Heritage

♫:

She wrote another letter she’d never send.

The morning sun’s gaze peeked through the curtains to the marble veneer desk where Sixela sat. She twirled her gilded fountain pen while sorting her thoughts, bringing the tiny cup of rhodiola tea to her lips. The lips then formed a hum, and a new song took root. She wrote the words as they came, her pen dancing to the melody in her head at every loop and curve. Her foot tapped, swept up in the rhythm as she put inspiration to paper—catharsis in motion.

She folded the finished letter and slipped it into an envelope to join the others on the shelf above her, never to be seen again by human eyes. With her morning affairs in order, Sixela turned to her wardrobe, ready for the city. Much to her annoyance yet expectation, a knock rapped at her door.

“Come in, Julia,” Sixela invited, browsing through her collection of outfits.

Her manager entered the room, casting a shadow over Sixela. Julia stood at the door in her blazer, stern eyes and hair done in a tie. She looked at her talent picking casualwear off the hangers and scowled, knowing full well what it meant.

“Taking another excursion, aren’t you?” Julia asked. She took a seat in a chair by the door, crossing her arms in disapproval.

Sixela settled on her choice and placed it against her chest while looking in the mirror. She turned to her left and right, and then faced Julia. “Of course,” she said. “It’s been some time since my last foray incognito, and I would like to—”

“No.”

Sixela buttoned her blouse and went about her business as if Julia didn’t just have the gall to say no to her, least of all interrupt her. She wouldn’t allow anyone to wound her pride so, and such a proud woman she was. Julia of all people should have known better than to deny Winddrift City’s most beloved singer, or “Queen of Subtle Scorn” if referring to her lesser-known title. Despite her protests, Julia knew rebuffing Her Royal Highness was all but futile.

Then came the scorn.

Knowing how thin Julia’s patience ran, Sixela took her time dressing herself and adorning her accessories. She tried other outfits she knew she wasn’t going to wear, occasionally asking “How do I look?” or requesting that Julia fetch the next dress. And how it worked Julia’s poor, frayed nerves. Refusal to comply with Sixela’s cruel game would only prolong the suffering—they’ve been through this before, and it always ended the same.

It wasn’t freedom by any respect of the word, as Sixela hid her vivid features underneath a stylized wig, subtle makeup, and the muted colors of a drab coat. She enjoyed the dressing up, the sense of play that it lent. Or dressing down, as more appropriate in this case. The shy beige of her coat wrapped around the sunspot orange of her otherwise unspectacular chiffon blouse—even in the act of deglamorizing herself could she not help but put on a little show of her efforts. Nothing more to add, nothing left to take away.

Her manager was not impressed.

“Sixela, is this really necessary?” she complained, her nails tapping against the arm of her chair impatiently. “We have a booked schedule for this entire week, and I have planned each day for you down to every hour. Now you’ve gone and thrown all that away on a whim for reasons that are beyond me. It’s unprofessional! I am asking you to reconsider.”

“And I am afraid I must respectfully deny your request,” Sixela said, her eyes fixed on her mirror as she dotted a beauty mark as the finishing touch. “Just as the graceful dolphin must surface for air, I too must take time for myself to breathe. It’s only one day.”

“You have no idea how far behind this puts us.”

“I’ll still make it for rehearsal, the concert will still go on for this weekend, and we can postpone the signing event for next week. Honestly, Julia you always make a big fuss out of these things. Maybe a little break would do you good as well.” Sixela clicked the lid of her makeup case shut and rose from her seat to give her manager a curtsy before taking her purse and making for the door.

“…Try to be back before dark,” Julia sighed, defeated by her stubbornness.

“You’d make a fine stand-in for my mother, rest her poor soul.”

