'Dress SEXY.'

A pleasantly unexpected though not entirely surprising request, considering its maker. Unsettling as well, but not unwelcome. In fact it had a deliciously challenging ring to it and in that it fitted one Susan Carter's current mood to perfection.

She shamelessly elbowed her way through the last of the waiting crowd, ignoring indignant protests and leers, and came to face the local bouncer. He was a mountain of a man, at least if compared to her diminutive size, and had the forbidding yet reassuring looks of a professional fighter, which he certainly was. More than a small-league boxer held such part-time jobs in the city's nightclubs and Susan had read enough about such characters in her favourite comic books not to lose her countenance before them and actually feel cheeky enough to deal with them. This is how Jacob Hodgson, 27, single, semi-pro boxer and training fireman, got the brightest smile of his evening and a funny feeling of having been happily tricked by some
passing unworldly apparition.

The Restaurant (short for The Restaurant at the End of the Universe after a famous Douglas Adams' novel) had opened the previous week and was still in the process of introducing itself to Liverpool's party-goers while putting up with a fair yet inevitable load of initial problems. Susan walked down the dimly-lit corridor and straight to the first of three dance floor, ogling at the dazzling, multicoloured decorations and blissfully unaware of the confused waiters, late DJ, arguing customers and snogging managers (the office being conveniently locked and out of the way in the latter case). She had received a free entrance-cum-drink delivered to her office by special mail that morning and Cassie's text-message on her cell phone by midday. The date held in a few peremptory words, namely 'Hi QT. CU 2nite 8.30. Dress SEXY.'

It had been the start of a hellish afternoon during which, the universe conspired to slow down time to a crawl in the immediate vicinity of her desk and open a wormhole to channel a good ninety percent of the Creation's customer's dissatisfaction straight into her headset. Which turned out to be a tad annoying for the young operator and extremely unfortunate for the malcontents bent on venting their personal grudge against the world on some poor anonymous soul on the other end of the line.

"THEN WHY DON'T YOU SHOVE THE WHOLE EFFING DEVICE UP YOUR 'A' AND SIT ON IT, YOU NITWIT ?!"

Shocked silence and awed faces had greeted her mid-afternoon advice to discontent customer number 127, then time had speeded forward for a while on the back of general office buzz and frenzied e-conversation. Susan for her part had spent the next fifteen minutes in the Ladies' switching madly from dismay to confusion to astonishment to giggle and back again. She had given her flushed reflection in the toilet mirror a quizzing look. There had been Silva in her verbal sally, that much was obvious. Her new boss had made a strong impression on her. The still young businessman had stormed the city's financial place and her professional life with an ease and authority she could only admire and yearn for. Silva had power and did not refrain from using it because he knew how to use it. His attractiveness came from his essential knowledge of himself and his limits. In such knowledge lay balance, and balance spelt confidence. A causation she deeply believed in (after all, had she not just described her childhood hero Britannicus ?) and was increasingly aching over as Britannica struggled within the smothering confines of her life and pined for, no, demanded satisfaction with a hunger that fascinated as much as it frightened her. Most frightening was the very fact that fear had steadily been giving ground to open fascination and a wicked sense of exultation as Susan glided through restless nights and now increasingly fretful days.

'Dress SEXY.' Had anyone ever dared her so? Would she have even noticed, let alone responded ? Cassie's invitation looked like another piece of some arcane puzzle coming together. An essential riddle that had Susan toss, turn and sweat within the privacy of her bed sheets, made her cross, uncross and rub her legs together behind her desk. Imprinted Cassie's face, body and perfume into the back of her head where they burnt until she wanted to scream. Tear off her clothes.

Explode.

There Susan stood naked on the wooden floor of her bedroom. There Britannica donned the colours. There the red, white and blue flashed across the city's roofs, roved the docks and back alleys, fed on unsuspected preys' raw fear and anger, feasted on the violence they bred like a night bird on rodents.

Satisfy the hunger.

She had left the office in a rush, it was not raining but who cared anyway, jumped on a bus and was starting to undress before she closed the door to her small flat. The next two hours had been spent in a frenzy of searching, picking up, discarding, trying on, taking off, retrying, rejecting and generally wreaking havoc of an until then military-style domestic environment.
In the end she had settled for a shamefully short, tight-fitting, low-cleaved black dress, seamed stockings and shiny high heels. Her hair stood on top and gleamed with gel, her eyes were duly shaded. The daring reflection had drawn her invitingly red lips into a smug, mischievous smile and she had clattered out in a dream-like state.

And walked back in within seconds.

"SEXY', Susan. Not 'SLUTTISH".

Although, an impish voice insisted as she got undressed one-umpteenth time, 'sluttish would no doubt go down quite well with detective Vangelis'. Well, sometime maybe…

Now she waded through the flux of dancers in her short wavy black skirt, light, open-necked blouse and striped boxing shoes. The music was loud, a mixture of 1980s half-forgotten hits and club sounds. Mingled sweat and breaths played a heady symphony on her exposed lower arms, cleavage and thighs, sending messages of joy, fun, slight inebriation and underlying lust to her already overdriving organism. She jostled past a crowd of dancers and peered hard ahead. A black mane flashed in and out of sight as stroboscopic lights exploded and turned the arena into a black-and-white syncopated kaleidoscope. A waving hand sprung up, was swallowed by the living swell then came up again and beckoned insistently. Susan cleaved through, hooked on the elusive trail of Cassandra's intimate perfume.

