CoX Fan Art and Fan Fiction

Eros fic

Fri, 18 Jul 2008 06:43:41 GMT

I Kissed Your Girlfriend
A Tale of the Young Paragons

It was busy in Talos Island that afternoon. But then, it usually was at most times of the day. There at the foot of the train station, a stone’s throw from Wentworth’s, with Luminary on one side of the square and Citadel on the other.

A busy place, a busy time.

So of course it just so happened that, as Kid Eros was leaving the Young Paragons base, The Aspirant was on his way there. And it just so happened that they ran into each other, almost literally, outside of the glowing deep-blue pillar of energy that was the base portal.

It also just so happened that Eros had been trying unsuccessfully to meet Aspy face-to-face for a couple of weeks by then. He had a confession and an apology to make. Adriana had suggested he go and e-mail Aspy already instead of stressing out about it – and bothering everyone else with his stressing out about it – but as Eros told her, that would seem a little cowardly, wouldn’t it? Hiding behind e-mail?

He’d left the meeting resigned to still not catching up with Aspy. And then there he was.

Eros asked if he could take a moment of Aspy’s time, and then simply went ahead and spit it out.

“A couple days back, I kissed your girlfriend.”

Aspy stopped motionless in his tracks, hand raised mid-wave. Then only his features moved … jaw dropping, eyes widening. Eros thought he could see the wheels spinning in Aspy’s mind, perhaps going over the other awkward instances – the one in the kitchen that had not turned out to be what it seemed, the one in the Arachnos Flier Stu had liberated that had turned out to be what it seemed.

A barrage of words wanted to shoot from his lips like a fistful of arrows from his bow, but somehow Eros managed to restrain himself. Explanations and extenuating circumstances would be fine and well did Aspy inquire after them … offered up un-requested, they would seem nothing more than feeble excuses.

So he did not launch into a hasty recounting of the events that had led up to him kissing Rebecca Faith. He did not tell Aspy how it had been a celebratory impulse in a moment of their shared triumph and relief at having saved Chemistry Geek from the side-effects of an experiment gone wrong. He did not try to reassure Aspy that the kiss had not been what Eros would have deemed a real kiss. Nothing romantic, nothing passionate, only a quick affectionate peck. Any of that would have sounded like the most desperate of plea-bargains … although it was all the truth.

He did not tell Aspy that it had never been the intention to try and keep the kiss a secret – which would have been an impossibility even had they wished it, what with Chemistry Geek and Zack having been there … not to mention (he flinched again at the very memory) Rook and (the flinch became a cringe) Adriana having walked in at exactly the right instant to witness all. He did not tell Aspy how Bex had pulled him aside and sternly warned him that such a thing was not to happen again or else she would tell Illyana, or that he had never planned to keep it from Illyana, he would tell her himself.

He certainly did not say that the kiss furthermore had been so brief that he’d barely had a chance to even notice, much less appreciate, the surprised velvety softness of Bex’s lips. That, he had a feeling, wouldn’t help. Nor would rattling off Star Amethyst’s many ideas for how to resolve this, most of which Ammy herself had rescinded almost as soon as she uttered them.

Instead, as the initial shock began to sink in and Aspy’s wide eyes managed a blink, Eros steeled himself and said, “If honor demands that you hit me, feel free.”

He stood his ground, trying to brace for what he figured was coming. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to fly like he’d never flown before. His wings quivered with the effort to keep them folded against his back. He wanted to close his eyes but decided it wouldn’t make much difference.

This was The Aspirant, after all. The blond youth was slim for a human, but lean and fit, and far taller and heavier than a little hollow-boned Cupidian. Eros was an archer, hovering at the fringes of battle – unless overconfidence got the best of him, which tended to bring his part in the battle to an abrupt end. Aspy was a warrior with reflexes and skills that could rival even those of Illyana. Eros had seen him in battle many times before, plunging into the thick of the fray and emerging unscathed as his fallen foes lay strewn about in humiliation and defeat.

If Aspy wanted to hit him, Eros wouldn’t see it coming anyway. There would be a stunning starburst of impact and that would be that. He’d know nothing more until learning later whether or not his mediporter was still working. Those going about their business in Talos might see the two of them conversing, and then a small white-winged body flat on the grass behind Citadel.

Aspy finally found his voice. “Did Illyana hit you?”

“No,” Eros said, and did not elaborate how Illyana had laughed, ruffled his downy hair, told him in no uncertain terms that kissing other girls was OFF-LIMITS, then smiled in a way that would have made Jack in Irons shiver.

“Did Bex hit you?”

“No,” he said again, and did not add that Bex had just volunteered to plummet from orbit to try and take out NanoTyrant with the spike-heels of her boots, so if she had hit Eros, he’d still be trying to flap his way back down from the moon.

Neither did he mention that Adriana had also not hit him, though in her case it would have been more of a gravity well than a physical blow. She didn’t have to so much as glance his way in order to squish him like an empty paper cup.

“Okay,” said Aspy evenly.

Despite himself, Eros shut his eyes after all, in anticipation of that BAM!!! starburst of impact and then oblivion. His life didn’t quite flash before him, though for a moment he recalled his sire’s advice about how a male should own up to his transgressions and face the music.

But there was no starburst. No BAM!!! No impact.

Unless it had been so quick he hadn’t even felt it … but, no … he could still hear the train rumbling by on its track, could still hear the chatter of people gathered around Luminary, could hear the electrical buzzing and raised voices of a few Freaks and Warriors arguing across the street.

He risked wincing open one eye.

He was still on his feet. Nothing felt broken.

Aspy was still standing there, looking at him. His expression was an odd mix Eros couldn’t quite read, various emotions roiling beneath a tight cap of self-control. Whether he was fighting the urge to start yelling or start laughing or do something else altogether was unclear.

It occurred to Eros again how young Aspy was … how young so many of them were … even the ones like Adriana and Stu, with a maturity that belied their tender years. And how seriously they took even the most innocuous gestures of affection and sensuality. How much they made of even a simple kiss. How tangled and fraught their youthful emotions could be.

“Okay?” Eros echoed after a lengthy pause. The possibility fluttered at the edge of his mind that perhaps Aspy was not going to hit him after all.

“Okay,” Aspy repeated. “I guess we’re good.”

***

Sun, 01 Jun 2008 16:55:08 GMT

RIKTI MONKEY – PET OR MENACE?
A SuperTeen Magazine Special Feature
By Jenna Jenkins, intrepid girl reporter

As any devoted readers of SuperTeen will know, heros are the greatest but sometimes it’s the little guys who deserve some attention and love. We all remember the Frimpies, those adorable mischievious fire imps, from our August 2006 interview with that sizzlin’ and smokin’ hero, Mr. Hawt Stuff. And of course who could forget SuperPets, the benefit fashion show sponsored by ICON, in which several lucky Paragon Citizens won spectacular super-makeovers for their kitties, puppies, and even an iguana?

Well, SuperTeens, it’s time to focus on a particular special critter who’s become not only the beloved mascot of one of our fave supergroups, but is a hero in his own right! A hero, but also, tragically, a prisoner.

We’re talking about Blake the Rikti Monkey. Yes, SuperTeens, you read that right. Rikti Monkey. Those hunched long-armed boundy little guys who sometimes shoot psi-bolts and sometimes give off nasty green clouds of toxic monkey fumes.

Now, we know you’ve probably all seen the negative coverage given to the Rikti invasion. Some of you might have had your schools go on lockdown or seen your neighborhood bombed. Naturally, this might make you think that all the Rikti are bad.

But SuperTeen Magazine is here to tell you a different story! Because, believe it or not, not all Rikti are bad! Why, since the invasion, some of them have turned against their own kind to advise, collaborate or even help the people of planet earth against their own. Does that sound bad to you?

Maybe Blake isn’t an advisor or collaborator. Maybe Blake was just lost, alone, scared and confused on the streets of Paragon City. Separated from his troop – you call a bunch of monkeys a troop – and desperately needing to find a friend.

Well, he found one. He found one hero who was willing to take pity on an abandoned little monkey. He found the Young Paragon known as Chemistry Geek.

For those of you SuperTeens who haven’t heard of him, CG (as he is often called) is a scientific genius whose exploits and experiments brought him to the notice of that renowned Smartest Man On Earth, Dr. Stuart Nobel. And it was largely thanks to the support of Dr. Nobel (aka Studious), as well as other names very well-known to our readers (The Aspirant, anyone? Yes, THE Aspirant! And Kid Eros! Cupid Hawk! Forge’s Flame!) that CG was allowed to keep Blake.

Now, this didn’t go over so great with all of the Young Paragons. Some of them were kind of grumpy about having a Rikti Monkey running around their base. But even those had to change their tunes after Blake saved them all from a terrible, gruesome, hideous fate. Blake sniffed out a deadly poison that had somehow infiltrated the Young Paragons’ base and, to protect the heroes he’d come to think of as his new troop and family, bravely consumed the poison himself.

He was found there on the floor, sick and foaming and nearly dead, by The Aspirant. Who, being the wonderful selfless hero that we all know he is, wasted no time and spared no thought for his own safety but snatched up Blake and rushed to find help.

This, SuperTeens, is where things get complicated. Because, you see, The Aspirant knew that the best place to find help for Blake was among Vanguard. Why not, right? They’re the experts. They’re the ones who know all about the Rikti. And yes, when Aspy took Blake to them, they were able to save Blake’s little monkey life. They just wouldn’t give him back.

They thought that Blake, the pint-sized hero who’d just saved the entire Young Paragons supergroup, was a threat. They thought he was smarter than most Rikti Monkeys, and that made him dangerous. They wanted to keep him. Study him. Maybe even kill and dissect him to see what made him different from the rest!

Ever since, there’s been an ongoing argument between Vanguard and the Young Paragons. This reporter was able to interview several key members of the YPs to get their feelings on the matter.

“Vanguard are doing a lot of good things,” says The Aspirant, “but I can’t understand why they are being so rigid about this, especially after Blake saved us all.” (photo of Aspy laughing uproriously at the sight of a Rikti Monkey dressed up in a miniature costume just like his)

According to Dr. Stuart (Studious) Nobel: “Blake is an unusual example of the Rikti ‘Monkey.’ Blake is larger than any wild examples. Most Rikti ‘Monkeys’ are unrelentingly aggressive. Blake is, while not docile, not aggressive towards people. Quite the opposite. He’s very protective of ‘his’ people. Not only the incident wherein he deliberately injested a toxin meant for the Young Paragons, but on at leasst one other occasion he has come to the defense of the Young Paragons engaged in combat. This is not some anonymous specimen. This is Blake. He’s ours. And we want him back.”

