'Aaahh… TCHII !!'

Galaxies of Christmas lights erupted and swirled around her eyes. Britannica opened wide, tearful eyes and beamed wonderingly at the joyfully disjointed universe as light clouds of fine white powder billowed and started to settle all around her. She registered a dull thud in her lower back and the dim, clattering noise of shattered material scattering around on a hard surface. She turned around and gazed dreamily at the upturned face gawking at her from beside the long, debris-strewn table. The man looked like one of those medieval church gargoyles, she thought, lanky body frozen in a parody of attack, both hands raised above his head and clutching at the ridiculously short remnants of a chair, his face was pale and distorted in an exaggerated representation of awe. She frowned inquiringly as he slowly went down to his knees and crossed himself while his lips mouthed some long-forgotten prayer.

She looked around. The whole room had fallen silent and dozens of like faces now looked up at her and radiated a chaos of emotions ranging from childish amazement to simple blue fear. Raw white neon light glared at them from the ceiling and blended features into a collective suspended sigh. She looked down. The table looked funny with its jumble of scattered instruments, broken glass and burst plastic bags, like a small-scale setting for a kid's action figures. In fact, the whole room now looked like a miniature background sprawling below her feet.

Then it registered.

'Whoaa!!', she laughed, looking at the waiting crowd for confirmation. 'I'm floating!'

A confused murmur of agreement rose to meet her. She looked at her feet, gave a tentative paddle and giggled at the lazy eddies of dust it created.

'I just don't know how I did it...!', she reflected, smiling at them all and proferring upturned hands in awkward apology.

Time started to flow again.

She hit the tabletop hard.

Britannica shook her head and waved an irritated hand at the multicoloured myriads assaulting her brain. She blinked hard from among the ruins of the laboratory furniture and blocked a sneeze. More white dust twirled and settled around her.

'Oh bugger', she mouthed.

Instinct took over and she leaped high just as the bullets ripped and tore the remnants of the lab table into shreds, sending plastic and glass shards hurtling in all directions. She hovered about for the tiniest of seconds, still light-headed and fuzzy, then swooped down in a red, white and blue blur. The crowd huffed collectively and scattered with the impact. Guns and hot shellcases clattered all around on the cement floor. Her hand gripped the front of a shirt, pulled hard and threw. There was a gasp, the sound of a crash somewhere far behind. By then she was already grappling with another struggling prey. A rain of fists, clubs and gun butts pelted down on her and barely abated to make way for another live windmilling projectile. Britannica clenched her jaws and breathed hard through the nose. Her enhanced metabolism had cleared most of the drug she had inhaled in the fight but the essence were still coursing through her bloodstream and polluting her senses. Somehow the cleaning process felt longer than necessary, as if her body had wanted to subject the stuff to thorough analysis and made a genetic note of its effects before ridding itself of it.

Her elbow flashed backward and up, stopping a descending Uzi gun inches from her head. The metal disintegrated along invisible splitting lines and exploded. The man staggered back, holding his shattered hand in front of his eyes, blood running from a thousand tiny cuts peppering his face. She grunted, shook her head in annoyance and sent an arm in a wide, sweeping motion. Cloth, flesh and bones offered damaging resistance to her elusive fingertips then were gone. Britannica crouched low on the floor, breathing hard now, willing the last of the drug away. Her heart was pounding like mad inside her chest and she could feel her whole body singing with adrenaline and hormones. She bent her head down and gave a deep, shuddering sight that ended in a moan. Her multicoloured patterns danced feverishly on her skin, flashing their demands to her weakened brain. She knew of battle lust for having read of it in her favourite comic books. Its first manifestations had come as a slightly guilt-inducing but mainly welcome surprise, ranking her among the fiercest heroes. But as she braced herself, hands flat on the cold floor, she realised this was the real thing. Not a passing tingling of the nerves, a mild inner warmth that made you feel all funny inside. This was deep, relentless, shattering. Hot as hell.

She grunted again as a tremor rushed through her body and threatened to send her down, hands coursing between her legs. Pictures of battle, faces of friends and foes, peaceful and cruel scenes, real or imagined, once again unleashed. The flesh and the mind struggling to reconcile. Trying to remember. Sensing the pleasure. Dreading the pain.

It ended.

