It was the night before the Grand Opening, when all through the museum not a creature was stirring, except for the two shadows that had paused outside the central showcase in the main hall, red lenses from night vision goggles reflecting faintly on the armoured glass. Britannica squatted closer to the ground and smirked to herself with complacent satisfaction. First night out and already a catch.

The choice of the new museum area for her first round had come naturally. She had always loved museums with their grand, immaculate rooms and the almost reverent atmosphere that such places unfailingly carried with them. Tomorrow was day one of the much awaited Ancestral Britain exhibition and she could not resist having a preview peek.

The slight, deliciously guilty feeling of transgression sent tingles all over her skin. Years of reading about superheroes roaming their sleeping city like fearsome yet benevolent shadows, and now was finally her turn ! Okay, Liverpool was not New York or Gotham City and she was no Spiderman or Batman, but this was her city and she its new, self-appointed guardian angel.

The two cat-burglars had dropped their bags and set down to work. Pocket laser beams defractors, subsonic distortion emitters, nitrogen-saturated spray. All pro work. Well, that was the least they owed her. She took a deep breath in. Gave a last, approving check to the red, white and blue pattern coursing her energised skin. Tensed up. And jumped.

One supple, powerful leap took her over the railings and into the dark, silent air. Intangible energy currents brushed softly against her extended body as water a diver hitting the still surface, sending electric ripples all over her skin, curling past her breasts, snaking along her belly, down her legs. She arched to the full and somersaulted, the invisible tide washing up her buttocks and back, tousling her short, spiky hair. Almost like flying, falling without feeling the full tug of gravity. Something she would definitely have to explore. Like so many other novelties spicing up her dull office girl's life of late.

She landed with the lightest of thuds behind the two interlopers, legs spread apart, breasts and belly almost touching the ground. She rose slowly to her feet, ruing her small size that killed all chances of a dramatic, looming, Dark Knight appearance.

'Putting in overtime, fellas ?', she drawled. The pair jumped, nearly dropping the expensive equipment.

'What the hell… ?', one exclaimed, reaching for his holster.

'Surprise !', she sang, hands on her hips, a ferocious smile on her lips.

'Wait, it's a bloody girl, look at her !', the second one cried, restraining his sidekick's arm as he drew out a chrome-gripped revolver.

Britannica pouted, annoyed at the belittling comment.

'What the hell do you think you're playing at, kid ?', cat number one asked derisively, his hand still clutching the weapon. He pushed up his goggles. His eyes were laughing. His mate drew away from him slowly, arms hanging casually by his side, a silly grin on his face.

'Strange kind of question for amateur, late-night burglars', she quipped. Damn ! She would have to work on better cues. This was really too lame… !

'Nice outfit you have here, girl', the rogue continued while his friend edge further away. 'Very… becoming, to say the least.' He gave her a lecherous grin. Britannica felt herself blush crimson under her tricoloured camouflage. Gosh ! But he looked at her like he could see her naked… which she wasn't, properly speaking. Well, technically, yes, she was, but this was different, she had spent a full hour patterning her skin till it was just the right combination, so he couldn't…

She gave herself a look-over. The colours were still there, the Union Jack stretching over like a proud tattoo. She looked at her arm. The pattern was shifting a little but it held.

Darkness surged on the corner of her eye.

She crouched, one hand resting flat on the ground. The man's silhouette flew over her, hands futilely clutching emptiness. She used her arm as a leverage, brought her legs up, rotated like a spinning top, her whole bodyweight balanced on the palm of her hand, and brought her joint feet down on the man's exposed side as he fell forward. he grunted and came crashing on the floor, sliding for a few metres. Britannica's feet touched ground and she crouched again, focusing the momentum on her thigh muscles and calf. She sprang up and was in mid-air when the first burglar pounced where her back should have been and stumbled forward. She flipped over backward and landed softly on her toes, interposing herself between the two rogues and the showcase.

Both men struggled to their feet, shaking heads and darting bemused looks in her direction. Britannica grinned at their discomfiture and gave a quick look at the object of their criminal desire. The old spearhead and its petrified wood staff had not moved. Good. She could… She froze. Focused on the reflection in the glass. Felt a chill course down her spine. Blinked. looked again.