Sixela slipped on her teashade sunglasses and stepped outside of her chateau, an impressive testament to the breaking of architectural limitations. The resort from which the chateau sat was an airborne property, floating leagues into the sky with channels of water lining the sleek pathways and filling a large central fountain. Beneath the stone base was a harsh mess of metalwork that carved at the horizon. How the entirety of the structure remained afloat was a secret only known to Sixela herself and the architects who built it. It was a miniature paradise, ever inviting, yet it saw few guests.

A uniformed man stood by a helicopter and waved Sixela down, preparing to open the door for her. “Shall you be departing with Ms. Skye today?” he asked.

“That won’t be necessary. I make my own entrance.”

She strode to the edge of the resort and stared down at the city below. Sixela spread out her arms and let herself fall free through the sky, her body then taking the shape of a bolt of lightning. Her electric form struck the earth below in a second, reforming into her physical shape without harm. She looked back up at the resort in the sky and waved before going about her business in Winddrift.

It wasn’t freedom by any respect of the word, but in this fleeting moment it was damn near close.

Persephone Demetski strode confidently through the G&S Agency Clubhouse entrance, her posture straight and chin held high. Her pepper-black suit was well-fitted and clear of road dust despite the wind’s best efforts, her silk red tie perfectly unruffled and not a piece of her red-gold hairs was left out of place. She gave the clerk at the front desk a curt nod—they knew why she’d come—and glided towards the elevator, her black suitcase tucked under her arm.

She had to step aside as the doors opened, permitting a pair of finely dressed men in suits like Persephone’s by. They did not look at her, and she pretended to busy herself with her suitcase waiting for them to go by. Only once they were well out of the way did she step into the elevator, the doors closing behind her not a moment too soon.

Persephone eyed the elevator’s number pad, her lips curling into a disdainful grimace. She fingered her briefcase, then took a tiny packet from her coat pocket, tore it open, and used the alcohol swab to sanitize the plastic buttons. The swab came away as black as night itself, and Persephone shivered and tried very hard not to think too hard about touching that pad. Just to be sure, though, she wrapped her finger in a cloth handkerchief she always carried and pressed the button for the top floor.

The elevator gave a smooth jerk, then slowly rose as she carefully folded her handkerchief over the side that had touched the buttons. She folded it twice more, then placed it in her back pocket. It would require cleaning before she used it again. She itched to remove her gloves and replace those as well, but she persevered. The horror that awaited her in the club’s penthouse…well, her gloves may need to be burned when the day was done.

Thirty stories tall, the G&S Clubhouse stood several miles from the nearest city—Winddrift—and Persephone was thankful for that. This far, the filth infesting the city would never reach this isolated place, ground away by dust and sand, though she still felt in need of a bath. But bath or no bath, they could observe Winddrift with little interference and few suspicious eyes, and all from a safe, secure, and sanitary distance.

The elevator slowed, then dinged as it reached the top floor, though the doors remained shut. A good sign. She pressed her key into a panel on the wall and twisted it, causing a panel to pop open. After sanitizing her key, Persephone raised the laminate ID card she carried in a protected pocket on her suit pants—men’s clothes once again proving their superiority—and held it over the scanner. A flash of red and a click later, the elevator doors shifted open.

The penthouse was a complete pigsty. All manner of trash, dirt, and unknowable substances littered the floor, the furniture, the walls—not an inch of it clean. Two full bags of trash sat right beside the elevator, the sides split open and spilling their guts onto the floor, flies buzzing about the exposed refuse. Clothing lay strewn in haphazard piles on the floor and furniture alike, bras and dirty underwear left out in the open with hardly a care.

And the smell. Persephone’s eyes twitched and watered as a wall of repulsive scents crushed her olfactory nerves, and she quickly strapped a tight leather mask over her mouth and nose. Her nose had always been sensitive to smells of mold and decay, and here it nearly overwhelmed her. She shook her head and shivered again, but resigned herself to the task ahead. At least this time she’d thought to bring a poncho.


