got enough shit going on." He started to turn to leave, but a surprise pain shot up his side. Damn painkillers wearing off already. Dirk hesitated, regaining his composure; the stories people told were bad enough, he didn't need to make it worse by showing everybody just how bad that bitch had hurt him.

"Hey, Dirk, how come no beer?" the bold one asked.
"Fucking Dad cut me off after he heard what happened." And caught him drinking. "Says I'm on probation until I'm back on the field. And thanks to all the cops coming around, business is way off, all my cash is tied up."
"Dude, you should sell your story to the papers." "Yeah, they pay good money. I heard."
"Yeah, right," Dirk dismissed as he turned to go for real this time.

But the suggestion was turning itself over in his mind. The last thing he wanted was his humiliation in print. But on the other hand, he could use the scratch, and if he told his own story instead of letting the rumors fly at least the truth would come out. Or a reasonable facsimile. About how this girl had been stalking him -- he was world-famous in Oak Valley, after all. And how she jumped him in the parking lot. And wailed on him with a baseball bat. From behind. And he'd just managed to get the bat away from her when she took off.

Maybe selling his story wasn't such a bad idea after all.

Ricky sat alone at the farthest table from the convention center snack bar. An $8 ham and cheese sandwich sat still in its cellophane wrap to his left. To his right lay a rolled-up tube. He half-reached for the sandwich, then half-reached for the tube, then back for the sandwich...

"One more look."
He grasped the tube and gingerly unrolled it, holding down two curling corners with his forearm. There it was. A Daredevil movie poster, signed by one of the biggest names ever associated with the franchise. Who wasn't even supposed to be at this convention, but stopped by on his way to the airport and slipped into the Marvel booth for a few minutes. "Ricky: Keep drawing without fear! -K___ S__th"

Cool.

He pulled out the image that had prompted the comment. He generally didn't admire his work as much as scan it for flaws, but he had to admit this was one of his best. Something about the (ahem) modeling session Angela had given him had really gotten his creative juices flowing. It had given rise to a fluid urgency in his new style. His drawings seemed to want to leap off the page, as if the paper could barely contain them.

But this particular drawing was inspiration on a whole new level.

Sapphire, the beaming-bright little bundle of gracefully coiled curves, at once leaping back and charging forward, her impossible hover so vividly recalling the weightless power poses he'd witnessed that night; her face -- Angela's face, for try as he might he couldn't seem to draw Sapphire any other way -- frozen between measured fury and unguarded surprise.

And Sapphire's new nemesis, the embodiment of all the terrible rumors running rampant on the streets and the local chat boards, rumors ricocheting around the walls of the very convention center in which Ricky now sat. Grounded, but ready to spring, every inch of her lithe form suggesting arachnidian predation, from her long limbs and windblown black hair to her slender digits and stiletto heels. It was only Sapphire's winged elevation that kept this felonious female from towering over her. This new character on the scene was responsible for the mysterious attacks on Sapphire's old collars, secretly spreading malice toward the stalwart superheroine, while at the same time extracting her own terrible vengeance against the petty predators who took their percentages from the unfortunate souls stuck on the wrong side of the tracks. The Black Widow was a twisted woman, as sinister as she was seductive, a poison whose effects were quickly being felt throughout the city. And only Sapphire could stop her.

He felt a swell of pride just gazing at his creation.

Of course it was just a drawing. A fantasy given to pen and paper. An impressionable boy's interpretation of a cumulation of whispers and glimpses. But it wasn't drawn by him so much as drawn out of him. The more his thoughts lingered on it, the more solid it felt.

"Woah, dude, that's cool! Where'd you get it?"

Ricky was startled into reality. He quickly drew his backpack down into his lap. Someone sat down next to him; a tall young man about his age. Another boy stood to Ricky's right, leaning forward on an empty chair. "She's hot. They're both hot. What booth? Do they have any more?"

"I- I drew it," Ricky stuttered. "Last night."
"Well damn, dude, you're good." The one who was sitting leaned in to take a closer look. "Really good." He wolf-whistled. "So who's it supposed to be?"

Ricky wasn't comfortable being bracketed by strangers, even though they seemed harmless. Nonetheless, his grip flexed defensively around his signed poster as his vision tunneled around his drawing. "That's Sapphire," he said, finger hovering over Angela's face, "and the other one's Black Widow, her nemesis."

"Sapphire, huh? She looks kind of like the Avenging Angel in that rotten paper my mom reads every week."
"She is. But her name is Sapphire."
"Sapphire, that's kind of a cool name, I guess," said the one leaning on the chair back. "For the jewelry, right?"
"Yeah," Ricky answered.

A knot of convention-goers walking by had stopped suddenly when one of them pointed to Ricky's drawing. They now piped in.
"So how come you call her Sapphire?"
"He just said it's the jewelry, stupid."
"Yeah, but I mean, why not just call her Avenging Angel? That's what the press calls her. I mean, if you're gonna draw a real person-"
"She's not real."
"You coulda fooled me; she sure looked real."
"So does that Rat-Boy, but he's fake."
"Yeah, it's called Photoshop, moron, look into it."

Ricky interrupted the discussion. "I call her Sapphire because that's her name."
"Says who?"
"Says her," he answered seriously.
"Woah, dude, gimme some of whatever you're on."
"Come on, the Angel isn't real. If she is she's just some prostitute on too much meth."
"She's real, and she's not like that," Ricky defended. "I know her. I've talked to her. Well, sort of." Why did he say that?