And what, you SuperTeens might be wondering, about Chemistry Geek? He doesn’t care about the politics. He only wants his friend back.

Meanwhile, somewhere locked away in a secure Vanguard compound, Blake sits all by himself in a cage. Nobody from Vanguard would agree to be interviewed or even comment. They told this reporter to “go away and leave this to the grownups.”

Leave it to the grownups? The grownups who would take away a genuine hero and hold him against his will? The grownups who would refuse to give the Young Paragons back one of their own, after all they’ve done for this city and this world?

Are we going to stand for that kind of thing, SuperTeens? You might think that there’s nothing we can do. You might think that a bunch of kids can’t make a difference. But you know who else started out as a bunch of kids? That’s right … the Young Paragons!

We have to stand together on this. Organize your friends. Talk to your parents. E-mail your local papers, your city officials, even Vanguard themselves. Because this isn’t about Earth-vs.-Rikti. This isn’t about Vanguard-vs.-YP.

This is about Blake, one little hero who saved others, and got rewarded with being held prisoner.

Kid Eros and Cupid Hawk interviewed!

Fri, 02 May 2008 22:21:32 GMT

THEY’RE FROM CUTE-PIDIA!

A Superteen Magazine Special Feature
By Jenna Jenkins, Intrepid Girl Reporter

Everybody’s seen them, the little cartoon cupids that show up in the stores around Valentine’s Day. Chubby adorable babies, with diapers and feathery wings and teensy bows-and-arrows.

Well, guess what? They’re real! And while they may be adorable, they may have wings, and they may use bows-and-arrows, the real-life versions of this living myth are sure not chubby diaper-wearing babies!

Their story begins way back in ancient times, with the Roman god Cupid (called Eros in Greek mythology). He was the son of Venus (or Aphrodite), the goddess of love. His job was to fly around and inspire love in mortals by shooting them with magical golden arrows. Or make trouble by shooting people with magical anti-love arrows.

But it isn’t only one flying love-god archer. There’s a whole race of them. They’re called Cupidians, and they come from a dimension called Cupidia. According to their own history, the original Cupid (or Eros) married a human princess, and all of today’s Cupidians are their descendants.

Now, a couple of them have ended up in our world, and are on their way to joining the ranks of Paragon City’s heart-throbbiest heroes!

Kid Eros may not be very tall, but the fans of this white-winged wonder don't seem to care. His pure white feathers, snowy hair, dreamy eyes, silvery headdress and winged boots make him look like the kind of love-god that doesn't need magic arrows to make people fall in love … with him!

Cupid Hawk, who makes it very clear that despite his name he does not eat cupids, is tall, blond, bronzed and rugged. With his gold-tan-brown-banded wings and his windblown hair, he could pass for a flying version of a California surfer-boy, dressing in rough leathers instead of swimtrunks, and surfing the sky instead of the waves.

And Superteen Magazine was lucky enough to catch up with them both for this exclusive interview!

Superteen: Now, you’re both Cupidians, but there’s obviously some noticeable physical differences in your appearances. What’s the reason for that?

Kid Eros: We come from different flocks. My flock is arboreal. We live in the forests, where the foliage is thick and there’s a lot of branches and undergrowth. It’s much easier to get around in a thick forest when you’re small and agile.

Cupid Hawk: My flock hunts on the plains and are used to having gliding over long distances. Since there aren't as many trees, we don't need to get around easily in a forest.

Superteen: What about your coloration? You both have such beautiful feathers!

Cupid Hawk: When stalking prey, we need to be camouflaged to not be noticed.

Kid Eros: In my flock, because we live communally, there are always others around to keep watch, or to help hunt, fight or defend. We don’t need to rely on natural camouflage. As a result, plumage that stands out against the surroundings attracts the attention of potential mates.

Superteen: Is it true that you build nests and lay eggs?

Kid Eros, laughing: Well, as we’re both males, neither of us is suited for laying eggs!

Cupid Hawk: True, true!

Superteen: And the nests?

Cupid Hawk: In my flock, we are nomadic and don't stay in one place for very long. It is useless to make a nest if you never return.

Kid Eros: Nests are of critical importance to my flock. A male has to be able to prove he’s a good provider by being able to build an acceptable nest and supply food for his mate and any future hatchlings.

Cupid Hawk: To prove you are a good mate, you must give the mate something you hunted down to prove you are strong and can hunt well.

Superteen: It sounds like family life is different, too.

Kid Eros: A male’s duty is to provide for his mate. By which I do not mean to imply that she’s some lesser creature, unable to care for herself and in need of looking after. That’s absurd. A male should see to the day-to-day things, so that his mate can dedicate herself to other pursuits.

Superteen: Like what?

Kid Eros: Whatever she wants … being a warrior, practicing a trade … crafts, arts, music … hunting … magic … whatever.

Supeteen: So you males stay home and take care of the kids?

Cupid Hawk: The elderly stay to keep an eye on the young while the hunters go on the hunt. Otherwise, the tribe stays together and helps other families when needed.

Kid Eros: The highest honor a female can bestow on a male is the honor of siring and raising her young.

Superteen: Obviously there’s a lot of difference of opinion there, too! So let’s change the subject … tell us about the archery. Do all Cupidians use a bow-and-arrow?

Cupid Hawk: My tribe's main weapon is the bow, but we also use nets and spears to hunt with.

Kid Eros: As fledglings, we’re all trained in it just as we’re trained to fly, and fish, and other important survival skills. Not all of my flock are dedicated archers, but if the need arose, any of us could take up a bow and perform passably well.

Superteen: What about the golden love-arrows?

Kid Eros, wincing: Those, and the leaden arrows of indifference, are specially-crafted on Cupidia. We were both deprived of our quivers when we came here, and I doubt either of us have the magical knowledge to recreate them.

Cupid Hawk: Only the shaman could create those arrows and we barely use them.

Superteen: So you can’t go around making people fall in love with each other?

Kid Eros: No more than anyone else can.

Superteen: Now, there’s a rumor going around, Kid Eros, that you have a special lady in your life.

Kid Eros: It’s no rumor, and I hardly think it’s any secret by now. My girlfriend is Illyana Dragoon, of Croatoa. She's a warrior-maid of high rank, a fellow Young Paragon. And yes, before you ask, I did build her a nest.

Superteen: Does it cause a lot of problems, you being Cupidian and her being Croatoan? Her not having wings, for instance?

Kid Eros: Wings aren’t everything.

Superteen: How about you, Cupid Hawk?

Cupid Hawk, looking nervous: I don't have a girlfriend.

Superteen: Our readers will definitely want to know if you're looking for one!

Cupid Hawk, looking more nervous: Uh … maybe.

Superteen: What kind of a girl would you be looking for?

Cupid Hawk, even more nervous: I don't know.

Kid Eros: Maybe we should talk about something else for a while, Jenna?

Superteen: Oh, all right … our readers are interested in learning more about Cupidia. What kind of things can you tell us about your culture? Maybe start with the food?

Kid Eros: For my flock, we live primarily on a diet of fruit, berries, nectar, nuts, honey, ambrosia, fish, and small game. Here, I make do mostly with sugar and caffeine. I’ve been likened to a hummingbird in that regard.

Cupid Hawk: My tribe being hunters, we mostly eat meat and the occasional fruit. Here, I mostly eat at those Mongolian grills. They remind me of home and cooking over one fire.

Superteen: What about the fashion?

Cupid Hawk: In my tribe, we often make our clothes out of the skins of our prey.

Kid Eros: One of the challenges we’ve found here was in getting clothes to fit around the wings without interfering with our flight. Modesty isn’t much of a concern for us, and we don’t seem to be as bothered by the cold as humans are, so we dress more for practicality and decoration than anything else.

Superteen: What would your flocks do for entertainment back in Cupidia?

Kid Eros: Music and song; my flock has a very strong musical tradition. We’d often sing as we went about our various tasks. Long ballads and what you would call operas. I play the lap-harp fairly well, and I can play the pipe, although not as well. I’m also teaching Illyana to play the heart-harp, which requires two musicians. It wasn’t until I came here that I discovered written music, so I’ve been trying to learn that.

Cupid Hawk: We play the tribal drums and hold tribal parties; where we dance and play most of the night away. We also tell some legends. One was about a Cupidian being taken away by a monster unlike the harpies. I think it was about you, Eros.

Kid Eros, shuddering: Harpies … that would have been worse.

Superteen: Harpies?

Kid Eros: We Cupidians aren't the only winged species to inhabit our world. The harpies, which are vicious, filthy, hideous and savage bird-monsters, would gladly slaughter us. Some of them even rob nests, stealing or smashing our eggs if they can.

Cupid Hawk: Then there's the wyverns, flying reptiles, like dragons. They breathe fire.

Superteen: Sounds dangerous!

Cupid Hawk: On the plains, we also have to watch out for other predators on the ground. Stripecats can hide in the long grass and run very fast. Clampjaws try to steal kills, or attack if you're wounded.

Superteen: What would you say has been your biggest challenge adjusting to life in Paragon City?

Kid Eros: Understanding the behavior of others. The unspoken rules about affection and intimacy, and the roles of males and females.

Cupid Hawk: Not moving around from place to place.

Superteen: The official story is that you both ended up in our world because of Snaptooth and his ruin-the-holidays efforts. Is that true?

Kid Eros: As I understand it, he was hoping to capture the spirit of Valentine’s Day, and got me instead. It was a surprise all around, as you can imagine.

Cupid Hawk: He tried again the year after, and got me.

Superteen: Has it been difficult making friends?

Cupid Hawk: Not very. I have made some outside of the Young Paragons, but not many.

Kid Eros: Difficult? No. Confusing? Quite often, actually. But ultimately rewarding.

Superteen: What have been some of your most memorable experiences since arriving here?

Kid Eros: Not counting the obvious?

Superteen: Bearing in mind that our readership is mostly girls in the 12-17 age range.

Kid Eros: There’ve been some phenomenal battles I was fortunate enough to take part in … against the Rikti, quelling Adamastor in Dark Astoria, fighting the Kraken in Perez Park. But any time I can stand alongside the Young Paragons, or our friends in the Liberty Alliance and Royal Family, I consider it a privilege.