Two hours later, Persephone tossed the final bag into the trash chute, quickly followed by the now-filthy poncho and her last pair of gloves. When she removed her mask, the smells that greeted her were of warm citrus, lavender, and alcohol. Not a hint of the old smells remained when she breathed in a deep lungful, and she gave a satisfied sigh of relief. She checked the time—6:22am—and decided it was late enough to wake the resident.

She’d avoided this for as long as she could, but she had orders to check on the resident before 6:30 this morning, and she would do her duty. She was no mere Drone, but she would do the duty given her. No matter how distasteful.
Thankfully the master bedroom was in much better shape than the rest of the penthouse before the cleaning she’d done. There were still dirty clothes strewn about the room and food stains on the bedsheets and carpet, but the smells here were more sweaty underarm and unwashed genitals than mold or dust. Persephone still wrinkled her nose, and her eye twitched, but it could have been much worse.

Why, oh why couldn’t the resident just be clean for once? Was it so much to ask to put dirty clothes in the laundry bag, or to keep food in the kitchen, or to take a bath before climbing into bed for the night? Where were the resident’s tutors, and why did they not discipline the girl as they should for keeping such a slovenly apartment?

Her tutors have all graduated her, Persephone reminded herself. They made her your responsibility. Calm, Persephone. Anger will not solve this. She requires a firm hand not a frustrated one. Calm.

Persephone, finally, turned her attention on the resident. The child—no, the woman—lay sprawled on the bed, one leg hanging off the edge, completely nude save for a single twisted sheet over her legs. Other blankets were shoved aside, some of them off the bed entirely, and the large, overstuffed pillows were arranged in such a haphazard fashion Persephone had trouble believing they were not deliberately placed there.

Persephone cleared her throat, pointedly ignoring the puddle of drool on one such pillow, but the snores coming from the resident only grew louder. Those snores could have woken every living creature within forty miles, she was sure.

“Agent Samantha Maize,” Persephone said in a loud, commanding tone. “It is time for you to wake. Now, if you please.”

The woman continued snoring. Persephone’s eye twitched. Every inch of her skin and every fiber of her soul cringed at the thought of entering that bedroom—even standing at the door she felt the itch to go and scrub her arms until the skin turned raw red, and she knew it would only be worse if she stepped inside.

But if the resident would not wake from her voice alone, she would have to step inside. So, gritting her teeth, Penelope plunged in. She approached the bedside with a stiff gait and tried not to gag from the smell as she reached to shake the resident awake. Then a flash of movement, a blink of the eye, and Persephone was on the floor.

The dirty, crumb-covered, soda-stained, sticky floor covered in…in…

Persephone blinked, dazed. She made out the vague shape of a naked woman on top of her, though she could not remember why that should bother her. When her vision finally came into focus, she blinked again as she saw the resident straddling her waist, hands wrapped around Persephone’s throat, silver-gray eyes alight with recognition.

“Penny?” the woman asked, then grinned. “Penny! It is you. I was wondering when you were going to finally come visit me.”
The resident jumped off of Persephone, then reached down and picked her up by the shoulders and set Persephone down on her feet as easily as if Persephone weighed no more than a feather. Then the nude woman gave her a hug so tight Persephone felt her bones groan from the pressure.

She was released a heartbeat later, and the woman began rifling through the dirty clothes on the floor in search of something to wear. She didn’t bother with underwear—she just grabbed the first pair of relatively not-dirty pants and a partially ripped crop-top she found and pulled them on. She didn’t even seem to notice the bloodstain on the latter.

The resident, Samantha Maize, was a young woman of twenty-two. Her slender figure, heart-shaped face, and large eyes gave her a childish appearance, but she was still quite the attractive woman. Her pale ivory skin was completely hairless, the barest hint of muscle hid beneath her perfect skin, and while Persephone was not tall even for a woman, Samantha’s head barely reached her shoulder.

But any of those features could change. Even as she watched Samantha scratching her bald head, she saw the woman scrunch her face as if in consternation, and tiny blond hairs sprouted from her scalp. Then hair exploded from her head like a flood, spilling down over her face and shoulders into a mess of lumpy curls, full and thick.