"Really?"
"Dude, keep your spank sessions to yourself!"
"Shut up, Chip. Shut up!" The clot of people was momentarily quiet. "What do you mean you know her? Do tell."
"Yeah, this should be good."
Ricky was a little miffed, forgetting how fantastical his experience would sound; after all, after dwelling on it so much for so long it seemed almost reasonable to him. "She's a friend of a friend. She saved my best friend once. I saw her in action. She beat up like five guys and chased 'em off."
"Yeah, sure."
"Right." Someone made a 'crazy' spinning-finger motion next to their head.
"Hey, how do you chumps know? With all the wild shit going on lately, who knows anything about anything?" The reasonable one sat down across from Ricky. "So who's the other chick?" He looked seriously interested.
"She's an evil vigilante-slash-thief," Ricky explained. "You guys heard about the stuff in Twisted Oaks the last couple of days? This is her. She targets small-time criminals, kills them and takes their money. I call her Black Widow."

Ricky was overwhelmed as the group launched into heated discussion.
"Black Widow? You can't use that. Marvel already has a Black Widow."
"Oh come on. This woman has sex with a guy and then kills him and takes his money. I think the name fits."
"Who said she had sex with them?"
"The first guy was found with his johnson hanging out, and the autopsy said he died of a heart attack from sex."
"You're making that up."
"Am not. Found it on the Net."
"Well, it doesn't matter. The name Black Widow is already taken."
"By an obscure bit player."
"Bit player? Come on, she was an Avenger."
"She was also in S.H.I.E.L.D. and The Lady Liberators. So what? She's basically window-dressing. A hero's girlfriend. First Iron Man, then Hawkeye, then Daredevil."
"That's hardly a bit player."
"Come on, she doesn't even have powers. She's just a hot chick in spandex. One of dozens they pull off the shelf to fill a quota."
"She had her own book."
"She *shared* a book with The Inhumans, who pushed her out after a few issues."
"No, just a couple years ago."
"Well fuck, dude, that doesn't count. Everybody in the catalog gets their own book now, just to protect a copyright."
"Exactly."
"No, that's bullshit. I mean, come on, *I* could get my own book."
"I'd like to see that."
"Well, anyway, can you come up with a better name than Black Widow?"
"Yeah, um, Kevlar for instance."
"Oh, please! That's so lame. It doesn't even have anything to do with her identity!"
"Sure it does, that cop shot her a bunch of times and the bullets bounced right off."
"Half the classic superheroes are bulletproof, that's hardly an identity. Besides, most cops can't hit shit they're shootin' at."
"Fuck you, my dad's a cop!"
Ricky spoke up. "So's my dad, and I've been to the gun range with him and seen the officer in question shoot. He wouldn't miss, not all six shots."
The crowd paused, remembering the point of the discussion was the art on the table and the fantastic based-on-actual-events story it told.
"Anyway, I call her Black Widow, and if Stan Lee wants to sue me for using the name of an actual spider to describe a character based on an actual person who behaves like that spider, then I guess he can. Or maybe he'll just hire me to do the book for him and make lots of money."
"Yeah, well, it's not like you're here with a book to sell anyway."
"And the press'll probably call that serial killer the Black Widow on their own."
"Well, if she looks anything like that, I wouldn't mind takin' a spin in her web!"

A man conspicuously dressed in a button-down denim shirt and pressed pants approached. "Hey, kid, you wanna sell that drawing there?"
Ricky turned away from the clump of comic bookers, locked in lore. "What, this?" His fingers brushed over his ink of Sapphire and Black Widow poised for combat. "I'd rather not."
"Um, well how about sketching me a fresh one? Just a quick sketch, of just the one girl. For $20?"

This was the first time anyone had seriously offered money for one of Ricky's sketches. He contained his excitement.

"Now?"
"Yeah. I'm only here for the day, I'm on a flight back to Boston tonight. Just a little something for the office, you know."
Ricky countered on a hunch -- $20 was nothing to this guy. "Forty bucks, but just a pencil. If you want ink, it'll cost you a hundred. I'll have to go buy me some stuff so it'll take me an hour."
The man seemed to be doing complex calculations of time and money in his head. "Well, for an unpublished kid you certainly know your own value." He checked his watch, looked up at the ceiling for a second. "Okay." He pulled out a money clip and peeled off a hundred dollar bill. "Here's the hundred. You get started and I'll go get your ink. What do you need?"

Ricky tried not to be stunned. "A fine-point Sharpie and an ultra-fine-point Sharpie. The bookstore across the street probably sells them."
"Be right back."
"Hey, which one?"
"Huh?"
"You said just one character. Which one?"
"The Black Widow," he grinned.

Ricky nodded his head until the man turned, then looked down at the ink he'd done last night. He was disappointed; he liked drawing Ange-... Sapphire better.

I knew I drew Black Widow too sexy...

Angela didn't know how long she'd been watching the TV -- well, sitting in front of it, hoping the radiation would somehow nuke her depression -- when her mom came home from work. Usually a shift at the diner wiped Gladys Barrett out and she'd head straight to bed, but tonight she came into the living room and took a seat on the ottoman, just within Angela's field of vision. Angela glanced over at her mom, doing her teenage best not to show actual interest.

Oh, great. A talk.

"I know I've been working a lot of extra shifts lately, but I can still tell when you stop going out with your friends."

Angela's eyes left the TV set long enough to roll them at her mom. "My friends all moved away, mom. It's called graduation."