"Susie!" Cassandra shouted over the loud thumps of the nearby sound blasters. "Where've you been? Gosh, you look so smart!"

Susan could not help but gawk at her friend snaking forward in a sequined, tight-fitting, definitely short, cross-strapped black dress. Her long hair flowed loose over her bare shoulders, her slender legs were perched high on awesome stilettos. Her eyes were two jade-green diamonds on dark velvet. Her kiss a feast of emotions.

'Slut', Susan thought confusedly while her heart melted in her chest and her mouth went dry.

"You ARE sexy, baby," Cassie laughed delightedly. "A true wanton six-former," she added with a leer. Her hand caught Susan's and carried her away into the heart of the swaying crowd. Susan first let herself be guided then found her own responding rhythm. Her body flowed on the intermingling flux of sounds, colours and feelings, her hands felt and switched patterns and shades while her eyes followed Cassie's twisting figure as a beacon in a lightening-lit night. In the far recesses of her mind, her rational side marvelled at the no-nonsense detective's uncanny transformation. Closer to the surface, the hungry supergirl drank her fill of olfactory and bodily touches so heedlessly dispensed amidst the press of anonymous bodies.

Susan exulted. Limbs courted each others, eyes searched, perfumes mingled, lips beckoned. The music had become a distant hubbub, lights whirled with a life of their own. Susan felt Cassie's breath on her mouth, the ever-so-slight brush of lipstick on her lips. She opened up in timely response, her tongue tender and tingling behind her teeth.

FLASH.

Time stopped.

Cassandra half-bumped, half-fell into her arm. Susan staggered back and bounced lightly against another couple. Cassandra used her as a prop to steady herself and combed a blind hand through her hair.

"You okay…?" Susan enquired, unable to decide whether she should feel flustered, confused or worried. Or all three at the same time. Cassie inhaled deeply and gave her a shaky thumbs up.

"Er, yeah," she smiled crookedly. "Er…" She gave her friend an uncertain look. "Too much press in here," she said and looked over her shoulder, rubbing her neck. So much for intimacy, Susan thought, now definitely flustered.

"Let's have a drink, all right?" She said. Cassie nodded and they elbowed their way towards the bar. There was a sudden push and she lost Cassie's hand. She turned round and caught sight of her friend waving her on. The bar was just behind her. She hustled through the remaining dancers.

FLASH.

Deep blue-ice sky.

Crisp winter air tingling against her bare skin.

An Eagle flying high above her, his golden wings spanning the world.

Shadow and silence.

She gasped and tottered forward. Lights and music assailed her senses like a freak wave. She cried and gripped a passing shoulder in mid-fall. The man turned, surprised then pleased and help her up.

"Quite a crowd, hey…?" He started hopefully.

"Er, sure is," Susan said and turned away with an apologetic smile and an absent-minded, dream-shattering pat on the shoulder. She shook her head and looked for Cassie. Better leave while they could still walk and spend the rest of the evening in one or the other's flat. 'Cassie's flat preferably,' the same impish voice suggested slyly.

The crowd parted briefly and Cassie emerged, definitely stunning in her black outfit. She reached out for her.

"Let's go home, shall we?" She offered.

Cassandra gave her a lost look. "What…?" She hesitated. "Who…?"

Susan felt worry wash over her and dispel any hint of a mischievous night. "Cassie, are you okay? You're not, are you?" She insisted. Cassandra seemed to look for words and fell silent. She gave Susan a blind look, shook her head, looked around and back to her. Still she did not answer.

"Okay," Susan said, sweetly but firmly. She wrapped her arm around her friend's back and coaxed her along toward the exit. "Let's go home. It's getting too loud in here anyway."

Behind them the rough and tumble of the club pursued its low, steady climb towards climax.

*
She looked like a child.

The cliché-ridden thought draw an indulgent smirk across Susan's lips as she gazed at a sleeping Cassie between increasingly heavy eyelids. The ride home had been swift, though expensive and not altogether pleasant owing to the meaningful rear view-mirror glimpses the cab driver had thought fit to give them along the way. Obviously the sight of two damn good-looking girls making a lurching way home would help carry him through an otherwise drab evening. The fact that one of them was happily slouching against her small friend and making a mess of her classy, tight-fitting dress did nothing to spoil the view. Almost certainly offered his lonely mind a rejoicing foretaste of the unholy, sapphic-oriented pleasures these two creatures would inevitably indulge in behind closed doors.

'Men,' she thought.

And wondered dreamily how a woman would have reacted to the same sight.

She smiled to herself. Envy was good when you caused it.