Cupid Hawk: I recall fighting three different large robots in a day: the Kronos Titan, the Babbage, and Paladin. Meeting all these people was great in itself.

Superteen: Any plans for going home?

Cupid Hawk: I don't know. I feel homesick but I don't think I could live without a laptop or Berry Lemonade Jones Soda.

Kid Eros: This is my home now, so long as there’s a place for me in the Young Paragons, and affection for me in Illyana’s heart.

Superteen: Well, speaking for Superteen Magazine and the citizens of Paragon City, I'm sure you're both welcome to stay as long as you like! Thank you, and goodnight!

**

MiniChibiMicroThreat

Thu, 01 May 2008 19:24:15 GMT

My Necro/Poison MM on Victory just hit lvl 20 last night.

Her original costume can be seen HERE, from 12 March.

New chapter to celebrate the big 5-0!

Thu, 01 May 2008 09:56:42 GMT

The Strange Case of A.M. Black
An Uncanny Legion story

CHAPTER NINE

“Why you rude, wretched man!” she gasped.

“Agnes --”

“I cannot believe you would say such horrid things to me!”

Dr. Francis Krayne, who had just opened his mouth and inserted his foot most of the way to the knee, could hardly believe it himself. His words replayed in his mind – cookies for the PTA bake sale, walking corpse for Show-and-Tell, Grandma in the Zig for poisoning Grandpa – and he reeled anew.

“Agnes, please, let me --”

“And when you’d invited me here for such a lovely tea, as well!”

The tea! It was the tea! It wasn’t his fault! She had put something in it, slipped in a dose of some drug … befuddled him … made him say what he never would have said if he’d been in his right mind.

With a sniff of righteous indignation, Agnes Black hurled down the crumpled wad of napkin. “I thought you were an educated man, Dr. Krayne. I thought you were genteel, and wise, and intellectual. Now I see that you’re every bit as boorish and crass --”

“Wait! Let me apologize! Let me explain!”

He shot a desperate glance across the room, but there was no help to be had from the hired pianist at the rented piano, or from the technician sent by the warden to operate the borrowed-from-Evidence force field generator that protected the pianist and the piano. They were gaping at him as if they – like Krayne himself – were sure he had just signed his own death warrant.

“Explain?” She rose, looking almost imperial in her pale red frock and glittering opulence of costume jewelry. “You insulted me. You made fun of me.”

“I’m so sorry --”

“It’s all too clear just what you think of me, Doctor. You’re no better than any of the others. You see me as some sort of raving lunatic, a vile murderess who’d happily poison anyone! Me! A harmless little old lady!”

Old, yes. An octogenarian with snow-white hair and skin like crinkled parchment. A lady, perhaps. Good manners and etiquette and polite conversation.

But little? She was tall, her spine straight and unbowed. Statuesque to the point of being ample. Hardly little.

And harmless? Harmless?!?

Far from it. Far, far from it.

Krayne felt sweaty, flushed and itchy all over, as if breaking out in hives. His stomach and bowels made a warm, watery-sudsy churning. He wasn’t sure if he was more at risk of vomiting or filling his trousers … or both, simultaneously. His tongue seemed to be swelling in his mouth, inflating like a bloated, fleshy balloon.

“I’ll have you know that I’ve poisoned comparatively few people,” she informed him, drawing herself up to her full, imposing height. “Even fewer fatally.”

And where in the hell were the wardens? Warden Stockton, who oversaw the entire Zig … Block-Warden Hanley, in charge of A-Block … where were they? Why weren’t they rushing in here to save him? They had been observing this fateful ‘high tea’ on the security monitors, and they were supposed to intervene if something like this happened!

But neither Vanessa Stockton nor Big Herb Hanley liked their new prison psychiatrist, did they?

Maybe they wouldn’t help. Maybe they’d stand there and watch him die, and then file a falsified report about a ‘tragic accident’ that had occurred. Buy off the tuxedoed college-boy piano player, convince the technician that keeping quiet was in his best job interest. Oh, they’d face a reprimand, but …

Or maybe they had planned it exactly this way! Hadn’t Hanley told him of the arrangements the Zig’s guards and staff had with their incarcerated population? The favors they granted and the deals they made? It went on in any prison, Krayne knew that.

“…poisoned … me …” he attempted to wheeze, though now it also seemed that the lining of his throat was swelling.

“Oh for goodness’ sake!”

“ … tea …”

If he died in this room – his own office, though barely recognizable as such, what with the furniture all shoved against the walls to clear a space for the tea table and another for the goddamn piano – there might be some repercussions. Some trouble for Stockton and Hanley. But not much, and it’d blow over.

After all, it wasn’t as though there would be many people demanding to know what had happened to him. He’d come to work at the Zig after his private practice folded beneath a cloud of scandal and disgrace. His once-lofty career fell in shambles, his personal life became subject to a harsh microscope of public and legal scrutiny. To the rest of his associates and those in his social circle, the matter of Dr. Francis Krayne was a shameful one, best pushed hastily out of the spotlight.

He could die right here, right now, and there’d be no outcry. Some might even see it as a relief. They’d be glad to have the whole unsavory business settled so permanently. So out-of-the-way, behind the high walls and barbed wire fences, within the brick fortress of the Zig.

Agnes Black looked at him, lips pursed, eyes glittering. “I am so very, dreadfully disappointed in you, Doctor … there are hardly words to express it!”

The possibility struck him that maybe it wasn’t even Stockton and Hanley behind it … maybe someone else, one of his colleagues mortified by the blotch on the profession’s reputation … there were plenty who’d do it, the unscrupulous greedy bastards that they were … psychiatrists … vicious cutthroats one and all!

Yes, that was it … one of them had done this … bribed the wardens … wanted him killed, out of the way … though why such an elaborate scheme as this was called for, Krayne had no idea … it would have been so much more effective to hire a prisoner to shiv him in the back, or get one of the super-powered types to take care of it by some other, more exotic means …

“You seemed like such a gentleman … Dr. Krayne? Are you quite all right, dearie?”

Krayne began to rise from his chair and realized he couldn’t. His knees buckled. He clutched at the table, grabbing fistfuls of linen tablecloth. It failed to stop his fall. He took the cloth with him like a magician doing a slow-motion and unsuccessful trick, and heard the clink of silver and the brittle crashing of porcelain as the entire tea service followed him to the floor.

Hot tea gurgle-splashed from the broken teapot. Pots of jam and marmalade and honey splattered in a sticky mess. Croissants, cookies, scones, cream puffs, shortbread, and little triangular sandwiches went all over the place.

“Oh my!” Agnes Black cried out.

“Glaaagggh,” Krayne said.

She rushed around the now-bare table to him, one manicured and be-ringed hand pressed to her mouth. “Doctor? My goodness … are you choking?”

He clawed at his throat and urked gagging noises meant to be pleas for mercy. Or at the very least, pleas for her to not stand over him and gloat as her murderous plot reached fruition. Bad enough he’d made a fool of himself … bad enough he had to die in this humiliating way … he didn’t need to be laughed at and mocked and further embarrassed!

“Do something, you ninnies!” Agnes snapped at the pianist and the technician, both of whom were still securely encased in transparent blue-green soap bubbles of protective energy. “Help him, make yourselves useful, get a doctor, something!”

“Uh … but we …” The technician – Reardon, Krayne recalled for no good reason, his name was Reardon – gestured vaguely at the floating, humming force field generator.

“Screw this!” The pianist did a swift grab at his sheet music, missed several pages that went seesawing through the air, and bolted for the door.

“Men!” She rolled her eyes and knelt beside Krayne, reaching for his shoulder.

Krayne did his best to twist away, but of course it did no good. She turned him onto his side – surprising, even shocking strength for her age – and whammed him on the upper back several times. “Chhhllaaa!” he said.

His tongue, so swollen now that it was like he’d tried to eat a wet Nerf football, protruded to a point that he could barely close his mouth. Slobbery saliva ran down his chin.

“Dr. Krayne!” Agnes shook him and peered anxiously into his face. “Do you have allergies, dearie?”

“Hhhchhhggrgll,” he said.

“You do, don’t you?” she inquired. “I’ve seen this sort of thing before. It can come in quite handy, you know. Herman, one of my husbands, was allergic to shellfish, the poor dear. But don’t you worry yourself for a minute, Dr. Krayne. Agnes will fix you right up.”

He thrashed on the floor, thrashed in the puddle of tea, his best suit soaked and clotted with soggy clumps of cookies, petit-fours, scones.

“Now, hush,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “Hold still and don’t fuss. Let me see, here.”

Where were they? Stockton … Hanley … someone … anyone! He couldn’t breathe!

Agnes Black hummed a sprightly little tune to herself as she picked through the ruins of their nine-in-the-morning ‘afternoon high tea.’ She found a dainty china cup that was chipped at the rim and handle but otherwise undamaged, put a sugar cube and a couple of pinches of what might have been salt into the cup, poured in steaming water from a silver teapot that had landed on its side, and found a spoon.

Though he was struggling for air through a throat that felt compressed to a pinhole, Krayne saw her fiddling with her rings. He saw quite clearly how one of the stones did pop up from its setting on a secret hinge, just as he’d been suspecting all along. He saw with no uncertainty at all the fine lime-colored powder she sprinkled from that concealed compartment into the cup. He most absolutely saw the mixture turn a clear, vivid green.

“This might not taste very good, dearie,” she said. “But under the circumstances, you’re not in much of a position to quibble, now, are you?”

Perhaps he wasn’t, but that didn’t stop him from trying to scrabble and crawdaddy away from her. His hands squished through mangled pastries, slid on marmalade. When escape failed, he snatched up the first thing he found that felt even remotely like a weapon. Given that it was the tiny silver butter-server …

“You boys!” She chuckled. It sounded indulgent and affectionate. “Always such babies when it comes to taking your medicine. It’s best to just go on and get it over with.”

“Unglaaagh!” Krayne yelled. He waved wildly with the butter-server. Its blunted point snagged in the lacy trim of her sleeve, tearing a hole but not even coming close to hurting her.

“Francis,” she said, her tone reproving. “Don’t be stubborn. This is for your own good.”

He tried to turn his face away. Her gnarled old hand was quicker than a striking snake. She gripped him by the hinges of his jaw and forced his mouth all the way open.