Prayed for it to be a mirage.

Which it was not.

Britannica felt her face burn crimson as she caught the reflection of her naked butt on the showcase.

Moving shadows caught her eye again. Frantic heartbeats pulsed in her ears. The air grew unbearably hot.

'Okay guys', she blurted, retreating towards the trophy case. 'Let's be reasonable and call it a day, right. You don't want to be hurt, right ?' She pointed a finger at them which she hoped would have some menace in it, all the time willing her hands to stay away from her buttocks.

The two cat-burglars moved in, fists clenched, eyes betraying a mixture of weariness and disquiet.

They threw themselves at her. Britannica jumped again, used their shoulders as a prop and catapulted away. She landed easily, only to discover that colour was fading away from her arms now and the top of her thighs. She stood up briskly, heart thumping madly in her breast.

Cat number one came charging at her with a roar, anger and frustration overcoming doubt. She slid down onto her side as reached out for her, tripped his legs and grasped the front of his suit as he toppled forward. Brought him crashing to the floor, jaw first. Her head felt dizzy now. She rose awkwardly and was thrust sideways as the second cat caught her in a bear hug. She cried. Brought an elbow backward. Felt it impact against the man's cheekbone. Caught a side of her naked leg and feet.

They rolled to the ground, still locked together. Britannica struggled blindly, kicking and punching. She threw her head backward in desperation as the man's hands groped over her increasingly exposed belly, tightening his grip. The back of her skull crashed against his nose with a crunching noise. She lurched forward, escaping the grip, and turned to face her adversary. The man was frozen in a fœtal position, holding his devastated nose, whimpering to himself.

Britannica took a breath. Lurched up. And found herself dragged backward, arms pinned to her sides. She fell brutally, fighting for breath as fine silver meshes tightened around her. She brought her arms forward and tore at the composite net with clawed fingers. Her legs kicked and jabbed as if of their own free will but space was shrinking away dramatically. She threw her whole weight forward, nearly sat up before stumbling on her side again. She propped herself on her imprisoned arms, gathered her legs to her and raised her head.

The gas caught her full in the face.

'Well, well, well… What have we got here ?', she heard a voice say somewhere close or far away. Sound merged with light and shadows in a crazy farandole all around her. She thought she saw a cerulean blue shape looming over. Filling space.

'Interesting catch…', the echo hammered inside her brain. '…ike… rue… ermaid…gends…'

Reality faded in.

Dark.

The tall woman jostled past her henchmen as they crouched over their catch with disconcerted interest. She flung the gas pistol to one of them and came to a halt. Of all the surprises she might have expected tonight…

The girl's naked body lay motionless in its meshed cocoon. Shadows played with small curves and shapely limbs, giving her a beguiling look of youthful innocence. The woman sighed pensively as heavy eyelids drooped over fazed eyes.

'Interesting catch, gentlemen', she commented. 'Looks like we fished a true mermaid in this hall of legend'. She turned away and walked sedately to the showcase. A new team was finishing the break-in. They made way for her as she came to stand in front of the opening. She remained motionless for a few second, as if lost in prayer or contemplation then reached out and seized the spear. A relieved smile parted her lips.

'Pick up your equipment, we're leaving', she said. Her voice, just above a whisper, still echoed in the silent room.

'What about the girl ?', a voice asked.

The woman turned. Gazed at Britannica's unconscious body. Smiled again.

'Pick her up too. We're not leaving any evidence behind'.

The cat-suited troop filed back into the darkness. The woman brought up the rear, shadows dancing on her cerulean blue rubber suit.

Boddicea's Spear swayed lightly in her hand.

*

Susan woke up feeling dizzy. It took a while before her eyes grew accustomed to the light in the room after what had seemed like an endless ride through a tunnel full of still darkness. She blinked painfully, multicoloured coronas shifting in front of her tearful eyes as she willed her lazy brains to give sense to her perceptions. Sensation started to come back with the slow dissipation of the last toxins polluting her bloodstream. She raised a heavy head and had to close her eyes when the wall in front of her started moving. She breathed hard through her nose. Somehow her mouth would not let air fully in as it should. She wrinkled her nose, pursed her lips. Something thin and tight pressed uniformly against the lower part of her face and her cheek. She tried to touch it but found she could not. She blinked again. Focused hard. Gaze downward along the bridge of her nose. The blue band of her gag appeared like a fuzzy patch over her lips and cheeks. Her compressed lips conveyed the smooth touch of thin rubber to her brains but obstinately refused to move.