The only good point in their situation was that Cassie was in no state to notice anything. So Susan had gratefully allowed Britannica to gather the comatose beauty in strong arms and carry her in no time up the deserted flight of stairs to her apartment. Getting her into bed had been quite another matter as Susan quickly discovered she had little - actually no experience whatsoever at undressing somebody else, let alone a gorgeous girlfriend. Strength in this field offered no advantage, far to the contrary, and she had handled the young detective with anxious care for fear of ending up amidst a mess of torn clothes and splintered wood. She had sat Cassie up against her chest, eased the thin straps off her broad shoulders then coaxed the precious fabric down her breasts and flat belly. Of course she wore no bra and a thousand volts had screamed through her body and brain as her fingertips ran along the soft curves and found the pointed nipples. The smell of her crow-black hair was intoxicating and Susan's exacerbated senses had courted overload like never before. She had taken a deep though far from steady breath, closed her eyes shut against a host of molten visions threatening to flood her conscious mind and more or less managed to get her friend out of her dress without ruining it. Now Cassie rested peacefully against a fluffy-looking pillow, her black mane spreading lazily over her shoulder and back. One slender stockinged foot peeked out from under the white linen.

Everyone had their limits.

Even a super girl.

Susan huddled up in the large wicker armchair by the bed and hugged a big pillow for comfort and warmth. She had thought of calling a doctor but had decided against it after checking on her friend's condition. Colours had flowed over her fingertips and across her Cassie's skin as instinct probed her pulse and she let herself flow along her blood stream. She had found exhaustion there, tension as well, some deep confusion and a faint echo of underlying, chaotic emotions which a growing sense of anguish and intrusion had stopped her from exploring. More to the point she had found no trace of drugs, her first suspicion. She had heard of the dreaded 'rape drug' and how it was used in nightclubs against unsuspecting women. Cassie did sound like she had suddenly lost self-awareness but she had noticed none of the disinhibitting effects induced by a dose of Rohypnol.

'How would it have ended then?' She mused, and barely managed to chasten herself mentally for allowing such unconscionable thoughts past the barrier of concern and care. She yawned widely and brought her feet to the edge of her seat. Her socks had kept her feet warm so far but she could feel cold creeping up her bare legs and arms on a rising tide of tiredness. She gave Cassie a last, longing look, filled her mind with her marble profile and settled herself to sleep.

The Eagle was a golden embrace against the raw cerulean blue of the wintry sky. It hovered high above the sleeping earth and the silent snow-capped peaks, like some giant vessel of power moored at the heart a frozen ocean. She shielded her eyes against the glare of the naked sun and felt the thrill of awe and joy summon streams of goose bumps along her bare arms and legs.

The unearthly shriek pierced her eardrums and she yelled in surprised outrage and pain as the crystal-hard talons dug neat gory rows into her body armour and found the youthful flesh underneath. The impact threw her backward and she catapulted into the rocky skin of the mountain. Her hands came up in automatic defence but were batted away like paper screens by the furious wings and vicious beak. One of her copper wristband shattered against the assault and was ripped away in a shower of torn skin and flying blood that splattered her face and blinded her eyes. The Eagle's vengeful shrieks filled her ears and mind to the brink of insanity. Pain and anger crowded in her throat and she thought she would choke. A long, tearful moan rose from the depths of her soul, fuelled by fear and confusion until she was screaming back in hatred from behind the sticky cover of her crossed, ruined arms.

The light dimmed and a cold wind rose from the trembling earth like the long, silent echo of her agony. The Eagle froze, his shape shimmered and contorted, his very essence seeming suddenly to pulse as it writhed in the primal throes of the tidal wave.

She arched her back against the bare rock. Her knee came up, her sandaled foot found the feathery belly of the great bird. Her ravaged hands uncrossed just as she pushed with all her might and the air between them shattered like glass under diamond. Their eyes met, a shared reflection of raw power and hubris.

The Eagle was hurled away, his great wing flapping helplessly at the disintegrating reality.

Darkness and cold claimed her back.

Again.

"SON OF A BITCH!!"

She heard the dull sound of the body banging hard against the brick wall and thumping limply on to the ground before the actual crack of her knuckles against the man's jaw registered. The goon raised a feeble head and gave the tiniest of moans before collapsing into a gathering pool of bloody drool.

"Oh Gosh..." Britannica breathed, dismay suddenly rushing up her neck and flooding the blaze raging in her mind. She whisked to her victim, crouched down and grabbed him by the neck, anxiously searching for some flimsy light of consciousness in the broken face.

"You okay?" She enquired, thumb and finger prising a rapidly swelling eye half-open.

"Hhhnn, yeah, thanks..." He smiled dully and passed out. Britannica sighed with relief and lowered him back to the ground. She stood up on wobbly legs, feeling an onrush of weariness as the last streams of adrenaline seeped away and she was left cold and light-headed on the shores of her own rage. Her hand slipped forgetfully from her shoulder and came to rest flat across her lower belly. She scanned the devastation around her, the broken bodies, the shattered furniture and ruined walls, the dismantled weapons. Another gang biting the dust they planned to spray the city with. Another wasted effort, for all she knew. Gods, how she hated drug dealers. They seemed to thrive and multiply like so many monstrous heads these days, making her job look like filling the Danaïdes's barrel, futile and endless. If she could not root this evil out with all her will and super powers, what could the police hope to do, even with such dauntless elements such as Detective Vangelis...?