And poured.

Hot liquid, sweet-salty and green, flooded in. Krayne’s body bucked and lurched. He made to spit out the noxious mouthful, spew it from him, get rid of it.

Again, Agnes was quicker. She clamped the heel of her hand under his chin, holding his jaw shut. With her other hand, she set aside the cup and rubbed his Adam’s apple. “I heard this always works on cats when you have to give them a pill,” she said.

The massaging pressure in his neck triggered an involuntary swallowing reaction. Krayne gulped, felt the green liquid sluicing down his throat. It burned. Not like scalding water but like acid. He could feel it corroding the soft tissues, eating him away from the inside, dissolving his organs.

She let go of him and sat back primly. “There.”

He wallowed in the tea-time debris, coughing and retching. Nothing came up. Even when he tried, when he willed his gorge to hitch, nothing came up.

But …

But the acidic corrosion was subsiding. He no longer itched all over, no longer had that awful constriction to his breathing, no longer felt as if his own tongue was a bloated slab of wet sponge crammed into his mouth.

He felt …

“All better?” Agnes asked.

“Whuh … what did you do to me?” he panted.

“Silly Dr. Krayne!” She patted his shoulder. “That was a bad one, wasn’t it? My goodness. You’re lucky I was here.”

“Lucky?!?” It came out in a shrill bleat.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen an allergic reaction that severe.”

“I don’t have allergies,” he said.

“Doctor,” she said, “you were going into anaphylactic shock. My brother Howard got stung by a bee once, and he nearly died from it. Allergies, they said.”

“I don’t --”

“Ten bucks says it’s those cucumber sandwiches,” Big Herb Hanley said. “I knew there was something not right about those. Cucumber on a sandwich? Come on. Lettuce, yeah. Tomatoes, you bet. Pickles, hey, it’s not a sandwich unless you’ve got your pickles. But … cucumber? Not right.”

Krayne swiveled his head and saw Hanley in the doorway, with Warden Stockton. For how long? He had no idea.

“You do know, Hanley,” the Warden said, “what pickles are made out of. Right?”

“What?” He shrugged. “They’re pickles. So what?”

Stockton shook her head. “Never mind. How you feeling, Doc?”

“I … I …”

“He’ll be just dandy in a minute or two, Warden dearie” Agnes said. “I fixed him right up.”

“Thank you, Agnes. Don’t know what we’d do without our resident shrink.” Stockton scanned the office, lips tucking down. “Kind of a disaster area in here.”

“Oh, I know, such a shame! It was a lovely high tea, too.”

“She tried to kill me,” Krayne said.

They all looked at him.

“She did! She poisoned me! You saw the whole thing!”

“What we saw,” Stockton said, “looked more like she saved your sorry ass.”

“No! She … she …”

“Doctor,” Agnes said. “Tsk. I swear, I don’t know what we’re to do with you. Believe me, if I’d wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

“There!” He sat up and push-scooted himself backward, pointing at her. “You heard it! She threatened me! She just threatened my life!”

Hanley snorted. “Didn’t sound that way to me. Don’t get your tightey-whiteys in a bunch, Doc.”

Krayne spluttered, staring from one to another of them in disbelief. “This is outrageous,” he finally managed to say. “This is simply outrageous. You’re going to overlook an assault of this magnitude? You saw for yourself! The proof is on record!”

“What we saw,” Stockton said, “and what’s on record, is you having some kind of allergy attack, and Agnes administering first aid before you could strangle to death on your own tongue.”

“Yeah,” said Hanley, “and you’re being some kind of majorly ungrateful dick about it, too.”

“Now, now, dearies,” Agnes said. “Let’s not have a tiff, shall we? We’re all friends here. I’m sure Dr. Krayne didn’t mean the horrid things he said to me. Did you, Dr. Krayne? You weren’t feeling well, that’s all. I’m fully ready to forgive and forget. I’m sure you are, too.” Her gaze held his like a mousetrap. “Aren’t you?”

All three of them were watching him. Waiting to see what he’d do, what he’d say, whether he would go along with this ludicrous farce. He’d been right about it being a plot. They were all in on it. He understood now. He knew what they were up to.

They wanted him to feel indebted to this sociopathic senior citizen. They wanted to drag him into their dirty schemes and drug deals. Then, they reasoned, he’d be less likely to blow the whistle on the whole corrupt bunch of them. They didn’t want the Zig’s underbelly truth exposed to the harsh light of day, and they were afraid that he was the very man to topple their sordid empire. With his superior intelligence and education, his connections and contacts … yes, they were afraid, and they had damn good reason!

If they decided that he wasn’t going to play along, though …

He forced himself to smile. A deferential smile, a sycophant’s smile. “I don’t know what came over me. My head … the disorientation … I hardly know what I was saying. My sincerest apologies, Agnes. I’m mortified. Truly, truly mortified.”

“You see?” she said to Stockton. “No harm done.”

“I’ve never suffered an allergic reaction before,” Krayne said, “but there’s a first time for everything, I suppose. How fortunate that you were able to whip up a remedy!”

“Yes, well …” Agnes dimpled. “I’d hate for anything bad to happen to one of my favorite doctors.”

“Okay,” Hanley said, hitching at his belt. “I think your little tea party is done for today. C’mon Agnes, let’s get you back to A-Block so that Doc here can clean himself up.”

His best suit! Krayne felt his fake smile go taut with the strain. This soaked-through-to-the-skin mess was no mere dollop of sauce or droplet of wine. He doubted it could be saved. It’d have to be thrown out and replaced, and with the laughably insulting salary the prison paid –

“Why, Mr. Hanley,” cooed Anges, “are you offering to escort a lady home?” She tucked her arm through his and batted her eyelashes up at him. “How could I ever refuse?”

Hanley uttered an uneasy chuckle. The big man’s obvious discomfort mollified Krayne, if only slightly. But then the two of them left, and he was on his own with Warden Stockton.

“So,” she said, after surveying him from head to toe.

“Yes?” He got up, all too aware of how he must look. Hair disheveled, pate gleaming with sweat, face reddened. Tea-drenched suit hanging in damp wrinkles, covered in clumps of crushed food. His expensive Italian leather loafers gooey with marmalade.

“How’s the psychiatric assessment coming along?” Stockton asked, one eyebrow raised at a knowing, almost jeering slant.

“I believe, Warden Stockton, that you’ve gotten your point across loud and clear,” Krayne said.

“My point? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Krayne.”

“Oh you don’t, don’t you?”

She shook her head, but the eyebrow was still raised, and her gaze held steady. “Do tell.”

Beyond her, the door had been left open onto another of those claustrophobic interior corridors, and a passing parade of guards, trustees, custodians, cops, visitors and inmates went by … all of them getting a good look at the shambles of his office. Most of them had the courtesy to take a quick glance and then move on.

Some didn’t. The notorious Sister O’Malley, under whose influence several good parochial-school boys had turned to a life of crime, paused to smirk at him in a most un-nun-like way. A short, stout fellow in a good suit – though not a fraction so good as Krayne’s had been! – approached the door checking a note as it to make sure he had the right place, then stopped and goggled open-mouthed for a moment before recovering his manners and beating a hasty retreat. The old man that Krayne had seen in the A-Block yard, giving martial arts instruction to a group of convicts, nudged a younger man with rather wild radioactive-looking hair, muttered something, and they both laughed.

“Must we go through this now, Warden?” Krayne asked. He would have wished for the floor to open up beneath him so that he could vanish and no longer be the object of humiliation, but, given where he was, if the floor did suddenly open, he would drop into some level of hell that was even worse.

“I guess you’re kind of busy,” Stockton said, pushing a shard of china plate around with her foot. “Just have your preliminary write-up on my desk tomorrow morning.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll send a team down from Janitorial. Oh, and have the movers take care of the piano. Unless you were planning to keep it, that is. Do a little music therapy or something.”

“No. Please. Thank you.”

She took her leave without anything further, and Krayne was glad to shut the door behind her.

***

Operation: Spideros

Tue, 29 Apr 2008 04:59:13 GMT

Laying some groundwork for our VEATs with ...

Operation: Spideros

The rise of Arachnos was inevitable. No one would argue with that. No one who liked to keep their insides on the inside, at least.

Whether it would have risen so fast, or with such spectacular success, without General Konstantine Spideros … that, also, is beyond doubt.

The debate is over precisely HOW General Spideros was instrumental in contributing to the dominion of Arachnos over the Rogue Isles.

Was it thanks to his tireless efforts and unfailing service? Some suggest that, had events gone another way, Spideros might have joined the uppermost echelon of Lord Recluse’s elite. His statue might have stood in the great hall along with Black Scorpion, Ghost Widow, Captain Mako and Sirocco. He might have given support and patronage to his own chosen few.

Or was it because he became too dangerous, perceived as a threat? Some claim that the entire reason behind Lord Recluse’s dramatic power-grab was for fear that if HE did not take immediate action to secure his domination of the Rogue Isles, Spideros might have gotten there first.

Regardless of his motives, he served Arachnos well. He was, without question, a fierce soldier and a brilliant tactician. By all accounts, he was a charismatic leader who was also unafraid to get right in the trenches, dirtying his hands and risking his life.

He earned the devotion of many of his troops, and the grudging admiration of more than one adversary. He had a few respected foes, several bitter rivals, and many deadly enemies … most within the heart of Arachnos itself, teeming with hierarchies and factions. He held a high ranking on Longbow’s ‘Most Wanted’ list. Untold numbers of Paragon City’s boldest heroes tried and failed to take him down.

Then came the incident.

The incident that the Freedom Phalanx denies all knowledge of. The incident Longbow swears never happened. The incident that left no witnesses … at least, no witnesses willing, or able, to come forth.

On occasion, some vigilante hero, team or supergroup would claim credit. All of these claims have, under mystic and psychic interrogation, proved to be false.

Was it a righteous defeat? A trick, trap, or betrayal? Ambush? Set-up? Assassination attempt?

Hundreds of combatants dead – Arachnos and Longbow both. Hundreds more casualties from the civilian sector. Property damage ranging into the millions. Untold independent heroes and villains drawn into the fray, some identifiable only by DNA samples taken from scraps clinging to the remnants of their costumes.