Heat ebbed down as swiftly as it had come in, leaving her empty and shivering. Britannica raised her head. Her mask had receded, exposing her sweat-bathed face and dilated pupils. Naked skin peeked out where parts of her uniform had melted away. Swiftly she re-ordered her appearance and hid her blush behind the Flag. Her legs felt wobbly under her but this she was accustomed to and could manage. She scan the room in silence. Not one of the prone bodies moved, either to call for help, challenge or flee. The floor was strewn with glass, metal, delicate equipment now turned rubbish. Thousands of pounds of merchandise, the stuff of dreams and nightmares gone to dust. She smirked at the irony of the metaphor. One head down, a multitude to go.

A chill wind blew in from the burst open door. Somehow she did not feel like taking the modest exit. High above, the lights flickered invitingly. She smiled.

And braced her legs.

*

'Jeeezuss, Suze', Cassie whistled sottovoce, 'wherever do you store all that food?'

Susan looked up and flashed a mischievous, slightly greasy grin at her friend from across the table. She was halfway through her second plate of scrambled eggs and bacon and showed no sign of relenting. She swabbed some surviving beans and dressing with a buttered scrap of toast and gulped it greedily.

'Had a reshtlessh nightsh...', she offered by way of an explanation. Cassie lifted a delicately drawn eyebrow.

'Did you, indeed?', she leered, emerald-green eyes glinting equally mischievously.

Susan nearly choked herself, realising what she had just said. She hid the rising heat behind a hot tea mug.

'I mean... couldn't sleep. Happens sometimes... you know... So then, I'm hungry in the morning...' She dared not look up, unwilling check the effect on her law-enforcing friend of the lamest argument since the Government's 45-minute claim.

Cassandra and herself had lately got into the habit of having breakfast together at a small pub midway between their respective workplaces. Actually the Unicorn and Hunter was closer to Susan's job than it was to Cassie's office and she suspected her friend would have chosen someplace even closer, had she not insisted on it being equally convenient. She could not remember who had made the suggestion first, only that she felt so grateful for starting the day in her friend's company, as she generally ended it, Cassie's hectic schedule permitting.

Susan could feel Cassandra's smile on her as she drained the last of her tea. She had that unsettling look that made her cringe inwardly and at the same time filled her with a burning thirst for more. The feeling awoke memories from the last night and she once again felt the pangs of hunger. She reached blindly for the teapot and barely felt it explode at the contact of her knuckles.

'Oh damn!', Cassie exclaimed, starting backward. Susan looked up, saw the mess and instinctively drew back her wet hand which she hid guiltily under the table.

'I'm sorry...', she said, looking at the drenched tablecloth and the mess she had once again created.

'Man', Cassie breathed. 'You seen that?' Are you hurt? Let me see your hand.'

'T's okay', Susan smiled awkwardly, suddenly very shy. She hid her hand deeper under the table.

'No way', Cassie insisted and reached across the table. 'That stuff was burning hot. Don't be a child and let me see your hand.'

There was no way resisting Cassandra when she pulled off the commanding act. Susan reluctantly drew out her hand and offered it for inspection. Cassie's fingers ran over the reddened skin, feeling it gingerly.

'Right. Nothing bad', she said with relief. 'You'll want to put a balm on it, though'. Susan blushed again, less for the contact of Cassie's soft fingertips than the small lie she had contrived by quickly giving her armoured skin a reddish hue she knew her friend would be looking for.

'You are such a clumsy kid, sometimes', Cassie chided fondly. 'Here', she said and brought Susan's hand up to kiss it lightly. 'Just like your mum did when...'

The words stuck in her throat. The moment was awfully awkward and Susan was just that half-second late to avoid the damage.

'Gosh!', Cassie breathed. She let go of her hand and shook her head in self-disgust. 'I'm sorry, Susan', she apologised, eyes focused on the napkin she was now busy folding into a square nonsense. 'I'm such an unfeeling bitch, really...' And such a damn fool, she added to herself with a sharp mental kick.

'Cassie, it's okay', Susan entreated. 'Really, I...'

But the young officer was not listening. Susan froze, once more at a loss, looking for words that would bring her friend's attention back to her.

'Cassie...?', she enquired.

Cassandra's hands cut her off sharply. She saw her stand up silently, almost sleepily and head towards the exit. Her words barely registered as she watched her cross the street to the bank on the other side, one hand reaching under her jacket.

'Stay here and wait for me.'