Cassie...

The thought of her friend, mingling with the endorphin of victorious fight, made her feel suddenly acutely aware of the persisting heat in her belly and the demanding pangs of post-battle hunger.

Cassie...

The afternoon was drawing to an end and she realised how empty her day had been. How futile she felt. Scouring the city, bashing the living daylights out of small parties of mobsters might have helped push back the feeling and vent some of the frustration, but the grim spectacle surrounding her only served now to throw her own shortcomings back to her with tenfold violence.

She had not seen Cassie for nearly a day now. Well, a little more than half a day, to be true, but it felt just the same. She had awoken in the empty bed, rumpled sheet partly covering her equally rumpled-feeling body. Her shirt had slipped off her shoulders, leaving them exposed to the morning chill, her skirt gone up and askew. Her hair was a mess. Her hand instinctively crawled blindly across the still warm expanse of the mattress but only met with emptiness. She did not remember slipping into or, for that matter, being taken to bed earlier in the night. The bed still bore the imprint of her friend's body. Susan wormed her way lazily to the slight depression where Cassie's body had lain and buried her face into the slightly moist and scented sheet, eyes closed, laying any hint of confused embarrassment to rest.

She had looked for a note or any indication of Cassie's whereabouts and when she would be back. Probably this was too much asking from the hard-headed police officer, especially after such a blatant and unaccustomed display of 'feminine weakness.' She took fond comfort from a mental picture of a pale-faced Cassie cursing her way out of bed and silently nursing her paracetamol-resistant hangover on her way to work.

Her flat had seemed both small and empty when she got there. Fifteen minutes and a quick shower later, she was out of the window and above the city streets, prowling the brisk lonely roofs under an exceptionally blue sky. The transition no longer bothered her now, nor did it require any mental effort for her body to answer the increasingly demanding summons of her secret self and fly Britannica's colours high and proud. So that where she had once thought of herself as a budding instance of a split personality, she now saw one harmonious identity assuming a long-buried (and achingly missed) trait. She could not remember when the change in her had occurred or even whether she should have expected any mental drawing of the curtains. For the first time ever, the constituent elements of her short life were quietly falling into place, as if on their own accord, and it felt both frightening and exciting.

But more than this, it felt right.

Britannica took a deep breath, shook her head briskly and leaped. Her fingers caught the trap in the ceiling and she hoisted herself nimbly through it and out onto the roof. He sun was starting to set above the greying expanse of the Mersey and a small breeze had arisen. Time to go home. She would just have to call the cops before and point them out to the day's windfall. Damn, now she understood why Batman and the likes all had those corny utility belts and fancy signals.

Was there even a working phone cabin in this god-forsaken part of town...?

*

Darkness everywhere, inside as well as outside. Cold, relentless and unforgiving, like liquid crystal sipping through every pore, invading her body, freezing her very soul, sucking every single parcel of life out of her.

Memories, dripping away like golden grains of sands in an hourglass. Smiling faces over a crib. A mother's kiss. Learning to walk. Stumbling into a father's warm embrace. Laughs like popping bubbles of happiness. Clear blue skies and the crisp caress of an early winter wind high in the mountains.

Sorrow.

Pain.

New faces. Concerned. Angry. Relieved and sad. Ageless eyes cursing or blessing. Bidding farewell. Forever.

Darkness everywhere. Wrapping her body. Clogging her mouth. Choking her breath. Writhing in invisible bonds. Screams of anguish forced back into in her throat. Blind. Cold.

So cold.

Britannica raised herself on outstretched, trembling arms and gasped awake. Her fingers dug hard into the concrete, breaking its lifeless surface like dry biscuit as she fought for breath and retched her way back to reality. She raised her head and saw the world of Liverpool's rooftops swaying gently like a seesaw against the glowing fabric of city night. She heaved a wracking sob and shut her eyes tight, willing her mind and body into focus.

Visions. Again. Remnant images fleeted briefly before her mind's eyes and were gone, leaving emptiness and frustration instead, like a dream vanishing into the early morning light before the mind can capture its significance. 'What was happening to her?' A recurring question of late. A wave of panic started to surge deep inside her as the prospect of losing herself entirely to her new chaotic persona hovered at the edge of consciousness. Her fingers crunched into the concrete and she clenched her teeth till it hurt. 'No,' she swore. 'She would not let herself go down. Not again. Not ever.' Raw anger simmered and swelled within her stomach, spreading relentlessly along her stiffening spine through blood-filling muscles, making the colours on her skin shimmer in energetic ripples while her face took on an unearthly glow. Happiness then jubilation overwhelmed her fears and she felt the ghosts of a long-forgotten past start to rise in a vengeful, triumphant clamour.

'Not yet,' a voice whispered. 'Soon, but not yet.'