Only General Konstantine Spideros is known to have survived that fatal pitched battle. He was found in the aftermath and rushed from the scene by his most faithful lieutenants … clinging to the barest signs of life after a devastating head injury.

He should not have lived. Against all odds, he did.

After a fashion.

The brain damage was extensive.

His memory … destroyed. Decades of skills, knowledge and experience … ripped away. His personality … eradicated. A once-proud military genius reduced to the intellectual capacity of a witless child. His body would, in time, heal. His mind, it seemed, never would.

Conflicts raged. Spideros, oblivious, was sealed in a secure hospital, staffed only by his most faithful followers. Guarded twenty-four/seven. Fed intravenously, catheterized, and fascinated by the bright colors and bold shapes of a mobile hung above his bed.

He should, some said, be put out of his misery. Given mercy. This was not the fate he would have wanted. Better to die in battle than blunder along in such a helpless, hopeless existence. Besides, his organs could be harvested, his tissue cloned. It wasn’t as though he’d be of no use even in death.

Others argued that he should be kept alive, cared for. What if the initial assessment was wrong? What if he did fully recover? He still had considerable valuable information, secrets that only he had known. If he died, those secrets would be lost forever.

And still others rebutted that this in itself was a good reason to finish him off. With all that he knew, what if he fell into the wrong hands? What if he regained his knowledge but not his ability to KEEP those secrets? He was too dangerous. Far, far too dangerous.

But, came the counter-point, killing him risks making him a legend, or even a martyr. A rallying-point for those whose loyalty to him might outweigh even their loyalty to Lord Recluse. Could Arachnos afford that severe of a rift?

The debates went on, mired deeper and deeper into stalemate, while the man who had been General Konstantine Spideros progressed from a liquid diet to soft foods, mastered a few simple words, learned to stand while holding onto something, and could be kept amused for hours with a pop-up book.

Eventually, even those closest to Spideros fell victim to suspicion, paranoia, bickering, distrust, and fighting amongst themselves. Accusations were made. Fingers were pointed.

THIS woman was a spy working for Ghost Widow. THAT man was a stalker sent by Lord Recluse. THOSE people were a covert task force dispatched from Paragon City. HE had been behind it all along and wanted to get rid of Spideros and take over. SHE planned to smother him with a pillow like some angel-of-death out of misguided love. THEY had an automaton or clone of the general but couldn’t bring it online until they’d disposed of the body.

The outside groups sat back to watch, expecting that Spideros’ faction would destroy itself from within. Which it did, but not before the four followers closest to him were able to spirit him away.

They took Spideros – by then able to feed himself, count to ten, recite the alphabet with only a few mistakes, and almost always get through the night without wetting the bed – into hiding at a remote and previously abandoned Longbow training facility on a small chunk of rock in Nerva Archipelago.

Several months passed. No one in Arachnos or Longbow wanted to assume that Spideros must be dead … they knew all too well how faulty assumptions like that often turn out to be. But neither could they find any trace of him. As time went by and other, more urgent matters presented themselves, he became of less and less importance.

Meanwhile, under the care of his four loyal lieutenants, the man who had been General Spideros continued to improve. Physically, at least. He regained his strength and coordination. They instructed him in hand-to-hand combat, weapon care and use, basic survival and outdoor skills. He became as adept as any beginning Arachnos recruit.

Physically.

Mentally, however …

Mentally, to all intents and purposes, he remained approximately seven years old.

General Konstantine Spideros. With the reading and writing ability, the vocabulary, the cunning, the temper and all the social sophistication of a second-grader.

They tried to help him regain his former self. They showed him hours of video footage from past missions and strike forces in hopes of triggering his memory. They read to him from Spideros’ journals and correspondence. He got bored. Hypnosis only gave him a good night’s sleep. Subliminal cues seemed to have no effect.

He refused to answer to his old name and would throw tantrums if the others wouldn’t call him by the one he’d chosen. He liked to color. He liked to build with blocks and then knock them down. He liked to hit things with a stick. He got stubborn over bedtime or bath-time or eating his vegetables. If someone was nice to him, that person was his best friend. If someone was mean to him, he’d throw a rock or kick to the shins.

They were beginning to lose hope.

Then their hidden base, left alone for so long, got raided.

It was purely unintentional on the part of Longbow, who wanted to reactivate that facility but found a tiny contingent of Arachnos there when they arrived. The surprise was mutual on both sides. So was the immediate, hostile enmity.

The numbers? Not mutual. Not even close.

Perhaps if Spideros hadn’t been taking a nap …

As three of the lieutenants made a desperate last stand at a barricaded door, the fourth was able to wake him and get out of the base … briefly. The sacrifice of their companions proved futile. A contingent of Longbow caught the escapees during a routine cleanup sweep.

With no idea they’d just captured the infamous General Konstantine Spideros and one of his lieutenants, the Longbow Commanders had the two stragglers hauled off to the Zig.

There they were to stay, until an opportune moment of chaos in a large-scale breakout brought them back together.

**

Good gravy, I did it again.

Tue, 01 Apr 2008 22:42:44 GMT

This time, "it" is a fake commercial for a non-existant tea.

Earl Crey Tea, to be specific... At least this is only 60 seconds long...

Two of my characters

Wed, 12 Mar 2008 16:40:20 GMT

PrettyLittleDeadGirl, a dark/emp defender, immediately after I modded her appearance in Icon. I wasn't happy with her original look, so just gave it a couple of small tweaks. I... can't remember which server I have her on.

MiniChibiMicroThreat, a necromancy/poison mastermind on Victory.

These are just slightly photoshopped screenshots, nothing thrilling, but I wanted to share :)

Behold Miss Brr

Wed, 27 Feb 2008 04:32:19 GMT

Miss Brr is an Ice/Energy Blaster on the Guardian server. She's one of my oldest characters, and very possibly the most fun to play. I revel in her insane burst damage (especially jacked up on Defiance 1.0, *wistful sigh*) and the delightful palette of status effects at her disposal. When I commissioned a character portrait from kwsapphire, Miss Brr was a natural choice of subject. I've even had the pleasure of teaming Brr up with kws' BubbleMint a few times.

kwsapphire was very flexible and accomodating throughout the process. My guidance was vague and pretty minimal, which I hoped would give her creativity as free a hand as possible. My strategy paid off. :) She sent me the final image today, and looking at it makes me smile so wide.

(cross-posted to city_of_heroes)

First CoH fanart

Tue, 26 Feb 2008 11:52:28 GMT

Hi everyone! I've just been lurking for a while. The other evening I coloured some old lineart of mine.
I don't draw humans very often, but in the last month I've drawn three. I'm going to get some practise in. But this art below cut doesn't really count... he doesn't even have a face!

This is Apollo pre-trench coat

And to celebrate 3-month-veteren-trench-coat-getting, some artwork. The colours are inspired by the Rikti invasions that were going on when I did the lineart. I have a whole scene cooked up, but I'm too chicken to try and finish it!

I much prefer colouring to drawing sometimes, so I'm really experimenting.

x-posted to City_of_heroes

Character Doodle

Wed, 20 Feb 2008 21:20:22 GMT

Cross posted from city_of_heroes

I thought I'd share a doodle I did on Open Canvas tonight of my newest hero.
Star Bomber!
Super Strength / Willpower
Virtue Server
Member of the Young Sentinels

Eros ficbit :)

Thu, 14 Feb 2008 06:47:11 GMT

Inspired by some in-game and SG meeting events, plus a fic by other players (who are naughty naughty naughty boys!) ... with thanks to my fellow YPs and RPGnetters :)

Fool Me Twice
A Tale of the Young Paragons

The base was not so silent after all.

Low voices, rustling, and other sounds he wasn’t sure he wanted to identify.

The Aspirant stopped short of entering the shadowy, cavernous space. Was that … was he hearing what he thought he was …

“I don’t know how much hotter we can get,” Illyana said from somewhere unseen.

“We’re just not breathing heavily enough,” Eros replied. Also from somewhere unseen.

Okay, he was not about to make this mistake again. He had with the kitchen. A misunderstanding of Three’s Company proportions.

Surely it wasn’t.

Fool me once, shame on you, he thought. Fool me twice, shame on me.

The dark room was largely taken up by the bulk of an Arachnos Flier, suspended there all insectile and ominous. The voices seemed to be coming from inside.

Stu kept it locked down, didn’t he? With a coded electronic key and other security precautions, to prevent any of the more impulsive Young Paragons from taking it for a little joy-ride and getting shot down by Longbow.

And was the Flier shaking? Just a little? As if … as if … people were moving around in it?

They weren’t …? They wouldn’t …?

Fool me twice, shame on me, he thought again, much more sternly.

He approached the Flier, started to call out something witty, and changed his mind. Was it his imagination, or were the flier’s tinted windows further obscured? Steamed up?

“Here,” Eros said. “Let me try something.”

Jumping to conclusions, Aspy, he chided himself. It’s just like before, with Rook and the hot wings. They’re doing something else in there. It’s perfectly innocent. Not what you think. They’re … they’re making tea or something.

Tea. Right.

Or they’d borrowed that humidifier from the lab to turn the Flier into a private sauna.

Sure.

It wasn’t what he was thinking.

Couldn’t be.

So he clambered up, agile and silent, to peer in.

He could feel the vague tremors of movement still shaking the vehicle, had a brief whimsical idea of Studious’ reaction if someone pasted a bumper sticker on there along the lines of “If the Flier’s a’rockin’, don’t come a’knockin’!”, reminded himself that it wasn’t what he was thinking, that he was reacting like a typical adolescent horndog, and crept quietly across the hull.

The window was really foggy. Dark glass or Lexan or whatever to begin with, it was now almost entirely opaque unless he got right up close and just about pressed his nose to it.

And he could still hear things. Murmurs and soft, moist noises.

Maybe … some cautious part of his mind chimed in.

Fool me twice! some other part of his mind snapped back.

He leaned toward the window cupping his hands around his eyes to shield the ambient light from the room behind him. Shapes … shapes in the gloom …

And then Illyana’s voice rose in a gasping cry. A hand smacked the inside of the glass, inches from Aspy’s nose. It struck flat and then dragged slowly downward, fingers curling, leaving a cleared path in the steam.

He could see much better now.

He could see …

Ohboy. Ohjeez. Ohboy.

Only his superior superhuman reflexes kept him from tumbling head-over-heels backwards onto the floor. His eyes felt like they were bugging from his head, his jaw had unhinged, and his limbs seemed to be operating entirely on autopilot.