'Mmmm….'

She closed her eyes again and tried to locate her hands. Ironically, the gaz had ripped away the panic together with her grasp on consciousness, and she found she could more easily channel energy through her skin. She opened mind channels to her limbs and sensation trailed in their wake like a rising tide. She took a deep, slow breath. Reality regained consistence. She flexed numb fingers. Felt the blood tingling against her reviving skin. She could almost see the energetic wave pattern eddying around, merging and flowing all over her with slowly increasing intensity, nudging her back to full consciousness.

She shifted her shoulders. Her arms had been pressed together and pinned behind her back. A quick sensory review revealed thin restraints biting into flesh around her wrists and above her elbows. She could feel the same kind of restraint coursing above her breasts and around her waist. She opened cautious eyes and peered calmly down. Her vision came into focus after a short while. She was kneeling on a hard floor surface, each leg slightly apart from the other and held fast by a narrow leather thong wrapped around the top of her thigh and her ankle. Her exposed pubis and buttocks brushed softly against the side of her feet when she moved.

Somehow the realisation of her nakedness no longer upset her. The colours had gone but she did not feel as vulnerable as she had during the museum fight. With the toxin-induced calm still lingering within her brains, panic now seemed like an absurdly excessive reaction. And yet…

She collected her thoughts and focused on herself. Energy current shifted lazily, showing reluctance at having new patterns imposed on their essentially entropic nature. She hung on, infusing her still wobbly will into her skin, dispatching directions. Colours stirred feebly across her belly, oozing up to her breasts and down to her pubis. She felt resistance building up as she increased pressure. Channels burst open, leaking energetic flux. She re-composed herself and followed the new currents, merging with them, coaxing them in new directions. The outer layer of her skin fluctuated imperceptibly as more vivid colours transpired and expanded. She allowed them to flow up her breasts, concentrating on the nipples which they covered erratically before splashing downwards again. Her lower belly tingled as the colours simultaneously reached for her pubis, burying the dark hair protectively and coalescing into a roughly uniform coating.

Britannica sighed in guarded relief. It was far from being a performance but considering her predicament, modesty seemed the most suitable option.

She gave a tentative tug at her bonds. Not that she had much hope but at least it helped her finish gathering sensations. She strained against her gag for a similar result. Turning her head, she saw an array of metal struts coursing along the width of the room. Some kind of scaffolding probably. Her wrists and arm-ties had been fastened to it just above waist level, forcing her to bend slightly forward.

Vibrations pervaded the ground in step with some dull background noise. She could not hear anyone nor feel any living presence outside her. The light felt less crude now her eyes had adjusted. She faced a bare painted metal wall and reinforced door.

The long wait began.

Britannica started as metal rasped against metal and the door to her cell opened. She must have dozed off the fatigue resulting from her channelling exercise and the last remnants of the gas. She raised tired eyes to the blue silhouette advancing towards her. The woman was tall and athletic-looking, every curve of her slender body moulded into a tight-fitting, cerulean blue rubber outfit that seemed alive with long muscles rippling smoothly underneath. Short-cropped black hair framed twinkling eyes and smiling lips. She stopped in front of her, holding a flask and a small tin goblet in her hands.

'Awake at last', she said in a clear voice. 'I was worried the dose had been a trifle too strong.'

Britannica kept looking up, trying to size her up. The woman radiated confidence and ease to such a point it was unsettling. She shivered. Her captor noticed her reaction and crouched down, laying the flask and tumbler on the ground by her side.

'Sorry about that, girl', she said without a hint of irony as her eyes surveyed the forbidding restraints. 'I told my guys to take good care of you. Visibly you had quite an effect on them.' Now, she could feel amused irony.

'We'll ease it up for a while, shall we', she proposed. Britannica gave a small nod and allowed the long fingers to reach behind her head and unknot the rubber band imprisoning her mouth. It came off with a squelchy sound.

'Britannica licked sore, dry lips with relief and swallowed. 'Thank you', she said.