"I know you've got your sewing, and it's good to have a hobby to help keep you going through rough times -- you might remember I used to macrame -- but it seems to me you're a little obsessed with it, spending all of your time at the fabric store, even when you're not scheduled to work. I used to think that was just an excuse for some secret life you've been leading-"
Angela's heart skipped a beat.
"-but Jan tells me you're practically living there."

Oh, right. Jan, an assistant manager at the fabric store, was a regular at mom's diner.

"And yet I never see you wearing anything you've made."
Trust me mom, that's a good thing.

"I used to be worried that you were just spending too much time online, but lately you haven't even touched your computer. You can't just withdraw from the whole world, honey, it's not healthy."

Angela let out a sigh, suppressing what she wanted to say. That's where you're wrong, mom. At this point going online isn't healthy. At least if the computer's off they can't trace me. Angela wondered how many emails from Josh and Scott were waiting to be picked up, and how many times someone had checked to see if she was online for instant messaging.

"Just because you hit a little rough spot with a boy doesn't mean you should stop living. Your whole life doesn't just revolve around one thing."

Easy for you to say; you weren't given super-powers.

Angela really wasn't in the mood for this. (That was probably her mom's point.) Angela half-watched the television news on in the background. TV news was entertaining to watch even if you didn't listen to what they were saying. Especially if you didn't listen to what they were saying. Perky anchor, stern field reporter, a new bold icon for each story, explanatory titling, absurdly-natural transitions...

Her mom droned on, the sound of her pep talk melding with the female anchor delivering a story with a smile next to a graphic of a lottery ticket with '$WINNER$' superimposed in red at a jaunty angle. "I know maybe you don't believe it right now, but you're a special person. Each one of us has a unique gift, something they alone can contribute to the world. You're never going to find out what that is if you don't get out of this rut you're in."
No, mom, I found it already. And it's not all that.

"You need to get out there and do something."

Handoff to the distinguished-but-still-perky male anchor. After a measured half-second delay, a new graphic appears: the ever-popular chalk outline of a body. As her mom paused in her speech, the visual transition cued Angela into listening to the anchor. "...is dead tonight." Police sketch. Switch to live remote; captioned "Twisted Oaks." (She'd never actually gone to Twisted Oaks before; that was where the hookers and drug pushers hung out. Even as Sapphire it'd never occurred to her to go down there.) Full-screen map of the city, then zoom in 3D flyover style to Twisted Oaks, then little knife icons, some with chalk outlines, popping up bang! bang! bang! bang! bang! on the map. None of those were Sapphire's doing, that was for sure. The map zooms back out the the whole valley. Back to co-anchor droning, again with the police sketch. Police sketch goes full-screen; it could be any young woman with dark hair. Sketch flips like a tile on "Wheel of Fortune" to show stock footage of a police shooting range, then a closeup of body armor, more shooting, closeup of deformed bullets peeled off the body armor. (So the attacker is bullet-proof. She must have the missing sapphires.) Back to co-anchor, now the corner graphic is a dramatic drawing of a woman with "Black Widow" above. (Looks a lot like one of Ricky's sketches.) Now a question mark lands on top of the drawing. Co-anchor turns to her male companion, flashing her pearly whites.

A sudden sense of purpose swelled in Angela; she gazed out the window.

The police don't know what they're up against.
But neither does the Black Widow.

Angela's mom, realizing she'd lost her daughter's attention, reached for the remote and zapped the TV off. She wore an expectant look on her face as Angela's eyes shifted to meet hers.

"You're right, mom. I need to get out there and do something." Angela got up. She put her hand on her mom's shoulder. "Thanks, mom."

Gladys Barrett's jaw dropped as she watched her daughter head for her room with a sense of sudden purpose she'd never shown before.

Well, that went better than expected!

Enough dilly-dallying. You're a superheroine, not a fashion model.
If your sapphires weren't constantly eating everything you wore you could have a real uniform instead of spending fifteen minutes picking through your wardrobe before every outing.
If my sapphires didn't need me to be wearing less than an XFL cheerleader to work worth a damn then I wouldn't have to be so picky about my outfit.

Even with the more risque fashion choices she'd been making over the course of summer, her wardrobe was becoming slim pickings for Sapphire-compatible dress. In frustration, she grabbed an old cotton tank top and a pair of pink cotton sweatpants. There, happy? she taunted her suddenly-overactive conscience. It's the frumpiest thing I could find on such short notice.

At least your mom won't have a heart attack if she sees you go out dressed in it. She slid the sweatpants up over her hips before stepping into her Sapphire shoes.

When the expected tingling rush failed to race up her body, Angela looked down and pouted.

It had been a long time since she'd tested the limits, but she immediately knew why the gems on her feet were lifeless. Unfortunately, the sweatpants broke the sapphires' bare-skin rule. For some reason the stones needed exposed skin to channel their energy in any useful way. She kicked off the stiletto mules and jammed the sweats down to her ankles and off her feet. Sweats in hand, she plopped down on her chair and reached into a drawer for a pair of scissors. Angela wasn't about to spend another ten minutes of indecision in front of the closet; she'd just make these work. As the dull old scissors chewed through one leg and then the other, Angela dismissed a thought about destroying her last pair of sweats. She hadn't worn them in a couple of years anyway -- not since the high school Fashion Clique had teased her about the high waistline and baggy fit. The unpleasant memory triggered a spiteful response: before she realized what she was doing the scissors had chewed halfway across the top of the garment. She shrugged her shoulders and finished the job, tossing the waistband and the top couple inches of the sweats into the trashcan along with the legs. Eyeing the top with suspicion, she set the scissors to work again, chopping the old hip-length garment down to a half-shirt. Not much chance of her outfit limiting her powers now, she smiled.