Britannica blinked.

She closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath of cool night air. Feeling tired and slightly on the edge, she rose to wobbly feet and scanned the landscape beyond the rooftop. The Mersey glimmered dully as it flowed past the developing area and its half-finished projects. There was a 14-theatre movie complex to open down there in the year to come, as well as the usual array of bars, cheap restaurants and shops. For now it looked more like a ghost town straight out of an old Scooby-Doo episode and she snorted mentally when she found herself looking for a telltale gaudy green-and-blue van parking outside one of the blind buildings.

She had been attracted here. That much was obvious. There had been this unobtrusive itch tingling all along at the back of her mind. And the flashes. Passing sensations first, like repeated feelings of déjà-vu, then brief gaps in consciousness, like driving to work on a grey Monday morning and realising suddenly that half the trip has gone by without you noticing it. The gaps had grown wider and more intense as she left the central part of town behind her, until this. Iron-hot feedback's from gods knew where or when, engulfing her body, searing her very soul.

She knew Cassandra was close too, even if she could not yet begin to fathom the relationship between her friend, her disappearance and what had been happening to them since the night before. Cassie was missing. She had not reported to work today, had not been seen in any of her usual haunts, had not called anyone. Did she have anyone to call in cases of emergency? She wondered, apart from herself, maybe, she ventured. Two hours of passing herself off for the detective's 'visiting cousin' and avoiding blushing before the doubtful frowns and inquisitive looks had left Susan moody and restless.

Now hindsight and the receding pain still throbbing inside her skull had turned restlessness into downright worry, but also iron determination to see through this murk she had woken up into this morning. It was Cassie who had first shown the symptoms, nearly passing out at the nightclub for no obvious reason. Curse her for feasting on her sleeping body instead of trying to wake her up! But had she been in her normal state then? There had been this very first gap too, shortly before they left. Had she bumped into someone? Or had someone done something to her? The answer was there, she felt more than she knew, right there inside her mind, if only she could find the key to unlock the box.

She braced her legs, the ball of her feet cracking the weakened surface of the roof, energy coursing down her muscles as she prepared to jump. The complex was, what, two miles distant?

Easy, she smiled smugly.

The theatre had the cold, slightly creepy appearance of all unfinished buildings, with sombre bare walls lined with sallow-looking cables and random plaster smudges like flayed flesh on a petrified corpse. The dry smell of concrete and fresh cement filled the still air. Britannica padded past the glassless booths and into the main lobby. Pop-corn and soda. She remembered the trip with her class years ago, the ritual filing into the big, darkened room, greedy hands clutching goodies, excited voices giggling in anticipation. Jack Dawns would have liked to steal a kiss but the Princess Bride had proved a matchless competitor.

FLASH.

Familiar faces looking down at her. Whispered chatter. The wind blowing high above, pushing white clouds adrift in the deep blue sky.

Britannica gasped and tottered forward. The hall swayed, a fuzzy picture on a second-hand TV screen, colours twisting and merging. Wrong colours. She breathed in deep, nostrils flaring, eyes watering from the gritty cold air.

FLASH.

Arms holding her in a bear hug, fatherly, comforting. Heat sipping out of her body. Tender hands pressing into her flesh, searching. More heat escaping. Darkness. Fear.

She heaved a wracking sob and retched, hands groping forward, moist eyes wide open and feverish, seeking purchase in a fast-dissolving reality.

FLASH.

Talons raking at her belly. The flank of majestic Caucasus under a Spring light. Giant Eagle hovering high in the cerulean sky. A father's smile in the distance. Laughter. Darkness. Cold. A silver coin in my blanket. Cassandra's face in the night, round, unearthly eyes staring at her. Blinking.

Bare concrete rasped against her skin and flaked down as Britannica stumbled blindly forward. She gritted her teeth and swallowed back the scorching tide of rising nausea. Her hand found the hard surface of a pillar and she gripped it avidly, fighting for consciousness. Her fingers dug into the surface and sent tendrils of colour through the mixed layers, probing their structure, clutching at it, seeking purchase. She held on with all her might until slowly the maelstrom seemed to give in and subside, leaving the surface of reality shimmering with a thousand ripples - shreds of dreams, broken pieces of memories and fantasies drifting and fading away.

"Cassie...?"

Britannica reached out towards the familiar silhouette, the shining aura beckoning at her from afar in the penumbra. Faces and hands surrounded her as she drew closer, none of them familiar yet none of them unknown. She waded through them eagerly, as she had the night before at the club, clearing a path through the crowd as Cassie waved her hand over the milling heads of party-goers.

"Cassie...?"

Cassie's shoulder felt cold beneath her fingers. A stranger's skin on an estranged soul. She did not turn at once. Britannica froze up as if burnt by the uncanny touch and followed her friend's gaze up to the giant curved screen looming over the darkened theatre. She winced painfully as the colourful riot stormed her pupils and plugged directly into her brain. Colliding images whirled in her head, unchecked, relentless - a hike in the hills, the wind ruffling the heath and scattering fresh scents all over, changing clothes before getting out, battle cries echoing across the field where Roman swords crashed and broke against northern iron, a lover's kiss on my mouth, stopping for a snack, a bronze eagle shedding blood in the sunset, where's my wallet, a pebble in my shoe, she sleeps with her boss, my friend's dying eyes transfixing me, savage cries getting lost in the wind, music swimming in my ears, lights everywhere, forsaken, forsaken, forsaken...