'You're welcome', the woman smiled, plastering the gag on the top of her thigh. 'I'm Ticia. T for short.'

Britannica held her gaze but did not reply. Ticia's smile stayed on nevertheless.

'And you are a very strange girl', she said, looking at her inquisitively. She took up the flask and filled the small tumbler. 'Here', she offered, 'drink this. It will help dissipate the after-effects of the gas and re-hydrate you'.

Britannica hesitated for a second then sipped the liquid. It was cool and sugary, and seemed to shower through her whole body as soon as it reached her stomach.

'Now', T pursued, 'I won't ask why a comely girl like you was doing in a museum in the middle of the night in such an… unusual attire. Acrylic body paint ?' She raised a humorous eyebrow. 'Anyway, I guess you'll understand my position from now on…'

Britannica blushed in embarrassment but refused to be daunted. 'And why would a 'comely girl' like you walk rubber-clad into the midst of a closed exhibition ?', she quipped.

'Ah… but see, this is more than ordinary rubber', T bragged. 'This', she said, pinching the fabric on her arm, 'is the ultimate in patterned molecular research. The end product of years of hard work. A fabric with unrivalled thermal properties and a few other… more secret virtues, shall we say.'

'Which you choose to use for crime', Britannica countered.

'Choice… yes…' she mused, her look darkening for a second. 'The world's greatest luxury. Yes, I believe you can say that. It can have this use… and many other as well.' Her eyes were smiling again as she caressed the discarded gag.

'What were you after, in the museum?', Britannica enquired, sensing she was running out of time. 'Looks like an awfully big operation for an unsaleable antiquity'.

'Ah, my dear, curious kitten', T chided, 'who talked about selling anything ? As if you could sell the past…', she added as an afterthought.

'This relic… Boddicea's Spear, am I right ? What can you hope to do with it ? Are you some kind of mad collector or…'

T gave a short, airy laugh. 'Why do determined people always have to be mad ?'

Britannica looked at her wonderingly, uncertain what to make of the statement. T shook her head fondly and picked up the gag.

'Right, enough chatting for tonight', she said. 'I'd feel better if you kindly tried to lay all this to rest and tried to sleep.'

'You gotta be kidmmmphhhh…'

T tightened the knot and smoothed the band on both side of her face. She faced Britannica in silence, searching her eyes with enigmatic intensity.

'You know', she mused, 'I've got this funny feeling I haven't seen the last of you…'. Her fingers delicately traced the outline of her lips under the gag, slid down her chin then moved to her belly with its broad three-coloured smudge. The colours parted as she traced her way to her belly button.

'Acrylic body paint, yeah…'

The sound of the closing door echoed briefly through the room. Britannica looked down to her belly.

The trace of T's fingers was slowly fading away.

*

Long, silent moments elapsed and still nothing happened. Britannica waited until she felt her organism had completely rid itself of the toxin then shifted her position so she was squarely resting on her knees, her stomach muscles contracted to provide balance as she raised her head as much as her bonds allowed. She took deep breaths, allowing the oxygen to clean away the lingering tension, closed her eyes and listened with her whole body. Her perception focused on the regular beating of her heart, the blood stream pumping through arteries and disseminating through the ever more complex and fragile network of veins, irrigating tissues and nerves.

As awareness grew, so did the energetic patterns criss-crossing her body, mingling at cellular level until her whole being appeared to her mind's eye as one framework of pulsating light. She started to channel some energy streams, driving them through her skin tissues to the areas where the bonds dug into her flesh. She focused hard till she felt she was caught in an array of burning shackles, till the pain became so vivid that she had to relent. She winced, eyes still closed, sweat running down her forehead and the bridge of her nose. Her mouth felt hot where her breath got caught into the hermetic barrier of her gag.

No way she could burn through the thongs, she rued. Yet she thought this might work, she could see no reason why it shouldn't… except doubt, lack of control, insufficient training. She cursed inwardly. If only her body could be made of metal, hard and shiny… no better, if it could be made of diamond or the finest, purest crystal, all cutting edges and smooth, flawless surfaces that nothing could get a lasting grip on. Yeah, she could picture that… it would be great… energy would course through her whole body, re-ordering molecules and shifting density. She would feel the change progressing through each nerve, each pore, remoulding her until she had become what she wanted to be. It would take just a whiff of power then, a mere inspiration until…

She was free.