A knock on her door startled the girl. "Angela honey, do you need to borrow the car?"
Angela froze, eyes locked on the doorknob; she didn't need her mom barging in on her while she was 'destroying' her clothes. Or while she was standing in her room dressed in nothing but a lace thong.

"N-No thanks, mom," Angela answered through her closed bedroom door. "I'm just going a few blocks over to Wendy Clymer's house; she's throwing a pattern party for the sewing club." Angela marveled at how effortlessly the lie had been constructed; Wendy Clymer's name had just popped into her head as the first name listed under the Sewing Club photo in her yearbook. Angela hadn't been a member -- it was better to live anonymously than adopt the social stigma of one of the uncool clubs -- but her former best friend Amy had chosen that page in the yearbook to write her goodbye letter. The closing "KIT" -- Keep In Touch -- ended right next to Wendy Clymer's name. "Her brother volunteered to be our fitting dummy," Angela added with a calculated giggle. If she was going to lie she might as well make it a lie that would make her mom stop worrying about her social life.

Angela could feel the mock suspicion through the door. "Can I trust you to be a good girl?"
Mock frustration coated the sigh of an answer. "Yes, mom." As she said this, her hands, still clutching the abbreviated remains of her T-shirt and sweatpants, shot behind her back. Just in case moms *could* see through bedroom doors.

"Okay, honey. Is it an all-nighter?"
"Yeah, probably."
"Well leave her phone number on the fridge in case I need to get a hold of you, and I'll see you tomorrow."
"You going to bed?"
"Right after the weather report."

Angela checked the clock next to her bed. It was almost 11:30. She needed to get moving. If she didn't sneak out in the next five minutes while her mom was busy watching the tube, she'd be stuck in the house for another half-hour until her mom was asleep -- assuming she didn't get suspicious about Angela's stalling and wait up longer. Angela wasn't about to do the changing-behind-the-bushes thing again -- a chill went up her spine at the memory of what had happened the last time she'd tried that -- and she couldn't exactly let her mom see what she'd just done to her clothes or she'd get the extended version of the "I work too hard for what little money I get to have you wasting it like that" speech. And with everything going on in her life right now, Angela didn't need things with her mom getting tense.

So she quickly stepped into her makeshift shorts and threw the half-tank over her head. She needed to cover up -- her new long black buttonless loose-knit sweater/coat was just the ticket, an out-of-season half-off sale rack find her mom had brought home from a trip to the mall. By now they were cliche to the point that thrift shops were donating them to homeless shelters, but Angela appreciated her mom's gesture. And now she was especially thankful, since it was likely to get her in and out of the house without risk of moral outrage but it was light and unstructured enough to hang free and not disrupt the sapphires when opened. She closed it now, the two halves just meeting at the navel, and tied off the narrow waist cincher. Shoes tucked under her arm, Angela gently opened her door. Silent tiptoe down the hall let her slip past the opening to the living room and kitchen. Peeking around the corner, she saw the back of her mom's head as the elder Barrett took in the TV weather report. "Clear skies and warm temperatures continue to deliver a flawless and carefree summer for the greater Oak Valley area..."

Angela tiptoed across the entryway to the front door, the cold tiles chilling her bare feet. Turning the locks and then the doorknob in slow motion, her eyes and ears remained pointed toward the living room, alert for any sign that her mom might have heard her or otherwise decided to get up. One arm wrapped tightly around her body to hold onto her shoes and keep her long sweater closed, she had no idea just how little her improvised top and shorts really covered. Or how the rough-hewn edges were already beginning to unravel.

The front door closed as quietly as she could manage. Angela used the hide-a-key to snick the deadbolt into place. Not wanting to be caught half-naked in the front yard, she dropped and slipped into the shoes and lurched into the air as fast as she could.

Sapphire hadn't risen twenty feet before her shorts began to slip.

"Oh!" Her hand shot down to rescue the garment from sliding down her thighs; her flight faltered. The top edge fluttered well down the curve of her ass; Sapphire felt humiliated at the realization that most of her tender buttocks were exposed, highlighted by the narrow white lace thong. But she was determined to press on. Setting down momentarily atop a nearby house, Sapphire pulled the sides of her thong down over the sagging waist of the sweat-shorts. It was a little awkward, but it should work, as long as she didn't try any aerial acrobatics. She only had to catch the errant article of clothing and refasten it two or three times on her way to the Twisted Oaks district.

But on landing, which was admittedly a little harder than it should have been, the shorts popped right out from under the thong's side elastic waistband and pooled around her ankles. They tripped her up and sent her spilling onto a sleeping homeless man. Sapphire swore he was being just a little bit too helpful as she struggled to get off him and back on her feet; she felt his gritty hands and arms slide and squeeze all over her body, nearly pulling her back down on top of him more than once. Finally she extricated herself from his eager assistance and managed to stand up. He handed her the shorts after only a few moments of hesitation and a few visual tours up and down the length of her curves. The man was all smiles as he watched her teeter off down the potholed alley toward the boulevard.

Sapphire had decided that the best way to find this Black Widow was to simply walk the streets looking for the same men her adversary targeted, then latch onto one of them and follow him around until the mysterious assailant made her move. Surely there weren't that many of them, and with the indiscretion and frequency of attacks the news had talked about, Sapphire ought to find her prey before sunup. And even if Black Widow did have the missing sapphires, she didn't have the experience. Sapphire was more than a match for whatever the Black Widow could muster.