Somehow, he was down from the Flier and backing out of the room, not quite sure how he had managed it.

“Aspy?” someone said from behind him.

He’d heard the phrase ‘jumped out of his skin’ all his life and never fully appreciated it until now. He would have yelped, except his lungs were locked breathless and all he could do was wheeze.

“What’s going on?” It was Studious’ voice, sharp now with alertness.

On stiff, tottery legs, Aspy turned to face him. And without even realizing he intended to, shifting his body sideways to block Stu’s view of the Flier with its handprint-in-the-steam window.

Aspy saw Stu see him, saw Stu’s eyes narrow into suspicious lasers. Looking Aspy over. His expression, which was probably pretty damn thunderstruck. His gait and stance, which were wooden. His shock. The little convulsive hitches in his throat as he tried to swallow.

Stu’s eyes. Not just lasers. Surgical micro-lasers. Dissecting him.

The real Aspy? those eyes did not just ask. They demanded. They interrogated. Clone? Doppleganger? Mind control? What?

A big wide toothy smile formed on Aspy’s face, but for some reason this failed to reassure Studious.

“What?” Stu reached out and seized Aspy’s shoulders. “Aspy? Aspy!”

Tight. Digging in. Ow.

Then there was the clunk-and-whoosh of a hatch opening. Stu’s micro-laser gaze shot from Aspy to the Flier. His iron grip relaxed enough for Aspy to turn.

Illyana rose into view, patting at her disheveled hair. Her face was flushed, glistening. Her eyes were half-lidded. A sated smile curved her lush lips. She wasn’t so much wearing her clothes as she had them kind of draped around her lithe, athletic body in the minimum requirements for modesty.

“Oh, my love,” she purred. “That was better than any movie.”

Eros’ head popped up beside her. He, too, was sweaty and disheveled. Exhausted. But grinning. “I’m sorry I didn’t sketch you first. Not much of an artist.”

“Excuse me,” Stu said. His tone was that of someone making a supreme effort to stay reasonable. “What do you think you’re doing?”

They whirled toward the doorway where Stu and Aspy were standing, and Aspy found that their looks of startled surprise almost made up for his own.

“Oops,” Illyana said, and clutched at her clothes.

“This is not …” Studious was still trying to use the reasonable tone, but it was strained almost to the breaking point. “When I gave you the key-code …” The admonishing finger he waved was jittering, and a vein beat in his neck. The rest of his words failed him in an explosive exhale.

Aspy directed the wide, toothy smile at Eros and Illyana as he took Stu’s elbow to steer him from the room. “We’ll just … uh … be in the … uh … conference room. Come on, Stu. Moving on. Paragons go. Moving on!”

***

Eros fic

Thu, 07 Feb 2008 08:18:50 GMT

Things at the last Young Paragons meeting took a rather sillyfun turn, and even though I am SUPPOSED to be focusing on a new book right now, I had to take a night out to fic:

Ruffled Feathers
A Tale of the Young Paragons

She was trying not to laugh, but oh, was it ever a struggle!

The way he muttered and grumbled and stomped and sulked …

He was just far too much of an adorable little goof to carry off a believable mad-on. And all this time, she’d thought the ‘ruffled feathers’ thing was only a figure of speech. His really were. Every so often, he’d pause and shake or flutter his wings and they’d fluff out all over.

Illyana wished she hadn’t missed the Young Paragons meeting earlier that evening. But then, if she’d been there, this whole amusing mess probably wouldn’t have happened. At the very least, it wouldn’t have gone so far, or in such a weird direction.

Evidently, it had started the week previous when the idea had come up of holding an archery contest. Nothing big. Just for fun. They needed some fun after everything that had been going on lately. Forge’s Flame in trouble with the law and Countess Crey … Studious being abducted … Psyte and Eddey nearly getting killed in the rescue effort … Dragonfly Knight having an emo-boy meltdown … whatever weirdness was going on with the Royals …

Yeah, they needed a break, a diversion, a little bit of fun. The beach party had kind of fizzled due to Rikti invasion, so this archery contest had seized hold on the imaginations of half the Coalition. Everybody wanted to join in. Not just the dedicated archers; plenty of the others had picked up the odd bow at some point or another. Even the ones who didn’t plan to participate wanted to watch.

With a kiss for the winner as the prize at stake, came the suggestion … and that was where the trouble had started.

It was, her loveable goof of a Cupidian argued, traditional.

It was, some of the others said, out of the question!

Tradition, he said. Not only in his culture. What about Robin Hood and Maid Marian?

Money, they said. A trophy, they said. Bragging rights alone should be enough, they said.

Hence, the hoopla. Stirring the already-simmering pot of romantic complications, adolescent angst, hidden attractions, not-so-hidden attractions, unrequited love, insecurity, obliviousness, fear of rejection, unresolved issues … basically, the whole entire spectrum of drama.

Eros kicked at the rushes strewn in the nest’s deep bowl floor, then added something in the melodic language of his people. Something low, and indignant.

“Are you cussing?” she asked, biting the inside of her cheek in a half-successful attempt to keep from smiling.

“What is the matter with these people?” He turned to her, moonlight eyes wide and baffled. “Why is this such a big deal for them? Why a problem?”

“You chased Blue Pyra around the base, threatening to kiss her,” Illyana said. She lost the battle against smiling and hid her mouth with a cupped hand. “You scared her.”

“I scared her? I scared her?” He indicated himself. Small, bare-chested, white-winged, his downy hair tousled over his forehead. “Since when do I scare anyone? And what’s so scary about a kiss? It’s affection. Simple physical affection. The way they go on about it … here we are, trusting each other with our very lives on a daily basis … we can face the forces of evil and feel safe knowing that our fellow Young Paragons have our backs … but you try and show the slightest bit of fondness to a person and all of a sudden it’s distance and strangers and arm’s-length do-not-touch.”

“Come here, you.” She pulled him onto the cushions and twined her arms around his neck, resting her forehead against his. Eros immediately snuggled close. “Things are different here, my love.”

“So I’ve noticed.” He sighed. “Personal space. Hands off. No contact. Be all wooden and tense and uncomfortable. No cuddling, no preening.”

“They aren’t used to that. Even I didn’t understand until recently. To you, that’s all perfectly natural, an ordinary part of life. To people in this world …”

“How can they survive like that? So alone? So apart? I thought I’d lose my mind those first few months. It’s still like walking on eggshells, being always on my guard. Can you imagine what would happen if I treated my friends like true flockmates?”

The very image of Eros forgetting, slipping, and giving an affectionate Cupidian-style nuzzle to other Young Paragons … she buried her face in his hair and chuffed silent laughter.

“Obviously,” he said dryly, “you can imagine it.”

“Spirits of Danaan,” she chuckled. “I could just see their expressions! Aspy … or Rook …”

“Are you quite done?”

“I’m sorry, love. I shouldn’t laugh. But …” Again, she dissolved in mirth. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“There,” he said. “This is exactly what I mean. This is exactly the problem. Physical affection shouldn’t be something that we’re afraid of, or ashamed of. Yet there was Pyra, acting as though a kiss would be a fate worse than death.”

“She was nervous, you silly. She’s sweet on you.”

“Fine way of showing it,” he snorted. “When you’re sweet on someone, you don’t fly away from them like they’ve got the feathermolt when they try to kiss you.”

“You should have just done it anyway.”

He scoffed and burrowed his head into her bosom. “If I had, Bex would have snatched me out of the air and crushed me like a balsawood glider. I don’t know why she was so miffed. And then they were all using you as an excuse.”

“I heard,” Illyana said with a snicker. She stroked the soft curve of his wing. “Do I have to put you on a short leash and play the jealous-possessive girlfriend to keep you out of trouble?”

“No, but you could explain to me why they think that if I kissed another female, you’d peck my eyes out.”

“You think I wouldn’t?”

“Why would you?” He raised his head and looked up at her, honestly confused. As was, for Eros, pretty much his usual state.

“Let me see if I can put this in a way that would make sense to you … would you go out and build a nest for Pyra?”

He recoiled. “Illyana!” His mouth dropped open in hurt shock. “How can you even say such a thing? I built a nest for you! You’re the first one I’ve ever done that for, the only one I ever want to do that for!”

“Right! But to them, to Pyra and Bex and everyone, a kiss is the same as a nest.”

“It isn’t the same at all!”

“To them, it is.”

Settling back into her embrace, he mulled that over. Finally, he asked, “Well then why, if it’s not even a real kiss but a prize-kiss …?”

It was her turn to sigh. “Oh, love, I don’t know. If you want my opinion, this went beyond way-out-of-hand when we got that note from White Pyre.”

“Mmmfff!” he said, biting his lip. Again, his wings rustled and fluffed. Again, he warble-whistled something probably-impolite in his native language.

“What is the matter? You’ve been in a snit ever since we got that. I think it’s nice. In a meddling, interfering sort of way, true … and they’d be furious if they found out … but nice.”

“Nice? Nice?!?”

“Archer Deft and Blue Pyra might make a good couple,” Illyana said. “I can’t believe you, of all people, would be opposed to a little matchmaking. Mr. Golden-Love-Arrows and all.”

“This is different.”

“How so? White Pyre is only trying to help. She only wants to see her little sister happy. Is that so wrong?”

“What she wants,” Eros said, drawing away from her so he could get up and pace and kick the rushes some more, “is for me to throw the contest! To shoot poorly on purpose …” He began to sputter, face flushed and wings quivering. “… so that some lesser bowman … some newcomer … can win a kiss … from someone who doesn’t want a kiss in the first place!”

Illyana sat back, astonished.

“It’s dishonest!” he went on, waving his arms. “And dishonorable! And a lie and a cheat and --”

“Are you more offended as an archer or a loverboy?” she asked.

He stopped and stared at her. “I’m a Cupidian.” In a tone that said, are you kidding me?

“So you can’t let your reputation take that kind of a dual hit.”

“Not for a cheat. If it was fairly done and fairly won, so be it.”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t mind if Archer Deft, or Cupid Hawk, or Vigilant Royal beat you fair and square.”

“My pride would be stung,” he admitted. “But I can take it.”

“What if it was a hobbyist, someone like me or Aspy?”

His jaw worked some, and he swallowed, and said, “I could take that, too.”