"Cassie, stop this!" She cried and covered her friend's eyes with both her hands, her head cradled against her shoulder. "Don't look! Don't!"

Cassandra let out a hoarse, subdued moan as the flow abruptly stopped. Her body arched up convulsively against Britannica's and she thrashed around like a swimmer getting pulled under. Hands seize them both and tried to pull them apart. Britannica held fast and braced as a sudden tide of bodies surged and crashed against her. Breaths and scents and auras buffeted her and in the midst of the flood she recognized some of them, people from the club, still in their party clothes like Cassie, blind to the world, lost in this dream not theirs and others, passers-by, shoppers, neighbours, chanced upon, brushed against, caught.

Instinct took over and Britannica shook away the crush of bodies, elbowing out and kicking aside while holding Cassandra's struggling body tightly against her. She fought the tide, she fought herself too, blazing a path through the crowd while holding back her blows and keeping mounting battle lust under check. Clenched fists and grasping fingers rained down, pelted at her. Cassie's perfumed hair flew at her face, whipping her eyes. The press followed on and regrouped, pulsing like one giant puppet, awkward and blind. She stopped in her tracks, waited for the flow to push and contract against her, flexed her legs and jumped.

She hated it. Dodging the fight, leaving the enemy behind, standing and defiant. Alive. Time slowed down as it always did when she soared, inviting, telling her she could fly. From above she could scan the vast room, its neat lines of dark-red plastic-sheathed seats showered by the hypnotic reflection of the screen. Somehow she had stumbled into the main theatre, its entrance now blocked by the press of sleep-walking bodies like a gang living dead escaped from a an old horror movie. As she reached her apex, Cassandra moaned feebly, her hands reaching out to the seats below them to a silhouette sitting alone in the middle of a row, motionless, unconcerned.

Britannica swivelled, brought her legs up and slipped an arm under Cassandra's knees so as to cradle her in the fall. She increased her body mass and aimed at the ground. The floor and seats shattered under the impact and the whole room gave out a low, satisfying groan as the sudden stress reverberated throughout its structure. Cassandra coughed and struggled feebly in Britannica's iron grip. Dry, grey dust billowed out as she stepped over the wreckage and up to the lonely spectator.

The man was of average height, which still was a lot for Britannica, twenty-something with dark blond hair and pale blue eyes. His chin and cheeks wore a thin stubble, his lips were parched and half-open in what could equally pass for surprise or stupor. His cream-coloured sweater and faded jeans looked tired, just like the man himself. Britannica paused. She could not say what she had been expecting, only that whatever threat she faced, it was not supposed to look like the average Liverpudlian bachelor from hell.

"Help me," he said.

*

Haunted.

She had seen the word used in countless novels, comic books, newspapers articles. The place had a haunted look to it. It shall haunt you to your dying day, Britannicus! Refugees, lost and haunted, crashed through the embassy gates. It had meant nothing. Just a word, conveniently catchy and thoroughly hollow. A worn-out label on front page pictures and distant faces.

He looked at and through her. The eyes were wide-open, dry and red-rimmed, staring till they could not see. She had seen such a look once, a painting used as a textbook cover. The man wore one of these ample shirts they always wore in swashbuckling movies, his fingers raked at his head, tousling his dishevelled, semi-long hair. His eyes had the same compelling, haunted look.

The Desperate Man, the picture was entitled.

Britannica edged forward. Suddenly the place stood still. Cassandra has stopped struggling and stood limply in her arms. Behind him by the entrance to the theatre the sleepwalkers had literally frozen up, some reaching out to empty space above their heads, others pressing into them, all unaware that the colours had risen and gone. The man's breath came out light and halted, the only sign that life still had dominion here. She reached over and pressed gentle fingers into his shoulder.

The world exploded in a blinding conflagration of alien lights and colours and sensations that ripped her soul apart and sent her body tumbling forever.

Hiking through the land, the sun high and warm above her head. Leaving the city behind. That obnoxious jerk Williams, why did he have to pick her up as his scapegoat. Kath's smile as she walks by. Want some coffee? Driving out for the weekend, trying to take stock, just relax for a while. Things will sort themselves out.

FLASH.

Camping on the plain by the river. Large rectangular shields propped against each other within reach by the fire, guarding the bronze eagle. Smells of campfire and poor food. Wet and cold. The complaints of the wounded and a creeping sense of loss, like this chilling wetness eating out at the once-polished body armours and disciplined bodies.

FLASH.

Stopping by the river. Stretching out. A glint in the grass. An old piece of metal half-buried into the moist ground, looks like a broken blade. Serendipity. Funny word for a lucky find. Blood seeping out from the cut on her thumb. Still sharp after all these years.