Breath was knocked off her chest as she fell abruptly to the floor, arms still wedged behind her back. She lay dazed on the hard composite, her breasts protesting at the squashing pressure of her prone body, stars dancing before her eyes. Slowly, she brought her numb hands forward and peered in surprise at the red marks circling her wrists. She pushed up and got to her knees. More marks throbbed dully where the thongs had been, which were now lying all round her, torn and broken. She gripped the metal struts behind her and rose shakily to her feet. Gave herself a look-over. The last patches of diamond-hard skin were quickly fading away, leaving her suddenly cold and tingling all over.

Once again she found herself naked. She rubbed a fragile hand against the skin of her arm, trying to recover some body heat. Never before had she felt so utterly vulnerable.

The door was unsurprisingly bolted down. She padded round the giant scaffolding towards the source of the vibrations she had been feeling all along. The construct itself housed nothing but only -and thankfully- served to sustain the derelict roof and moisture-stained walls of what must be a storehouse or disused factory. Dry cement dust clung to the sole of her feet as she made her way to a metal footbridge stretching across a rectangular pit from which the sound and vibration emanated. She crouched down and approached the edge and the slender hollow tubes serving as a makeshift railing, once more painfully aware of her nakedness as she felt the cold seep up from the hard, dusty floor and cover her buttocks and thighs with goose pimples.

From her vantage point she had a perfect view of the cumbersome machinery that cluttered nearly half the ground and purred awesomely like some giant mechanical cat. One rubber-clad henchman had been left to man the contraption which consisted of a hefty vat linked to the main body by an array of tubes, cable and pressure-valved pipes. Susan could not help but compare it to some incongruous cross-over between a 19th century printing machine and a cutting-edge washing machine.

The unceasing rumble gratefully covered her advance as she crossed the creaking footbridge and entered the doorless opening on the other side. She found herself going down dark, cement stairs and her heart sank when she realised it was leading her to the same room she had been spying form above. The exit was in the shadow and she squeezed herself against the wall before casting a nervous eye out. The lone henchman was busy keying instructions into the framed-in computer. Several piles of plastic-sheathed bundles surrounded him and partially blocked his view of the door. Susan crouched, ran and leaped forward, rolling on the floor to quickly hide behind the improvised barricade. From the corner of her eye she could see a wide conveyor belt slowly disgorging steaming packages.
The man was concentrating on his task, oblivious to the world, his face reduced to a puzzled frown while his fingers danced on the keyboard. Susan stood up briskly and walked up to him, strutting her nakedness before his surprised, ogling eyes.

'Hey there ! », she sang.

'What the hell…', the henchman gasped as she strutted her nakedness before his disbelieving, look.

'Oh, I see you haven't been told…', Susan went on in puzzled, slightly pained tone.

'Told what… ??' His head was frantically twisting from head to right while his gaze struggled to stay glued to her enticing curves.

'It's your lucky day…', she crooned, shuffling closer, hands behind her back.

'Look, it's… Lucky day… ?', he whistled. His whole body was trembling, his head a demented weather wane.

Susan's knee crashed into his privates in a flash of pain and he doubled up. A sharp kick in the jaw followed that sent him sprawling onto the floor. She straddled the unconscious body, sparing him the barest of glances, and walked to the keyboard.

'The day you the jackpot hit you, moron', she muttered.

There was a small screen above the keyboard displaying output statistics, graphs and menus. A self-contained production line, she surmised. She went over to the conveyor belt and picked up one of the packages. She tore up the still warm plastic envelope and extracted a folded black rubber suit similar to the one T had been wearing. The material felt like liquid gel not yet solidified. It writhed in her hand like a synthetic amoeba. She discarded the package and went back to the keyboard. A few minutes' exploration taught her the basics of the production process and she quickly turned her attention to the secondary functions, with a particular focus on graphics and designs.