“And Blue Pyra herself? I’ve seen her shoot. She’s good.”

“She is indeed. She might well win, and deservedly so. That isn’t the trouble. If she won and then snubbed the prize, it’d be a dreadful insult.”

“Ah,” Illyana said, nodding. “So if she won, she’d have to kiss you.”

He flung his hands in the air. “Gods of high Olympus! Not necessarily me!”

“Who, then?”

“Whoever she wants! Archer Deft if she wants. Rick, Rurou-Ken, Aspy, Forge … you, Bex, Matoko … Urban Primitive or Chemistry Geek, for that matter!” He paused. “Not the Rikti monkey, though. There’s got to be a line drawn somewhere.”

“I should hope so.”

Eros flopped backward into the cushions, wings and arms outstretched to either side. He heaved a gusty breath at the nest’s curved ceiling. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me this is all my fault.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Oh, probably. It usually is.”

“My love?” She crawled over to him and knelt with hands braced above his shoulders. Her hair hung down in a loose dark wave.

“Hmm?”

“Who would you choose? If you won?”

He eyed her cautiously. “Is this a trap?”

She grinned. “Maybe.”

“You know, at the meeting, they accused me of setting up this whole contest just to have an excuse to kiss you, which was silly because I can do that whenever I like anyway.”

“Very true.”

“So if I did win … I would have to prove them wrong by choosing someone else, wouldn’t I?”

“Are you trying to make my trap backfire on me?”

He grinned up at her from the rushes. “Maybe.”

“Well, maybe you should just answer the question.”

His hand came up and slid around the nape of her neck in the way that always sent delicious warm shivers coursing through her body. “Tell you what,” he said.

“What?”

“If I win, you choose for me.”

She gazed down at him for a long moment, then smiled. “Eros, my love, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

**

Chapter Eight

Thu, 03 Jan 2008 13:30:04 GMT

The Strange Case of A. M. Black
An Uncanny Legion Story

CHAPTER EIGHT

The tea swirled within bone-white china. Swampwater tea. Green-brown and murky, flecked with dark specks. Steaming. Silty. Stagnant.

Dr. Francis Krayne could feel his tastebuds recoiling as he lifted the wafer-thin cup. His tongue cringed against the bottom of his mouth like an unearthed grub shying from the glare of the sun.

The scent that wafted up was acrid, bitter and strange.

“Go ahead,” Agnes Black said. “What are you waiting for? Drink your tea.”

He turned the cup, turned it, watched the tea swirl, breathed in that acrid warm-swampwater smell, and wondered what in the hell was taking them so long? They were listening in, he knew that they were! Listening in, and if things took a bad turn, they were supposed to rush in and save him!

So, what in the hell was taking so long?

Did they think this was funny? Didn’t they realize how serious a situation he was in? Did they not care? Had they placed bets? What? Where were they?

Slowly, aware of her gaze upon him, her eyes dark and glittering with malice, he brought the cup to his lips. The overhead light played on the liquid surface. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see the fleeting image of a skull-and-crossbones form there, or see the rising steam take on that shape, like something out of a cartoon.

If he stirred it, would the silver spoon emerge as a blackened, dripping, half-melted mess? That always happened in the cartoons as well, he remembered.

She wouldn’t dare. She couldn’t risk it. There was no logical reason –

Of course, she was insane.

“It’ll get cold,” she warned.

Somewhere far off in the distance, the pianist continued to play. Something light and sweet, a tune Krayne should have known but at the moment was too consumed by other concerns to identify. Vivaldi, perhaps. Or Chopin. The force-field generator hummed on as it hovered. A magazine rustled as the technician turned the page.

Beyond that, nothing. No sounds of hurrying footsteps and jingling keys. No Big Herb Hanley or Warden Stockton coming to the rescue.

The cup’s rim touched his lower lip. The sour scent of the tea was overpowering. It seemed to curl tendrils of itself into his brain. Burrowing. Extruding. Spreading, rootlike, through the folds and nooks and crannies of the soft grey matter that housed his intellect and self.

His every instinct shrieked in alarm. He wanted to hurl the cup and its noxious contents from him. Hurl it across the table. China shattering. Tea splashing. Smoke rising where the droplets burned into the tablecloth like a spray of acid.

Never mind offending Agnes Black or angering the warden. Never mind if it made him the hated enemy of every guard and prisoner in the Zig. Never mind if it landed him in the mayor’s bad graces. Never mind if it ruined his career, destroyed his social connections, made him the laughingstock of Paragon City.

He would rather face all of that than take so much as a sip of this fetid swamp-stinking tea.

And yet …

And yet here was his hand, tipping the cup.

Here was the tea, coursing over his lip. Pooling in his mouth. Rising like a flood tide.

It was repulsively body-temperature, a dank mouthful of someone else’s spit and bile. Some trickled down his throat, and his gorge lurched. His esophagus constricted. It kept trickling down anyway.

He wanted to spew out the vile mouthful. He wanted to run to the nearest sink, and rinse it away. He wanted to gargle for an hour, for the rest of the day. With the strongest mouthwash known to science, with boiling salt water, with molten lava if that was what it took.

He swallowed.

Waited to drop dead.

Didn’t.

Not immediately.

Agnes smiled at him. A beatific, grandmotherly smile. “How is it?”

“Needs sugar after all,” he said. His voice was hoarse, abraded.

“I told you so.” Still with the beatific smile, she picked up the little silver tongs and the sugar bowl, and asked again, “One lump or two?”

“Three, please.” Krayne held out his cup.

She dropped the cubes in. One, two, three. Each fizzed briefly as it sank, leaving a rash of foamy bubbles to dissipate on the surface. More what you’d expect from a chemical reaction than from simple dissolving sugar … or was that his imagination?

The spoon emerged dripping, but not blackened and not half-melted, after he stirred the tea. The residue on it did not begin eating into his napkin when he laid the spoon back down.

A slimy, silty aftertaste coated his teeth and tongue. Like soapscum left behind after dirty bathwater was drained out of a tub. He took another sip and swished it around. Sweet. Cloying. Almost syrupy.

“Better?” Agnes inquired.

He still hadn’t dropped dead.

Yet.

“Much. Thank you.” His protesting stomach roiled. The urge to vomit was there. The desire to vomit was overwhelming. But he couldn’t. He hitched once, hiccuped, thought he might exhale a greenish puff of vapor, and that was it.

He couldn’t throw it up. Maybe if he jammed a finger down his gullet …

“Isn’t this nice?” She settled back in her chair. “The two of us enjoying a pleasant high tea, even if it is still before lunchtime. Now, what should we talk about?”

“Whatever you like,” Krayne said. “This is your day.”

“Oh, yes.” She beamed. “My day. That’s very kind of you, dearie.”

A slow, thick, heavy lassitude seemed to be seeping through his veins. He could feel it moving outward through his body, permeating bone and muscle and fatty tissue. He could feel it soaking in, being absorbed, as if he were a dry sponge.

Agnes helped herself to another croissant, slathering it with butter and marmalade. “Should I tell you about my childhood? That’s what you psychiatrists want to hear, isn’t it? About our childhood and how horrible our parents were?”

“If you want,” he said. His words, his voice … but not quite. He sounded, to himself anyway, like someone else. Some talented mimic, doing a decent Francis Krayne impression.

“Not that mine were horrible,” she said. “Generally speaking, of course. They were humble, hard-working people. Just trying to get by, and doing as best they could. It’s hardly their fault that times were tough back then. It couldn’t have been easy raising eleven children on a millworker’s income.”

“Eleven?”

“That’s right, there were eleven of us.” She chuckled ruefully. “And I was the eldest. I’m sure you can imagine what that meant. I was Mother’s Helper from the time I could walk. I suppose that’s why I wanted so much more out of life. I’d had my fill of cooking and cleaning and taking care of babies long before I was old enough to think about getting married.”

“Your mother was a housewife, then?”

She fixed him with an indulgent look. “Most women were, in those days. Believe me, Dr. Krayne, it was a full-time job. More than full-time. If not for the shopping and for church every Sunday, I don’t think she ever would have left the house. There was too much to be done, and not enough money for leisure or foolishness. The mending alone could have kept a platoon of seamstresses busy. My brothers were nothing if not hard on their clothes.”

“What about your father?” Krayne struggled to focus his thoughts, to not much avail. His mouth, throat, sinuses and head felt stuffed with cotton batting, or foam insulation. He looked into the cup and was greeted with the disconcerting sight of it being half-empty. He couldn’t remember drinking more … but …

“What about him? He left for the mill – textile, by the way, not lumber or shoe – before dawn every day and wouldn’t get home until suppertime. He preferred us to be seen and not heard. Not even seen unless absolutely necessary, really. The only times he paid particular attention to any of us was when we broke something or got in trouble at school. Then he’d be there to correct us with a wallop.”

“He was abusive?”

“Abusive?” Agnes waved it off with a trill of a laugh. “Oh, dearie, he hardly ever used his belt. A swat from his hand would be good enough more often than not. Since he had those large, callused workingman’s hands, believe you me, a swat was plenty. For most of us, the threat alone of a swat would usually do the trick. All he’d have to do was lift up his hand, and we’d be on our best behavior in the wink of an eye.”

“That’s … ah … interesting,” he managed to say, the words stumbling out. That syrupy-sweet taste still clung to the lining of his mouth, rancid now, like cream that had curdled. He slid his tongue around in a futile attempt to clear away some of the sliminess.

She was prattling on … something about her grandparents now … immigrants … the family name changed … Americanized from Blakewski to Black. About being dragged to church every week by her mother, the effort it took to get eleven children neat and tidy in their Sunday best.

“I grew up convinced that the male sex was hellbound anyway,” she said. “My father would never go to church with us, claiming it was his one day of rest and so by God he meant to rest. My brothers invariably spent the entire service pinching, punching, poking, kicking the pew ahead of us, picking their noses, making faces … they were such little devils that I used to wonder why they never burst into flames as soon as they crossed the threshold. Edward especially.”

Krayne dredged his memory. Given the way he was feeling, it was like dredging, like pulling a hook on a pole through some putrid green bog in hopes of catching hold of something … something that would probably turn out to be a rotting corpse anyway …

“I thought you said you had a sister? Or was it just you and the boys?”

“I had sisters,” she said, nodding. “Four of them. But we girls always minded our manners in church. Even Gladys, who was otherwise the sulkiest spoiled brat you ever heard of.”