FLASH.

Pain. Seeing men falling under the bite of iron. Striking back and out. Pain. Blood spills onto the ground. This land is hungry. Thoughts of home. Pain. Even more coming where dozens have yet fallen, an incoming tide of madness and resolve. Pain and broken promises. This should have been ours. This was meant to be ours.

FLASH.

Falling to her knees, feeling dizzy and weak. Strange memories. Alien. Searing like molten iron washing through her veins, raping her mind. Not mine. NOT MINE!

Falling to her knees, feeling dizzy and weak. Clasping warm sticky hands over my stomach. All my memories seeping into the land, this hungry land. Mine... it should have been MINE.

HOLY FUCK!!

The shock of tearing out scorched her brain and hurled her rattled body back. She just had time to cradle Cassandra's head in the hollow of her shoulder before the ruined seats burst out against her back, sending sharp-edged shards of plastic and metal flying across the room. Pain and dust blurred her vision and for a disturbing moment she felt like she was actually going to pass out. Nausea welled up inside her throat. She swallowed it back with a grunt. What the hell…?

The young man had risen to his feet and was tottering blindly forward, muscles wire taut under the thin pale skin. His face was a chaos of emotions, switching from joy to hope to sorrow and back to despair in seconds.

"You're lost too!" He croaked, his hands grasping at emptiness only he seemed able to see. "You can't help me."

Britannica gingerly disentangled herself from the wreckage, careful not to break his reverie. This was just too… unexpected. She needed time. Only time once again had become an extra rare commodity.

"Britannica…?" Cassie whispered, turning her face to her. "What… who…?" She cringed back against her in a silent rustle of cloth against skin. Britannica's breath caught in her throat.

"Careful," she whispered hoarsely.

"This doesn't look good," she offered.

"No, it doesn't!" Britannica replied while picking herself up.

She froze up. His dry, blood-shot eyes had fixed upon her again and were boring into mind

"YOU CAN'T HELP ME!" He yelled. Reality rippled like an ice-cold wave washing through their bare souls. She ground her teeth against the assault while Cassandra arched back against her with a surprised, aching gasp. Suddenly light was everywhere, spilling from the hapless youngster as his physical shape throbbed, faded and spread out. Magnetic arcs like fiery veins snaked up and around him, reaching out, questing, writhing in the ozone-charged atmosphere. There was a new tremor as the emerging colossus grew and the whole place shuddered with a dull, organic moan.

"Britannica," Cassandra began but the end of her sentence was lost in the death throes of the wounded building. Erring cracks coursed the walls and ceiling, carving out huge chunks of plaster and concrete that started to descend with unearthly slowness. Heat rose up and spread the plastic-sheathed seats with a molten sheen. Air itself seemed to have gone mad and rushed around haphazardly as if a dozen black holes were sucking the place into open space. The young man had all but disappeared and what had replaced him now crawled towards the two young women like a giant amoeba made of sheer light, sound and mental images.

"Gods!" Britannica breathed. Then it all collapsed.

It was a matter of instinct. Survival and nothing more. But as the complex folded down upon them Britannica held her friend tight and jumped.

When she looked down next, the dusty ruins finished spreading below them, coating the streets and escaping sleepwalkers with a ghostly veil.

The cool air of the night was on her face and tousling her short hair.

"Britannica," Cassandra started.

"Hmm?"

"Hold me tighter, will you?" She ventured, fingernails biting hard into the multi-coloured skin of her rescuer's arm muscles.

Britannica blinked. They were high indeed, and still rising.

"Oh bugger…"

They tumbled from the sky like a freaky piece of supersonic lead. Cassandra twisted in her grasp and ended up grabbing her shoulder and neck with spine-breaking strength while their legs scrambled in a mad, intertwining dance amidst biting drafts of rushing air.

"Do something, Goddammit!" Cassandra shouted in her face. Her grip tightened and wrenched Britannica's face closer to hers.

"What?" She shouted back almost into her mouth, panic rising as altitude dropped. She was ready to turn around and absorb most of the shock as she always did in such circumstances. But Cassie's body was merely human…

"You're the super girl, for God's sake," Cassandra replied indignantly. "Just fly it…!"

"But…"

"FLY!"

She felt high grass and bramble graze against her thigh and lash away at Cassie's dress when they veered up like a kamikaze plane on a second-thought power drive. Loose ground spread apart and flew off in their path, peppering their faces and torsos with tiny scraps of dirt. Britannica braced herself and focused on the up and above. Slowly they rose again and their speed decreased until they found themselves gliding over the bare plots of land surrounding the development area. She scanned the ground for a safe place to land. She did not descend immediately though and stood hovering a few feet above the ground.

"Ye gods…" Cassandra sighed against her face.

"Yup…"

She kept her friend close to her as they made a soft landing on the dark earth.

Then she collapsed.

"Britannica…" Cassandra crouched gingerly besides the young heroin's prostrate body. Britannica was shaking, fists clamped shut, teeth bared, jaw set in a rictus of pain.

"He's coming back…" she grunted.