Well, as long as the girl didn’t have underwear on, Persephone could be reasonably certain she wouldn’t run off. She cleared her throat and tried not to think about the crumbs sticking to her back and hair and neck and skin and…

She cleared her throat again. “I have read the report you sent last night, Agent,” she said stiffly. “I am…satisfied—” the word tasted like sour milk on her tongue “—with the diligence you have shown for your duties. As agreed on the last time we spoke, you will be given a day of rest. Though, as I recall, you were ordered to obtain DNA samples from the crimelord’s men in Hastel during your infiltration. I trust those are in a secure location?”

Samantha cocked her head, lumpy curls shifting over her face, though she didn’t seem to notice or care. She thought for a moment, then slapped her brow and laughed. “Oh, right! I almost forgot about that. Yeah, I’ve got your samples. Here.” The woman grabbed Persephone’s wrist and, before Persephone could pull away, dropped something wet on her palm. Persephone froze.

“There,” the youthful agent said, releasing her and tucking her hands behind her back. Persephone caught a glimpse of gold on the girl’s palm before she could pull it away, and knew the strange girl’s tattoo—a gold snake devouring its own tail—was imprinted there. Knowing that, knowing the significance of that, and knowing the girl’s disdain for Persephone, it took all of her strength just to glance down at her own palm.

A glob of milky-white, viscous slime sat in her palm, an unfamiliar, putrid stench rising from the tiny globule. Her hand began shaking. “Agent,” Persephone said, in a tone much calmer than she felt. “What…what is this?”

“Semen,” the girl said matter-of-factly. Persephone gagged and almost threw up. “Well, you said you wanted a DNA sample. And the Don likes his girls young. Like, really young. And I was bored, so I had a Drone tie me up like a present and threw me into the Don’s personal chambers.” She bit her lower lip, a smile creeping on her face. “We had a vigorous chat. I didn’t wanna get pregnant, though, so I had Maurice slurp up his load and saved it for later.”

“Save it for…when would anyone want to use this?”

Samantha shrugged. “I have more if you want it. I think he liked me. I certainly enjoyed it, though I pretended not to at the time.” She had a dreamy expression on her face, and Persephone stood there, staring at the glob of slime on her palm.
The Don’s semen. On her palm.

It was too much. Persephone wanted to shriek, to wipe the disgusting glob off her hand and dunk her whole body in saltwater. Instead she ran, skin crawling and stomach twisting, and snatched a clean cup from the drying rack and dumped the…DNA sample into it. Only then did she throw up into the sink and, in the proper order of things, scrubbed her hands with a washrag until both palms were rubbed bloody red.

Why, oh why, oh why did she have to be assigned to the resident’s care? It was like they knew. They were punishing her, though for what she couldn’t know. That wasn’t the way of things in her line of work. No one told you what you’ve done wrong, they just went straight to the punishment.

Hands raw and still shaking, Persephone covered the glass cup with several lengths of tape, then placed the whole thing into a small bag, sealed it, placed it in a larger bag and sealed that too.

The Don. The resident had gone after the Don. Not only had she gone after him, she’d gotten documented proof of his illicit doings and deeds, as well as a real sample of his identity. Instead of going after his men one by one, they could arrest the entire crew. Instead of spending months and maybe years tackling one of the largest crime syndicates in Winddrift, they could have the Don and all of his crew behind bars by the end of the month.

She is our best agent, Percy, the words of her superior rang in her ears again. Letting her loose on the world is a risk, but if it works, it will pay for itself within days. Just look after the girl, and make sure she doesn’t get into too much trouble.