*

There was still a distinct hollow in the pit of her stomach as she walked away but this was getting filled with steel as she neared the entrance of the bank. Cassandra unclipped her holster and made sure the gun would slide easily out. All her alarms were now flashing red and once again she blessed as much as she cursed her sixth sense for trouble. She checked both side of the street. Not that many passers-by at this early hour. Maybe this time she would get off lightly. A smirk hovered over her lips as the thought came up and was dismissed abruptly. She had long given up such hopes (and many others by the way) for lost and prided herself on it. No wonder she proved so poor at dealing with the Susan factor, she reflected bitterly. What was she thinking of, anyway...?

The cold surface of the glass door on her outstretched palm cut off the line of thought and gratefully re-focused her on the job at hand. It had been but the faintest shadow of movement seen from afar, more an intuition than anything else, but she knew better than to ignore such promptings. That was what made the difference between herself and her colleagues. Between business as usual and hitting the fan. And one day, she knew, between life and death. Whichever way this would take her.

There were four of them. Unmasked. The first seized her by the shoulder and threw her forward before slamming the door shut. She put on her best shocked-female expression and moved towards the centre of the room where she stayed, looking appropriately lost and frightened. The second guy beckoned to her from among the silent clerks sitting frozen at their desks. Three clients standing at the positions. The last two robbers rummaging behind. Nothing bad so far.

She waited for Number Two to signal her again impatiently and moved on uncertain legs. Number One by the door. Three and Four minding their business. Number Two grabbed her by the arm and made to sit her on a nearby chair. She tripped and collided with him. Her elbow found his lower stomach and dug deep. He started to double over and was stopped by his head crashing against her raised knee. She held the head firmly and banged it against the corner of the desk. Dull thud as he hit the carpeted floor. Twenty-nine seconds in. Collective sigh. Number One opened his mouth in dismay and raised his gun. She swivelled, drew her Walther and fired. Shouts and screams. Chairs collapsing. Everybody down. Number one's hand lashed back , blood spattering his face and front sweater. The second bullet hit him high on the shoulder and sent him hurtling against the door and sliding down. Thirty-six seconds. More screams and keening. Moving away from the desks and the frontshop windows towards the back of the room. Attract their fire. Number one slid over the position, crouched to the floor and aimed at her from the corner. Number two simply stood and shot. Time to make a stand. Forty-two seconds. The first bullet missed her and gave her time to adjust her aim. The second whistled past where her head had been half a second earlier. She fired back. The bullet ripped against the gun, grazed his arm and buried itself in the wall in a shower of plaster dust. Hitch. One more shot to send him sprawling. Forty-seven seconds. Number One still standing. No way she could avoid biting it. She turned slightly aside, counting on his bullet to hit through the side of her abdomen, left lung or shoulder and open up a window for her to down him.

Forty-eight seconds.

Still that would hurt. Damn!

But it was like the first time. The explosion of glass, the red, white and blue blur, the crash of plastic and metal and bruised flesh. No strong arms holding her close, though, no armoured body slithering against her and providing cover. The shot rang hard in the room and was followed by a high-pitched yelp of pain as the crushed gun exploded in Number One's hand. His sagging body was lifted high above the debris, seemed to hover there for an instant and then flew across the room to hit the opposite wall hard. The paint and plaster cracked and chipped away, crowning his tousled hair with fine dust.

Britannica turned slowly, colours shimmering proudly over her small lithe body, black hair wild and defiant over her masked face and white, feral smile.

'You okay?', she asked, the voice still uncommonly deep for such a small person.

Cassandra stood, arms half raised, finger still pressing the trigger hard. Her breath was caught somewhere in her chest. Had been so for the last fifty seconds, at least. Finally her body overrode her and she gave out a deep, slightly shaky sigh that sounded like a laugh. Or a sob.

'You okay?', the girl insisted, head quizzingly bent aside, pursing lips echoing a concerned frown under the mask.

'You...', Cassandra started then became aware of heads starting to rise all around. 'You...'

'I...?', Britannica invited, moving closer now.

'ARE YOU FUCKING MAD?!!', Cassandra finally exploded, sending everyone to cower again behind desks and chairs.

'Wh... What?', Britannica stammered, recoiling with shock. 'Hey, I just came to help, that's all', she added, finely gloved hands spread out apologetically. 'Doing my job, that's all it is.'

'Your job?!', Cassandra lashed hoarsely. 'YOUR JOB?!! You could have got us all killed, you fool! YOU could have been killed!'

She moved on Britannica still holding her gun tight. The masked girl walked back, seeming to shrink under her assault. Her smile was gone, she truly looked like a kid now. Lost and hurt. She hated it. That made her even madder.