But before she reached the busy street her rebellious shorts were once again making trouble. She would have abandoned them altogether if it hadn't been for the lace nothing of a thong she wore, not to mention the way the halves of her sweater would creep outward under the waist cinch. "I must have stretched out the shorts when I tripped over them," she reasoned. Fed up, she yanked the cinch off her long sweater and snaked it underneath around her hips, holding the low-hanging shorts up like a makeshift belt. The shorts seemed lower-waisted and higher-cut than she remembered; the top and waist of her thong was plainly visible above the low-rise sweat-shorts, and the legs were practically nonexistent, extending only slightly below the junction of her thighs. Sapphire didn't realize it but the gnawed edges of the loose cotton material had frayed considerably on the short flight over, and threads were continuing to unravel with every step she took.

Her shorts fixed at least for the moment, she pressed on. A breeze blowing down the alley kicked the sweater out behind her, exposing her entire front to the night, from cutoff tank top and bare midriff to shorts to long and slender legs. Sapphire felt the hem tickle the tops of her calves as it alternately settled and wafted.

At least her top was well-behaved. Or so she thought. If only the poor girl realized just how short she'd cut it to begin with, and just how far it had unraveled since then. The lower curve of her firm breasts were beginning to peek out from under the taut top.

Sapphire stepped out of the alley onto the street. It was time to go to work.

It wasn't her plan to pose as a prostitute, but as she made her way through the streets that seemed to be the general assumption, and even with the supposed drop-off in traffic there were just too many people going by to stop and correct them all. Besides, maybe such assumptions would make things easier.

Still, she bristled at the suggestion. Her constant struggle to control the sapphires made her more than a little defensive. With each knowing wink, each leering look, she was reminded of uncomfortable situations and embarassing behavior that the sapphires had seemed to draw out.

Even now, as she was beginning to regret her impulsive wardrobe choices and mulling over how she'd been wandering about for a half-hour and still had no real idea of what she was doing exactly, the incomplete sapphires began their subtle betrayal.

Increasingly careless about her sapphires since she'd entered her depressed funk, they hadn't been fully charged in days, and they repaid her now. Already she felt a warm buzz, the initial stirrings of her sapphires' feedback mistaken for the thrill of the hunt. Her steps grew longer, her pace slower, her hips swayed more dramatically, her derriere clenched rhythmically, subconsciously working her lace thong against her tender flesh. The abbreviated waist of her shorts worked out from under her improvised belt a little more each step, hanging lower and lower, exposing more and more of her perfect ass...

Finally they let slip. In one step they grazed her upper thigh, in the next her other knee; she stopped to avoid tripping only to see them once again pool at her toes.

Her reverie broken, the determined-if-distracted heroine quickly collected the wayward wisps of fabric and returned them to her hips, lowering and retying her cinch down on her hips.

Her clothes were doing their best to keep her sidelined. But she couldn't just turn tail and run home now. She needed to prove that she could make a difference. She needed to prove it to herself more than anyone. So what if her uniform wasn't working out? It was nothing she couldn't handle. So what if she was a little exposed? She had a nice body. No, she had a great body. Maybe not runway-model perfect, but she could turn -- and was turning -- lots of heads, and what was so wrong about that? Couldn't a superheroine use physical attraction as a tool? As a weapon? Besides, bikini models wore less than the tank top and shorts she'd picked for this evening.

Of course, Sapphire wasn't wearing the same tank top and shorts she'd picked for this evening. The gnawed and frayed edges of both top and shorts continued to unravel at an alarming rate. The legs had retreated past the crotch, exposing the bottoms of her half-moons behind and the soft crease between thigh and groin in front, only a thin dangling strip keeping the shorts from becoming a skirt. Or more accurately a wide belt, as the waist too disintegrated around the cinch that was the only thing holding them to the girl's hips. Her top's lower hem was also fading fast, exposing more and more of the lower swell of her breasts. And stress tears began to form in between the firm mounds as the corrupting sapphire energy ate away at her modesty.

The overheated heroine strutted down the street, head held high. She was Sapphire. She would show people that she wasn't something to be feared; she would stop this Black Widow's reign of terror, and then everyone would know that Sapphire stood for what was right. If only she could figure out where the shadowy figure was hiding out; there sure was a lot more to Twisted Oaks than she'd realized. All the more reason not to wear herself out with aerial wandering. Down here she was *in it*. And so far as she could tell, she seemed to be fitting in with the locals, even with her Sapphire-mandated attire. Maybe because of it, actually. People looked at her -- some of them even stopped and stared -- but not like people stare at a teenage girl. They were looking at a *woman*. A strong woman who was proud of her body and what she could do with it. It was like they shared a mutual respect with her. Angela soaked it up like a sponge. It was a different culture down here, and she was beginning to like it.

Thirst was beginning to register on the heroine's lips. She hadn't seen a water fountain anywhere, not even in the local park. It seemed such civic niceties never made it to Twisted Oaks. She supposed she would have to beg a glass of water from a bar or something.

Left: McCool's. Right: Happy Donuts.
Sapphire chose left. She imagined that the kind of man the Black Widow was after would more likely be in a bar than in a donut shop.

"Can I have a glass of water?"
"Do you have any ID?"
Oops. Silly Sapphire, this *was* a bar. And dressed as she was she could be fifteen as easily as twenty-five.
"Um, I left it at home." That was lame.
"Then you gotta go. I been hassled twice in the last week for underage patrons."

So Sapphire chose right.