“We will have to talk about your behavior, still, Agent,” Persephone said, flicking her hands dry. No response came. She paused. Samantha could just be ignoring her. Or…the resident was nowhere in sight, and she could not have gotten out through the elevator without proper authorization—authorization she did not have. And indeed, the elevator doors remained closed.
And yet…

Persephone rushed to the master bedroom again, shoving the door open and entering the room. The empty room. She searched around, but even as small as Samantha was, there were few places for her to hide here. Then Persephone saw the window, open just wide enough for a person to squeeze through. Blood drained from Persephone’s face as she pushed her head through the window and glanced down.

There, thirty stories down, she caught sight of a tiny shape speeding towards Winddrift city, moving faster than any bike, car, or train, a cloud of dust rising behind her.

“Oh, shit.”

She was born lucky, but not lucky enough.

Sixela filtered through her phone, skimming all the messages from Julia and every business-related e-mail sent her way. Fan mail was no longer something she handled herself in its infinite surge and was redirected to a hired team of public relations agents who would vet and respond to them in her stead. At last, she found the name she was looking for. “Zeto.”  Their message history was brief and kept on a professional basis, despite Sixela’s attempts to steer it otherwise. Her last message was a subtle hint of her day off and a not-so-subtle invitation to join her, only to be met with obliviousness… or perhaps indifference.

No new messages.

Her heart sank a little more each time she had to see the notification—or rather lack thereof. “Always at arm’s length with you,” she sighed, her eager eyes fading to a listless stare. She tucked away her phone, with no interest in entertaining the texts beckoning for her attention. Far be it from her to think she could reach him, though far be it from her to not die trying. For all the galaxy’s worth in her orbit, she was always missing her furthest star.

She caught herself back in reality, her prior descent bringing her at the edge of Winddrift at a mountainside beach. A busy strip of condominiums and restaurants bustled in the vicinity, resting by a patch of marigolds. Qulver County, such as it was. Sixela stopped by a miniature bar, greeted by an older man. He eyed her quizzically as she approached and offered a smile along with what he had to say.

“A bit overdressed for a trip to the beach, are we?”

“Oh I didn’t come to Qulver for the beach—just a stroll on the boardwalk and maybe a nice dinner by candlelight later.”

“Ah, well I hope you enjoy the sights. Though I must say it’s rare for a fetching woman such as yourself to be here without company.”

Her eye twitched.

“I think I’ll have a drink now.”

“Of course. What will it be?”

“I’ll let you decide. What do you think would be fitting for a ‘fetching woman such as myself?’”

The bartender gave another smile and a nod, mixing liquor into a fine cocktail and setting it before her. “Local specialty,” he said. “The ‘Qulver Mermaid.’ The main ingredient is a distilled spirit sweetened with dried citrus peels, and we add a bit of syrup and tonic to give this drink the starry look and bold color that you see. Electric blue to match your eyes.” The bartender’s smile turned upward into a proud smirk. “…And your hair.”

There was a reason karma was often called a spiteful lady of the night, and Sixela could swear she saw the mocking visage of Julia in the reflection of the drink. She removed her sunglasses to pinch the bridge of her nose and gave a hefty sigh.

“My disguise can’t be that awful can it?”

“I almost had my doubts,” the bartender returned with a laugh. “But I’ve been on this corner for a long time and I’ve seen all the faces of Qulver. And I’m good with faces.”

Another sigh.

“How much do I owe for the drink?”

“Oh I couldn’t possibly charge the living wonder herself, now can I? Though I may very well be inclined to accept a photo instead.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Like a heart attack. My daughter’s a big fan of your work, and she’d love a picture. She always tells me that the Sixela she knows would never disappoint a child. You wouldn’t call her a liar, would you?”

“Dirty pool, bringing children into this. You ought to be ashamed.”

“I can be ashamed while I be a good father.”

“Very well, let’s make this quick before anyone else comes along and makes similar demands of me.”

Sixela removed her wig and feigned a smile for the picture, hastily putting it back on after the deed. She downed her drink and slammed it back on the counter, ready to leave. At this rate, she wondered if she’d ever know peace.

“Enjoy the rest of your day,” she managed to say—more for herself than the bartender.