'You needed help...', Britannica ventured. 'I couldn't let him...'

Cassandra stopped. The girl looked at her, wondering where her words had gone. This had to end, she thought. Right now. Before someone got hurt. Hurt real bad.

'I'm a police officer, young lady', she said in the coldest tone she could muster. 'This is my job. I know what I do. You don't'. Britannica stayed silent. Somewhere afar, sirens had started wailing. She watched each word bore its way into the girl's soul with grim satisfaction. The young heroin had turned statue-like, a desperately open target. Better hurt now than cry later, she told herself, and shivered with self-loathing as she twisted the knife one last time.

'In this I walk alone', she said.

*

'Did I just hear you sigh? Am I perchance bothering you? Would you like me to call at a more convenient time, perhaps?'

The voice was pure hot bile dripping from the headset.

'No sir', Susan heard herself say, 'not at all sir. I'm sorry sir... If you would just...'

'DON'T YOU 'SORRY-SIR' ME, YOU USELESS SLUT AND GIVE ME MY ANSWERS RIGHT NOW!!'

'Ouch!' Susan half tore out the headset from her ears, ears burning with the shame as much as the clamour of insults. This was definitely one of those days. She had left Cassandra with the barest of goodbyes a couple of hours before. Not that there was a great many options available when her friend re-assumed her 'I-mean-business-so-don't-eff-with-me' persona. Still a few words of comfort or at least a smile would have helped, especially after the withering dressing-down the young detective had seen fit to give her supposedly 'friendly neighbourhood'. But of course Cassie couldn't know, could she? Couldn't fathom how deep the words had cut into little Susan, how painful her look had been, leaving her to dress up awkwardly in the pub restroom with a throat so swollen she thought she would choke beneath her collar.

It was drizzling by the time she left her to sort out the mess with her 'fellow' officers. Where would she fit in all that, the clumsy, masked (!) do-gooder in a maverick officer's tale? Susan sighed again, ignoring the tiny voice screaming 'I heard that' and other niceties from the other side of the line. Of course, it had been pouring down for most of her walk to work, just so she could another day weathering the usual shower of abuse with cold feet and soggy stockings.

She leaned back for an instant, rubbing her numb toes against her calf, treating herself to a short spell of self-pity. Why the hell not, after all, she mused bitterly. As if it could make things worse...

'And this', the voice said, 'is where the buzz of activity never stops'. Susan froze.

'Well', it corrected coldly, 'There will always be the one Shirker among Workers in the hive, if you will allow me the metaphor. Won't you agree, Susan?'

Susan wavered between collapsing definitely or facing the incoming storm. In the end, sheer weariness prevailed and she turned to bravely (fatalistically?) withstand another bawling out.

'Yes, Max', she said ruefully. 'I mean, no Max. I mean. I'm sorry, it's just...'

'I was just telling Mr Silva here how dedicated our staff was...', he continued, his blandly handsome features a mixture of annoyance, embarrassment and anxiety. Susan's eyes slid over him to pause on the man next to her boss. He was of medium height (still close to a giant to her standards), solidly build but not the work-out kind with a blunt, angular face, short brown black hair greying at the temples and dark eyes. Not an Apollo yet not an unattractive mix either, was her first thought. Her second reflection was along the same line.

'Whoa! You're OLD...!'

Unfortunately, it came out loud.

Max struggled to avoid impending death by combined asphyxiation and apoplexy. It took him a good thirty seconds to decide whether the sharp slap in the back he got from his laughing client was meant as a life-saver or active euthanasia. By then he was out of the picture.

'Now, you sure don't mince your words, do you, Miss...?'

'Carter. Susan Carter...', she blustered. 'Sir', she added quickly, as if white glue could mend what remains of your auntie's favourite flower pot. One of those days... dammit!

'Glad to meet you, Susan Carter', he smiled and took her hand in a strong clutch. 'I'm Marcus Silva. Thirty-five. Please don't guess at my weight.'

Susan's rising blush turned an alarming crimson at the man's savage congeniality... and sex-appeal, her suddenly waking wayward hormones added urgently. Her headset finished slipping off her head to her shoulder, where it kept on broadcasting its relentless wordflow.

'Allow me', he said and reached for the device. Susan watched bemused as he put it on and took over, one hand casually stuck inside a pocket of his black business suit.