"What can I getcha hon?" The fortyish man behind the counter must have weighed close to three hundred pounds and sported a thick mat of chest and arm hair, but wore a frilly pink apron and a nametag that read "Flo" in industrial cursive. An old television hung in the corner, blaring out the corny jingle of a local used car dealership.
"Water?"
"Bottle of water, buck twenty-five."

This was something that hadn't been covered in the Heroines Primer. Of course Sapphire wasn't carrying any money. Or an ATM card. (Well, that wouldn't do much for the old secret identity.) She suddenly felt very foolish and out-of-place.

"I-I'm sorry, I forgot to bring my money. Never mind." She turned to go, her whole body flush with embarassment (and uncontrolled sapphire energy), when a familiar image caught her eye on the TV. The Black Widow sketch, next to the talking head of a late-night newscast.

"...the cause of death has yet to be determined for either man of the so-called QuickMart duo, who were both found dead earlier today in the offices of a business associate. However, sources at the Coroner's office say that preliminary findings are similar to those for Timothy James, a 21-year-old man who mysteriously collapsed at Nixon International Airport two days ago and was pronounced dead at the scene; and to the two deaths in Twisted Oaks. Security has tightened around the other three Twisted Oaks attack victims, as well as another man who was with James at the airport. All four men remain in guarded condition at Valley Medical Center this morning, and it is suspected that they may hold the key to the nature and cause of these violent attacks. Little is known at this time, but medical experts have ruled out contagions and urge everyone that this is *not* the beginning of an epidemic. Criminal experts believe this is the work of a focused vigilante, and are confident they will apprehend them before they can strike again. Police say they are withholding further details until that happens."

The bejeweled girl felt dizzy; she leaned on the doorframe for support. The QuickMart. Timothy James -- two of the young men from the club that first night had called the other one "TJ." She'd used her Sapphire force on all of them. And her renegade counterpart Black Widow had no doubt used sapphires on her victims. Oh God. The stones did more than just push things around. Exposure was lethal.

But she didn't feel any ill effects... well, if you didn't count those, um, feelings. She'd been exposed to a lot more than any of her adversaries, and if anything she felt better than ever, at least physically. Perhaps the gemstones' forcefield did more than protected the wearer against others; perhaps it protected her from the stones themselves.

"Hey, in or out, you're lettin' in the smoke from next door!"

The stunned heroine looked up; Donut Man shooed her out. She staggered out onto the street, weighed down by the enormity of what the sapphires had done. What she'd done.

That was it. Sapphire was finished. She had to stop using them before anyone else got hurt.
But that wouldn't stop the Black Widow. Nothing could stop the Black Widow. Except for Sapphire.

She couldn't quit. But she couldn't unleash her power on anyone else, either.

A swirling breeze blew up from a drainage grate, surrounding and embracing and caressing Sapphire's skin like an invisible lover. The effect on the sapphire-addled girl interrupted her thoughts with a call to pleasure. She shook her head clear.

This was getting complicated. But she was up to the challenge. She was Sapphire.

"Criminal experts believe this is the work of a focused vigilante, and are confident they will apprehend them before they can strike again. Police say-"

Andrew's eyelids grew heavy. He had to get some rest. The data-hound-turned-field-agent had seen enough of the local news anyway; he snapped off the set. "Vigilantes are getting out of control," he remarked with disgust. "But at least the police will be too busy to look very closely at what we're doing."

Sapphire had to be careful. The sapphire force was powerful. It was a big responsibility. She couldn't just unleash it whenever it was convenient. She had to think about the effects of her actions. After all, she was a superheroine.

Still, Sapphire couldn't help but feel a little anxious about holding back. She would have to be careful not to get into any unnecessary trouble.

She didn't know how long she'd been walking the streets since hearing that news report. Ostensibly she was still searching for the Black Widow. But really she just didn't want to go home yet. She knew what would happen once she got there, and as good as it felt she harbored a little guilt about going home without accomplishing anything.

But it was difficult to concentrate on the nebulous task at hand. Knowing and yet resisting what she'd be doing later, excited and ashamed at once, she walked down random streets in a growing fog. Sapphire energy sparked with every step, more and more energy coursing through her to devastating effect. Her torn top barely covered her hardening nipples, the tight and fast-thinning fabric at once threatening to rip open and snap upward. Her walk began to put the professionals to shame, tight calves and thighs and glutes flexing, chest thrusting, ass and hips and tits jiggling, ponytail dancing and whispering to her neck and shoulders. She was a sight to behold.

"Hey, baby"
"I'm not working tonight."
"Izzat so?"

"I'm looking for something."
"I got what you're lookin' for right here," Dirty Tee said as he grabbed his crotch overdramatically. The retort was so cliche several other members of Flynn's posse rolled their eyes and snickered.

But Flynn suddenly had an idea of what this girl dressed like a network television version of a hooker -- too clean, too pretty, too well-groomed, and too confident -- might be looking for. A mark.

Prey.

It was Her. The Black Widow.
It had to be. Who else had the nerve to be out here alone? The regulars were all bunched up way up by 40th tonight; neither ho nor pimp wanted to stray far from the center of the district.

And her outfit matched the description on the news -- long black cape thing, T-shirt and shorts, and high heels. It had to be the Black Widow.

Flynn licked his lips. He wanted to see what all the excitement was about. And his rep certainly wouldn't be hurt by being the man who nailed the Black Widow cold. She'd taken out those other guys when they were alone, but here Flynn had his posse in full effect. Bulletproof or not, she wasn't getting out of this one.

And he had a lesson or two to teach her about fucking someone silly.

Sapphire's eyes darted from one man to the next. Six of them, including the one doing the talking, and they all looked like trouble. If she weren't Sapphire, she would be afraid.