“See you at the next show.”

She had to get moving, at least to settle her nerves. An empty stomach would prove such a feat difficult, so Sixela found herself before one of the restaurant locales in the area. “Silver Anchor Seafood Kitchen,” read one of the signs. It seemed promising enough. Before stepping into the establishment, Sixela bumped into another passerby.

“Oh, excuse me. I’m terribly sorry.”

Sam grinned as she watched the germaphobe scamper out of the room so quickly she nearly tripped and fell in her haste. She didn’t feel particularly bad about what she did. Penny never actually called her by name without making it seem like she was talking down to her pet dog, not another person. The infernal bitch could stuff herself.

She waited until she heard the creak of the sink faucet outside before moving towards the window and opening it just wide enough to fit her slight frame. She liked being small, and a good thing too. Making new bones took months, and the bigger the bones, the longer they took to make, so what replacement bones she had were the same size.

She probably didn’t need those today—she rarely ever did—but it was always good to keep extra fingerbones on hand. In case she lost one. It happened before.

Samantha climbed through the open window and perched on the sill, looking down at the hundred-meter drop below. The wind gusted her clothes and whipped her hair, the higher altitude drawing stronger winds, and as she studied the ground, looking for the right place to land, she felt a familiar sensation crawling up her arm.

Glancing down, her Oroborus tattoo was steadily climbing her arm up to her shoulder, where it stopped and bulged in the center, stretching the skin into a two-finger thick tentacle. The tip of the oddly phallic appendage split open, revealing tiny teeth and even a small tongue. Then it began to speak.

“Where are we going, Sam?” Maurice asked. She could feel him stealing the breath from her lungs and the vibration of her voice box, but somehow he managed to make himself sound distinct. And almost male.

“What did I say about using my voice box?” Sam said, annoyed. “Get your own.”

“You don’t have any fat left to spare.”

“You callin’ me skinny?”

“Yes.”

Sam frowned, glancing down at herself, noting the distinct lack of curve to her chest. She patted it. Yup. Flat. She must have cannibalized it during her time with the Don. Well, he liked underdeveloped girls, so it worked out for her in the end. The rest of her was similarly slim, though she had a bit of junk left in her trunk and, of course, the densely-packed muscle all over her body.

“I hate eating muscles,” Sam muttered. “Annoying, stupid, worthless... Shut up, Maurice.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You were thinkin’ it. Now get back in my hand, I gotta focus.”

The parasite paused, but did as she asked. It knew better than to pester Sam while she was hungry, and she was starving. Reluctantly, Sam began picking the muscle in her body apart, converting it back to fat, and sliding it throughout her remaining muscles. It would help insulate them, keep them from overheating, and absorb some of the shock when she landed.

Then she jumped. Or, rather, slid off the window and fell through the air. Wind whipped at her, and she had to struggle to keep it from rolling her over, even as gravity yanked her down to the hard pavement below. The ground rocketed up to meet her. Windows flew past her, some of them open, but no people inside to see her fall.

Her heart raced, the euphoria of free falling bringing a huge grin to Sam’s face, and she let out a whoop that was quickly lost to the wind. Then her feet slammed into the pavement. The shock of the fall sent a wave of force straight through her body, and her whole skeleton groaned as the pressure threatened to shatter every bone. She remained there, crouched, eyes closed, feeling the shivers up her body abate, then cease entirely.

Slight pain. But no cracked or broken bones. A few bruised muscles in her legs, but she devoured the bruised pieces and realigned the muscle tissue, leaving them good as new, if slightly smaller. She opened her eyes, examined her skin, and then finally stood up from her crouch and glanced up. She could just make out the open window of her penthouse suite.

After checking to make sure everything else was intact and relatively undamaged, Sam began whistling a merry tune and began her journey towards Winddrift. As she jogged, she packed more and more of her muscle and fat into her legs, giving them more and more power, so that her jog quickly became a run. Her strides lengthened, her speed increased, until she was moving almost as fast as any car on the open highway.