'Yes sir?', he said smilingly. 'Yes sir. Indeed sir. I see...', he went on, the smile growing ferocious by the second. 'Indeed... quite. The boss? Not really... Just above, as a matter of fact... yes... Help...? Of course I will, with pleasure... here's the drill...

Susan and Max exchanged uncertain glances. The kind you give when the room is caving in and you wonder which way to run.

'Yes, fold the notice AND invoice together... yes, roll them into a cylinder, yes... that's essential... Then...'

There was a blank. His eyes gleamed as he listened to a last query. Then his voice rang out.

Then you just shove the whole up your sorry ass and sit on it till it reaches what little brain you might happen to have. Courtesy of Silva Enterprises. If you still need help with that, just drop in and I'll be glad to give you hand, you useless prick.'

Another blank. Silva gave her back the headset with what might pass for a wink. He turned to Max. Pairs of eyes focused on him in a suddenly silent room.

'Er, Susan, everybody...', he said in a voice that suggested a strong inclination to faint. 'Allow me to introduce M. Marcus Silva. Mr Silva is buying us out. He is our new boss as of today.'

*

They said a criminal always comes back to haunt the scene of his crime. Well, that must first depend on your definition of the term 'criminal', Britannica thought. The goons she had dispatched the night before sure had not come back for seconds, nor were they likely to reappear in the vicinity in the near future. At least not unless they had some sort of death wish or perhaps a very private desire to see their personal nemesis come down again and dish out more rewards, she reflected smugly.

Gods, she sighed mentally, but it felt good to be back in the skin...!. Now that she had better control of her changing power, the prospect of slipping off her clothes and donning the colours no longer worried her, and what little awkwardness remained had actually turned out to spice up the ritual. Well, no well-behaved girl could actually go run naked in the night and feel like it's Saturday afternoon shopping, could they? She hugged her knee and buried a sudden urge to giggle. Careful, she chided herself. You had never heard of a super hero laughing herself off her perch and the rafters she was sitting on were not that broad, even for her small self.

A slight scraping sound broke the empty silence of the ruined lab and she sat up abruptly. Talking about 'criminals'... She gripped the side of her metal seat for balance and took a peek down. The visitor's shadow drowned the pale pool of light surrounding the entrance before melting with the penumbra. Britannica watched in silence as the silhouette walked in and the door closed with a dull sound. There was nothing for a time, only the cold peace of the Merseyside night and both their breaths sending flimsy ghosts into the dark.

'What about joining me down there', Cassandra called into the emptiness, 'or do you intend to spend the rest of the night keeping company with sleeping pigeons?'

Britannica swore inwardly. Damn her gorgeous cool head! Was there anything that could surprise her? She stood up lithely, spun on herself and let go. Her straight shape toppled over and she slid down, eyes half-closed, tasting the light crisp air flowing against her skin. At the last moment she gathered her limbs, turned round and sprayed her fingers. Her feet and palms greeted the cement floor without a sound and she stood up slowly to meet purest of emerald eyes.

'Hey, nightbird', the young officer said. 'You're one headstrong girl, aren't you?'

Britannica smiled then gave herself a mental kick for falling head first into the trap. 'You have no idea', she replied, giving her voice the deepest ring she could muster. Thank heavens for small mercies, she had learnt the trick soon enough and added voice control to the growing list of her new abilities.

Cassandra eyed her silently for a while. She had yet to decide whether the girl was infuriating or simply annoying. Both, of course, which made the outcome as inevitable as... well, whatever... And still she needed the confrontation, with all the nightly drama and pregnant silences it could offer. Sometimes you had to defer to cliché. A tiny shred of stability in a decidedly disjointed universe. Hell, she would never learn, would she...?

Britannica was looking at her, slightly nonplussed, expectant. Girlish head slightly tilted on the side, waiting for her to give out her cue. She took a deep breath in.

'This has got to stop', she said.

There. Now do your part.

Britannica's head came straight. She opened wide, inquiring eyes.

'Why?', she said.

Cassie closed her eyes, feeling suddenly very tired.

Oh, bugger! She thought. She really meant to have it all the way down.

'Look', she resumed, biting hard on a violent desire to shake the girl's head loose, 'this is not a superhero story or whatever you think this is. It's the real world. And I don't need half-grown girl getting in my path and making a mess of my life.'

Eat it. Hell, why could this not be over right now? Damn her foolishness.