Reason and safety commanded that she put on an anonymous suit and try to merge into the hostile crowd, but something deep within her kept tugging her in the opposite direction, calling for passion and recklessness. Her fingers flew over the keys as she yielded to a trance-like state and let her intuition take digital shape. The deep rumble of the machine digesting the unfamiliar data filled her with anxious expectation and she received the object of her desire with trembling hands. The squelchy fabric oozed over her skin and conveyed blissful heat into inch after inch of flesh it adhered to. It rolled over her legs, swallowed her waist and torso, embraced her neck until only her head remained free. She tore up the remaining material, cupped it in both hands and moulded it onto her face with a mixture of relief and reverence. Careful rubs cleared open areas for her eyes, nostrils and mouth.

Britannica stood still, listening to the song of the suit as it finished fitting itself to its owner. The fabric slowly constricted against her body, driving out pockets of air and coiling around articulation points into thin protective padding. Then she took a few tentative steps, flexed and bent to test the flexibility and resilience of her new, second skin.
Her lips started parting into a wide, jubilant grin.

The red, white and blue pattern of the Union Jack glowed quietly against the moist shadows as she left the pit and walked back up the stairs.

*

'Careful with this stuff, boys ! You wouldn't want to have to pick the pieces, believe me… '

The voice echoed, quiet and masterful, in the dark and empty space of the large storeroom. Britannica crouched low on her perch up in the shadows, observing the comings and goings of rubber-clad goons ferrying huge wooden crates from the building to waiting trucks parked in a tidy line outside the entrance. Her intent eye lingered on the proud, cerrulean blue silhouette standing aside from the steady stream of men and crates and overseeing the transfer with jealous vigilance.

It had been no real difficulty to climb up the scaffolding and into the rafters that painstakingly supported the crumbling roof. T's beverage had worked wonders on her exhausted organism, and her easy victory down in the pit had rekindled the wavering flame of confidence in her. But most of all, it was the uniform. Creating it, giving it shape and colours, seeing it born out of fantasy and machinery had allowed her hero persona to recover ground over the fearful, forever uncertain office girl that moments before had been bound in humiliating, naked helplessness. Donning the tricoloured skin had been like a second birth after a night of defeat and captivity. As the warm fabric slowly moulded itself over her body, so Britannica came back to life, revelling in her newly found freedom and power.

And thirsting for revenge.

The big sliding doors clanged shut after a last, ear-rending shriek and T stood alone in the middle of the room, hands clasped behind her back, musing in silence as a general contemplating a coming battle. Britannica tore a metal splinter loose from the rafter underneath her -how malleable the rusty, weakened material felt to her diamond hard hand..!-, aimed and threw it forcefully. There was a sharp noise as it impacted into the bulky electricity metre not ten yards form her enemy, a brief shower of sparks, and the darkness fell over the room.

'Damn! What...?!'

Britannica observed as T waited patiently for her vision to accommodate to the sudden absence of light, her breathing quiet as ever, betraying no apprehension. The tall woman raised her head, closed her eyes, as if questioning the emptiness, then turned blindly in her direction.

'Is that you, girl...?', she called, her hands coming to rest by the sides of her hips.

Britannica nearly jumped. The damn woman must also have some kind of superpowers, there was no other way... She sounded almost as if she had been expecting this...?!

'Is that you, girl?', she insisted.

So be it. Britannica stood up, casting a defiant look downwards, her feet firmly planted on the narrow strip of metal.

'You ARE someone to be reckoned with...', she greeted.

'Allow me to return the compliment, child', T replied, now walking at a leisurely pace towards the stabbed metre. 'I honestly thought I had you well secured for the night. Did it not feel comfortable enough?'
Britannica could not prevent a crooked smile. Damn woman!

'If that's your idea of a comfy night, you'll certainly enjoy my invitation ,then...', she said, now following T's steps along the girder.

T had reached the metre and closed her hand around the splinter.

'An invitation...?, she crooned. 'Mmm... to what, may I enquire...?' She pulled the ragged chunk of metal out.

'Let's start with a night in jail, shall we?', Britannica's voice echoed from above.

T turned, her eye glimmering mischievously. She pretended fascinated absorption into the splinter resting in her hand. 'Bad guys always go to jail, is that it?', she challenged. Was that tension creeping up in her voice?

'Your choice, not mine.'

'So if I'm the bad guy in this story, who are you, pray? She turned to face her, eyes locked on hers despite the dark. Britannica breathed deeply and stood her ground.