She only kept that pace going for about a minute, however. Long enough so she knew Penny would see the dust cloud she created, but not long enough to make her lungs explode. She dropped her pace to an easy thirty mile-per-hour jog instead, letting her body catch up and recover from the exertion.

“Now can we talk?” Maurice asked, using her voice again. Sam glanced down at her hand, but he wasn’t there. She looked at her shoulders, but he wasn’t there, either. Then she remembered she sealed off her ears to keep the wind from howling in them.

“Are you in my brain right now?” Sam asked incredulously.

“Ear canal.”

“I told you, skull’s off-limits. It’s too weird having a mouth inside my mouth. Or a mouth in my nose. Or a mouth in my ear.”

“But your ears are sealed.”

“Fine, whatever. What’s on your mind?”

“I just want to know what we’re doing today. Yesterday was boring.”

“We had sex yesterday!” Sam protested. “You love that just as much as I do.”

“He wasn’t very good at it,” Maurice said blithely.

Sam rolled her eyes. “Yeah, alright, fair.”

“So? What are we doing today?”

“Eating, hopefully.”

“You didn’t bring any money.”

“That’s what Penny is for,” Sam said. “I’m gonna lead her on a merry chase, let her follow me for a bit, then lose her while I go visit a nice, expensive restaurant and eat until she shows up, then leave her with the bill. It’s the perfect plan.”

“What if she doesn’t bring any money?”

“Then I leave her to work it off.”

“Isn’t that a little too evil?”

Sam shrugged. “I hate the bitch. Talking to her makes me want to vomit. Ideally on her prissy little face. And since when were you my moral compass?”

“I thought it might be fun acting as your conscience,” he said, sounding smug. “Considering everyone but you seems to have one.”

“Fair.”

She continued chatting with her parasitic companion throughout her jog, until she got close to the city’s entrance. She was used to getting stares from talking to herself all the time, so she didn’t particularly care to stop, but her hunger was really starting to distract her now. She couldn’t focus, and got turned around several times once she was in the city.

Being good with directions meant little when no one wanted to give you any, so Sam spent most of her time circling the same few city blocks, looking around for landmarks or map postings or something. Somehow she managed to find her way to the docks when she spotted a sleek black car following her.

Her suspicions were quickly confirmed when the car pulled up beside her, the passenger window rolling down to reveal none other than Persephone Demetski. Holding a gun. Pointed at Sam’s head.

“Fuck!” Sam yelped, ducking as the silenced firearm nearly blasted a hole in her skull. “Hey!” she shouted, then yelped again when Penny shot her in the shoulder. The bullet she fired wasn’t actually a bullet, but a flathead casing with a tiny needle on the tip. When it the bullet hit her, she gasped as it pumped a full payload of muscle relaxants into her shoulder.

“M-Maurice!”

“On it, cupcake,” Maurice said, shifting down to start eating up the poison. Sam, for her part, scrambled to her feet and fled from the still-firing madwoman. She ducked through an alley even as her body started to give into the relaxant.

“Maurice,” Sam urged. “Hurry up.”

Almost as if in response, a surge of strength flowed into her relaxing muscles, and she let out a huge sigh of relief. Until she saw Penny round the corner into her alley, gun leveled at Sam’s head. Sam let out another yelp, diving away to avoid the fire, and ran as fast as she could out of the alley.

And almost plowed into someone rounding the corner. At the last moment before impact, Sam threw herself aside just enough so she barely bumped the hooded figure. But she still fell to the ground and rolled onto her back. She let out a string of inventive curses and started scrambling to her feet until she glanced up and saw the woman she nearly toppled over.

And almost fell head over heels for the second time in less than a minute. “Damn,” she said instead. “Is that my skid trail, or do I smell something smokin’ hot? What’s your name, gorgeous? I’m Sam. Let’s go on a date.”