Her mouth tasted of acid. Reality was gone again, leaving her groping among shreds of memory, hers and not hers, years, centuries, millennia of memories, lives long buried and lost, deeds celebrated and forgotten, legend and real life all mixed up in a maddening swirl, sucking her down.

She gasped hard for breath and managed to raise her head from the ground. Cassie's worried face met her. Her fingers felt warm against her cold skin.

Just beyond her, the sky was awash with liquid glow and the light brought out tide after incoming tide of ageless reminiscences. Somehow she was the only one now to be affected, as if the event had singled her out and focused every single shred of its raw power in some desperate attempt to prise her open and feed on her. Primeval forces had risen out for another battle in which humans had no part to play but that of sacrifice. A contest of Titans.

A game she could play.

Propping herself on Cassandra's arm, Britannica rose to her feet. The earth felt moist and welcoming under her, devoid of the stifling menace she had so often experienced in her dreams of late. She dug her toes into the moist ground as she tottered forward, each step becoming heavier, filling her with renewed energy. She drank the nightly smells wafting up from the soil, the mouldy reek of rotting matter, the crushed pollens, the discarded husks and blank humidity. She drew from it all as one drinks from a well, as the force out there fed on memory and felt as it must feel its heady essence, the addiction it carried within. Now the light spread out and kissed her, moving in then receding, probing and sampling, and whole existences clamoured at her. Slowly she crouched and her outstretched hands clutched at the earth and crushed it till both her fists had burrowed into the ground. She breathed the world in till the assault finally began.

Then Britannica struck.

The earth heaved and shrieked under her pummelling. Her adversary lashed out in blind desperation but still she hammered down at the ground, summoned whatever powers the earth would bequeath her, whatever forces were hiding within her and kept on striking with primal, single-mindedness. And she felt in, the smouldering rage inside, the energy forever clamouring for release, the sensual urge to let go no matter the consequences. She felt the blindness beckoning at her, teased herself with it, sipped at it, striking all the time, and each hammering of the earth sent new tremors through her body and further aroused her hunger and it all felt so good, it all felt so right.

The storm of madness and pain moaned and raged against the wall of blows tearing at it from the ground but it kept coming. It was not conscious in itself, only an aggregate of bewildered consciousness, drawn to life like a moth towards light, although it was the light and life was the moth, tasty and elusive, so easy to grasp, so deftly consumed. So it kept coming, shedding life as it went because life was what it thirsted after and its lure simply was too strong to oppose. It weathered the blows with mindless determination, it reached out forever, unconcerned with its own destruction although somewhere, perhaps, some distant memory might have urged him on, sensing the possibility relief in a way nothing but true death can erase.

It went on until it was spent. And when it was spent the storm abated and the earth quieted down. Memories faded out like passing dreams. Of the young man that had once hiked the countryside there remained nothing. And as the silence of the night replaced the paean of battle and her spent body embraced the cool, comforting ground, Britannica knew that she had prevailed.

*

"I don't suppose you'll stay to explain all this!" Cassandra teased bravely despite the creeping cold and shock she had suffered. Her bare shoulders and crossed arms were covered with hard goose bumps and it was all she could do not to simply crumple down to oblivious sleep right now.

"I wish I could…" Britannica smiled crookedly. Cassandra just nodded. There was light in those tired eyes that belied the masked face and funny hoarse voice in the most uncanny manner. The girl's candour never ceased to amaze her. Did she only know, she wondered.

"I'll take my leave then," she said uneasily.

"Yup."

Curse storywriters for their imagination, Britannica thought. How come your regular comic books super hero always had a convenient building or side street or setting sun to escape to and she ended up with an industrial wasteland, a chilly night and coming bout of all-out arthritis?

"Help will be on its way," she offered. Damn damn damn. Was that a smile on her lips…?

"Have a safe flight home." Cassandra said.

"Yeah. You too." Oh, bright, as if she could fly. Not that she knew she still could for that matter. Her hands flopped down to her sides. She was too tired to worry anyway, let alone to think straight. She let out a relaxing breath and let things happen. She was only half-surprised when Cassie's face started to recede with the ground below her.

Detective Cassandra Vangelis watched in fond wonder as Britannica's colours were swallowed by the night sky. She waited some more, her mind blissfully blank, then shuddered awake and started the long walk back to the ruins, the survivors and the beginning of yet more hassle.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when Britannica landed without a sound in front her.

"Forgot something?" She ventured, half-hoping for, half-dreading a 'lift'.

"Yes," the hero girl said. The voice was hoarser, barely above a whisper.

"Well…?" Cassandra asked, feeling awkwardness building up unpleasantly.

The next thing she knew Britannica's lips were crushing hers and her tongue had pried an oh-so easy way into her mouth. Her strong hands pinned them together in the most gentle yet uncompromising way and Cassie found herself groping blindly at her ravisher like a teenage girl on her first time.

There was no right thing to do.

She just let herself be kissed.

In the distance, the first sirens had started to wail.

***

 

© Nathan Dayspring/ Tish Summers, 2005
© Tish Summers, 2005