“I see,” he said.

It struck him that he should have been taking notes for the chart, the better to write up a comprehensive case history of this crazy old bitch. This was pertinent background. He needed to ascertain the root causes of her psychosis. Knowledge of the family, particularly any relatives she still had contact with, could be useful. Provide valuable insight.

“… only clever thing they did was to name us in alphabetical order,” Agnes was saying.

She had been going on for God knew how long, prattling and prattling, and he mustered himself to respond.

“Excuse me?”

“My parents. It must have been the only way they could remember our ages.” She drew a breath, then rattled off a string of names. “Agnes-Benjamin-Cornelia-Dennis-Edward-Franklin-Gladys-Howard-Ida-Joan-Kendall.”

Blinking eyelids that seemed to have been coated in tacky rubber cement, Krayne opened his briefcase and pawed through the file. “And do you still what did you put in my tea?”

She frowned at him. “Pardon me, dearie?”

“The tea. You put something in it.”

“Yes, three sugars.”

“Besides that.”

Deep in his bowels, toxic sludge seethed and churned. A cramp tried to bend him double. He’d heard of heartburn. Had experienced it plenty of times. This was something different. This was a sensation as if his actual beating heart had been injected with gasoline and match-heads.

“Don’t be silly, Dr. Krayne. You asked for three sugars and that’s what I gave you. Now, as I was saying, with so many brothers and sisters, it’s no wonder I never had any trouble keeping track of my husbands, and my own children.”

An audible sluicing gurgle rose from his midsection. There was a momentary agony both sharp and alive, the pain of a voracious parasite gnawing into his organs. Then it passed, and Krayne shuddered, clammy with cold sweat.

“Someone sounds like he has a hungry tummy,” Agnes Black said, amused. She loaded a plate with cookies and sandwiches, and pressed it toward him.

He still hadn’t dropped dead. For a second there …

But he hadn’t.

All things considered, he didn’t feel quite so bad. Now that the cramp had passed. Or had subsided to a low, pervasive burbling. He gave up on whatever he’d been seeking in his briefcase. He could take notes later.

The cucumber had a cold green zing that was not to his liking. The shortbread cookies, however, especially the ones that were filled with raspberry jam and dusted with sugar crystals, were quite good.

Agnes had resumed talking about her brothers and sisters. Benjamin, who’d gone to work in the same textile mill as their father at the age of ten, only to lose a hand in the machinery and live the rest of his days with a prosthetic. Saintly, sickly Cornelia, bedridden too often to be much help around the house, who’d gone on to become a nun. The terrible trio of Dennis, Edward and Franklin, always getting into mischief.

Perhaps he wasn’t going to drop dead after all.

Not right away.

If anything, it was slow-acting.

Krayne helped himself to more of the raspberry jam shortbread cookies, crunching into them with gusto as Agnes talked about her least-favorite sister, Gladys, who had considered herself too pretty and special to do menial labor. And then there’d been clumsy, skinny little Howard, the tagalong always picked on by his bigger brothers. Ida, the dumpy one, had been their mother all over again in miniature … she’d even gone on to marry a man just like their father and fall into the same pattern that Agnes herself had been desperate to avoid.

“More tea, Dr. Krayne?” she interrupted herself. She opened the teapot’s lid and peered in. “Looks like there’s just enough for us each to have another cup.”

Did he just see something fall from her hand into the pot? A quick sifting sprinkle, like dust, or powder? And that big ring on her right pinkie finger … he was almost sure that the cameo – white against coral-pink – had been turned the other way before.

“Now, the youngest two were twins,” she said as she poured. “Joan and Kendall. Poor Kendall was a disturbed child. Autistic, I suppose they’d call it now. But Joanie was so sweet and caring, and always took care to look out for him.”

“You didn’t add anything, I hope,” he said.

“I take it you’ll want sugar this time?”

“Agnes, I’m serious.”

“Of course you are, Doctor. That’s part of what I admire about you. Such a serious man. So intelligent and educated and respectable. Here you go. Three sugars, wasn’t it?”

“If you’ve drugged me --”

“My goodness, aren’t we paranoid all of a sudden? What on earth would make you think such a thing?”

“I know what you’re capable of.”

“Oh, Francis!” She reached across the table and patted his cheek. “You have no idea, dearie.”

Her fingernail nicked him. Barely. Not as bad as a shaving mishap or cat scratch or even a paper cut. Just a quick little flick of a nick, but … her nails were lacquered with polish, and for all he knew, that polish could be loaded with venom … hadn’t there been old spy movies in which the femme fatale would do murder via lipstick, sealing a man’s fate with a very real and literal kiss of death?

Krayne flinched back and rubbed his face. The skin wasn’t broken, blood wasn’t drawn. He was sure there wouldn’t even be a mark.

But …

“What have you done to me?”

“You’re much too suggestible, Dr. Krayne.”

“You put something in the tea. I can feel it affecting me!”

She tsked. “It’s all in your mind, dear.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Haven’t you heard of, oh, what do they call it … something effect … a placebo?”

“Of course I have,” he snapped. “I’m a psychiatrist!”

That had come out wrong somehow, but he couldn’t be bothered to correct himself just then.

Agnes folded her hands on the table and regarded him the way a schoolteacher might regard the little boy she knew was the one who’d been shooting spitballs when her back was turned. “So you know all about it.”

“I hardly think that has --”

“Once, I remember, Franklin told Howard that root beer was real beer, and Howard went around stumbling and slurring, just like he was drunk, when he hadn’t had a drop of alcohol. Or the nurses … giving Cornelia plain white Tic-Tacs, pretending that they were doing it on the sly and against medical orders when the doctors said she couldn’t have anything else for the pain. And those Tic-Tacs worked, Dr. Krayne. I’ve seen teenagers get high from smoking oregano thinking it was marijuana. Belief is a powerful, powerful thing.”

“I feel it,” he said.

She tsked again. “Only because you’ve convinced yourself.”

“No.”

“Honestly, Francis. Do you really think I would slip you a dose? Why in the world would I do that? When you’ve invited me to this lovely tea? Because you disappointed me? That’s silly. If I went around doing that to everyone who ever disappointed me or upset me or offended me, there would hardly be a single living soul left on the planet, now, would there?”

His bowels churned and gurgled again. The cramping felt like a sharp drill bit being slowly twisted back and forth, boring a hole through the loops and folds of his small intestine. “You drugged me.”

“I did no such thing. Have another cookie. It’ll calm you down.”

Krayne stared horrorstruck at the half-eaten piece still on his plate. Crystallized sugar dusting the top … if it was sugar … raspberry jam filling oozing out … if it was raspberry jam …

And where in the hell were Stockton and Hanley? Why weren’t they busting in here to stop this? Were they in on it? Had they decided the loss of eminent psychiatrist Dr. Francis Krayne was an acceptable sacrifice in order to keep themselves in energy-boosters and virility enhancements?

She had resumed her prattling … how tired she’d been of laundry and dishes and endless chores … how eager to get out of that rut before she ended up trapped in the same dull, plodding, meaningless life as her mother and grandmother and generations before them.

Sacklike floral housedresses and chapped washerwoman’s hands. Hair always pinned back in a bun or under a kerchief. Varicose veins on thick legs, puffy ankles overflowing flat boxy shoes. Married to some millworker who drank on the weekends and thought that it was his God-given duty to clout his wife and children back onto the straight and narrow if they wandered astray. A life so drab that spending six hours every Sunday on a hard wooden pew would be a respite.

“Anything, anything at all, would have been better than that,” she said. “It didn’t have to be a whirlwind of glamour and excitement, romance and adventure, expensive restaurants, dancing, jewelry. Of course, I wouldn’t have turned that down … I was never that foolish!” She laughed.

His innards had quieted again, but God, his head was foggy. He felt … not drugged, per se … but muffled … blunted …

What was the word he’d heard some of the guards using? Debuffed. Whatever that meant. He didn’t know what that meant. But it sounded right. It sounded like the way he felt. Debuffed to the gills.

“But you did get married,” he said. “You had children. You told me you did.”

“Yes.” She toyed with a scone. “Five of them, over the years, over the husbands. Once upon a time. I never did turn into my mother, though. And it isn’t as if I have a close relationship with any of them. Even the ones who are still alive.”

Krayne made a glottal sound of alarm, and she shot him a look.

“For heaven’s sake, Dr. Krayne. You can’t think I would have done anything to my own children, my own sweet babies. I was never as dedicated a mother as my own was, and some would argue that I probably wasn’t the best of wives, but what kind of a monster do you take me for?”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“I told you about Benny – his full name is Benjamin, after my brother, you know – and how Gerald’s family took him away from me.” Her lined face fell, and she dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a napkin. “I used to wonder about him. Quite often. All the time. He’d be sixty, but when I think of him, I still see a bowlegged little boy.”

He had a half-chewed petit-four in his mouth and no recollection of picking it up or putting it there. He washed it down with a gulp of tea.

A not-unpleasant sleepwalking sensation … of drift, of disconnect, of being an out-of-body observer suspended above the scene … had taken hold of his mind. He felt the way he sometimes did when he woke after a night spent under the influence of cold medicines. Rested, but remote. As if some sort of clear but thick and only barely permeable membrane was stretched between him and everything else.

“Richard, the poor dear, died in Vietnam,” Agnes said. “His brother Paul was fine the last I knew. Doing quite well. He became a banker or somesuch, got married, gave me a few grandchildren. My daughter Caitlin married just out of high school and moved away; I haven’t heard from her in ages. She and I never did get along. I suppose she has children … I suppose it’s possible I even have some great-grandchildren out there by now. But for some reason, none of them have ever had much interest in keeping in touch. If not for Blanche --”

“Some reason? No wonder! Grandma in the Zig for poisoning Grandpa, what’s not to be proud of? I’m sure it’d be a big hit at Family Tree Day, if schools still do that. Cookies for the PTA bake sale, Grandma Arsenic’s special recipe! Or why not bring in a walking corpse for Show-and-Tell?”

The soothing, discreet background piano music hit a jangled nails-on-the-blackboard note. The pianist and the technician were both looking at him, aghast. Across the table, Agnes Black had her napkin crushed into a linen wad, and her red-painted lips forming an O of absolute astonishment.

Only then, as a hot flush began to climb his cheeks, did Krayne realize he’d said that out loud.

***