'As I once heard, every character in a story has a nemesis... Now I don't know yet if you're mine, but I'll gladly be yours.' Damn! That sounded really good, she thought jubilantly. A little bit overdone perhaps, but then, she was just a rookie in the trade...

'Sooo grateful...', T sang. The splinter flashed from her hand before Britannica even saw her hand move and darted straight at her. It hit he rleg and ricocheted away. Britannica swayed with a sharp cry but quickly recovered. She checked her leg. The suit had been thinly cut but there was no blood. When she felt it, her gloved fingers slid smoothly over diamond-hard skin. Thank God for instinct, she thought.

'Curiouser and curiouser', T mused. Her eyes never left her as she leaped high above her, flipped forward and landed with unearthly grace ten paces form her.

'Still don't know your name, girl', she taunted, fingers flexing slightly.

Britannica raised herself to her (modest ) full height and locked stares with her. All good humour had gone and T felt awed despite her best effort. So young, and yet...

'My name is Britannica. Sword of Albion. Daughter of Camelot. I have received much from this land. Now is the time to give back. Can you understand that, at least?'

T. would have laughed in other circumstances, but the girl's complete earnestness and determination killed any hint of mockery in her throat. The small, slender body and pretty face had become one fascinating, living flag and darkness seemed to ebb away from her, like dusk at sunrise.

'I do', she said solemnly. Respect was the least requirement when witnessing the birth of a hero. And T had no doubt whatsoever as to what was happening before her startled eyes.

'So...?', Britannica offered. So much youth still, so much innocence; T. thought with a mixture of fondness and sadness.

'Then you have to catch me', she smiled and threw a leg-swipe at her face.

Britannica ducked easily and replied in kind, but T. Was already out of reach and running towards the sliding doors. She leaped and stretched in the air, her body suddenly light as a feather, and closed her arms around the woman's waist. They rolled to the ground, kicking and wincing. T turned in Britannica's embrace and pushed her head away with the palm of her hand stuck firmly under her chin. Her leg came up and struck Britannica viciously in the kidney. The girl hero gasped as breath was knocked from her chest and let go of her embrace. T followed with an uppercut that swished just past her adversary's jaw. Britannica rolled away and stood up, clutching her side, willing breath back into her chest. T charged fists first and she just had time to dodge but the woman had the edge now. She draw her in and leaped when she struck again but T caught her ankle as she flew above her and sent her crashing to the ground. She was just about to stand when she felt a hard weight press against her back and sides. T leant low over her and locked her head between her arms, holding her hair tight.

'You're too shy, girl', she heard T whisper with a pant, her lips brushing slightly against her earlobe.

Britannica strained but T's lock forces her face to the hard ground.

'Funny how this material works', she said. 'Works wonders with me but seems to slow you down somehow...'

'What do you mean..?', Britannica winced.

'Anyway, I'll make sure this time my rubber magic holds this pretty body nice, naked and VERY tight.'

T braced herself, ready to knock her unconscious against the cement floor, when she felt her grip round Britannica's waist slacken. She gasped in surprise when the floor started to crumble beneath her and her arms got slowly crushed under the girl's head and throat. She cried in anguish. Britannica's body beneath her had become as hard and unyielding as the toughest rock or metal, and she felt ripples of energy course beneath her tricoloured suit.

She was torn away from her. For a time she was falling or flying through space, then something crashed against her back and she blacked out before pain overloaded her synapses. She did not hear the rumble thundering overhead as the roof took the brunt of the impact of the shattered pillar against which she crashed, and started to disintegrate into unwieldly, falling pieces.

Britannica came to in complete darkness. As she tried to move, her body and limbs encountered numerous, hard-edged obstacles and for a time she thought she was back in her cell and what she felt was the bite of leather bonds against her naked flesh. She sneezed and yelped as her nose hit the hard, dusty ground. Memory slowly oozed back, together with a decent amount of pain and inhuman exhaustion. Her fingers probed around, revealing the narrow confines of her stone coffin. She gave a trembling sigh and squeezed her eyes shut.

The wreckage of the collapsed roof moved with ponderous slowness under the relentless push coming from underneath. Torn wood, shattered plaster and bits of cement rolled or slid aside as the ground heaved with a grainy complaint.