Britannica's smile faded into a peevish line. She had heard that line before. Hated every word of it. Only then it was good Susan who had borne the brunt of it. Quiet, little, beady-eyed Susan. She ground her teeth silently. She had let remorse and doubt quietly eat at her all day long again. Had borne frustration, boredom and showers of insults with the same old heartfelt apologies and good girl smile. Little Susan indeed. So insecure and set in her unassuming ways. Welcoming abuse as will a guilt-ridden penitent his abject punishment. Dammit! She thought she would melt away in shame under Silva's white knight smile and manners.

'So what am I supposed to do?', she challenged, crossing her arms under her small, perky breasts. The young officer's eyes lingered a micro-second too long over the revealing shades. What on earth could she wearing to...?? 'Go on with my sorry life and watch the gangs slip through every hole in the net? Stay on the sideline and let drug dealers ply their death trade unopposed? Like here?' She gave an angry kick at the ground. Cement dust and a flimsy cloud of white powder rose and hovered low between them.

A good slap for a start, Cassie fantasised. Then... She sighed noisily, not bothering to conceal her rising irritation.

'Know what this stuff was?', she said icily.

Britannica shrugged. 'Drugs', she said matter-of-factly. 'White powder. Bad stuff.'

'Heroin', Cassie cut off. 'You were lucky. Had it been crystal meth cooking, you would have blown the whole place and your cutie self to kingdom come and beyond.'

Britannica seemed to waver. Perhaps..., Cassie thought, and wondered whether she should feel elated or crushed.

There was an awkward pause.

But that was all that it was.

'Now, that's a bit rich coming from a gung-ho, trigger-happy, demolition-prone cop, don't you think?' Britannica launched, eyes suddenly alive with inner fire. Her finger poked hard between her breasts. Cassie winced and took an unwitting step back.

Uh oh. Hit a smart point, I did, she thought uneasily.

'AND', Britannica went on, now openly indignant, 'I don't recall you ever thanking me from rescuing your lovely ass. TWICE, if I'm not mistaken'. This time she did not poke but nearly. 'AND I don't recall anybody doing anything while this guys happily took care of their little business here. AND if you or your mates had been on the case, I would have appreciated some advice. Or help. Or both. Because I have been granted a gift and I can't just ignore it. Won't, as a matter of fact. And you would act the same in my place. Only you're too damn proud and stubborn to admit it. Or call for help when you need it. Miss I-Walk-Alone Vangelis. Because it's easier to drive away those who would help you. And I didn't like the way you treated me earlier...'

This time it was Cassandra's time to open wide, oggling eyes. The shock of the outburst had frozen her inside, and she had to fight hard to learn how to breathe again. Britannica's face was but an inch or two from her own, her sweet breath brushing ever so slightly against her lips and nose.

'... and it was not nice', she ended, sounding disarmingly apologetic and girlish again.

Cassandra swallowed painfully. This was not what she had had in mind. How could she have been so dum and blind?

'I...', she stammered.

The door opened with a nasty clang that echoed throughout the place and sent sleeping birds and wandering pests flapping and scurrying away. Harsh white light glared at the two girls and a cold draft ran past them.

'Funny place for a date, ladies', a voice sneered from the of the end of the room. Cassie blinked hard and scanned the dim silhouettes filing inside. Nearly a dozen thugs. Guns and clubs. Local ragtags. Probably hired to check on the neighbourhood until the masters re-assumed control. No good. But then, could you really expect anything else? Her hand started to slip up to her holster. Incredibly soft fingers caught the nook of her arm and stayed her.

'Wait', Britannica whispered in her ear.

The gang spread around them and the door closed viciously shut. She thought she hear one or two sniggers of anticipation and the dull thumping of clubs against cupped hands or coarse trousers cloth.

'Look...', Cassie started but Britannica cut her off.

'Don't, she simply said, her voice as even as it was compelling. Her fingers pressed deeper, though not painfully, into her skin. 'Not again. Not ever.'

Cassie's hand went down to rest by her side. She scanned the place again. Felt the girl's presence just behind. Warm, getting warmer. More luminous. So... intense for such a small body.

She tensed up. This was it then, she thought, half-guilty, half-jubilant. The light danced on their bodies, a teasing appetiser for the coming feast. How well could she handle a challenge, she wondered. Once she would not even have dreamt of asking herself the question. She felt a smile rise to her lips. Felt her shoulders and neck muscles relax. Now, if she thought her life was a mess...

So be it.

'Your move', she said simply.

Her smile grew feral.

***

 

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