"I'm not what you think I am."
"Sez who?"
"I'm *not* a... prostitute." She found it difficult to say the distasteful word.
"Who said anything about paying you?" The gang laughed.

For a moment she considered taking to the air -- it would be the quickest way to take leave of these street punks. She wasn't after their type tonight. But her mind flashed back to the news brief -- the two men from the QuickMart, the young men from later that night, all victims of a mysterious ailment known as Sapphire's First Night Out. If she flexed her muscle here, even just to fly off, there was no telling what she might be doing to these men.

No, she would have to talk her way out. That shouldn't be too hard, considering the way they were looking at her. (Actually, it would be *quite* hard, she mused.) Her sapphires gave her a confidence she'd seldom known before. She was a sexual creature. She was *hot*. Flash a little cleavage, bat her eyelashes, lick her lips, and she'd have them eating out of her hand. They'd be fighting over which one would be the first to buy her a drink. She was pretty sure there was a nightclub around here somewhere, and it wouldn't be hard to lose them once inside. A five minute tease was a small price to pay to keep from hurting anyone. Besides, the one in front looked kinda cute...

But for all the bravado the sapphires imbued, they did nothing to temper naivete; indeed, the sexual heat the stones cooked seemed to suppress any common sense the young woman may have had. This sextet wasn't the type to be satisfied with a little flirtation. They didn't call it a night after a wink and a peck on the cheek.

They were all gonna fuck *somebody* before the sun came up. This girl looked ready to give them all a head start.

"Look, I don't want to hurt anyone," Sapphire stammered. Her heart beat faster as they stepped closer. It was getting hard to think. She took another step back; guilt over the possible damage her powers seemed to cause made her anxious to avoid any kind of confrontation.

"Hear that? She promises she'll be gentle," the leader smirked.
He took another step forward, she another step back. Sapphire found herself up against a wall. The unexpected cool touch sent a shiver up her spine.

Flynn saw the look in her eye, that mix of vulnerability and desire. It was a look he craved. In a flash he was upon her, pinning his body up against hers. His hands grabbed either side of her face, his mouth affixed to hers. His pelvis ground her into the wall, lifting her slightly. Her eyes went wide for a moment as she realized what he intended to do, but then the heat of his hard body pressing into hers and his hot lips on her face helped Sapphire-amplified lust win out over Angelic restraint. Her jaw slackened, and his tongue was inside her.

"Man, don't Flynn know you're supposed to fuck a whore, not kiss her!"
"Shhh!" "Shut the fuck up, Donnie, maybe you'll learn something."

This was exactly the kind of trouble she should be avoiding. But... he seemed so strong, so dominating. Sapphire felt her defenses crumbling as the kiss was broken and lips traced a scintillating trail down her cheek to that spot behind her ear...

Flynn's hand cupped the exposed underside of the girl's firm tit. He felt her gasp, but never let up on her neck, nibbling and licking and biting softly.
"I don't know if you should be doing that..." the words were hesitation, but the breathy voice and body language said it was just a game; she wanted more.

Strange; he expected a little more resistance given the odds. Either this Black Widow chick thought she was a badass of mythical proportions, or she was hornier than a nuclear sub crew after six months at sea.

Flynn's hands roamed her body, mouth nibbled down her neck to her chest, gently biting nipples through the translucent babytee. She cooed and whimpered in that "feels so good but daddy wouldn't approve" way that only nice girls could. Suddenly his hands found her flimsy top's collar and savagely ripped it open down the middle; the girl gasped in surprise, but thrust her chest forward in encouragement. He grabbed her tits in both hands.

So much for the badass.

...the tattered shorts hung low on her hips, exposing most of her white lace thong. Flynn's hands slid down her sides to rest on her hips. Sapphire's brow furrowed in frustration; her tits still demanded attention; why had the hands left them? Flynn quickly twisted his middle fingers around the waistband of the undergarment and hoisted upward. The overheated girl felt herself yanked up off her feet, her worn panties digging into her crevice. Her eyebrows arched in confused pain and pleasure as he jerked upward again and again, higher each time, her arms and legs flailing with each tug on the material, the Sapphire mules alternately slapping the bottoms of her heels and dangling from her toes. Finally the tortured fabric snapped, gusset and hip seam failing at once. Flynn pulled the useless garment out from beneath his prey's loose shorts and stuffed it in his coat pocket.

Sapphire felt her only flimsy claim to modesty leave her. Before she could protest, she felt something push aside the dangling crotch of her makeshift shorts and press up against her sex. Something hot. Something hard.

Something she wanted.

She felt outside herself as she felt her weight shift and watched her leg come up around the aggressor's hips, almost climbing up on him as she pulled him into her. But any sense of disconnection vanished when his cock penetrated her to the core.

He was fucking her. And she liked it. She needed it.

Flynn's one-eyed monster lived up to its label, demanding his body's full cooperation in its gleeful feast. This girl was incredible. An innocent animal, at once delicate and ferocious. Her claws dug into him. Her hips beckoned him forward. Her whole body gripped his member in rippling waves with each accelerating meeting of their loins. He watched her face while she rode him, tortured ecstacy playing over her delicate features. He was beating the Black Widow at her own game.

Flynn's eyes fixated on the baubles dangling from the girl's wrists; they glittered in the dim light of the alley as they jingled to and fro. They were comically out of place on this faux prostitute, even as tacky oversized obviously-fake glass pieces they belonged on the dressing-table of one of those $300-an-hour in-call girls, not around the wrists of a daddy's-girl in the trashiest outfit her scissors could craft from her suburban wardrobe. They begged to be taken. They were bait. Another lure of the Black Widow.