Britannica's tousled white head and tricoloured back emerged in a cloud of dust. Her body shook heavily as she coughed the pollution away and stumbled blindly towards the nearest wall. She leant against the course surface, head down, one hand resting on a bent knee, spluttering and sobbing like a new-born freshly out of her mother's womb.

Silence and fading darkness greeted her sore vision. She took long minutes to finally stand up and wander back to the middle of the room. She could see the open sky high above and through the crenellated top of the shaken wall. The ground was a chaos of rubble and dust.

She was alone.

She shuffled blindly through the ruined building for ages, clearing scraps and debris, to no avail. The suit-manufacturing machine had been crushed beyond repair, its attendant probably long gone. T was nowhere to be found.

All evidence gone.

Criminals gone.

Case closed.

Britannica sank to her knees and hugged herself fiercely, rocking to and fro in the crisp early dawn air.

*

Susan sat on the edge of the sofa and wedged herself gingerly between the host of cushions she had prepared to receive her aching body. Three days now and morning still felt like she would never manage to drag herself out of bed, what with exhaustion and stiffness. Evening was no better. She still failed to understand how she had actually found the will and strength to go to work and listen to everlasting customers' complaint for eight hours a day without blowing her top or simply collapsing.

'I guess the need for a distraction was greater than the urge to surrender to my current physical shabbiness', she thought down-heartedly.

She tucked her feet beneath her and reached for the tea. The effort made her wince and she sighed heavily as she sipped the hot beverage. She reached out for the remote and switched on the news. The warm bath she had just taken and the soft, fluffy bathrobe and white cotton socks she had found refuge into were starting to work their simple magic. She yawned generously, nursing her tea and letting her mind wander.

But the aches she had been feeling for days were a relentless and bitter reminder of how completely she had failed herself and her country in her first mission as a self-appointed 'guardian angel'. The sheer audacity and vanity of her pretension never failed to amaze her in the self-deprecating state of mind she now found herself wallowing in. Most of all, she had failed the enemy she was fighting. In allowing her emotions to overcome the already slim amount of self-control she had painstakingly imposed on her troubled mind and body, she had proved no better than those she wanted to fight. A wanton destroyer, showing no regard for the space she moved in or the lives she affected. Worst, she had allowed her unleashed powers to take a life she should by right have sought to protect at all costs.

The shield and sword of Britannia had proved far too heavy for the office girl she was at heart. How could it had been otherwise?

Vanity.

'But still no trace of the famed trophy, which the museum says was well-insured but the theft of which remains an irreparable loss and an affront to this country's most ancient heritage...'

Susan felt the now familiar swelling in her throat. She offered a silent prayer for the police to succeed, without the pain of intrusive media or uncontrollable, amateur superheroes.

'...all the more suspicious as another ancient artefact, Athena's Shield, was stolen yesterday night from Athenes' main museum in similar circumstances. An attack perpetrated, the Greek authorities report, by rubber-clad cat-burglars equipped with state-of-the-art electronics. The attendants were incapacitated with a nerve-gas while...'

Susan straightened up and yelp in pain as her carelessness got its reward. The newsreader was mouthing unintelligible words as she struggled to digest the fragment she had just heard. She clasped her tea mug with shaking fingers while hot tears started rolling down her cheeks and she sobbed uncontrollably.

The screen now showed a picture of Athena's Shield, no more than a shiny blur to her wet eyes. But in this blur, it was Ticia's smile she actually saw, superior and challenging at the same time, egging her on. So she had survived, and Susan now found it hard to understand how she might have thought otherwise. In the end, it was just a question of determination. T knew what she wanted, and how far she was ready to go to secure her goals. That much had been obvious when they talked. It was simply blatant now. And the realisation hurt, in a different, but no less potent way.

It all came down to one word.

Choice.

And all the pain, doubt and heartache it entailed.

'But in so doing, it's the people's very soul they attack, he told the press...'

Susan indulged in one last, body-racking sob and winced at both the pain and relief that submerged her. Just below the window, the fading evening light was colouring the wooden floor in honeyed tones.

'Till the next time...', she heard herself whisper. 'And I'll be ready...'

****

 

© Nathan Dayspring/ Tish Summers, 2004/05
© Tish Summers, 2004/05