They would be his trophies.

But he had to hold off on cumming if he was gonna get 'em off without her noticing. After all, he didn't need her crying "rape." At least not until his little brother got a poke in.

It wasn't gonna be easy. She was tight, wet, and making the most amazing little mewling sounds...

The rough textured concrete wall grabbed at her shredded clothing as she ground slowly up and down. She was lost in the sensation of him rhythmically filling and emptying her, registering only the most distant and vague reports of the air, the wall, his body, his wandering hands over her skin. She felt her orgasm building, helpless desire to submit blocking any trace of reason. His hand came back to her wrist. Holding it over her head. Pinning her to the wall, symbolically if not physically. Fingers fondling the precious gemstone dangling from the wristband. Tugging on it. Caressing the soft inner skin of her arm and wrist. The tip of his thumb hooking under the satin ring that bound the symbolic gemstone to her wrist. Pushing it against the heel of her hand. Fumbling with it. Loosening it. Gradually relieving her of her bondage. And her power.

Suddenly she felt cold.

No!

Sapphire's eyes shot open; she jerked her arm upward in a panicked attempt to keep the loose wristband from escaping her.

Flynn was lost, his eyes unfocused by the force of his orgasm. The suddenly-unwelcome jets of cum further knocked Sapphire out of her trance. Reflexively she lifted herself up off him, his turgid member popping out of her, still shooting, streams staining the heroine's tattered shorts as she floated upward to escape his grip. When she'd gone high enough that her knee reached his chin, she lifted her leg sharply, a wicked blow sparking off his scruffy beard and sending him jerking back toward the pavement.

One of the stunned five managed to catch his fallen leader before he hit unyielding concrete. He struggled to hold up the dead weight. Flynn was out cold.

Sapphire had regained some of her composure, though only barely. As she touched back down, back still against the wall, her nostrils flared, her chest heaved, breasts exposed through the ripped top, she reclasped her errant wristband, then lowered her arms from above her head to her sides, hands clenching into fists.

Harmful or not, she would not allow herself to be conquered.

Two of them lunged for her.

Like lightning her fists shot forward, twin thrusts of sapphire force slamming the punks in the chest like a wrecking ball. Only one recovered, spinning awkwardly to regain his balance and make another attack. He grabbed her outstretched arm at the elbow, twisting her around him. Surprised, the near-naked nymph lost her balance and went sprawling face-down toward the ground. Their momentum pulled him down on top of her.

"So you're a badass after all, eh bitch?" He used his weight to pin her pelvis to the pavement; her feet couldn't get traction to push him off, and he still had her arm, now by the wrist. He smelled of bitter sweat and bad liquor and wet ashes. Sapphire felt her arm twisted behind her back. Her other hand sparked unfocused blasts of force off the pavement as she tried to push herself up, but she wasn't strong enough. "I'm gonna enjoy fucking you." She felt her forcefield push against his weight in the small of her back, keeping him from crushing her. She heard a zipper and felt the back of her shorts tugged to one side; he lifted her pinned arm and drove it painfully upward, forcing her up on her knees. "Almost as much as I'm gonna enjoy fucking you up."

Sapphire was still blazing; her anger still held sway over her desire, but not by much. She knew she couldn't let this worm mount her or she would be finished. She crawled desperately forward, her knees driving against the rough pavement, her chest grinding along, sapphire energy sparking as it shielded her skin from abrasion. He tried to pull her back down, but she twisted underneath him. Now on her back, she brought her free hand up, clocking her attacker sideways. His eyes rolled up into his head as he collapsed to her shoulder.

Pushing out from under him, Sapphire got to her feet. Her chest heaved with effort. Her eyes scanned the alley for the next comer. Her whole body buzzed with energy. The sapphires didn't have much left, but she knew it would be enough.

There were two enemies left. They looked at her in abject terror.

They took off running down the alley, back toward the boulevard. Sapphire leapt after them, a lioness lunging for a meal. Her focus squeezed the sapphires to perform, her feet landing squarely on the sidewalk several steps ahead of the retreating punks. She spun around and stared them to a halt. With a flip of her wrists she knocked them both back on their butts. Fear froze them to the spot. The superheroine stalked toward them, stopping at their feet to take up a fearsome pose, legs apart, hands on her hips, bending over at the waist to show them her snarl. The one to her left pissed himself.

"Where can I find the Black Widow?" she growled.
"I- I- I- I th-thought... you were..."
"Tell me now!" she ordered.
"I d-don't know... I've, uh-h-h, never seen... I-I mean... no one knows..."

She howled in furious disgust. "Useless!" Hips rocked, she kicked at the ground. The frightened pair were sent tumbling violently back down the alley. They scrambled to their feet and ran, leaping over their fallen mates in panicked retreat into the darkness. The sound of a garbage can sent flying marked their escape.

Adrenaline and sapphires fading, a sense of desperation built up to despair as the girl surveyed the scene. Three men lay unmoving but for labored breathing in the alley. What had she done? She could have killed them. She may have killed them already by exposing them to the unbridled power of the sapphires. She was no closer to stopping the Black Widow. Or controlling herself. What had she been thinking, coming out here, playing the heroine? She was anything but. She was a failure. She was a hazard.

She had to get out of here before she made things any worse.

She had to get home.

Tears welled as the horrified heroine fished the cash out of her nearest victim's pocket.

Desperately flagging a cab, Angela tried in vain to contain the sobs that wracked her body.